I Love My Secret (Nicole's Erotic Romance) (2 page)

She beams back at me, “You act like it’s been a
year! I just saw you a few days ago.”

I let go and adjust my bag on my shoulder, shrug
and say, “Yeah, well… I don’t know. It’s good to see you, anyway.” I could tell
her about Grant and his being a freak, how it scared me and that’s why it’s
good to see her face…but Michael is waiting for me. “Why are you way up here?
Meeting The Bitch at Bryant Park or something?”

She wrinkles her face in disgust. “No! No way. I
am off devil-duty, thank you very much.” She shifts to coy flirtation and
exaggerates girlishness by playing with her hair for silly effect. “I’m meeting
a guy for a drink. First time. Woohoooo!” Her eyebrows go up and down in a
funny way.

“Look at you! You’re really interested in this one,
aren’t you?” I poke her stomach with my index finger a couple times.

She laughs and swats at my hand. “Mayyyyyybe.”

Some loser with his baseball hat on backwards and
sideways, walks by and wolf-whistles at us. Jessica tells him to fuck off and
I, without looking, give him the finger.

Back to business. “What’s his name?”

“David. Nice name, huh? A boyfriend kind of name…”

I laugh, “It is! What does he do?”

“Works in money. Investing or something. I don’t
know. But I do know one thing – he’s made it VERY clear that he’s
interested.”

I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “Why wouldn’t he
be interested?”

Her mouth squishes up and she waves me off. “I
don’t know. I’m not you, Nicole. I’m just … I don’t know.” She slams two fists
on her hips and exclaims, triumphantly, “Yeah! Why wouldn’t he be interested?!!
I’m a catch!”

I grin, fix a piece of her hair. “You are.” And I
mean it. She really is. “You’re the best girl I know. You and Amber are my
rocks and there is no man who really can live up to what you deserve –
not the other way around. Do you hear me?”

She smiles and nods. But an eye-roll quickly
follows and she adds, “We’ll see!”

“We’ll see, indeed. You never know. Well, whatever
happens… we got you.” And by we, I mean me and Amber. The three of us are a
team. Us against New York. If it were just me here without any girlfriend
support, I think I’d drown in the electric separateness that is Manhattan. I
met Jessica first, so she’s got a special bond in my heart. Amber, though, is a
whip-cracker.
 
She gives me gravity
while Jess lifts me up into the clouds. The two of them, together? Balanced
communion.

A mass of people suddenly surrounds us - a train
must have just arrived. We look around the swirl of motion, then back to each
other. For some reason, we start laughing, swaying like we’re in an ocean and a
wave just hit. When we finally get a hold of ourselves, I say, “Oh man, Jess. I
was supposed to run into you. I needed some laughter. I have to go, though.
Someone’s waiting for me… but are you free tomorrow, or the next night?”

“The next night. Someone’s waiting for you? Who?”

Without hesitation, I lie, “It’s no one. Just one
of my guys… you know.”

She bats her eyelashes, winks at me and sings,
“One of your many! I’ll see if Amber can come, too, ’kay?”

We hug, say our goodbyes and head for our
respective trains. I’ve got more bounce in my step now; feel a lot more like
myself. I don’t even let myself think about who is waiting for me. I want to
feel strong for as long as possible, although this is all subconscious. I
haven’t talked to her or Amber about Michael. Something in me wants him secret.
They know I share a studio with another artist. But they’ve never met him, nor
do I ever talk about him.

Finding a seat on the train, I avoid the eyes of
strangers who scan my face, wondering if they know me. I get that a lot. I’ve
got my momma’s face, and none of her calmness – not inside, anyway. My
height is my father’s. He played basketball for the Lakers back in the 70’s,
not long after they left Minneapolis for Los Angeles. My momma was a model and
they met at some glamorous party at some celebrity’s house, whose name I can’t
remember. A passionate, hellish kind of love exploded from their introduction
– one that included infidelity, screaming fights, and me. I used to sit
in the dark and listen to them yelling, promising myself I would never get
married. After they separated, I lived with both of them at varying times, but
mostly with my momma, as she was the saner of the two. She had the type of
control over her emotions that makes you feel by comparison that you were a
volcano of feelings that was
always
active.
 
