Chimera (11 page)

I
’ve been devouring
information online about Sera’s lifestyle, and I picked up books at the bookstore from reputable non-fiction writers. If I’m not painting, I’m reading. I’m even considering trying to find an experienced Dom that might be willing to mentor me, train me to be assertive, gain experience in the lifestyle. But without asking Sera, I don’t really know how to go about finding one. There’re several clubs here in town, but I don’t know which ones she frequents, and I’m not ready to run into her in that scene. I want to be able to tell her I’ve been studying and learning, but I don’t want to do it until I’m beyond my infancy in the endeavor.

The phone rings four times before a breathless Nate answers it. “What, Bastian?” Obviously, he’s still miffed about yesterday’s bobble.

“Don’t be mad at me, Nate. Damn.”

“I’m not mad. I just wonder why I bother.”

I grin. “Because you love me.” He doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “Wanna take me on a date tonight?” Hearing the humor in my voice, he can’t stay bitter.

“You owe me dinner, bitch.”

“Name it.”

“Fantasia Alley.” Fuck, he’s really mad. That’s one of the most expensive restaurants in town.

“Shit, are you going to order lobster, too?”

“And dessert, and I’m still not going to put out.”

“Seven?”

“See you then.” But he doesn’t hang up. “Bastian?”

“Yeah?”

“I got an enormous deposit in my bank account from The West End Gallery yesterday. You know anything about it?”

I hesitate, unsure of how to answer the question. I still don’t know how much the deposit was, and frankly, don’t care. My silence answers his question.

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t have to buy
The Seraphim
that night. I know you did it in an effort to try to salvage what was left of my pathetic life. I have no idea how much you paid for it, but I know it was a lot. According to Tara, Sera priced it not to sell. If my life is that significant to you, I want you to know I’ll give back when I can.”

“Priceless piece of art.”

“
The Seraphim
?” I ask, confused.

“No, dip shit. Your life.”

This is the reason Nate is like a brother to me. He sees value when I see nothing in myself. He drops thousands of dollars to brighten a tiny ray of light he saw one night while staring at a piece of fired clay.

“See you at seven,” he adds, and ends the call.

D
owntown
at one of my favorite restaurants, I ply Nate with alcohol. I’m more likely to get him to say yes if he had a few drinks. “What are you trying to get out of me?” he asks after his third drink.

“Why do you assume I want something?” I grin.

He screws his face into some contorted mess that silently says, “because I know you, motherfucker.”

“Okay, I have a proposal for you. Well, a favor, because you get nothing out of it...other than time with me.” If I were texting, I would insert a huge-ass smiley here.

He lets out a howl of laughter. “Okay, what is it?”

“You’re agreeing before I even tell you what I’m proposing?”

“No, I’m acquiescing to your idiocy. So what do you want?”

“I want to go to a club and I need you to go with me.”

“Aren’t we a little old for clubbing?”

“Not that kind of club, jackass. A BDSM club.”

“No fucking way, Bastian. People already think we’re gay. Showing up at that type of place together is confirming shit we aren’t into. Why do you want to go anyhow?”

“I want to try to find a mentor.”

“For what? If you need someone to teach you the sexual ropes at your age, I think it’s a hopeless cause.”

“No, asshat. I want to learn how to be a Dom.”

“Like a Christian Grey kind of thing?”

“No, like the legit kind of thing.”

“I’ve seen all those books around your house. What are you doing with them anyhow? When did you get interested in that crap and why?” Thinking about how to answer him, he interrupts my thoughts. “Let me guess…Sera?” The irritation in his voice is obvious.

“Yeah. She’s heavy into it and I have no shot in hell with her if I don’t learn something about it. I’ve read everything I can get my hands on, but without practical application, it’s just useless knowledge.”

“So you want to go find some rank stranger to teach you how to be something you’re not naturally?”

Ignoring the snarky comment about my natural demeanor, I say, “I do. But not here in town. I don’t want to run into people we might know or that might know Sera.”

“So where are we going?”

“You’ll go?”

“I’m afraid if I don’t, you’ll get your ass kicked by some alpha male who thinks you’re an eccentric dumbass.”

“I was thinking Charlotte or Atlanta, but I’ll have to do some research on clubs and make some calls. I’d like to find out if there’s anyone who might be available to talk to us the night we come.”

“Hold up. I’ll go with you, but by no means will I be involved in the conversations. I’ll be there solely to keep you from getting your ass beaten by some dude in black leather yielding a whip. Jesus, do you have any clue what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Not really…I mean theoretically, yes, but realistically, no. I know you don’t understand, Nate, but she won’t ever consider me the way I am.”

