I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) Page 4

  I stand, dust myself off, take a deep breath and gather my things together. An urge to paint comes over me. Should I? My glance falls on the empty canvas I’d set out when I first got here, and it calls to me now, come. Take out your pain and anguish on me. But I look away, don’t go to it. Instead, I walk downstairs, and go home.

  A Month Later

  I really need to get a maid or something for these floors, because lord knows I’m not cleaning them. From this angle on my bed, I can see all the dust-bunnies under my dresser and light gray where warm brown should be, on my hardwood floors. Ugh. Picking up my pillow and toppling it on my head, I block out the afternoon light and all evidence of my homemaking inadequacies. Napping on the weekend is supposed to make me feel better, but my mind won’t stop racing. Among the many things spiraling through it are conversations I wish I could re-have and a to-do list of inane house fixings; light bulb replacement, dish soap buying, cable password getting.

  But more persistent, are thoughts of Michael. Since our night where we came so close to ripping each other to pieces, I’ve seen him only briefly to give him my portion of the rent check. He’d had to go and said I could stay and paint, but I declined and waited for him to leave. If I could get better at the Internet, I’d direct deposit his ass, so I could be spared the distressing eagerness with which my blood boils when I’m around him. Not that it would stop me from wanting him. Or from making up excuses to show up when I know he’s there. We set up when we first started that he has nights, since it’s his space to begin with, and I only pitch in a fraction of the rent. For the past few weeks, it’s has been like giving myself dental surgery to resist going over and offer to watch him work and forget we had an argument. He likes it when I watch him... maybe I could… dammit! Ugh. I smash the pillow harder onto my head, crushing my face against the cool sheet.

  Who am I kidding? I’m not going to get any sleep right now.

  Exasperated, I climb off the bed to go to the bathroom. One look at the tub and I think, bubble bath. Oh my God. Yes. That sounds perfect. I pour in enough Eucalyptus-scented bubble bath to froth the Mississippi, start the water, and go get my phone for my playlist. Always, when I’m in the bathtub - and I mean always – I listen to Opera on repeat. Only one artist will ever do: Lorraine Hunt Lieberman. Her voice is so soothing; no crazy unexpected explosions of volume to jar me out of tranquility, like some operas. I have no idea what she’s saying, since she’s singing in what I think is Italian. In fact, it took me two years to realize what I thought was a whole album, was really only two songs over and over. Still didn’t deter me from forgetting that little morsel of info, so I could keep enjoying my music in peace.

  In my bathroom are twinkle lights I bought in an after-Christmas sale and today, despite it being in the mid-afternoon, I plug them in and use them as the only light… besides the sun that streaks in from a solitary window. Lighting can really set a mood. Lady Lorraine begins her serenade as I slide out of my PJs, dropping them on the floor in a pile by my feet. I pull my hair into a high bun so I don’t have to redo this shit later, and ease myself into the water that’s so hot I have to inch into it with all the speed of a child eating vegetables.

  Lying here in rising bubbles as the tub continues to fill, I close my eyes and let go of all the stress that seems to live in me, lately. Her beautiful singing takes off any edges my willpower can’t. Soon I am free. Quiet. Soothed and peaceful. This is how I’m supposed to feel. Calm. Zen. Satisfied.

  Plastic against ceramic vibrates next to me and I peek at my phone to find a number I don’t recognize, looking back at me from the screen. Normally, I’d ignore it, but I’ve been lulled into a heavenly place where everyone and everything is wonderful.

  “Hello?” I purr into the receiver.

  “Nicole?” a male voice asks.

  “Mmhmmmm… And you are?” I bring up my knee and watch the bubbles slip down my thigh.

  “This is Danny. You were at my game-night? With Grant? Ran into you at brunch awhile back?” he asks, his voice a little nervous, but nice.

  With my free hand, I trace the top of my exposed thigh down the trails of dark naked skin the retreating bubbles leave behind. “Oh, right. Danny…how are you?”

