The Art of Control (25 page)

“Hello
,
pussycat,
” I hear from behind me.

It’s the God awful voice of
Simons. I’ve come to know it well and despise it. I suck my tears back and fight the urge to stand and beat the living shit out of him for calling me the name only Dylan is allowed to call me. I casually slip my phone back into my pocket, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

“Your
father sent you a gift,” he says derisively, throwing a stack of photos into my lap. “It looks like you’ve been replaced. Your ex-husband sold your paintings, too. I guess he couldn’t stand the sight of them. Happy birthday.”

He hovers over me, waiting for me to look at the photos, but I sit defiantly
immobile.

“Look at them!” he snorts
.

“Fuck you.” I reply casually.

He kneels next to me and wraps his fist in my hair, pulling back hard and then forcing my head down.

“I won’t say it again,
you little bitch,” he says deep and hushed.

Not wanting another
smack down like the first time I met him, I pick up the pictures and flip through them as nonchalantly as possible. I become heartsick when I see Dylan dressed to the nines with a blonde woman hanging on his arm and standing outside of the Cherry Canyon Gallery. She looks happy. I guess I have been replaced. The other photos show my paintings being held by strangers who are proudly holding them and carting them off. Vowing to myself not to cry in front of this albino son-of-a-bitch, I pull away from Simons and stand, throwing the photos at him.

“So what?
I’m glad he’s found someone,” I lie. “Now get the fuck out of here before I scratch your eyes out, you creepy asshole.”

His eyes flash
with hatred but he immediately backs away from me. After the last time I wailed on him when he tried to take my wedding ring, he should be afraid of me. I inwardly smile at the small scar I left on his chin after he abducted me from the hotel in Denver.

“And you c
an tell my father I’ll see him in hell.”

Simons laughs condescendingly and
throws an envelope with money at me before walking away and leaving me on my own. Mistress Isabel instantly retreats and I slump back into my lounge chair and hide my face in my hands, allowing myself a good cry. God, I hate that I have to rely on my good-for-nothing-father.

I just want my Master
back.

Dylan

Despite my massive hangover and throbbing headache, I ready myself for work, lingering a little too long in the closet as I sift through Isa’s clothing. I need to work to keep my mind off the stark truth of her absence. Isa was my equilibrium and my constant in this fucked up world. She kept me steady when things teetered on insanity and now I’m alone with no one to steer or guide me through the lonely shitty reality that has become my life. Now there’s no one to remind me who I really am. She could be dead for all I know. I expel the thought instantly, unable to fathom such a thing.

“Where
ver you are, happy birthday, my precious angel,” I choke out. 

I will not break down today
, I repeat over and over.

At work, I go through my usual routine: Call Isa’s phone, GPS it, and check her bank records.
Nothing.

“Mr. Young, eve
ryone is waiting for you in conference room A,” my temporary secretary chimes in.

How many
temps is that now? Four in the three month span of Isa’s departure. I don’t even remember their names and I feel only mildly guilty that my temper has sent them all running out the door and nearly in tears. I don’t have time to worry about their feelings; there are more important issues at hand, like finding my wife.

“Have it mov
ed to conference room D,” I order.

Isa’s paintings are hanging in room A and seeing her handiwork today will definitely send me chasing the bottle again.

Once more I arrive to the meeting late and everyone is glaring at me impatiently, most especially Sawyer. Fuck off! I want to scream, but I hold my temper and slide into the seat at the head of the table silently.

“Let’s get on with
it then,” I snarl.

None of this shit makes any difference anyway.
Why the fuck am I here?
There are plenty of people who can handle the day-to-day shit.  I’m rubbing my temples, trying to make the intense pulsations abate. I should’ve taken some fucking ibuprofen, damn it.

Sawyer stands and moves to the other end of the room and dims the light
s in preparation for his presentation. Thank God for Sawyer. He’s the one who has kept this company afloat the last several months. I should just sign ownership over to him and be done with this crap, and then I can retire to some far off island and forget about everyone and everything.

The slide show begins and the voices drone on and on.
Blah, blah, blah. Who gives a fuck? Without thinking, I pull my phone out and speed dial Isa’s number. It’s just habit at this point but the previously dreaded sound of pinging is now a welcome one.
Her phone is on?
My heart jumps into my throat and I hastily GPS her location, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely press the buttons. Jesus Christ, Chilé? I do it again, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Antofagasta, Chilé? What the actual fuck? Is this real?

