Chapter 70 Elliot
Elliot
I fly into a rage at work. I’m prone to flying into rages and other things, but it’s been a minute since it’s happened, so the strength of it takes me by surprise.
One minute, I’m sitting at my desk, tapping away at a report that isn’t due until tomorrow, and the next, I’m fuming.
Seething. Pulsing with a tight, vicious rage.
All it takes is a client walking by, raising her hand, and lightly touching the pendant at the base of her neck.
It’s one of those Carrie Bradshaw necklaces I hate.
Hers says Alice, but it makes me think of one that says Damien.
My fury is instant. Teeth and fists clenching. I act immediately, almost without thinking.
Now I’m home early, standing in the study, taking in my handiwork.
I’ve ripped the photograph of Damien and Sadie out of the frame and replaced it with a picture of Sadie on her own.
It’s a picture I took a few weeks back. She’s sitting on the back porch, nose a little too large from being so close to the camera, eyeing the camera with curious contempt.
It isn’t the best print. I used normal paper from the office, not photograph paper. I didn’t care when I printed it out, and I didn’t care on the trip home. It’s not until this very second that it occurs to me that I’ve overstepped big time.
Nerves and trepidation flutter wildly, and I scurry out of the study to the living room when I hear Stuart’s car in the drive.
“Don’t tell Daddy I was in the study,” I tell Sadie, who trots at my heels keenly. She seems a lot more eager than I am to see how this is going to play out.
I put on my best how-was-your-day face.
“Can I help unpack the groceries?” I offer, like the good boy I’m sure as hell not.
Stuart’s mouth drops open and then lilts up. He looks at me as if I've just cured cancer.
My organs clench and start to gnaw at themselves.
It’s Friday, so Stuart opens a nice bottle of white and pours it for us as I set the table. He lets me choose the placemats and doesn’t seem to notice when I drink my wine quickly. He stands beside me as he tops up my glass. The familiar weight of his presence is heavier than usual.
“What about having leftovers to freeze for cooking wine?” I ask.
“Ah, it’s no big deal.” He smiles. “We can open a new bottle if we need to, can’t we?”
We get started on dinner. Stuart stays close to me the whole time. So close that I smell hard work and solid muscle. I smell big, fleshy palms and bright-red ass cheeks as well, but since I’m pretty sure those aren’t things people can smell, I suspect it might be my conscience at play.
I told Stuart about my embarrassing experience at the Indian store with Mat and Will the other day.
He laughed at the time, but he must have been taking notes because we’re making butter chicken from scratch tonight.
He sets the spices on the counter and patiently explains.
“The garam masala will give us a fragrant, spicy taste with lots of layers of flavor. The turmeric has a hint of pepper, and the cumin adds sweetness to balance the spice.”
He opens each container and holds it up near my nose. I’m hit by the familiar rush, a quick blurry swirl, an early warning that I’m in danger of becoming inebriated on praise or attention.
“Remember how we browned the ground meat for the Bolognese? We’re going to do the same thing with the chicken.”
I make sure to keep him on my left side as I dice and stir, even though I know it’s ridiculous. He can’t see what I’ve done from here. The study is all the way down the hall, and even then, the gallery isn’t visible unless you stand in the doorway.
Still, better to be safe than sorry.
A rich, creamy aroma fills the room, wafting through the kitchen and dining area, spinning slowly with Nora Jones’s breathy voice and honeyed words. It’s not the first time Stuart has played this album, so I know he must like it.
I need a distraction to stop me from freaking out. I need it. I raise my eyebrows slightly and stretch my eyes a little wider than usual. “Is this music from the olden days, Daddy?”
“Olden days?” he booms, eyes flashing with disbelief and then humor. “Olden days?”
He swings his hand back in a wide arc and lands a loud clap on my left ass cheek. I chuckle and jiggle my butt to shake off the sting. Stuart growls and lands another louder clap on my right. I don’t shake that one off. I savor it.
I’m far from an expert in this type of thing, what with being relatively new to cooking and all, but something tells me the warm hum of his handprints on my skin will pair well with the meal.
It’s not until we’ve finished our food—which was delicious if I say so myself—that the contents of my pocket start to feel too hot to handle. Guilt bites at my side.