“That should tell you something then.” He takes a long drink from his glass.

“You don’t get it. There’s something about her. She’s the key to me regaining my life. Finding happiness again.”

“Bastian, no one will ever make you happy if you’re pretending to be something you’re not in an effort to make them love you. I won’t go into how many things are wrong with this scenario. The only thing about her that makes you think she’s the key to your happiness is she’s a replica of Sylvie visually.”

“That’s what it started out as, but really, the more I get to know her, the more I fall for her, who she is. The way she moves, the way she talks, her gestures, the way she fidgets when she’s nervous, her love of art. There’s so much about her that’s just her.”

“Her looking exactly like Sylvie has nothing to do with it?”

I shrug. I can’t lie to him, and the fact is, it does play a part. Maybe I’m lying to myself, but the hope she offers me is more than I’ve had since my wife died.

“Figure out what club you want to go to and when someone can meet with you. Let me know when and where and I’ll take you, but I’m going on record for telling you this is a bad idea. If she’s who you think she is, she should love you as is…otherwise, you’re chasing something that doesn’t exist. You’ll never be able to keep up this charade.”

“Duly noted.”

Nate’s warnings eat at me for the next couple days. I can’t help but heed his caution, but in the end, regardless, my brain tells me he’s right. However, my heart tells me to chase Sera with fervor. Ignoring my mind, I follow my bleeding heart. Finding a club outside of Charlotte, the owner is amazingly receptive when I talk to him. He personally invites me to come spend the following Friday night with him. He’s very open with his journey into the lifestyle, and says he wishes he’d had another man to coach and advise him early on. He strongly encourages all new members to pair up with someone having more knowledge and experience, if for no other reason than to have a friendly ear, because it’s such an underground road. He solidifies my desire to pursue this path.

I text Nate the good news as Sera comes waltzing in my door. “Hey, Sunshine,” she beams, kissing me on the cheek in greeting.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” I return the peck.

“It’s a beautiful day and I want to go for a walk downtown. I figured I could park my car here, grab you, and we could stroll the streets and people watch.”

“Sounds good. Wanna grab lunch while we’re out?”

“Can we go to Rulatta’s?” I think the girl would move into the cafe if they would let her. She must spend every penny she makes on coffee, scones, and sandwiches there.

“Whatever makes you happy. Is it cold outside?” Late fall in this area of the country is tricky; it can be unseasonably warm or freezing-ass cold. I haven’t been outside, but since she has on a cardigan, I’m assuming it’s the latter of the two.

“It’s a little breezy, but you’ll probably be fine in what you’re wearing.”

With a sweatshirt in hand, we start the short walk down the block. It’s warmer than she indicated, but hell, women seem to always be cold. The waiter seats us in the same place we always land...on the patio. Only Sera would have a table at a cafe. The staff greets her as we pass through the building. It makes me smile seeing her in her element and how many people adore her. Sylvie was that way. Everywhere she went she made friends. People remembered her, not because she was a fairly well known vocal artist, but because she was genuinely nice. Her smile radiated warmth throughout a room; it was infectious. Glancing at Sera, I see that same smile, one that calls to people, beckons them to know her. As with Sylvie, I’m Sera’s lucky sidekick, the man people envy. I’m much more unassuming, reserved, laid back, a wallflower of sorts. Equally as well known in my industry as my wife was, and as Sera is, I don’t garner the same type of attention. People have always known or simply assumed I’m a very private person, and rightly so, but in return, they keep their distance.

The conversation is light. I love hearing about her latest projects—she’s currently working on a series of tiny elephants. Showing me a picture of a finished animal, I’m in awe of the detail in the little bit of clay. It’s no bigger than a lime. It will be the largest of the collection. I listen, completely enraptured by her intimate knowledge of elephants as a whole, how they travel in herds, the mothers parenting all of their children as though they belong to them while never leaving one behind.

“It’s the way all species should be,” she shares. “Think about it. If everyone loved their friend’s children the way they love their own, never leaving them alone or allowing them to fall behind, imagine how different our society would be. Violence, poverty, it would all fade away if everyone lived the way elephants do.”

It’s a nice thought but unrealistic. She shines talking about the little creatures. They’re exactly the type of thing people love to invest in, something with meaning, a conversation piece in their home. She’s doing hundreds of them to symbolize how insignificant and small we are as individuals, but what a powerful force we could be if we united as a group, one entity.

