Chapter 3 #2
Alright, back to the video. I need something to distract myself from the rising guilt over the fact that I didn’t tell Mariah everything going on with Devo.
I put my phone down and hit play while I continue to do my skin care.
The video cuts to an older gentleman with a gray streak through his coifed hair.
“Will you finally be the one to tell us how these paintings are made?” the man asks in a voice made for radio, it was deep and smooth. The woman shrugs with a coy playfulness and sparkling eyes.
“What I can tell you, David—” She purses her lips and looks up and around for a moment, swaying her shoulders right and left. “Is that it was well worth the NDA I had to sign, if you know what I mean.” The video cuts back to David.
“I don’t believe I do know what you mean!” he counters. “An NDA is involved, huh?” A moment’s musing passes. “Are you supposed to reveal the involvement of an NDA?” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “I thought, you know, that’s something you’re not supposed to mention.”
Back to the woman—she shrugs and smiles. “All he told me was that I can’t reveal his methods. Besides”—she turns to look directly into the camera—“I don’t know that it would be appropriate for all of your audience to hear about the process anyway.” She smirks with bravado.
“We’ll be right back after a message from our sponsor—” The video cuts out. It was a clip from a filmed internet talk show.
I spend the next hour in a digital rabbit hole looking up any additional Devo lore I can find.
I go over every painting he stood next to and every interview he’d ever given (a total of two).
I stare at the jagged black mask that runs across the lower half of his face in his more recent pictures.
The images definitely give a more ominous impression than the one I received from the friendly and bold young man from McArthur’s.
I dive into the online forums discussing the likelihood that certain surfaced paintings could be his. Some of the paintings even I can tell are copycats… others, I’m not so sure. Not many “muses” have come forward, it turns out.
At about 1:00 AM, my eyes start to close. I try to keep reading with just one eye open to give my other one a rest, but soon that effort also concludes.
In the morning, I only remember snippets of the dreams I had, including one where I once again speak to a woman in a painting. Except this time, I talk to myself—or the version of myself I’d painted coming out of the mist. She told me to show up tomorrow.
I also dreamed of the hallway at McArthur’s, and a man in a black mask with light eyes pressing me gently against the wall.
I was wearing lingerie I didn’t even own.
The man put a finger to my lips as he pierced me with eyes the color of arctic ice.
The hallway melted into a meadow and the wall behind me was suddenly a tree.
He put two fingers inside of me and I writhed—
My “last ditch” alarm goes off and I wake up in a literal sweat. Wait, I think as wakefulness mixes with remnants of the dream I was just torn out of. I quickly close my eyes again. I think I wanted to finish that dream.
My heartbeat ratchets up to a rate where I know I won’t fall back asleep.
The dream is gone, and I know I’m going to the studio today.
At exactly the time Devlin asked me to. I have hours to get there.
I roll my eyes up to stare at my white ceiling and brush damp tendrils of my hair off my forehead.
I shift my hips under the covers and allow my other hand to snake down between my legs.
Wow. It’s rare I wake up turned on. Is this what men experience when they have a wet dream?
As I go to pull my hand back up from under the elastic of my pajama pants, my middle fingers skim along my swollen clit and my muscles twitch involuntarily.
I gasp and lift my finger so that it’s hovering just over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
My body’s so turned on. I clearly didn’t finish getting off in my dream…
my brain is drenched with a lust that takes me by surprise.
I press my finger back down and draw slow tight circles around my clit.
My eyes roll back and my eyelids flutter.
I stop thinking about being a responsible adult and allow the chemicals in my body to decide what I’m doing.
I move my other hand down my body, squeezing my breasts as I go, sliding down the side of my hip. I think back to Devlin running his hands down my waist and hips on the dance floor. It had felt so good to be appreciated for my curves, to be so wanted by someone that… I clearly wanted back.
I push two of my fingers into myself and arch my back at the idea that they’re Devlin’s fingers, like in my dream.
I see the icy, silent version of him: Devo with the mask.