The shame I feel for my
inner monologue, all of its twists and turns and darkness, is another secret I
keep. I fear I am more like my father, cursed with a violent temper waiting
impatiently to explode. It comes out through my eyes sometimes and I see
people’s spirits cower under it during those horrible moments.
I don’t want that.
I don’t want to be
like him. I push it down; leash it and bolt it. I’m sure to others this seems
like I walk the planet smooth and still, like a lake without a breeze.
But it’s an illusion
. Am I like her? Or
am I like him? I don’t have any answers except when I ask myself who I want to
be like? The answer always comes back,
not
like him.

At His… Our…Studio

Locking the door behind me, I hang my coat on the
hooks inside the studio I’ve shared with the painter Michael Benitez for the
past six months. He and I met at an exhibit opening for a sculptor neither of
us knew personally. I didn’t like Michael at first; thought his disdain for the
work to be rude and too loudly expressed by his face and demeanor. Spaniards can
be snobbish. You can even hear their assumed superiority in their lisping
dialects, over the more accessible Spanish spoken by people from South America.

But the more I talked to him, the more that first
impression changed. We chatted for almost an hour before his seductively slow
gestures and dark, penetrating glances got the better of me. He was dryly
witty, and his dark cloud touched the dark cloud hidden inside of me. Listening
to his critique –
“You see how she
carved out this line here… she didn’t follow through with the passion of the
movement. If she’d allowed herself to really be this work, I would feel it. I
don’t.”
– I had nodded and soaked in every word. I watched his lips
move, the intensity of his deep-set russet-colored eyes punctuating his words
with passion. His long hair flowed freely around the olive complexion of his
face, as though it were a mane. Being with him made me light-headed and it
wasn’t long before I was almost overcome by the impulse to kiss him in front of
everyone. Not a peck, but the kind of kiss that would have made the room blush.

They say you can’t do heroin, not even once,
because you’re sure to become addicted, your life changed… forever. I never
understood that, until I met Michael. Maybe that first impulse in me –
the one that didn’t like him – was my inner voice screaming,
run
.

 
“I’m
here,” I call up, as I ascend the stairs.

Michael’s deep voice echoes against the walls and
travels down to lick my ears, his accent heavy and welcoming. “There you are.
I’ve been waiting for you.”

I want to run to him – I always want this
– but I keep my pace steady, take my time, measure my breathing, even as
my beating heart races. The large open loft-space of familiar white reveals
itself, bit by bit. I look over to see him intently inspecting his latest work.
He’s wearing his usual uniform; dark jeans hand-wiped with paint, long deep
chestnut hair flowing freely past his olive-hued, broad shoulders, bare beneath
a white paint-covered, ripped tank-top. No shoes. His skin and hair are highlighted
from the glow of over two dozen candles clustered on flat surfaces. This is the
way he prefers to paint. I’ve adopted it as my own now, too, when I’m alone
here. Even though my alone time is always lit by sunlight shining through the
glass, since he has the nights, and me, the days.

This space has been a Godsend to me, and when he’d
suggested I share it with him – on that very first night – I jumped
at the chance. This part of town is so hip, completely overpriced and filled
with designer’s boutiques. We’re tucked above one, and he’s reluctantly allowed
me to pitch in to help with rent. I could never have afforded it on my own. At
least, not yet. Maybe someday. Him? He doesn’t need the money. His pieces sell
before they’re even finished. It’s humbling for an arrogant woman such as
myself. But I like it.

The studio is just how you’d imagine an artist’s
loft space. Paint everywhere. Canvases stacked. Sparse furniture. One wall with
large paned windows that could use a good cleaning.

He looks me up and down, takes in my clothes. “How
was your date?”

I smile at the accuracy of his guess and roll my
eyes. “You mean, how was my
last
date.”

