The Art of Submission (5 page)

I arrive back at my office, and it’s not soon
enough. The pesky receptionists are gone, thankfully. I immediately
boot up my computer and start typing furiously. I take delight in
the uniqueness of her name, as it makes my search that much easier.
But then my delight is replaced by utter annoyance.

There’s nothing of great interest yielded in
the search; just your basic run-of-the-mill information. I don’t
know exactly what I was expecting; more I guess. The basic search
reveals her place of birth in Atlanta Georgia. Her mother died when
Isabel was eight and her father is still alive and living in
Georgia. She has a clean driving record and a non-existent police
record.

How very sad for Isa to lose her mother when
Isa herself was so young. I’m sure that had a profound effect on
her; I know how it affected me to lose both my parents and I was
older than her. Why does she live so far from her father? I’d think
with him being her only living parent, she would want to be closer
to him. Interesting.

Wanting to know more, I decide to delve
a little deeper into her background.
I
wouldn’t mind delving a little deeper elsewhere, too. Shit. Focus,
Young.

I pull up bank records, past employment
records and W2 forms. She’s 25 and she’s only had three jobs, all
of which are basic entry level jobs and from the looks of her tax
records, they’ve all been near minimum wage. She has some college,
but no degree. With her talent, she could surely being doing better
than that. Her credit score is close to perfect, having only one
credit card and no loans whatsoever. Overall, she’s proving to be a
good girl.
On paper, that is.

If I still worked for the NSA, I could
definitely glean more private information and even some
surveillance photos. As it stands, this will have to do. At least I
have her home address and a phone number. I may just have to pay
the lovely Ms. Ibanez a visit.
No. That’s
a bad idea
. If Greer is to be believed and she’s truly
shy, I don’t want to scare her away. Although, so far his
believability has proven to be worth shit. Maybe I’ll just call
her. Yes. That’s a better idea altogether. I scribble her number
down and head home.

On the drive home, I can’t stop
thinking about the paintings and the person who’s created them. I
wonder what other spellbinding artwork she’s put down on
canvas.
I want it. All of it.
Once at home, I quickly get showered and make my way to my
home office. I decide instead to take a detour down the hall to my
old dungeon. I pause in front of the padlocked door and touch the
doorknob. I haven’t been here for, how long now…? At least two
years
. Two very long years
.
Maybe longer. I’ve stopped counting, or at least pretend to have
stopped. What the hell am I doing?

I turn and walk away quickly without
looking back. Once in my office, I open my laptop and log into my
work account via remote access. I pull up the file on Isabel and
find myself looking at her driver’s license photo. Yes, she’s
definitely attractive; even in this unflattering setting. Her mouth
is so…
inviting.
I don’t
think I’ve ever been with a blonde before. Well, not a real one,
anyways.

DOB: 8/10/1987.
A Leo, interesting. She just had a birthday and looks much
younger than 25.

Eyes: Amber.
And beautiful.

Sex: F Yes
,
please.

Height: 5’2”

Weight: 115.

Hair: BLO
The
unruly halo.

I notice there is no vehicle registration in
her records. Odd. I’m still feeling unsatisfied and want to know
more about Isabel, and contemplate using some shady techniques of
the trade to gain more private information on her. Past medical and
sexual history, perhaps. No. I’ll do that later if necessary.

Should I call her now? No. I’ll wait. Maybe
I’ll just drive by her place, see where she lives… where she
creates those wonderful images. I like my plan, however creepy it
may sound. I grab a light jacket and car keys and head out the
door. I’ll take the Benz. I haven’t driven it in a couple of weeks
and I miss her.

Once on the road, my anxiousness starts
to build. Why the hell am I so fucking nervous anyway?
Seriously Young, you worked for the NSA for
fuck’s sake, get control of yourself
. I press down on
the gas and leave my jitters behind.

Once I’m in her neighborhood, I start
to wonder why the hell I drove this car tonight. It’s not
inconspicuous at all and frankly, it’s too flashy for this part of
town.
Good thinking jackass
.
I park just down the street from her address and across the street.
The sun hasn’t quite completely set. The lighting is muted and I
can just see her building. I sit and wait, for what, I’m not
exactly sure.
I fucking hate
waiting
.

I’m reminded of fond memories, along
with some not so fond memories, of my old surveillance days with
the NSA. So this is what’s become of my life. Here I sit on a
Friday night, waiting to catch a glimpse of some girl I don’t even
know and reminiscing about the past. I’m fucking pathetic. I turn
on the stereo to try and take my mind off of my nauseating
existence. I skip to the Sade disk. This should help. Her voice is
so seductive and soothing.
Yes, this is
better.

I’m fiddling with the stereo settings
when I glance up and see Isabel walking up the street. Walking?
Doesn’t she drive? I didn’t see a cab drop her off. She’s
so….
lovely
. Even the way she
walks; casually and slowly, as if she’s daydreaming about
something.
Daydreaming about what, I
wonder?
She’s carrying a bag in one hand, using the
other to fidget with a strand of hair, twirling it around her index
finger.
Holy fuck that’s
sexy
.

Just look at those clothes – what a hot
mess. Seriously, I’m no fashion guru, but this girl is in need of a
serious makeover. Her clothes look at least a size too big for her
and they don’t complement her body at all. From the neighborhood
she’s living in and based on her bank records, I get the impression
she doesn’t have a lot of spare money.
I
could help her out with that and a few other things..
.
I think lasciviously.

I think I see her look in my direction
and I freeze, slightly panicked, but then she just keeps walking
and heads towards her apartment entrance and disappears into her
building. Good, she didn’t see me. That could prove to be…
uncomfortable. How would I explain why I was out here? If there’s
anything I hate, it’s explaining myself
…
under any circumstances
.

