Chapter 9 #3
It’s a closeup of a golden trumpet flower against a serene oceanic background, the petals rendered in such intimate detail they almost seem to pulse with life.
Grandpa Finn bought it at auction decades ago for Grandma Darcy, throwing around cash to make her happy and complete her art collection in the parlor.
I was a small boy at the time, often spending summers in this home while my parents went on holiday elsewhere.
Chantal drifts toward it as if pulled by an invisible string. She stops a few feet away, her head tilting as she studies the brushwork and composition of the piece.
It’s the most peaceful she’s looked since arriving here. She’s truly at ease as she admires the artwork.
Almost as if the pampered gallery owner is back to her old self. She’s in her art gallery in SoHo, frivolously admiring the art she’s put on display.
Time to fix that.
I make my way down the hall, heading up to the parlor in the west wing with patient footsteps. She doesn’t hear me ’til I’m already in the doorway, hands plunged deep in my pants pockets.
She startles when she finally senses my presence. The little jump and gasp she gives send a thrill rocketing straight through me.
I’m quickly learning I enjoy toying with this girl. I like scaring her and catching her off guard. It’s fun seeing how she reacts.
“Admiring the art?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
She stiffens, her whole body rigid with tension. Then she seems to remind herself she’s determined to project confidence. She doesn’t want to show any more weakness than she already has.
“It’s an O’Keeffe,” she says. “A real one. I know fakes from the real thing, and this… this is the real thing.”
“What, you think Irish gangsters can’t appreciate fine art?” I push off the doorframe and stroll toward her, enjoying how she tracks my movement like a rabbit watching a fox. “That’s a bit prejudiced, don’t you think?”
“You’re a literal murderer who served me a dead mouse for dessert,” she fires back. The spark of defiance suddenly returns all at once, right down to how her round, dark eyes flash. “Forgive me for assuming you’d have no sense of culture.”
A slight grin crawls onto my face as I stop beside her. Close enough the scent on her skin is noticeable—the plain ivory soap we’ve provided her, yet it smells infinitely more enticing when mixed with her natural pheromones.
My gaze slides to the painting as silence stretches on and tension builds. Both to the point of being uncomfortable for her even as she tries to play it off.
The way she shifts weight from one foot to the other and draws shallow breaths reveals her hand.
“You know what I love about this piece?” I muse, gesturing at the trumpet flower with a lazy wave of my hand. “The way the petals spread open like that. So soft. So inviting.”
Her brows knit and lips part as if she’s about to ask a question. But I go on before she can, turning to look her in the eye.
“You know what it reminds me of?” I ask. “It almost looks like a pussy, doesn’t it?”
She sucks in another sharp breath, then disgust flickers across her round, plump features.
“You’re disgusting, and not even original about it, by the way.
Every man who’s ever looked at one of her paintings has made that played-out comment.
She actually hated that interpretation of her work. But obviously you wouldn’t care.”
“Is that so?”
“The fact that you have to ask says a lot,” she answers passionately. “O’Keeffe spent her whole career trying to get people to see more out of her work than just female anatomy. Sorry to disappoint, but she didn’t want you to look at the paintings and think vaginas.”
“More like she was gaslighting everybody before it was ever a term.”
Chantal rolls her eyes and turns back to the painting. “Someone like you just doesn’t get it.”
“Someone like me,” I repeat, still amused. “You mean someone unfamiliar with her and her work? Can you blame me? Wasn’t it her husband who pushed the erotic interpretation of her work when he was showing her paintings alongside nude photos of her?”
“Alfred Stieglitz,” she whispers.
“Yeah, him. They didn’t exactly have a healthy marriage, did they?”
She can’t bring herself to speak, rendered silent by the fact I’m more familiar with the artist than she assumed.
“What’s the matter, Chantal?” I ask, stepping closer, holding her gaze hostage as I do.
“Did you think I was just some ignorant thug? That because I’ve killed men with my bare hands I couldn’t possibly appreciate art?
This painting—my grandfather bought it as a gift for my grandmother, who loved art.
I spent many evenings in this parlor as a kid.
Hours looking at this very painting because my grandparents were sticklers about watching too much TV. ”
She fails to come up with any kind of retort as I close the rest of the gap between us, and she finally manages to take a step back.
But it’s already too late. I’ve backed her up and trapped her between me and the wall. We’re so close my body’s nearly flush against hers. I can damn near feel how her pulse beats faster and faster.
“Speaking of these flowers that look a lot like pussies; I’ve been watching you, you know,” I say, my voice dropping to a low and intimate volume.
I lean even closer. “I’m glad you’ve started giving yourself those little sponge baths in the sink.
I’d hate to have to drag you back to my chambers and bathe you myself again. ”
Her breath catches in her throat, the sharp intake of air a surprisingly erotic sound. It sends hot blood rushing straight to my cock.
It makes me want to force more out of her.
My hand reaches up, and she flinches, clearly terrified of me.
…of how close I’m looming over her.
My knuckles brush along the round curve of her cheek. Her skin’s soft and smooth and warm. But I already knew that from the evening I bathed her.
She felt so supple it was almost unreal. Soft and squeezable flesh and curves all over.
I let my hand travel from her cheek ’til I’m reaching her braids. I brush against one, toying with it almost tenderly. Curiously, like I’m trying to figure out what she’s made of.
Tears have sprung to her eyes, glistening my reflection back up at me. She’s damn near trembling on the spot, terrified of what I might do next.
“Why?” she croaks in a hoarse whisper. “Why are you doing this to me?”
It’s a good question. One I’m not sure I have a complete answer to anymore.
But she doesn’t need to know that.
“Why?” I repeat, then I grin. “It’s simple. Because who’s gonna stop me?”
She lets out a whimper as I release her braid and step back. I turn away and start for the door. I stop only when I reach the threshold to give a few final parting words from over my shoulder.
“Never forget I see everything you do, Chantal,” I say. “Behave yourself.”
Then I’m gone, walking out of the room to her stunned silence.