Sera’s a visual talker, always moving her hands and arms to illustrate her point. Amidst a particularly vast arm motion, her sweater moves up her arm, exposing a bruise that must go from her wrist to her elbow. Catching her hand in mine, careful not to touch the yellowing mark, her motion stops. Her gaze falls to my hand where I’m moving her sleeve up to reveal the ugly truth. It’s obviously several days old but it had to have been vicious to be this large.

I turn her arm over gently to allow her to see what I see. “How long ago did this happen?”

Tugging her sleeve back down, she squeezes my hand in reassurance. “I fell on the stairs at the University. Honestly, Bastian.”

“Fell, or were pushed?” My hurt for her is evident in my voice and my face. I can’t hide it, the disappointment in her allowing this man to continue punishing her.

“It’s not like that. I’ve told you those were accidents when we were playing.”

“But this wasn’t one of those?” I raise an eyebrow in question.

“No,” she states with no further explanation, although I’m sure there’s more to know.

“Was he there?”

She doesn’t answer, but instead, looks away into the distance. I nod my head in understanding. She refuses to implicate him but I’m not blind. If he hadn’t been, she’d readily admit the details.

“Please don’t spoil the day.” Her eyes pool with tears, threatening to fall.

“Okay. Why don’t we finish up here and go peruse the streets of this beautiful town and see what it has to offer?” I display a weak smile, determined to enjoy the afternoon.

She nods as I reach over, swiping away the tears trickling out of her eyes. Holding my hand on her a cheek a fraction of a second longer than necessary, she leans into it and closes her eyes in safety. When she looks at me again, any hint of sorrow vanishes. Her eyes are alight with wonder and excitement. That’s a gift, one I don’t possess—the ability to wipe away the cares of yesterday with the awe of today. If she could find a way to sculpt that, she’d make millions.

I
t’s a busy week
. Ferry came back yesterday, so we’re meeting about the prints I finished while he was out of town. Tomorrow night, Nate and I are going to Charlotte to The Warehouse to meet with the owner so I can pick his brain about finding a mentor. Sera and I are going to have lunch tomorrow after going to see her little herd of elephants, or those completed thus far. Hard to believe six months ago I wouldn’t get out of bed unless Nate forced me, and now I have a busy social and work life that doesn’t involve endless thoughts of suicide and perpetual darkness.

The stint at Ferry’s studio is uneventful. For the first time since we’ve been working together, he’s talking about things other than art, admitting he’s a real person. He’s been in New York for several days but can’t stop talking about the girl I heard on the other end of the call. To hear him tell it, they had quite the rendezvous. There’s no part of his story I don’t believe, and it goes right along with his reputation for loving, leaving, and never repeating.

“You think you’ll see her again when you go back to Manhattan?” He has another trip in a couple of weeks.

“Nah, but she sure made for a fun few days. I’m not the relationship type. It doesn’t work with my lifestyle. I travel too much and have no desire to stop or take a significant other with me. Women always say they’re okay with the arrangement, but none ever are when they see what it’s really like. So I stick to enjoyable weekends and move on. I’m always upfront. I never lead a woman to believe she’ll see me past the trip I’m currently on. I’m well aware my reputation precedes me and I don’t care. The press used to have a field day with it, but over the years, they seem to have lost interest in my sex life.”

“Funny how people are so different. I couldn’t imagine being intimate with someone I wasn’t in a committed relationship with.”

“And that’s why you’re wired to be married and have a white picket fence with two point three kids,” Ferry replies.

Grimacing at his assessment, I shout, “Hey!”

“It’s not an insult, Bastian. Just a statement. The world needs all types of people. Revel in who you are, accept it, own it.” He sounds like Nate, preaching acceptance of self, neither of which have ever doubted who they are.

“I’m not sure I like that persona. I’m working on remaking myself. I died when Sylvie left. I’m of the opinion if I’m going to come back, it can be as whoever I deem I want to be.”

“At the heart of it, you are who you are. I believe people can always improve upon that, but your heart, your core, that will always be the same.”

“What if the person I’ve been wasn’t who I was at the core? Isn’t it possible the person I want to shape myself into is who I was meant to be?”

“Unlikely. As a child, you don’t know to pretend to be anything but yourself. Most people, although I’m sure not all, don’t have the wherewithal to hide who they are. There are very few able to masquerade as who they want to be versus who they are as a teen. Usually, those who can do it are doing so out of necessity, hiding abuse, that kind of thing.”

