Being Me (30 page)

He goes very still. “What are you saying?”

More and more, I think Paris is my way of peeling back the remainder of Chris’s layers. “It means I belong with you.”

We stare at each other and I can almost feel the depths of our bond weave deeper into my soul. “Yes,” he says softly. “You do.”

The waiter interrupts us by bringing the check, but the moment isn’t lost. I cast Chris a coy look. “I was wondering if a certain brilliant artist took special requests.”

“When being called brilliant by a certain sexy-as-hell woman who happens to share my bed, most anything is possible.”

My cheeks heat as I think of what has been possible in our bed, namely the leather straps he’d installed on the headboard to tie me up and torment me with pleasure. “Yes, well. I finally get to go to Ryan’s property tomorrow and see firsthand how my treasures will look. I was hoping you might come with me because”—I flip to a picture of a wall inside the property, and turn it to him—“I dream of this spot displaying a Chris Merit San Francisco skyline. You could donate the money, and I’ll—”

“On one condition.” He isn’t looking at the picture. He’s looking at me. “You sit for me and let me paint you.”

In the past, the idea was intimidating, and I told myself it was because Chris is famously talented, but it was more. It was what his brush captured, and the secrets I worried he’d reveal. I search his face now, and I see that awareness there. This is about trust, about me believing he can see the worst in me and still love me. And maybe, just maybe, if I put that kind of trust in him, he will do the same with me.

“Yes. I’ll sit for you.”

•   •   •

At midafternoon I finish helping a customer and return to my office, where I discover a box sitting on my desk with a card. I recognize Chris’s writing immediately. Peeling open the card I read,
For tonight. Open alone with the door shut. Chris
.

I trace his signature, the crisp, precise letters created by the same hand that crafts masterpieces that sell for millions.

Amanda pops her head in. “It came a few minutes ago.” She bites her lip. “Can I see what it is?”

“Ah, no. That’s not a good idea.”

Her face lights up. “A naughty gift.” She sighs. “I want a sexy, famous artist to send me naughty gifts. I’ll shut the door for you.”

I break the tape sealing the red box and laugh when I find a pink paddle and a pair of butterfly nipple clamps inside. My lips curve and heat shimmers a path through my body, but this gift makes me feel so much more than desire. He hasn’t let what he learned about Michael affect us. If he had, I don’t know what I would have done. I need the escape Chris gives me, the way I know I can just let go with him and he will never hurt me. And that’s the true gift.

•   •   •

It’s an hour before closing time at the gallery and I’ve spent the afternoon walking on more of those clouds, anticipating my night with Chris, when my cell phone rings. I glance at the number and I don’t know why, but the instant I see it, I go bitterly cold inside. “Dylan?” I answer, holding my breath as I await his young, cheerful voice.

“Sara.”

The pained whisper of my name from Brandy’s lips spirals
through me and tears pool in my eyes. I know what she is going to tell me. “No. It can’t be.”

“He’s gone. My baby is gone.”

“I . . .” I say the dreaded words. I can’t help it. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry, Brandy.”

“You need to go to Chris. He didn’t take it well. I . . . I just . . . go to him. He needs you.”

“Yes. Yes.” Oh, God. Chris. “I am. I will.”

She sobs and heaves in a trembling breath. “Call us and tell us he is okay.”

“I will.”

I swipe at the tears pouring down my cheeks and dial Chris. He doesn’t answer. I dial again and again. “Amanda!”

She rushes into the office and her eyes go wide. “What’s wrong?”

“Call Diego Maria’s and see if Chris is there,” I tell her and I’m already dialing Jacob.

“Yes. Okay.”

Jacob answers. “Is Chris there?” I ask.

“No, Ms. McMillan. He’s not been in all day. Are you okay?”

“There’s been an emergency. If he shows up there, call me.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Chris. Just call me if you see him.” I hang up as Amanda walks back into the office. “He’s not there.”