Running
from the conference room and into my office, I log onto my computer and track her phone another time, getting an exact address. My mind is spinning, my heart is racing and my blood is surging through my constricted veins. My pussycat is alive and in Chilé. I can’t fucking believe it. But,
why
? I can’t think about that. I’m in the process of dialing Carson when Sawyer comes barging into my office.

“Enough, Young.
I’ve had it with your irrational behavior. I’m calling Maggie this afternoon. You’re talking to her and I’m not taking no for answer, do you fucking understand me? You want to act like a child, then I’ll treat you like one!”

If I weren’t a man on a mission, I
would leap over my desk and deck Sawyer right in his smug mouth.
Acting like a child?
Well, shit, I suppose I can’t deny that, but still, fuck him.

“Fuck you, Morrison
. I’ve located Isa. Now drop your attitude and let’s go get her.”

Sawyer’s eyes widen and his
fisted hands relax.

“Are you sure?”

I point towards my computer screen as I speak with Carson about getting the jet ready to go immediately.

“
Chilé? How the hell did she get there?” Sawyer asks, scratching his chin.

“It doesn’t matter
how
. Let’s just go get her.”

I don’t bother to get anything but my satchel and proper
ID for the trip as Sawyer and I make our way to the jet. The flight is just over 10 hours, not including the time to stop for fuel. That’s 10 hours too long, damn it. Christ, 4,400 miles… could she have picked a farther place for her self-imposed exile?

The trip is excrucia
tingly slow and it’s as if the gods are playing a cruel joke on me as time ticks by slowly.

Pulling Isa’s journal out of my bag, I flip to my favorite section. I’
ve read it front-to-back now at least a dozen times and I know every word by heart, each syllable and consonant etched indelibly into my memory, each drawing and painting seared into my soul. I’ve felt the pain she experienced as a child and young adult, and the heartbreak with each valiant effort she gave in her relationships. I was crushed to tears when I read about the day her father permanently damaged her with his fists, taking away her ability to bear children. My heart was set on fire when I read about the day she realized she loved me and about how happy I made her. Except for Isa’s love and submission, her personal journal is the greatest and most treasured of all gifts I’ve ever been given.

12/25/12

My first Christmas with Dylan! What an amazing day it’s been. He officially collared me tonight with the most gorgeous diamond choker that I think probably exists. The love we made afterwards was incredible. His hands were firm yet kind. What did I do to deserve this man? I love him so much and I pray he’s never taken away from me. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, every single day, every waking and sleeping minute next to him. I want to crawl into his heart and live there forever. I vow to do whatever it takes to make him happy and keep him safe. I will exist to please only him. My entire world belongs to him now. He is mine and I am his. He is my Master and my everything.

The pai
nting is breathtaking and I’ll never tire of looking at it: Isa naked and curled up in my arms, her collar around her neck.

I remember the night as if it were only yesterday
, the way she presented herself in front of me and the feeling of her soft skin as I placed it around her delicate neck. It was the first time I had ever collared a woman and I swore at that moment, it would be the last. Reaching into my pocket, I pull the choker out and bring it to my nose, spellbound by the faint scent of Isa that still lingers on the dark brown leather.
How could I be so callous and thoughtless to ask for it back?
Yes, she does reside in my heart. She took up permanent residency there from the first moment I laid eyes on her. She thought by running half-way across the world she could escape my love and obsession for her, but no distance will keep me from her and most certainly,
no one.

I wake with
a start hearing Carson’s voice informing us of our descent. I must have slept right through the fuel stop. My nerves are frayed and my stomach is in knots. I trot to the restroom quickly, relieve myself and splash cold water on my face in an effort to make myself presentable for my pussycat. Christ, I look like hell. I haven’t gotten a good look at myself in weeks, maybe even months.  Why the hell were those women throwing themselves at me? I’m a complete wreck. Because they’re gold-digging, fame whores, no doubt. But not my Isa - she loves me for who I am, not what I have. My head starts spinning and I close my eyes tightly trying to slow my rapidly beating heart.
Breathe, Young. Focus.
That’s better.

Buckled back in my seat, I look out the window at the picturesque scenery of Antofagasta.
What has Isabel been doing here this whole time? I imagine her sitting on the beach, painting glorious colorful images, happy and content. It’s the only way I want to think of her.