  I can hear his smile as he answers, “I’m good. Good. You?”

  I smile in return. “Soooo good. Where are you right now?”

  He’s startled by the question. “Uh… I’m at home. Where are you?”

  The mirror is fogged, and beads of condensation lazily drip down my temple. I almost say the scandalous naked in the bathtub. “Home. So…” I travel my hand down into the water and lightly touch the soft tuft of hair between my legs. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, I’ve got another call. Can you hold for a second? Don’t go anywhere.”

  I smile and slide a finger down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He has no idea what I’m doing, which makes it soooooo exciting. The phone goes dead while he takes the other call, and I ask myself, who would do what I’m doing now? Not many women, that’s who. I smile and watch my knees wave back and forth as I lightly caress my pussy below the bubbles, hidden from my view. There’s something extra sexy about it, being down there, humming with feeling, where I can’t see. It’s like traveling your hand to your lover’s crotch under a dinner table when no one’s the wiser. This thought turns me on, and when I hear his voice return, “I’m back. Sorry about that,” I brush the tip of my clit just once for a necessary tease.

  “It’s no problem,” I say softly, stroking it again. And again.

  “You’d mentioned you’re a painter and I wanted to know if I could see your work somewhere.” As I listen to him, I circle my little bean lightly, feel the sweet waves of arousal rising from the depths of me. “I’m not sure if you’ve got a showing going on, coming soon… or if you have an agent I have to go through, but I’ve been thinking of calling for awhile, and just finally decided I’d ask. I know nothing about how this whole thing works.” He laughs. “I hope I don’t sound like an amateur.”

  “You sound fine. Don’t worry about it,” I say quietly. “Ummm… I don’t have a showing.”

  “Oh.”

  He sounds so disappointed, that I offer without thinking, “But you can come by my studio.” The mention of it, of visions of Michael painting in it furiously, burns me hotter and I cup myself in my hand, applying firm delicious pressure, then back to sweet little flicks on the sides of my clit.

  “You have a studio? That’d be perfect. I’d love to come by.” He pauses and I close my eyes. “Um… what’re you doing? Now, I mean.”

  My eyes shoot open and I freeze. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

  Did he hear me sloshing?

  “Good. Can I come by now?” he says.

  “Oh,” I say, exhaling, “You wanted to know if I’m busy now,”

  “Yeah. Are you?”

  Looking around the cozy set up I’ve got going on here, I hesitate. I shouldn’t say I’m busy. “You want to see my work now?” I ask again. A real buyer. This is big for me.

  “If it’s not a bad time,” he answers, but then pauses. “It’s no big deal. We could do it another time. It’s just I’m free, because it’s Saturday and… but, really. Let’s do it another time. I’m just really interested in seeing your work.”

  My heart jumps. He’s interested in seeing my work. He’s not faking it. He’s a real buyer! I sit up fast, causing a loud rush of water to fill the holes my body vacated. I cough loudly to cover the sound. “Excuse me. Allergies.” Kneeling in the tub, I say quickly, “Now would be great. I’m not there – I’m at home. But how about we meet there in… a half hour?”

  He lets out a laugh of relief. Is he nervous? “Let’s make it an hour so you don’t have to rush. Sound good?”

  I want to yell, are you kidding??!!! Sounds great!! “Sounds perfect. I’ll text you the address. There’s no name on the door. It looks like a back door to a restaurant or something, but it’s rea
lly the entrance to the studio space upstairs. I’ll meet you in an hour.”

  He says, “Great!” and we hang up. Lady Lorraine’s voice drifts back from the ethers of my playlist and beckons me to lie back down, don’t get out of the tub just yet. For a moment I consider refusing her invite, consider standing up and drying off. But the water is still hot and he gave me more than enough time to meet him. What’s my hurry? I slink back into the twinkle-lit suds, bury my hand in my pussy and finish what I started, teasing and coaxing my body until it gives way to a delicious release of heat. Closing my eyes I feel the flashing sweet pulsing as tingles shoot outward down my thighs and up to my nipples, twisting them into firm points. I cup myself, squeeze my legs together and press lightly into the sweet contractions, smiling to myself that my Saturday sure has taken a turn for the better. A buyer. A real buyer. Well well well.