And then I think back to the lively, warm version of him laughing with his head thrown back in the booth: Devlin—the one whose rosy lips had pressed themselves to mine, whose boyish charm is intoxicating.
The combination of these two versions of him turns me on more.
Who is he? Do both versions of him want me? I hope so. I want both of him.
I’m running my fingers up and down my clit more fervently now, and pumping my other fingers in and out.
I can feel my climax building and I don’t want to lose it.
I allow myself to imagine whatever I want.
It’s the icy version—Devo—his face fills my imaginary field of vision, and he pulls down his mask to reveal a wicked smile.
He curls his fingers into my G-Spot and I allow my fingers to do the same.
His hand is around my throat and he whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to see you like this later today. ”
My muscles spasm uncontrollably and the vision fades.
I do finally pull my hands out of my waistband and I lie in my bed, flushed.
A thin sheen of fresh sweat covers me from head to toe.
Physically, I feel wonderful. Mentally, I’m confused by the intensity of my fantasy, how turned on it had made me.
I’m tugged out of my reverie by the memory of the postscript on the note Devlin left me yesterday: “I’d hold off for another night.
” Well. I held off for the night, didn’t I?
It’s morning after all, and I’d received no suggestions about that.
So why do I still feel a touch a guilt? I shake it off and check my phone.
I now have an hour and forty minutes to get to Copper Works, and if it was up for debate about whether I needed a shower before, then the answer is clear now.
I ride my endorphin high for a bit longer in the hot shower, but as I go through the rest of my routine, a different tingling feeling extends from the center of my chest. I wish this man had given me a goddamn phone number!
But maybe it’s for the best he hadn’t. That way I can’t text him that I’ve suddenly come down with the flu and can we reschedule for a time when I’ve miraculously gathered more nerve.
Instead, I take a deep breath and give myself one more once over in the mirror.
I don’t want anyone else in the studio to give me a second glance, but I want to look at least a little nice.
I have on a smokey gray T-shirt, a bit more fitted than my usual choices, and my favorite jeans that I think hug my ass nicely and are marked with paint swipes along the thighs.
I finish off with a kerchief around my neck, a common addition for me, and a swipe of red-tinted lip balm, an uncommon addition for me.
Most days, I’m a classic chapstick girl.
I look like I’m ready to paint, but I also look feminine, and dare I say, tantalizing?
At least my curves, often covered by looser clothing and a smock, are on pretty full display.
My hair is combed into a purposeful “messy” bun with tendrils framing my rosy cheeks and lightly rouged lips.
I attempt my own devilish smile and think about the breathless state I was in less than an hour ago.
Now that I’m not quite as pent up as I’d been since I’d left McArthur’s two nights ago, I can react to whatever this afternoon may hold with a level head.
Devlin used the word “collaborate.” That sounds professional. Upright. Doable. I can always change my mind, he’d reminded me. I leave my apartment in good spirits, buoyed by my confidence in my appearance and my internal pep talks.
This is going to be a breeze.
I arrive at Copper Works at 11:59. I’d never been so punctual in my life.
I cast my eyes around the large concrete room, expecting my fellow artists to be in motion and focusing on their separate stations.
At least some of them. Any of them? Not a soul is in the studio.
Did I get the time right? Are we closed for a day?
I was able to get inside though… if we were closed, I’d think Alex would have locked the door to the outside.
“Hello—” tumbles out in my shaky voice as I take a few steps inside.
No answer.
My fingers twitch and I have an urge to re-do my hair while I have this moment alone.
Just as I manage to pull out my elastic, letting my coiled hair unfurl, a hefty metal click resounds behind me. I whirl. It’s him—he’s at the door in his mask and wearing a baseball hat pulled down low. He must have come in after me. Electricity zings through my every limb. “De-Devlin?”
A slightly muffled chuckle comes from under his mask. “Yes, Charlotte it’s me. Sorry to startle you.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” I’m shaking my head back and forth. I cast my eyes to his boots, trying to convince myself that I’m fine as well.