The Art of Submission (40 page)

So when did she go over the contract?
It must’ve been when I was asleep. What else did she do while I was
asleep, besides suck my cock, that is?
Shit. Here I go again
.

After the shower, I shave and get
dressed. I go to the kitchen make a quick cup of Keurig, put the
contract in my bag, and head out for work. I’m still irritated that
she left without saying goodbye and that I can’t get a hold of her.
Why am I so irritated by that anyway? I mean, fuck, she’s a grown
woman; she can come and go as she pleases.
No. I don’t like the thought of Isabel coming and going as
she pleases
. I want to know when and how and where. I
reach over and touch my messenger bag, wanting desperately to pull
the contract out to see what she’s written on it.

When I get to work, Cassie and Summer are
already in the office and they look frantic when I arrive. They
both immediately notice my swollen lip and I interject before they
have time to question it.

“Kickboxing.” I tell them and they seem
satisfied.

Then Cassie proceeds to tell me that
there’s a crisis in Dallas again.
Fuck.
I get into my office and Cassie patches me
through to Sawyer who tells me that the semi-crisis from a few days
ago is now full blown and I have to go back.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I wanted to see Isabel
today.

Sawyer then drops another doozy on me
and says that I should plan on being in Dallas at least through the
weekend until the mess gets sorted out.
Damn it to hell.
He sounds apologetic when he
hears me sigh. It can’t be helped, I suppose. I call Cassie back
and tell her to reschedule and/or cancel everything planned for the
rest of the week and to call Brody.

Brody
. Shit. I
still have to deal with him and it can’t wait any longer. I call
Cassie back and have her call my back-up pilot instead.
Fuck Brody
. I call him myself and
I’m all business. I tell him what he asked Isabel was inappropriate
and that I’ll no longer need his services. Done. I hate to see him
go, but I can’t trust him anymore and in my line of work,
and in my life
, trust is everything.
Next.

Now for Isabel. I want to tell her in
person that I’ll be gone for the week, but I just don’t have the
time. I call her cell phone but this time it goes straight to
voicemail. I call Studio 210 and it also goes to straight to
voicemail. Seriously?
Fucking
hell
. I buzz Cassie who comes promptly into the
office.

“Cass, I need you to take a note, my car and
house keys to Studio 210 and drop them off for Isabel Ibanez in
about an hour. You can take a cab back here and use the corporate
card if you need.”

She looks wounded and just stares at me like
a lost puppy.

“Is there is a problem?” I ask her.

“No. Of course not, Dylan.” She says batting
her eyelashes furiously.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that.
It’s Mr. Young. You
know
that.”

This girl just can’t take a hint, can she?
She senses my irritation, nods and immediately leaves. Good.

I head back home to get packed and
ready for my impromptu trip. When I’m in the closet, I see Isabel’s
new clothes. I so badly wanted to see her wear that this week. I
wonder what she’s wearing today. She’s looking sweet and fuckable
no doubt and Greer is the one who gets to ogle her.
Motherfucker
. I swear to everything
holy, if he tries to lay one finger on her…
calm down, Young
. Damn. My temper goes into
overdrive when I think about Isabel with anyone else, more
especially -
Greer
.

I grab my suitcase and head out the
door. Again, I try calling Isabel, but I’m sent straight to
voicemail. This is such bullshit. Why the hell isn’t she answering
her phone? What is she doing that she can’t answer it?
Who
is she doing that she can’t
answer it?
No – don’t go there,
Young
. She’s at work after all, probably
working
.
Or
being worked over by Greer.
Damn it.
Rein it in, Young.
I have important
matters regarding work I should be thinking about, not about the
image of Isabel’s flawless mouth around that douche bag’s
cock.

When I get back to the office, I write
a quick note, hand over my car and house keys to Cassie, and take a
cab to the airport. I’m met there by my part-time, now hopefully
full-time pilot, Carson. He’s younger than Brody, but still he’s
got a good head on him, tons of experience and a great work
ethic.
I hope.

As soon as the plane is in flight and I’m
settled in, I grab my messenger bag and dig out the contract. I can
hardly wait to see what Isabel has agreed to.

**********************

Isabel

After the tantalizing morning
sexcapade, I got some good sleep, just not enough of it, and I wake
far too early. It must be my strange surroundings. It’s just past 6
a.m. and I take a quick shower while Dylan is still sleeping
soundly. Dreaming of Erika I wonder?
Who
is she? What was she to him?
The mental image of Dylan
with someone else makes me nauseous. I wonder if she was someone
more recent or…
no
… One of
his submissives? Tall, skinny and raven-haired, no doubt.
Yuck
.

I head back to the closet and straight
towards my designated temporary location, the corner in the far
right. I pick out a beautiful black chiffon frill neck dress with a
lovely white floral print and a price tag that says $406 on
it.
Yikes.
Then I open up the
shoe boxes and find a beautiful pair of black Robert Clergerie
espadrilles with a price tag of – no freakin’ way -
$625
. Oh my sweet baby Jesus.
That is so wrong.
In what alternate
universe do shoes cost more than the dress? In the universe of the
overly rich, apparently. I put them back in the box and hem and haw
about accepting them. I know if I don’t wear them, they’ll sit in
here just turning to dust because Dylan is too damned stubborn to
take them back and that would be a cruel fate for this gorgeous
foot candy.
Fine. I’ll wear
them.

Next,
I head over to my
designated temporary skivvy drawer and pluck out a sexy Cosabella
set. The price tag on these lovelies isn’t quite as hard to swallow
and more along the price I would pay. I’ve always had a liking for
sexy undies and so if I spend my money on anything, its art
supplies and skivvies.