  At His…Our… Studio

  Danny’s waiting at the door when I walk up holding keys already in my hand. He returns my smile and does a quick scan of my body as I approach, a glance he tries to hide…but I saw it. He’s good looking for a redhead (it could go either way with men). He’s fit and dressed in a long trench coat over slacks and a button-up, the cut and fall of the fabric indicating quality all around. “Well, hello again,” he says and opens his arms in a hug; open and friendly and strong.

  I squeeze back, and release him to open the door. “You beat me here!”

  There’s humor in his eyes. “Good. I’m very competitive.”

  I playfully raise my eyebrows as the lock gives way. “Oh?”

  He grins, “Practically ran from the subway.”

  I laugh and walk in, him following behind. The familiar smell of candles smacks Michael into my mind. I push thoughts of him away and take off my coat, put it on the hook. It’s only 5:00 p.m. Michael won’t be here until after 8:00 p.m. if he even comes at all tonight. It is Saturday, after all. He probably has plans with someone he actually fucks.

  “This way,” I say, as we walk up the stairs. As if there’s any other way to go.

  “Can’t wait,” he says. Is he looking at my ass? He must be because it feels hot there, and I’m the type who can feel things like that. I’m a little psychic, thanks to my grandma. Freaked my momma out, some of the things I said, because it surely skipped a generation, as she had none of the gift. But… a woman doesn’t have to be psychic to know a man is checking out her ass as she walks up the stairs in front of him.

  I look over my shoulder and sure enough, his eyes dart up quickly. Pretending I didn’t notice – regardless of the warmth I now feel down there – I step onto the studio’s floor, and warn him, “I don’t want you to get too excited. I’m learning. I’m getting to where I need to be. It’s just...” I shut myself up and look away, and then back to him. Why did I say that? Keep your insecurities to yourself!

  He smiles. “We’re our own worst critics, aren’t we?”

  I give it a thought and agree, “I guess we are.”

  He takes a look around, nods his approval, then shoots a look my way and smiles that winning smile again. Michael has probably not smiled in one year as much as this dude has smiled in three minutes.

  I wiggle my shoulders and laugh, “Well, anyway, you’ve got me nervous.”

  Danny laughs and follows me over to where I’ve got my work propped up against each other. He waits a comfortable distance away while I pull out my canvases one at a time and lay them against the wall, spaced inches from each other. My heart is beating so hard. I’m blinking too much, but with my back to him like this, he can’t see. When I’m finished, only half the wall’s floor space is filled and I become very aware that I haven’t done enough. Michael would have filled up both walls, and here I am with only seven. I have to work to swallow the golf ball that’s forming in my throat from anxiety. We’re both facing them, and I can’t see him because he’s standing back.

  I turn and walk to where Michael left a pack of smokes on a table. I take one out and light it, inhale and stare at nothing, waiting. There is only silence for what seems like a million years. Does he hate my work? Oh God. I have no talent. I know it. It’s something my inner demons have tried to convince me of for years. That’s the reason so many paintings have been tossed away or painted over. Why didn’t I listen to the fuckers? This is torture. It’s not too late. I can go wait tables and go back to school. Study psychology. Or something having to do with people…

  Then, “Wow.”

  I blink and suck in room-air; I can’t turn around yet.

  “Nicole,” he says.

  I take a long drag off the cigarette, hating how it tastes but clinging to it anyway.

  “Nicole?” he says, with more volume.

  Shields up! Man the gates! All men on deck! I turn around thinking I look cool as snow, having no idea that my shields have abandoned me.

  “Mmm?”

  He walks to me and there’s something in his eyes I can’t understand because the demons have me in their clutches with their snickers of unworthiness, self-hatred, and aloneness.

  “Your work is incredible.”

