Chimera (14 page)

“If you think I wouldn’t protect you at all costs, you don’t know me well. I’d do the same for Nate. That’s who I am.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean you don’t have any need to get all gruff and mean. You’re a nice guy and people like you.”

People like me.

Nice guy.

Kiss of fucking death with any woman, especially a woman who has a penchant for bad boys and an alternative lifestyle.

Fuck me.

She stays for several hours, just talking, sharing stories about nothing and everything, but she doesn’t impart any additional knowledge regarding what happened or who did it. She came for comfort, not pity. She wanted reassurance of normalcy and I’m assuming, a constant figure in her life.

I learned several things in our story-telling time, but I let them pass as though they were insignificant—the most intriguing being she and her mother almost never talk other than random posts on Facebook because her mother chose her own Dom over Sera. I only got bits of the story and didn’t want to call much attention to it, but her father passed away years ago, leaving her mom to raise her alone.

Shortly after Sera became interested in the lifestyle, she happened upon her mom’s devotion to a Dom who didn’t care for Sera. Her mom chose the man. This happened around the same time Sera met her current Dominant. Ironically, she loses her mother to a bad man and finds shelter in the arms of a man just like the one for which her mother abandoned her. Sera didn’t put the story together like that, but that’s what I surmised after hearing her tales.

I learned more about Sera in the last four or five hours than I have in all the months we’ve known each other. Hearing some of these things, I wonder how she ever smiles. Sadness has filled her life from the time she was fairly young. She’s searching for something, too, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. I wonder if she thinks this deeply about me. Does she know my endless search is for love, happiness? I’m a hopeless romantic; I believe it’s out there. I found it once. Surely, a loving God wouldn’t make his people live life without finding that again, even if the journey is long. That shred of hope has kept me holding on for years—that and the fear of enduring more of the same shit on the next side.

I wonder if she realizes she’s as broken as I am, or if she knows what she’s chasing. Maybe she believes she’s truly happy and her glass is half full. I contemplate how staunchly the mind can deceive itself. We can mentally trick ourselves into believing our current state is the paragon of happiness. If Sera is lying to the outside world about her headspace, she’s doing a damn good job of it. If I didn’t see the physical evidence, I would never believe she led anything other than a good life. I worry about her safety, but she won’t let me get close enough to ascertain who the person is. Hell, she never even let me in to her house. The few times I’ve been over there it was simply to drop her off. She always comes here.

The thought of her hiding more is hard to swallow. I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t—but a few minutes after she leaves, I ride by her house to make sure she makes it safely. I don’t stop or try to see in the windows. The confirmation her car is in the driveway is all I needed. What I didn’t need was to see the shadow of another car in front of hers. Without stopping, I’m unable to make out much at all about the vehicle. It’s dark and with no outside lights on, all I can tell is it’s an SUV or maybe a mini-van. She doesn’t have roommates, so I can only assume he’s there.

My anxiety kicks into high gear. Pulling over a couple of blocks away, I regain my composure before making a stupid decision. Going back to her house would be an invasion of privacy. I have no reason to be there and wasn’t invited. Quite the opposite—she made a point to never have me inside. If he’s hurting her, and if I find out later I was here and did nothing, I will never be able to forgive myself. Without violating her privacy, I have no way of finding out.

Me
: Let me know when you make it home.

Sera
: I’m home. Everything ok?

Me
: Yes, I was just worried about you driving with that arm all banged up

Sera
: I’m good

It’s the most I can hope for. She had the opportunity to tell me if something was wrong, although I doubt she would. For whatever reason, there’s a part of her life she doesn’t want to share with me. As much as I would like to respect that, she’s shared just enough that I can’t allow her to shut me out.

T
he next morning
, I drive by before going to Stone Ground—the car is missing and Sera’s car has replaced it. That, unfortunately, doesn’t mean much other than the person isn’t still there, but maybe they left five minutes before I drove up. I’m not sure what I thought driving by would accomplish, but it wasn’t really out of the way. I normally walk to Stone Ground, but today, I decided to drive. Truth being, I wanted an excuse to drive by Sera’s, and this grants me one.

Zane greets me at the door, quickly noticing I’m not ready to work out.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“Of course.”

I follow him back to his office. He shuts the door, affording us some privacy, although I’ve never seen anyone here this early in the morning.

Running my hand through my hair, I just let it out. There’s no sense in holding back or mincing words. “I want out. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Okay. Can you tell me why?” He’s as cool and calm as always.

“I understand what you’re trying to accomplish—teaching me structure, and discipline, and meeting needs isn’t always about me, and neither is being courteous and respectful. But it’s killing my creativity. As an artist, I roam freely. I work for days straight when the urge hits, not eating, barely moving from a canvas to take a piss. Stopping to go run for an hour in the morning kills that streak, or ensuring my phone is by my side all the time is a drain on me emotionally that sucks life out of me. I wanted to regain confidence, but that isn’t happening.”