I get dressed quickly and attempt to repair
my hair, trying to make it at least suitable for the lovely outfit
I’m wearing. It was lame of me to even think that would work. Oh
well. I find some essentials in my workbag, and put on some lip
gloss, a little cover-up on my freckles, and some mascara.

Just then, I notice the rope burns on
my wrists.
Oh shit
. How did I
miss those? How the hell am I going to explain that? I don’t have
any jewelry to wear to cover it and I don’t own a watch. I dab on
some cover up and to my relief; it works fairly well. I’ll just
have to keep an eye on that and reapply it as necessary.

On the kitchen counter the painting I made
earlier is now dried and looks great in the morning light. I place
it back in the manila envelope and decide whether or not to wake
Dylan to say goodbye. No. That’s a bad idea. He’ll want to drive me
to work and I don’t want to risk Greer seeing me with Dylan. I’ll
just leave him a note and slip out.

I find a pen in my workbag and write
something very professional on the envelope about hoping he finds
the revisions I’ve made agreeable, but it sounds too businesslike
for my tastes. Maybe that’s how Dylan works, but I can’t be as cold
and austere as he is, so I tell him that I’ll be thinking of him
and to have a fantastic day at work. I sign it and then think maybe
I should say something more.

P.S. Thank you for yesterday. It was amazing
and I look forward to more of it.

I couldn’t resist thanking him and hopefully
telling him that I want more will keep him thinking about me all
day.

I call for a cab on my cell phone and notice
that my battery is near dead. Damn. I didn’t bring my charger with
me because I didn’t expect to be anywhere but home last night.

As I leave the building, someone from
security nods and waves to me. When I step outside, the morning is
bright and the weather is cool. I love fall and I can hardly wait
until it gets here. Falls in Denver are amazing. As are the summers
and spring. The winter… well, I’ll never get used to the amount of
snow we get here. I definitely don’t miss Georgia’s heat and
humidity.
Or my
father
.

When I arrive at the studio, I’m early,
but Monica and Greer are already hard at work getting things ready
for the show. When I enter, they both take one look at me and get a
sudden case of drop-jaw. What?
Oh. The
clothes
. Yes, well, I should’ve expected that. Monica
looks me up and down, twice. Greer does it more than that. Oh
brother.
It’s just clothes you
a-holes
. You’d think they’ve never seen me dressed up
before. Actually, they probably never have. I just give them a
brief ‘good morning’ and move past them quickly.

I no sooner get my bag set down and Greer is
right behind me.

“I see you put your painting money to
good use.” He says in a raspy thick sweet voice.
Yuck.

When I turn to look at him, he has the
same look like he did in my apartment; eyes jet black, a predatory
stance, and a creepy half smile on his mouth. Where’s Monica when I
need her? Just then, she comes ambling over.
Yes! Thank you!

“I need to talk to you,” she says in a bitchy
tone.

Oh hell, now what? Greer glares at her for
the interruption, I assume, and I follow her to the front reception
area, feeling relieved to be out of Greer’s reach.

“So what was that business with Dylan Young
yesterday?” She’s standing in an oh-no-you-didn’t-stance with her
hands are on her bony hips, and her heavily shadowed eyes are
narrowed at me.

Shit, shit, shit. I was hoping she had
forgotten about that.
Think quickly,
Isa
, and do your best at lying!

“Well, he bought my paintings and he just
wanted to know if I had any others available.” As soon as I say it,
I regret it.

“How did you find out he bought your
paintings?” She asks accusingly.

This is why I don’t like to lie.
Because one lie leads to another to another to…
Damn it, Isa.

“I found out when approached me.” I
feel like hell lying like this.
I hate
this
.

“Does Stephan know about this?” She asks
still being snotty as ever.

What the hell do I tell her?
Don’t think… just speak!
“No, but
feel free to tell him yourself if you’d like.”

With that, I walk away hoping she won’t
badger me anymore. Damn it, that was too intense for this time of
the morning. What the hell have I done?
Of
course
she’ll tell Greer. I can’t think about that
right now and I push it to the back of my mind.

I make my way back to my desk and just then I
hear my phone beep loudly. I know that sound; it’s the sound of my
battery notifying me of its untimely demise. Within a few minutes,
the rest of the crew starts arriving and I couldn’t be more
relieved.

The next few hours are spent with all
hands on deck attending to lighting and painting arrangement. It’s
good to be busy and it keeps my mind off of the morning’s near
catastrophe. I’m beginning to think maybe,
just maybe
, Monica won’t rat me out and perhaps
my feigned confidence worked. I pray it did, anyway.

It’s nearing 10 a.m. when I’m notified
by front reception that someone is here to see me.
Oh no – please don’t let it be Dylan.
When I approach the front area, I see Dylan’s brown-haired
receptionist waiting for me. Strange, why is
she
here? She has a manila envelope in her hands
that looks identical to the one that the contract was in, except
this one doesn’t have my hand written note on it. When she sees me,
she does a double take and gets the same sudden case of drop-jaw. I
guess it must be going around.

She quickly pulls herself together and hands
me the envelope.

“Dylan, I mean, Mr. Young had to leave on
important business and wanted me to drop this off for you. His car
is parked for you in the employee lot.”

What the hell? His car? Why? I don’t know how
to respond. “Okay. Thank you.”

She stands there looking me up and
down, shifting nervously from foot to foot and I swear, giving me
the stink eye.
What did I do to
her
?

The next few moments are awkward as she
continues to just stand there, evil eyeing me, waiting for a
response, I guess. Finally I ask her, “Is there something
else?”