He touches the brush to canvas once more and
whispers while concentrating, “Ahh…not enough man to tame my Nic? Needed to
come back to me, didn’t you.” It’s not a question. We both know he’s right on
the mark, though I don’t like he said it out in the open like that. Makes me
feel like he knows how much power he has over me. He looks back up and changes
the subject in the smoothest way. “I’ve been looking at this piece of yours…”

My heart jumps in my chest as he motions to my
swirl of greens and blues with gold emotional accents, lying on the canvas by
the south wall. It’s my most unusual, by far. You can usually see more Matisse
influences in my work. This one, though, has none of that.

I ask, “And?” waiting with breath held.

He steps over to it, touching the tip of his index
finger to his lips as he thinks. He glides his hand through the air in front of
a small section. “I feel you right here…” He points to other parts and
says,
 
“…but here, and here, and
here? You are absent.”

My chest caves in. “You mean everywhere else.”

He turns and locks eyes with me. “Yes.”

I look at the floor, the walls, my legs. I’m so
disappointed. “God. Are you kidding me? You’ve seen how much I’m putting into
this. What is it I’m missing?!” I walk over to the table, pick up a candle and
start playing with the wax. He pulls his hair away from his face with both
hands, then locks them behind his head, watching me, thinking. The silence is
intense and when I turn around, there is only compassion in his eyes. Maybe a
bit of impatience, too? I might be projecting.

I slam the candle down, wax spilling hot onto my
fingers, but I don’t care. “Tell me! I can see it in your face that you have
the answer.”

He lets his hands go and walks over to his own
work again, picking up the brush. “Nic… you hit the wall until it can no longer
stand up to you. This is how it is for us.”

Artists, he means, those of us who see the world
through kaleidoscopes.

I moan and walk to my canvas that until just now,
I was happy with. Not overjoyed… but pleased. I’m not pleased anymore, I can
tell you that. I can see what he saw now. The absence of my soul. Dammit! We’re
not scientists. What we do transcends the mind. That’s the difference. Picasso
painted from his soul. Monet… soul. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Basquiat, Pollack
– soul, soul, soul,
soul.
Me? I
just made something pretty. It’s not enough.

Looking at it, I whisper, “How can I break through?”

He walks up behind me and slides his arms around
my waist, pulling me to him. I lean against his chest, feel the strength of his
muscles tighten against my back. The feel of him both calms and ignites me.
He’s like my teacher more than my peer, and when he touches me, it’s like I’m
being touched by one of the greats… like I’m lucky. Like any woman on the
planet would kill to trade places with me, and yet it’s me he wants. Me he
offered to share this private space with. I relax into him as he begins to kiss
my neck, sending shivers down my body.

Michael whispers in my ear, “You… are the only one
who can break your wall down.
Smash
it!” He kisses my earlobe. “What are you afraid of?”

I breathe, “I don’t know how,” lulled by the
moist, warm, hypnotizing caresses of his mouth.

His fingers lightly circle the soft cotton that
covers my nipple, until it becomes hard, grateful. I push my ass against the stiffness
growing in his jeans and whisper, “Make love to me, Michael. Please. Take me
away from this.”

He pulls away and walks back to his canvas. “Not
tonight. Not yet.”

Abandoned, I sway from the unexpected loss of his
body. Looking at him with deep frustration, I ask, “Why do you always pull away
from me? We’ve never…” I want to say
fucked,
but I stop myself. “We’ve never made love. Is there something wrong with
me? I know you’re attracted to me. I just felt the evidence.
”

I feel stupid saying these things. These are
things men say to women, not the other way around.

 
Pressing the brush onto a palette, he
says, as though from another world, “It’s not the time.”

My eyelids flutter and I bring my hand to my head
to steady the spinning. This man is a puzzle I want
desperately
to solve. I walk to him and wait for him to acknowledge
me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he carefully picks out a new paint, as if I am no
longer in the room! I can even see he’s still hard. He wants me. I know he
wants me. Why is he denying us this?