“Funny, I see quite the opposite. You’re more poised. You clearly articulate what you want, how things are not working for you. You’ve never lost eye contact with me. You knew I was going to be disappointed, but you confronted it head-on with conviction that you needed to do something different. It’s exactly what I wanted from you and where I wanted you to go. The structure and discipline doesn’t have to be in your daily routine, it just needs to be who you are. If your discipline is painting, you need to be devoted to it. If your routine doesn’t include sleep, so be it. What I wanted was for you to be strong enough to come to me and tell me, to express your needs. Firmly plant your feet and draw a line in the sand. I’m very proud of how far you’ve come in a relatively short period of time.

“I’d like for you to take some time and think about where you’d like to go with this next, Bastian. I don’t think quitting is the answer. You just started. This is a process, one that doesn’t come easily. Reevaluating your needs and expectations regularly is critical to becoming who you want to be in anything you do. Come back on Monday. We don’t have to go run, and let’s talk about where you’d like to see this go. We’ll work out a plan from there. The great thing about BDSM is the constant negotiation and renegotiation, Bastian. You’re never stuck where you are unless you stop communicating.”

Just like that, he’s done talking—
we’re
done talking. I don’t fire him. He congratulates me and pats me on the back before sending me out the door. What in the fuck just happened? It was so quick; my mind’s reeling trying to figure it out. I drive all the way home in a daze before my thoughts clear enough to contemplate what he actually said.

“Bastian!” Looking over my shoulder, I see Ferry trotting up the street. “Bastian. Hold up.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”

“I had some errands to run. I must have left my phone at home.”

“Figures. The one day something worthwhile comes up, you leave your phone at home.” Hunched over with his hands on his knees, he attempts to catch his breath.

“Did you run here from your studio?”

“Yeah. Like I said, I need to talk to you.”

“You need to quit smoking. Jesus. It’s only like six blocks and you’re about to have a heart attack.”

“Save the lecture.” Standing, he reminds me he’s a fairly intimidating guy. “Le Musee wants to feature us.”

“In Manhattan?
That
Le Musee?”

“That would be the one.”

“Fuck, that’s fabulous. When?”

“Next week. Please tell me you can pull this rabbit out of your hat, Bastian. This is huge. Le Musee is booked for years. They called my studio this morning to request us as a duo. Some Italian artist backed out with health issues and they called us. They called
us
, Bastian. Are you getting what I’m saying?”

This is huge. The break beyond all breaks. They are the international mecca in the United States. Le Musee makes Tara look like a hillbilly, although I mean no disrespect because she is high society, but this is elite. “Of course I get it. What did you tell them? Who called, anyway?”

“Aaron Dubois, the son of the owner and curator. I told them I needed to talk to you and would call them back shortly. That was two hours ago. Damn, Bastian, where the fuck were you?”

Ignoring the interrogation, I ask, “How many pieces do they want available?”

“At least four from each of us and two collaborative works, but up to ten each, depending on their size, and four collaborative works. If we can swing it, we’ll need to give them dimensions and rough shots so they can determine the layout prior to our arrival. There’s not time to ship the pieces. We’ll have to drive them there and be there two days before opening. The exhibit is three days. We’re expected to make appearances two of the three—Friday and Saturday night.”

“Damn, that’s a lot of work for three days.”

“Bastian, pull your head out of your ass. This is Le Musee!”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.” We keep yapping as I open my front door. My living room is evidence pulling off an exhibit will not be an issue. I’ve been painting more in the last few months than I’ve ever painted before, quality pieces, ones I’m proud of.

“Damn, when’s the last time you cleaned this place up?”

“Last night, why?” I look around. Cleaning up might not be an accurate assessment of what I did. “Okay, I moved stuff to a pile to make room for easels and canvases.” I push stuff out of the way. “Don’t give me any shit, Ferry. I live alone and painting’s all I’ve got.”

“Are you going to give me an answer?”

“About what?”

“Le Musee!”

“Jesus, Ferry. There’s no question to answer. Of course we’ll make it work. You still have the paintings I did for you a couple weeks ago?”

“Yeah, I would’ve told you if I sold them.”

“That takes care of the two collaborative. Are you good on the pieces for your part? I just need to decide which ones I want to take, but I have plenty to choose from in varying sizes.”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Ferry opens the door and stops in the frame. “So we need to leave Tuesday morning. Get there that night and go to the gallery Wednesday morning with the work. Set-up is Wednesday and Thursday, elite opening Friday, public Saturday and Sunday. Come home Monday. I’ve got a place lined up for us to stay so we don’t have to worry about hotels.”

“Sounds good. We can figure out the details later. Call Aaron back and let him know we’ll be there, and get an email address for rough shots and dimensions.”