“Do you have the number for the coffee shop?”

“Yes. You want me to call?”

“No. Just get me the number.”

She darts away and buzzes my desk. I dial the number and a man answers. “Is Chris Merit there?” The answer is no. “Is Ava there?” The answer is also no. My stomach roils. I hunch over my desk.

Mark appears in my doorway. “Dylan, the cancer patient Chris and I are so fond of”—I suck in a breath of air—“he . . . he . . .” I can’t say it.

“That explains it then.”

“Explains what?”

“Why Chris is at the club.”

My world spins and then crashes into a million pieces and I start to shake, tears spilling like waterfalls from my eyes.

“Ms. McMillan,” Mark snaps sharply, and somehow he is standing over me and I don’t remember him moving. “Pull yourself together, get your purse, and come with me.”

I have no idea why but his command is so compelling that I almost robotically reach for my purse and force myself to my feet, using the desk for stability. I can’t make it any further. I wobble and sob.

Mark wraps an arm around my waist and catches my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “Ms. McMillan.” His thumb swipes away my tears. “I warned you Chris was fucked-up. You accepted that. Did you not?”

“Yes. But—”

“There are no ‘buts’ today. Today you accept how he deals with pain, or you don’t. Choose now.”

“I’m trying. I just . . . I thought . . .”

“Don’t think. It will get you into trouble. You’ve made this
choice long before now. Accept his way even if you don’t understand it, or walk away.”

I wet my parched lips. “I accept,” I whisper.

He sets me away from him. “Then let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To my club.”

Mark and I don’t speak during the twenty-minute drive. He seems to understand that the tiniest thing might send me into an eruption of tears again. I rest my head on the soft leather seat of his Jaguar, watching the lights and stars flicker by the window. I dig deep inside myself to reopen the black pit I’d buried my emotions in before finding the journals, before finding Chris. I need that place I’d hoped to never go to again, to survive this, and I wonder now if I should have ever left it behind.

Slowly, I harness a thin veil of composure that is momentarily threatened when I spot the gates of the massive mansion that is Mark’s club deep in the elite Cow Hollow neighborhood. Will I find Chris with another woman? I can handle a lot but these two things, I don’t know if I can.

We park in front of the long stairwell and a suited security guard wearing an earpiece opens my door. I don’t move. I can’t move.

“Ms. McMillan.”

Mark commands me to look at him. This time his Master routine doesn’t work. I stare straight ahead. I am clear-minded enough to wonder about his motives behind bringing me here, despite being grateful he’s given me the chance to face this thing with Chris regardless of the outcome. But Mark’s motive could be an effort to tear me and Chris apart—or a true worry about an ex-friend he still feels some connection with. I’m not sure it matters. The outcome of this night will be determined by me and Chris and no one else.

“I’m not going to like what I find, am I?” I finally ask.

“No.”

The hard, cold honesty of that one word sets me in motion. Whatever awaits me inside, I just want to know. I step out of the car, and despite leaving my jacket at the gallery, I welcome the cold night air that lets me feel anything but the ache burning through me. I slide my purse over my shoulder. My cash and credit cards give me an exit route if I need one, and I’m shocked I have this clarity of mind. I’ve found that deep hole, or at least the edge of the void that I know too well.

Mark rounds the car and cups my elbow, murmuring something to the guard I don’t even try to hear, before he leads me up the stairs toward the double red doors I’d entered only once before. They open as we approach and another suited man greets Mark.

Cotton seems to gather in my mouth as we step inside the mansion, onto the expensive Oriental rug. My gaze sweeps the towering ceilings and expensive art and décor surrounding me, and I almost laugh at the façade of proper decorum.