I look at the windows above and wait for some
sign of life. There it is, a few minutes later, I see a light
flicker on inside one of the apartment windows on the third floor.
I see her pass in front of the window and briefly pause to look
out. I’m satisfied for now. I’ll call her tomorrow and with any
luck, she’ll agree to meet with me.

Once I’m back home, I make my way back
down the hall to my dungeon. Maybe I’ll just take a peek, see if
everything is still in order
. Of course it
is, moron
.
Why the hell
wouldn’t it be?
Why do I keep doing this to
myself?
It’s because of the girl and those
fucking paintings.
She’s made me miss the lifestyle.
Just when I thought I could really move past that part of my life,
here it is rearing its mischievous head again. And why the fuck did
I have to go to the club?

What’s with Isabel, anyway? Maybe
she
does
know about my past.
I mean, she works at that damned gallery where I found the
paintings, and because she works there, she knew I would be in
attendance at the charity show. Maybe it was all planned. Maybe my
ex had something to do with it. Now my curiosity of her has turned
to suspicion and anger. I need to get to the bottom of this. I’m
definitely calling her tomorrow.

My sleep is fitful. My dreams filled with
blonde-haired angels with golden eyes mocking me, teasing me,
begging me with their perfect fuck-me-mouths to dominate them and
defile them. And I want nothing more than to give them what they
want….

FUCK!
I wake
startled by my own voice. I’m hard and wet. Did I really just have
a wet dream? For fuck’s sake, you’d think I was a damned teenager.
This has seriously gotten out of hand. I get out of bed, clean up
and attempt to sleep for a few more hours.

I’m up early for a Saturday, 6:30, and
I can’t wait any longer. I’m calling her right fucking now. Enough
of these bullshit games. I pick up my cell phone and dial her
number. It rings four times and just when I’m about to hang up, I
hear her voice. It’s soft, sleepy and raspy, but
oh so seductive
. Fucking hell, she
even sounds like an angel
.

“H…H… Hello?”

I’m momentarily at a loss for words. Why was
it I was so pissed and determined to call her right now?

“Helloooo?” she whispers again with that
melodic voice. I finally remember myself and answer her.

“Yes. This is Dylan Young and I believe we
have something we need to discuss.” There’s no response from her,
just silence. “Ms. Ibanez?” Did she just fucking hang up on me?

“Hi,” she whispers.

Okay, I guess she didn’t. I can hear her
breathing on the other end. It sounds rapid and shallow. She’s
nervous.

“How did you get my number? “ She asks
quietly.

Seriously? “You do know who I am and
what I do for a living,
right
?” I say, sounding more condescending than
I intended.

“Y... yes.”

Her voice is even quieter than it was
before.
I’m intimidating her.
After a brief pause, she replies,

“
I apologize about yesterday. I had no
right to intrude at your place of business. I honestly don’t know
what came over me. Well, actually I do know why, but the reason
doesn’t seem so important anymore.”

She sounds sincere and my feelings of
suspicion and anger start to dissipate. It might have something to
do with the sound of her voice and the mental image of her pouty
inviting mouth apologizing to me
…
nice..
. I don’t like where my thoughts are headed.
Back to the subject.

“What
was
the reason, Isabel?” I ask her, my tone not
much different than before. I love the way her name rolls off my
tongue… Again, silence on her end.

“Well, if you really want to know…. I went
there to get my paintings back,” she says with a little more
fortitude in her voice, and for some reason her tone irritates
me.

“Oh really?”
Again, I say it more condescendingly than I intended. I
really need to learn to keep that tone in check. It used to be
reserved only when my dominant alter ego would come out, but it
seems it’s been coming out more and more frequently as of
late.
Gee, I wonder why that
is?

“Well, yes. I really want them back, and I
was hoping we could discuss that possibility. Perhaps I could buy
them back or maybe we could work out some kind of deal regarding
this?” Again with that gutsy tone? She seriously wants her
paintings back? Is she fucking kidding me? I actually laugh out
loud at her.

“Why do you find that funny, Mr. Young?” She
snaps at me.

I guess she wasn’t kidding. This little angel
has some cojones. Okay. She wants to play? Let’s play.

“I find it funny because they were
prominently displayed in an art gallery for everyone to see and
buy,
and so
I bought them.
Truth be told, I quite like them, so, sorry to disappoint you Ms.
Ibanez, but I’m not interested in any kind of deal.
AND
, quite frankly, I don’t think
you can afford to buy them back.” And with that, my dominant alter
ego is back in full swing.
Hello there… oh
how I’ve missed you.

Stunned silence on her end. Ah, the sweet
non-sound.

Her voice is once again soft, but now it’s
shaky and it sounds as if she’s going to cry.

“You
really
like them? Just so you know, I never
intended them to be sold, but you’re right; I could never afford to
buy them back. Please just promise to take care of
them.”

Wait, why am I being such a dick to
her? This wasn’t how I had imagined our first conversation would
go. Wait - did she just fucking hang up on me? She did.
Shit.
Now what? Of course I liked
them, anyone with an ounce of good judgment would. What did she
mean - she never intended them to be sold? Then why the hell were
they displayed? It makes sense now why Greer was so reluctant to
sell them, though I think his reasons were much different than
hers.

Enough of this. I need to rectify this
situation right now and somehow make up for my alter ego’s bad
behavior. I redial her number and press send. It rings once and I’m
immediately sent to voicemail. First, she hangs up on me and now
she’s ignoring my call? This girl needs a good bit of disciplining,
but I guess I can’t blame her. Although, I have to admit, I do like
the image of her being disciplined under my skilled hands.
Stop it, Young.
Fine, I’ll leave her
a message. Here it goes.