  I don’t understand. “Sorry?”

  “It’s really great. I feel something when I look at it. I can’t always say that – and I always want to. It’s what art is all about, right?” He smiles again. I nod. He walks back to my paintings and looks again. “I think this one on the left – the first one – this one is my favorite.”

  My eyes dart around to nowhere in particular as I shove my half-smoked cigarette into a near-empty wine bottle of Syrah.

  “You like which one best?” I ask, coming to stand beside him.

  “This one on the left. She’s beautiful, but sad. You can see a lifetime of worries in those eyes. She looks like you, but… I’m sorry. Is this supposed to be you? I’m not good at these things.”

  “It’s my mother,” I answer. “You see worry?”

  “Yeah, don’t you?” He asks, looking to me for my answer.

  I inspect her face, from this new perspective, and shake my head slightly. “I didn’t until you pointed it out. She held all that in.” He looks back to her and is silent for awhile as we both stare at the painting from our own worlds.

  “Well…” he says quietly. “You let it out.”

  Pain bursts inside me, filled with longing and loss for the mother who is no longer here. Grief yanks a gasp from my lungs. A tear jumps to the corner of my eye, sliding down before I even realize it’s there. He looks and me and I wipe the tear away quickly… but I know he saw.

  His voice is kind as he asks, “She passed, didn’t she?”

  My only answer is a brief nod. I don’t meet his eyes. No more tears come out. I won’t let them. He takes the cue that I don’t want to talk about it – but he has no idea how grateful I am at what he pointed out.

  We walk, looking at my other pieces. He’s talking, but I can’t hear him because I’m thinking about her. The missing her surprises and attacks me at the oddest of times: when I’m doing the dishes, when I’m waiting for the train, when I see an old woman, the thing she never got to be. This painting of her that I wrung out from my heart over a year ago hasn’t made me cry since I finished it. I think he’s right. I saw the fear in her, though I was never aware I saw it. In life, all she wanted to do was be a statue of control. It was probably the direct result of being passionately in love with a man who was never in control of himself. She did it for balance. But now I see that I have always known… she was scared. We aren’t meant to be statues, Momma. We’re meant to be human.

  As Danny talks about my latest piece, ‘Uplifted,’ one thought spins round my head: I wish I’d seen she was scared while she was still alive. Maybe I could have helped her to feel, to get it out. My head is leaned to the side, and Danny’s mouth is moving, but I hear nothing from this world. I’m living in the past, in a time when my mom could look at my paintings and tell me she saw me the way I see me, as only she could. I don’t hear the sound of the door below, as
it opens. I don’t hear the steps on the stairs as someone walks up. I don’t hear the creak of the top floorboard as he walks into the studio.

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  As my head whips toward him, Danny turns his whole body around in surprise. He scans Michael and instantly his body shifts in posture. It’s not only that Michael is better looking, with his dark, Spanish mystery infusing everything about him; it’s the way he holds himself, as well. His confident eyes could level most men. Danny doesn’t stand a chance in a man-off. Problem is, he knows it.

  Confused, I hear myself speak. “Michael. I didn’t think you’d be here until later.”

  He shifts his stare to me. “Would you like me to leave?” I’m confused by his expression, the fiery look behind his eyes. Is he jealous? It looks like something else…

  Danny holds his hand out. “I’m Danny. Here to look at Nicole’s paintings.”

  Michael walks to him and shakes his hand. When he lets go, he graces him with an answer. I want to hit and fuck him at the same time as he says only, “Michael.” It’s not what he said. It’s the way that he said it; if you think she’s yours… you are so very, very wrong.

  I feel the need to fill in the blanks for Danny. “This is Michael’s studio…”

  “Our studio,” Michael interrupts.

  I glance at him, then back to Danny and add, “I rent it with him, but it’s definitely more his than mine.” I look from one to the other.

  Danny’s hackles are definitely up. “I see,” he says, and he does. He sees everything.

  Looking from one to the other, I stammer, “Michael, we were just leaving.”