Mark motions to the winding staircase covered in red carpet rather than to the hallway to the right I’d once traveled with Chris. There’s a second set I didn’t notice going down, and they become our path to wherever we are headed. We travel downward and the winding path is tortuous and eternal. My heart is pounding in my ears, behind my eyes, pounding and pounding. I cling to the rail, and somehow I’ve wrapped my arm through Mark’s to cling to him as well. I don’t remember how we get to another red door. We are suddenly just there. It’s wooden and arched, with a huge metal bolt. My stomach knots. Oh, God. A dungeon. Pain. Torture.

Mark pulls me around to face him, holding my arm. “Accept him or walk away.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because he’s dangerously on the edge and I think you can pull him back.”

I search his face, looking for the truth in his answer, and I find it. I don’t care why he cares what happens to Chris. I just know he does. I straighten. “Take me to him.”

He studies me for a long moment, assessing my state of mind, and apparently he approves. Without another word, he shoves the heavy bolt aside and opens the door. The scent of something spicy like incense touches my nose, burning through me like acid fear. I hold my breath as I step forward, blocking it out, and I find myself inside what looks like a concrete holding room, not more than twenty by twenty feet. At least half a dozen lanterns pulse from the depths of massive steel encasements high on the walls.

I draw a calming breath and stare at the huge blank monitor
spanning the wall directly in front of me, much like the one Chris had used to show me a woman being flogged in another part of the mansion. Cold seeps into my bones and I shiver; the sensation of being underground and trapped is almost unbearable.

“Where is he?” I ask.

Mark motions to the wooden door on my left. “In the next room, but I need to be clear. To allow you to intrude on play breaks every code of honor I have for this club. I interfere only if I judge that someone’s well-being is at risk.”

“What are you saying?”

“He goes too far when he’s like this. The report I received upon arriving is that tonight is only different from the past in that he’s beyond even his worst extreme.”

My nails dig into my palms. “Take me to him.”

He walks to the monitor and retrieves a remote control mounted to the wall. “I need to know you can handle what you’re going to find before I let you inside.”

“Then show me now,” I demand, balling one of my fists on my chest, as if that might keep my heart from exploding where it beats furiously.

“The reasons people enjoy our play here vary. Most of us simply find it an adrenaline rush and a pleasurable escape. Chris isn’t about pleasure. He’s about punishing himself.”

“Damn it, Mark,
show
me.”

His lips tighten and he punches the button on the remote. The screen comes to life. I hear Chris before I see him, his raspy, harsh breathing. I try to process what I’m seeing. Chris is inside a round concrete cell, shirtless, wearing only his jeans. His arms are outstretched and tied to some kind of poles. He isn’t wearing
a mask, but the woman standing behind him from a small boxed window at the top of the monitor is. She’s in some kind of leather barely-there outfit with high boots, and
oh, God
. I cover my mouth and jump as she lays a harrowing strike of a whip against Chris’s back. His body jerks with the impact.

“Harder!” Chris snarls, sweat gathering on his forehead. “Fucking hit me like you mean it, or send someone in who can do the job.”

She hits him again. He bucks under the lash and then laughs bitterly. “Are you the pussy or am I?”

The woman pulls the whip back, and I shout, “No! No more!” I dart for the door and yank it open and Mark doesn’t stop me. I enter the dungeon’s circle from behind Chris and the sight of Chris’s welts, bleeding down his back, is almost too much to bear.

“Finally,” Chris growls at the sound of my entry, unaware it’s me. “A replacement. I hope you’re better than she is.”

“Cut him loose,” I hiss at the masked woman even as I’m rounding the poles to stand in front of Chris. Tears streak his face, torment spiraling in the depths of his bloodshot eyes.

“Sara.” My name falls from Chris’s lips before he throws his head back and growls in complete, utter anguish.

“Chris.” His name is a pained whisper wrenched deep from my soul. I start to cry, trembling as I touch his face, forcing him to look me. He lowers his lashes, refusing to look at me. “Cut him loose!” I shout, because the woman hasn’t moved.

I hear Mark speak through some kind of intercom. “Do it.”