“Stuart.” I try to keep my tone matter-of-fact. “I did s-something today.” His eyebrows shoot up, and he studies me intently. I continue quickly so I don’t lose my nerve. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think it was the right thing to do.”
“Elliot, what did you do?”
My throat is bone dry, so I take the tiny pieces of the photograph of Damien out of my pocket and put them on the table in front of Stuart. “I didn’t mean to rip it up. I only meant to make a small tear, but once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
Stuart takes a second to register what he’s looking at.
“I know it wasn’t the right thing to do,” I say, lifting my chin despite the slight quiver I feel. “But I’m not sorry I did it.”
He pushes his chair back. “Come here.”
I do as he says, knees spongey, too tense and too lax, the way they always are when I know I’m headed for a trip over his knee.
He takes me by the wrist and pulls me toward him.
Instead of landing over his knee, I find myself sitting on his lap.
He loops an arm around my waist, resting his forearm tantalizingly close to my stiff cock.
He sweeps my hair out of my face and makes me hold eye contact with him for so long that I almost start wishing I was over his knee instead.
“Why did you do this?” he asks, waving a hand over the shredded remains of the photo.
Hmm, that’s a good question.
I know Stuart isn’t mine. I know this is an arrangement, nothing more, so it’s hard to explain.
“Um, it’s just that I really didn’t like that picture.
It’s his face. I don’t like it. It bugs me.
Every now and then, a face annoys me for no reason, and he has one of those faces.
And I hate that dumb name necklace and his smile is stupid and shows way too many teeth.
” Stuart’s lips flatten. He looks more than a little baffled, so in a panic I add, “And, and, Sadie is my dog.”
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t buy it.
“Are you a jealous boy, baby?”
I shake my head from left to right defensively and then change direction, nodding reluctantly as I try to swallow the big lump in my throat. He tightens his grip around my waist.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper close to his neck. “I’m jealous.”
“Taking it down without my permission and tearing it up wasn’t the right thing to do,” he says with no heat in his tone. “You know that, don’t you?”
I nod quickly and whisper, “I know.”
He gives me a warning look. “Are you planning on doing anything like that again?”
I shake my head even more quickly, and I really, really mean it. I wanted that picture down for all I was worth, but the reality of knowing I’ve done something with the potential to upset Stuart is heart-palpitating and awful.
I fidget with the corner of the placemat as I wait for the full extent of his disapproval.
It doesn’t come. Instead, Stuart goes soft and considered.
“Ordinarily, this type of behavior would earn you a very good hiding, but I understand why you did it, so I’m not going to spank you.
” I let out a long breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I’m awash with relief the one second and then disappointment prickles.
“What I am going to do is put you to bed early so you have time to think about what you’ve done and come up with some better ways of handling jealousy in the future. ”
What?
He’s sending me to bed early?
Oh fuck, why’s that so hot?
I have a quick shower and hop into bed naked.
I cover myself with the sheet, but instead of pulling it up to my armpits like I normally do, I drape it so low around my waist that a hint of pubic hair shows.
Stuart comes in and takes his usual position beside me on the bed.
His head is tilted at a strange angle as if it’s taking some effort for him not to look down.
Deep satisfaction starts to uncoil but quickly recoils when our eyes meet.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask, my voice small and pathetic.
“No, baby, I’m not angry with you,” he says and then sighs.
“You know, that photograph has been up for so long that I forgot it was there. I knew without knowing, I think. It’s almost like I developed a kind of blindness to it.
I was so used to it being there I stopped noticing it years ago.
” He’s quiet for several long seconds. “It’s high time it came down. ”
This time, the relief comes in a sharp burst, and there’s nothing resembling disappointment accompanying it.
“I replaced it with a photograph of Sadie,” I say quickly. “It’s not a great picture. The lighting isn’t all that good, and the printer at work was running low on ink.”
He chuckles softly. “I think we can do better than that.”
I feel empty and achy. A little too full and a little swirly from wine.
My head throbs. I’m a contradiction. Verging on tears or a fit of giggles, I can’t tell which.
Upset with myself and pleased with myself.
Sorry I did something so stupid, and stupidly happy that the awful picture is gone.
Relieved I haven’t been spanked, and suddenly upset about it as well.