I’m adamant I can be who I choose to be. Life will not define me. Circumstances made me the person I’ve been the last few years. That’s not who I am at the core. I wonder if I can even identify the person, the true being of who I am, if that person is even visible anymore. I don’t remember much about him. He’s a memory just like Sylvie. So if I lost him, I will find someone new to become. Tomorrow night, I’ll take the next step in that journey.

I still get the nervous butterflies in my stomach every time I know I’m going to see Sera. Getting to spend time with her is like waking up on Christmas morning to a boatload of presents under the tree. There’s so much to explore and enjoy, an endless supply of gifts to unwrap. Regardless of the frequency, she still brings the same excitement to me. I count down the minutes until she arrives, every time.

Watching the clock today is no different, I have a dopey, giddy grin on my face when she greets me, “Hello, Sunshine.” We exchange mutual kisses on the cheek. I could argue the American public should adopt this tradition, which is popular in so many European and Hispanic cultures. It’s so much more personal. Every time I see her, it’s the same greeting, one especially for me. I think she calls me “Sunshine” like an oxymoron.

“Should I even ask where we’re going for lunch?”

Her laughter fills the room. Time seems to slow as her head falls back, her throat bobbing with each round of sound billowing from her chest. It’s a deep throaty laugh one born from pure happiness. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“Nah, the café’s fine.” The truth is, I wouldn’t care if she wanted to dine from a dumpster. Just being with her fills my void. The food is a bonus. Whatever it is she loves about the place brings a smile to her face, and that’s all I care about.

She loops her arm in mine as we walk down the street. Talking up a storm about what I’m not sure. I hear the words but am listening more to the melody than the verbiage itself. I could fill my days with these sounds. I know the pain she hides, but somehow, she chooses to show the world a sunny disposition. If she can do it, if she can be someone other than who she is, so can I. She makes a conscious effort to bring happiness to the world, not pity, or shame from her circumstances. If I hadn’t seen the evidence, I would never believe she was anything but content with life, addicted to her world, the arts, the sunshine, and this little cafe.

Sitting at her table on the balcony, she has on a long skirt with a loose, flowing blouse, the warm weather still gracing us with its presence. The hot-pink polish on her toes draws my attention to her delicate feet. I see it out of the corner of my eye as she crosses her legs in the seat next to me. Just beneath the hem of her skirt, I detect more of the telltale signs of the abuse she’s enduring. The instant she catches my stare, she fidgets in her seat, once again veiling the damage he did. The internal war becomes far more than I can handle or keep at bay.

Deciding to address the issue at hand instead of forcing me to ask, she says, “He’d been gone for a while, Bastian. He was a little aggressive in his play last night. I’m fine.” If I hadn’t seen her cloak her pain before, I might believe her.

I just nod my understanding. The waiter comes to take our order at that moment, distracting me from the subject. By the time he leaves, I’ve decided to let it drop. She knows I’m aware. If she wants to share more, she can.

“Are you doing anything tonight? There’s a play opening at the Little Theatre. Tickets are cheap if you want to go.” Her ability to effortlessly change the subject is duly noted.

“Can I take a rain check? Nate and I are going to Charlotte when he gets off work.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I wish I’d kept it to myself.

“What are you guys going to Charlotte for?” she asks, and takes a drink from her straw. Her question is innocent but the answer not so much. Moment of truth: do I lie, give her a vague answer, or tell her the truth? As much as I’d like to be vague, the persona I want to adopt is forthright and honest.

“We are going to a club called The Warehouse.”

She simultaneously uncrosses her legs and spits her tea all over the front of my shirt in surprise. “Shut up! You are not! Bastian, do you have any idea what kind of club that is?” It’s endearing she thinks I’m this naïve, but it’s irritating as well that she’d have reason to think it.

Wiping her tea off me with my napkin, I answer her with what I’m not sure she’s ready to hear. “Yeah, I talked to the club owner for about an hour last week.”

“But why? And why are you going with Nate? Do you just want people to think you’re gay?”

“What do you mean, why? Why does anyone go?”

“Most people go to play, but it’s not your gig, and based on how little you knew when we talked about it a couple months ago, Nate obviously is not involved, either. So, why?” Little Ms. Interrogation here.

“After we talked, I was interested.”

“In what?”

“The lifestyle as a whole. Why are you so shocked?”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone take an interest, much less go to a club.”

“I read everything I can find online and all the books the local bookstores had, which wasn’t a lot by the way.”

“So you’re just going out of curiosity? I’m surprised the club owner was down with that. Normally, clubs are very particular about who they let in.”