My God, what if she’s found someone else?
It’s been long enough, it’s possible. What if she doesn’t come back with me? What if she doesn’t forgive me for the things I said to her? If she doesn’t come back, it’ll be the death of me, both physically and mentally.
Pull it together, Young. Rein it in
.

We land without incident and go
through customs insufferably slow. Fuck all this. Sawyer is talking on the phone to Sonya I think, but I’m not sure. He keeps looking over at me, his watchful eyes irritating the fuck out of me. His fatherly nature has begun to incense me lately. I know it’s out of concern, but I’m a grown ass man. He narrows his eyes at me as if reading my thoughts. Fucking hell, Isa’s already in my head, I don’t need Sawyer infiltrating my thoughts, too.

I GP
S Isa’s phone one last time, but it’s been turned off. No matter, I know her location and there’s no turning back. After nearly two God damned hours dealing with airport security and trying to locate transportation, we’re on our way to Isa’s location. If she’s gone when we get there, I swear I’ll burn this motherfucking city down looking for her.

Pulling up to the address, I’m appalled to see a rundown make-shift apartment building that looks more like row-housing. There’s no way the love of my life has
been living in this hell-hole,
no fucking way
. The street is filthy and the smell coming from one of the apartments is nauseating. This is total bullshit.

Sawyer scans the area, just as
revolted with the surroundings as me. Entering her living quarters, the exterior is completely deceiving as the inside is sparsely furnished and neatly kempt, much like her old apartment back in Denver. The apartment only has one room with a bed, a hotplate on a tiny counter next to a sink, and a restroom with only a shower. The walls and ceiling are dirty and cracked; the concrete floor is in broken disarray. Anger settles deep in my belly thinking about my beautiful and talented wife living in such vile conditions.

I sit on the bed and bring the pillow up to my nose and her
sweet fragrance assaults my senses. She’s been here all this time. I swallow hard, suppressing the pain of being without her. I walk over to her clothing, two pairs of old worn jeans, three white shirts and two pair of simple and plain undergarments all neatly folded on a table next to a wash basin and two towels. A pair of flip-flops sit on the floor and nothing else. Something’s missing. I look around, trying to figure out what it is.
Her art
. There’s not one single painting or drawing anywhere to be seen, and there are no art supplies. Has she gone over three months without painting?

Sawyer comes back into the room after having stepped out for a moment.

“I asked around, Isabel was seen in the marketplace just a short time ago. Let’s go,” he says anxiously.

We walk briskly up the
street about six blocks to a busy street with shoppers. There are vendors lining both sides of the road with every possible thing on sale, from raw meats to cheap jewelry. My eyes are scanning the people furiously, trying to catch sight of Isa’s unruly halo. I push my way through the crowd becoming more and more panicked at not finding her.
She has to be here.

“Young!”
I hear and when I look over several heads, Sawyer is nodding towards a jewelry stand.

My eyes shift to the direction he’s indicating and I see her – my angel,
my pussycat,
my love,
my wife.
I feel light-headed and for a moment I think I’m going to pass out. Moving up behind her, I watch her as she sifts through the jewelry, the man selling it trying to haggle with her. Despite the impoverished conditions she’s been living in, she’s clean, her clothes form fitting and surprisingly unwrinkled. Her once pale skin is now tan, her curves are back to their glorious state of decadency, and her round ass begs to be bitten into. Chilé has apparently done her good. The vision of her signature tangled, long curls makes me laugh out loud; some things never change. Other than her hair being a brighter shade of blonde than usual and much longer, it really is the same unruly mane. Isa’s body stiffens to the sound of my laughter. She cocks her head to the side as if she can’t believe what she’s heard. Her body relaxes and she sighs, and I can only assume it’s because she thinks she’s imagining things. I know the feeling. I, too, have heard her laughter and voice only to be let down because it was merely the sound of the wind.

“Happy birthday, m
y precious angel,” I whisper, leaning into her ear and burying my face in her hair.

Isa’s body
becomes rigid again and she remains turned away from me.

“Please look at me, pussycat.”

She slowly turns to face me, her eyes large and luminous and hidden behind golden, inconceivably long eyelashes. Christ,
those eyes.
Looking into them, my body aches to be with her and to hold her. She’s not wearing a stitch of make-up and her face is bright pink from too much sun with darkened freckles sprinkled across her nose and apples of her cheeks.