Slow Seduction (Struck by Lightning) (14 page)

D
amon gave me a ride home that night. All my things were still in the car, after all. The spacious back of the limo was much larger than the town car Stefan drove. This one had seating for six or seven, more than enough room for Damon to drag Juney along. I sat on one side, while he held her by the hair on the seat across from me. Her hands were bound together, a gag was in her mouth, and although she was still wearing the black minidress, it remained bunched up around her midsection, leaving her as good as nude.

Once we were in the car, Damon thrust his fingers into her and made her moan around the gag, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at me. “So that was him,” he said.

“That was him,” I affirmed. “He…he has a habit of running off when he’s upset.”

“So I gathered, and why this one”—he thrust his fingers into her harder—“is being punished for scaring him off.”

Juney made a whining noise like she was trying to say something in her own defense, except she couldn’t speak. Damon responded by thumbing her clit until she grunted.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked.

“Well, I’ll do my best to entice him back to the premises,” Damon said. “In the meantime, you’ll start training with Vanette. I’ll apologize and explain we’d like to make it up to him. If he’s polite, he’ll realize he can’t refuse entirely without making enemies of us. By then you’ll be trained in voice and service of some kind and it will be easier to isolate you two for your crucial conversation.”

I sighed. How long was this going to take? I’d already waited long enough. But if that was what it was going to take, I could suck it up and hang on.

“You’re hopeful, aren’t you?” Damon said.

“I am.”

“Because he rejected Juniper, here?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. He’s probably one of those repressed types.”

Well, sort of,
I thought. That was the James I knew, anyway.

“I’m going to have you, Karina.”

I looked and saw Damon had his cock free of his fly and was stroking it. I looked away.

“After tonight, I want you even more than before. In the same car with you like this, I can barely hold back. Good thing Juney’s here, eh?” With that he mounted her, pushing her down on the seat so that she was flat on her back with her knees in the air.

He was still fucking her when I got out of the car at the curb outside the ArtiWorks. I could see the lights were burning on the second floor. Even in the wee hours, either Paulina or Michel was awake. I exited the car quickly and slammed the door, though there was no one on the street at that hour to see what was going on inside.

Upstairs I found Paulina in the midst of baking half a dozen fruit pies. She served us some while it was still steaming hot, with vanilla ice cream on it.

“Your stomach is happy but the rest of you is not,” she said, as she put the kettle on. We had eaten the pie sitting on stools in the corner at the one bit of countertop space that wasn’t covered in kitchen gadgets, cookbooks, jars of pasta and flour, or cans of tea. “Something wrong?”

I was still brooding about having to spend however long as a trainee at the club, hoping that James would come back. What if he didn’t? Did Damon hope I’d forget him eventually? That all the chastity devices and flogging would wear me down? It occurred to me then that Damon could lie to me, too. He could say he was trying to get James to come back, when really he was just training me to be his own personal sex slave.

Okay, maybe that was a bit extreme. I felt like I could trust Damon because he clearly stuck to the rules, but I didn’t think I should rely solely on him. Sitting there with Paulina, I realized I had another avenue to try. “So when do you think the gallery will be ready to open?”

“Oh, we’re drawing very close now. Not more than a month. In fact, we’ll probably be finished before then, but it takes at least thirty days to promote the opening show, you know. To get in all the listings calendars and book everyone.”

“I really would like to see the place in operation before I have to go back to New York,” I said. That reminded me I needed to book my ticket home soon, but I couldn’t really think about that yet. A month. This might work. “I have an idea for an artist who might be suited for the opening.”

“Do you? We need someone edgy and underground but famous enough to give us some oomph, you know?” She flipped the kettle off and let the water cool a few moments before she poured it over a basket of tea leaves sitting in the pot. “Which is a difficult combination to find. Michel has a friend who knows Damien Hirst, but he’s gone so mainstream now, ugh.”