With a huge smile on his face, he slaps his hand on the doorframe. “This is amazing, Bastian.” He waves as he leaves. It is amazing, and quite frankly, I’m not sure if the enormity of it has sunk in.

I remember where I just came from, and where I’m supposed to be Monday morning. I text Zane to let him know. He responds with congratulations, but he still wants to meet Monday to plan a strategy. He’s not happy when I tell him it’s not a possibility. The exhibit is the highlight of my career. If I’m leaving Tuesday morning that essentially gives me two-and-a-half days to make sure I’m ready. That’s the blink of an eye, nowhere near enough time, but it also doesn’t allow for second-guessing or obsessing over tiny details. It is what it is. I might be able to finish the piece I’m working on now, but boxing up paintings for transport is no small task, and I’m sure Ferry will want to load the car Monday.

This is the biggest thing to have ever happened in either of our careers. Don’t get me wrong, Ferry’s internationally known, but he hasn’t been featured at a place the caliber of Le Musee. It also says a lot about what the community’s looking for when we’re being booked as a duo. It doesn’t bother me, I’m used to sharing galleries with other artists, but I’m not so sure how well Ferry is handling being paired with a painter who, until recently, was lost in the shadows.

Needing to share the news, I call Nate. I’ve seen him drive by each day and slow down enough to see me moving inside. The one day I wasn’t in the living room and visible from the street, he came to the door. He knocked, and when I opened he turned and walked away. He’s still not answering, meaning he’s still not talking to me, but when he comes by tonight, I’ll make sure he can’t do a drive by, and thus, has to make a face to face appearance. I don’t leave a message because I want his attention, and this has all become one big game. It’s the only way I can bear his silence. I need Nate like I need air, so this isn’t working well for me.

On to my next call: Sera. She’s ecstatic about the news. Le Musee isn’t as big a deal for her as it is for a painter, but she still knows this is, thus far, the pinnacle of my career.

“When are you leaving?” Her voice is giddy with excitement.

“Early Tuesday morning, but I’m sure Ferry will want to pack up on Monday. Would you mind coming over to help me box up some paintings and pick the pieces I take? I need to send rough shots to Aaron at Le Musee. You know I have such a hard time deciphering which pieces represent my current work.”

There’s a subtle change in her tone, one I almost missed. “Oh”—she pauses as if to say something, but changes her mind—“sure, that would be great. Do you want me to come now?”

“How about tonight around six? We can go get some dinner and come back to my house afterward to work.” Feeling the need to explain why I don’t have her race right on over, I say, “I’m hoping to talk to Nate tonight when he comes by. Try to smooth things over.” I feel like a jerk admitting my best friend isn’t talking to me. I haven’t told Sera much, just that things have been strained.

“You still don’t want to talk about it? I might be able to help.”

“I appreciate the offer, truly. Nate has been all I’ve had for so long it’s an adjustment bringing new people into my life.”

“Is he jealous?” Not even a hint of judgment, more like complete understanding, fills her voice.

“He says no but maybe a little.”

“I’m sure he wants you to be happy, Bastian, but I’d be willing to bet somewhere along the way, Nate became as dependent on you needing him as you actually needed him. If that makes sense. You know some part of Nate knew your life depended on his faithfulness. That gave him purpose and value, a kind of value most people never experience. I’m sure he’s thrilled you’re living again, but learning how to live without your need for him, well, I’m sure that’s difficult, too.”

She’s absolutely right. I know she is. I also know I haven’t been fair to Nate. I haven’t given him the thanks or the praise for saving me against my will, for being who he’s been regardless of how much I wanted to check out. He’s been a faithful friend. I don’t take into account my time with him or need for him isn’t what it was a few short months ago. I just assumed it would be a welcome reprieve for him; maybe it’s not. But I wouldn’t know because the jackass won’t fucking talk to me.

“I’m sure you’re right.” I can’t bring myself to open this up for discussion. I would never want her to know the things Nate has said about her or Ferry in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t talk badly about people. That’s not his nature. I would never want her to make a judgment call about him over his hurt, or whatever is going on in his head. I hope at some point Sera and Nate are close friends. He loved Sylvie like a sister. They were thick as thieves. These two would love each other as well if I could get them to spend any length of time together, but one of them always bails.

“Try to mend the fence,” she says with sincerity.

“So, around six tonight?”

“Definitely, and you’re buying dinner.” I hear the wink in her voice. I love her playful banter, the way the pitch goes up a third in her already singsong voice. She’s never paid for a thing with me around, and she never will as long as I have two pennies to rub together. It seemed to bother her a tad when we met. The first two or three times we went out, whether it was dinner or coffee, she was almost offended by the notion I wanted to pick up the tab. Quickly figuring out I wasn’t going to relent, she gave up. It causes me to further question the asshat she’s dating or in a relationship with who does nothing for her. She should be treated like royalty, and at the very least, cherished beyond measure.