“No, I’m not just going out of curiosity, and I’m not going to play. I’m going to meet with the owner about finding a mentor.”

She doubles over with laughter—the kind where you can’t breathe, you’re shaking, tears are rolling down your cheeks, kind of laughter. I wait for her to calm down, genuinely hurt by her response. She sees how her reaction affected me.

“Wait.” She regains her composure before continuing. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.” I refuse to look away from her. I maintain eye contact. This is part of who I want to be. Her reaction can’t sway my decision. I’ll have to change how she sees me over time. This is a step toward doing that. An important one. My gaze remains stoic, stern.

“Any particular reason?” She wipes the remaining tears from her face.

“The more I read, the more interested I became, but there’s only so much a person can learn from a book. There’s the need for practical application. I don’t want to assume a role I haven’t been trained for. The more I dug into my research, the more people talked about having mentors, people who had more experience and were willing to train them. I called a bunch of clubs in Atlanta and Charlotte, and this guy, James, he believes heavily in it. He encourages everyone new to the club to pair up with someone else, not just for the training piece but to facilitate a friend in the lifestyle so newcomers don’t feel alone in their journey.”

“Jesus. You’re really serious about this. Is he going to match you with another sub to work with?” Shot to the fucking heart. In this moment, I wonder if I will ever change her perception of me.

“No. A Dom. He’s going to mentor me himself.”

“I could see you as a switch.” Her head bobs in agreement as she acknowledges it with the same assurance the grass is green.

“No, Sera. Just a Dom.”

Pity fills her eyes—not wonder, not contemplation, but fucking sympathy. “That’s a pretty big for a club owner to take you on. Did you tell him who you are?”

“No. I gave him my name but he didn’t seem to recognize it.” I wasn’t aware this was such an unusual thing for a club owner to do, and he seemed like it was a natural progression and his responsibility as an experienced Master to give back.

“Trust me. He knows who you are. This is not a highly publicized world, Bastian. Club owners don’t let strangers into their venues without heavy vetting, and they sure as hell don’t offer their time unpaid. Members pay dearly to know their identities are protected and curious onlookers aren’t lurking in the club shadows. You got in
because
of who you are, and the fact he knows you can pay the dues should you decide to join. Don’t fool yourself, Bastian. The Warehouse is the Charlotte elite. Big money in those walls.”

“You act like I’m some A-list actor. No one outside of the art community in our area knows my name.”

“Wakeup call, Bastian. People flew in from all over the world to pay six figures for your paintings not so long ago. You were and always will be the golden boy with a paintbrush. People love your youthful look and the emotion you convey on a canvas, but even more, they love your story. You used to be the prodigy with a stunning wife who had an amazing voice, both successful in your own right. But now, now you’re the tragic artist who made a comeback after vanishing for years. You are your own Cinderella story.”

“I think you glorify some horrible years. I’m not benefiting from my wife’s death.”

“No, you’re benefiting from your ability to recover from a loss that had a profound effect on you. That in itself has merit, but what most people aren’t able to do is grow in their craft. They rest on their laurels, putting out shit they would’ve been ashamed of at the height of their popularity. You came back and your painting took on a new identity. Your work pre-Sylvie doesn’t even look like the same artist post-Sylvie.”

Her words stun me, all of them. I’m doing my best to try to make it day by day, finding a glimmer of hope that takes me to the next morning. I can admit my work has changed, but not so drastically it wouldn’t be recognizable as the same artist.

She interrupts my thoughts when she says, “Look, my point in all of this is you’re more widely known than you’re willing to admit. You got in because of it. What are you hoping to gain from all this?”

“I’m just looking to explore an interest, Sera. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Are you looking for kinky sex?”

“Seriously? Do I even resemble that kind of person to you? What the hell, Sera?”

“No. I’m just taken aback by all this. It seems really sudden. I’m shocked.”

“It’s not all of a sudden. We originally talked about this several months ago. You told me to do some research. I did. I can’t explain what happened, but it woke something inside me. Maybe it’s nothing, but I won’t know until I explore it, and I don’t want to do that blindly and someone get hurt.” I didn’t mean that last part to sound like a slam. She flinched, slightly, but I saw it.

We eat in relative silence, the rest of the meal awkward. After I pay the bill, we walk back to my house where she offers her goodbyes. Normally, I would try to sway her to stay, talk things out. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but she should be supportive. If this is important, she should want to expose other people, if for no other reason than to open their eyes to different options. I refuse to allow her dismay to ruin my night. I’ve been looking forward to this almost as much as I look forward to seeing Sera.