I didn’t know contemporary art that well, but I had a vague memory of Hirst as the guy who did a lot of paintings of spots. Or was he the guy with the dead animals in formaldehyde? That might have been the same guy. Either way, yuck. “You don’t want something that is just stuck on the wall, either,” I said. “You want someone who can bring a performance art aspect to things.”

“Most definitely!” she said excitedly. “That might be our slogan. You know, ‘Art is in the air, not on the wall!’ Or something like that. I want to have musicians, too, and maybe some dancers for opening night. The ArtiWorks should be multimedia, a space where all art thrives. The performing arts
are
visual arts, don’t you think?”

“I totally agree,” I said. “You still haven’t heard my suggestion.”

“So I haven’t! What is it? Or rather, who?”

“J. B. Lester,” I said.

“Oh, the glassblower?” She pulled the basket from the pot and then poured two cups, setting one in front of me.

“Glass
worker
is probably a more accurate description,” I said. “It’s not all blown glass.” Some of it, I knew, was cast, some fused, some etched. Not to mention broken, glued, and constructed. “I know where he’s working in York.”

“Oh, you brilliant girl! And you met him there? He’s a recluse, yes?”

“I know some people who were working with him and I saw his workshop. He’s got a major work, very edgy. It’s a whole installation, and he’s dying to exhibit it somewhere and has nowhere to do it. The ArtiWorks would be absolutely perfect, wouldn’t it?”

“Sounds like it would,” she said.

“I’ll put you in touch with the people who can talk to him.” I sipped my tea cautiously so as not to scald myself. “He’d be an absolute fool to say no.” I was already thinking through the logistics. The glass would be heavy. He wouldn’t want to ship it overseas. This installation alone must weigh half a ton. Maybe more. It was about the size of a car, and glass was even denser than steel. So he’d want to show it in the UK.

Paulina sipped her tea for a while before musing, “And you say it’s a project he has no backer for, no commission, no museum already waiting?”

“Yeah. The Tate is waiting for something else from him and this isn’t it. It’s like he’s got to get this out of the way first.”

“The muse works in mysterious ways,” Paulina said. “If this is the demon that has been gnawing his soul, then of course it would emerge first.”

I didn’t know if breaking up with me was on par with a demon gnawing his soul, but I sure hoped it was. I thought of all the drawings of me on his worktable. If he wasn’t still in love with me, he was at least still quite obsessed.

A wave of sleepiness came over me then. Between being flogged to tears, hearing James’s voice, and now having schemed a plan to draw him out of hiding that didn’t involve Damon’s help, I was exhausted and hopeful. I apologized for the fact that I couldn’t finish my tea and dragged myself upstairs to bed. The sun would be rising very soon. I collapsed into a very deep sleep.

I called Helen the next day before I left for the Tate. “How’d it go?” she demanded.

“Terrible,” I said.

“I thought you raced back to London to go to a party he would be at?”

“I did. He left in a huff, though, before I could talk to him. He might be headed back to York. I’m not sure. But listen, I’ve got a gallery owner here, opening a new place in about a month. I need you to play matchmaker between him and the gallery.”

“Me?”

“Come on, Helen. Say you heard through the grapevine. They want something edgy and challenging and have room for a full installation of the piece I saw in his workshop.”

“I’m going to need Linae’s help. I’m no good at espionage.”

I sighed. “I guess so. I’m a little worried about Linae, though.”

I must have sounded jealous. Helen chided me. “Don’t you be like that, Karina. I know what you’re thinking, that Linae’s going to tempt him into some kind of trouble. She’s a flirt, but she wouldn’t do that to you, trust me.”

“All right. If you say so.”

I gave her all the details I could about the ArtiWorks and how to get in touch with Paulina to make arrangements.

In the afternoon I led a tour of the exhibit as usual, and then one right at closing time for what I gathered were new and prospective donors of some kind. It was just a forty-five-minute tour, with an additional fifteen minutes for them to look around at the end.

Tristan was endlessly amused by the people. We stood together in the gift shop, smiling as the crowd headed to the exit. But inside I was laughing about the small comments he would make when they couldn’t hear him.

“Blue sweater styled her hair for the occasion, but no one told her the modernist sculpture is at a different Tate,” he said. Or, “Look at that fellow’s lapels! He needs to get a landing permit to go to Heathrow.”

Martindale took us to eat after the group was gone, which I thought was very nice of him. He grilled Tristan a bit during the meal on his graduate program in museum studies. Tristan, I realized, rarely talked about himself when we went to lunch, because I hardly knew anything about his internship or his degree program. Apparently he was thinking of trying to transfer to either City College of New York or Seton Hall but hadn’t committed to trying it yet. That led to me and Martindale telling him about New York, since Tristan had never been. I promised to show him around the city if he came to visit, though I couldn’t put him up, given that Becky had the bedroom and I couldn’t imagine sharing the couch with him. There wasn’t even really room for a sleeping bag on the floor.

I was amused to find Martindale also took the Underground to get home. He was amused that I was amused. “They say the measure of a great civilization is not how many of the poor have automobiles, but how many of the well off take public transit,” he said after we had waved good-bye to Tristan, who went to a different train line.

The platform was lined with poster ads for Broadway shows, except of course there was no Broadway here. While we stood together, awaiting the train, I debated whether to tell him what I had found in York. While I was dithering, he came right out and asked, though.

“I missed him, but I did see his workshop,” I told him. “I made contact with some other glass artists in the area, and we went out to where he’s staying, but he wasn’t home.”

“That is disappointing to go all the way there and come so close.”

“Well, I have a plan. I know he’s working on a piece that he’s been complaining he has nowhere to install.”

“Indeed? He has not inquired with me about it.”

“Which makes me think he thinks it’s really not Tate material. But here’s the thing. The folks I’m staying with? I’ve told you about how they’re building an art space on their first floor?”

“You mentioned it, yes.”

“I’m trying to get a message to him that they want it for their opening show next month. So, fingers crossed, maybe we can lure him out.”

“Well, it’s enough for me to know he’s working and thinking about showing again. I was quite concerned that perhaps depression or the bottle had gotten to him.”

I wasn’t sure what to say about that without incriminating myself too much. Martindale had an inkling that I’d broken his heart or something, but I’d never gone into detail. “Far as I can tell, he’s poured himself into his work instead,” I said.

“That’s all to the good, then,” he said. “So long as he’s saner for it.”

That I couldn’t speak to.

“Oh, Karina, one other thing I’ve been meaning to mention. We should book your ticket home. If we wait too long, the fares will get out of control. Mention it to my secretary and she’ll handle everything, of course.”

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” I promised. The summer had flown by, hadn’t it? I could hardly imagine going back home.

When I got to the ArtiWorks, Paulina and Michel were waltzing across the newly sanded floor of the gallery to a song Paulina was singing in some other language. When she saw me, she beckoned me over and they pulled me into a three-way hug, still swaying slightly to the music she could hear in her head.

“It’s all thanks to you, Karina! We’ve heard from an agent for J. B. Lester. He hasn’t said yes yet, but it’s looking very, very good.”

“Agent?” I asked.

“A glassworker named Peter Simpson called, said he was speaking on his behalf,” Paulina said. “We’re negotiating a bit about fees and the date, but if he doesn’t back out, it’s going to happen!”

“Great. That’s great!” I went up on my tiptoes and they swung me in a circle I was so weightless with glee.

I started training with Vanette that week. I met her at the club and on that first day of formal training we mostly talked. She took copious notes.

“Would you say you liked being a waitress? Did you enjoy it?” she asked. We were sitting in a room in what I thought of as the “backstage” area of the club, near the kitchen, where the members never went, only the staff and submissives.

“I didn’t enjoy the low pay or customers who were jerks,” I said, “but there were times when the work was satisfying. When you get all the orders right on a big table, it’s great. When you swoop down, make every last one of them happy, and you see what a good time they’re having, you walk away glowing, knowing you made that happen. Especially when an equally crappy server can have the opposite effect.”

“Interesting. So making people happy, that was the best part of it? Did you chitchat with the customers?”