The Art of Submission (4 page)

She comes sauntering in, looking at a
piece of paper she’s holding in her hands. When she looks up, our
eyes meet, and she freezes in her spot. I see all the color drain
from her face and for a moment, I think she’s going to faint. She’s
fair-skinned and petite with generous breasts. Her large bright
eyes are the most unique shade of – amber is it? As our eyes meet,
it’s as if she sees right through me. She’s not particularly my
preference in a woman, but still. She looks so…
angelic.
It must be the blonde hair that sits on
her head like an unruly halo. Her clothes are wrinkled and not
flattering to her body, but even I can see that she’s
very
attractive. I immediately
wonder how someone who looks so pure could have painted such dark
erotic images. I’m at a loss for words. We just stare at each other
for what seems like minutes, when Greer interrupts us.

“Not now…. uh… Ms. Ibanez. I’m in a meeting,”
he stutters.

What an asshole. He thinks I don’t know
who she is and the pompous jerk off has unwittingly given me the
information I wanted.
Ibanez
.
What is that - Spanish? She doesn’t look Spanish. Well, yes she
does, actually. Like the women I’ve come across in my travels to
Spain. She looks frantically at him and then me, and she gives me a
look like she’s pleading for something, but what? She looks
panicked and then I get it. This is her boss; she works here and
she doesn’t want him to know that she’s been to see me. As much as
I don’t want to, I turn away and act as if I don’t recognize her.
Greer looks nervously back at me and then rudely dismisses
her.

Much to the douche bag’s surprise and relief,
no doubt, I quickly stand up and make my way toward the door. I
have all the information I need. As I make my way to the main
entrance, his inner salesman kicks in and he tries to redirect me
towards the gallery, but I’m having none of it. Then inspiration
hits me.

“Do you have any more paintings by Isa?” I
ask.

There he is, the predictably shocked Mr.
Greer. I’m starting to enjoy this.

“No, I don’t,” he blandly replies.

“Well, when you do, and
only
when you do, I’ll be back.” I
sarcastically reply. I swear I heard his jaw hit the floor as I
turned to leave.

Now, for my homework
; Isabel Ibanez.
A lovely name for a beautiful
and talented
artist
.

**********************

Isabel

It’s 7:05 a.m. I’m riding the bus to work and
feeling quite tired. I’m seriously regretting waking up so early at
this moment, but the thought of my finished canvas, my wonderfully
dark and naughty piece, eases my sleepiness a bit. A small smile
has crept on my face and I can’t seem to rid myself of it.

I’ll take an extended lunch today, surely my
coworkers won’t mind since I have never taken advantage of this
luxury often afforded to them. I’ll go to Dylan Young’s office and
hopefully get my paintings back, as well as deposit my check.
Actually I should wait on depositing it, just in case I need to
bribe the charismatic Mr. Young with it. Who am I kidding? This man
is a very wealthy. He’ll surely laugh at my paltry not-even-$5000
offering. It won’t hurt to ask I suppose.

In the office, it’s the same humdrum
tasks. I’m volunteered for the chore of contacting a list of up and
coming artists in hopes of talking them into doing a show with us.
This is my least favorite duty as most of the artists I have to
deal with are sullen, distant and eccentric. I wonder if I, too,
would be considered eccentric. I’m shy, and I guess a bit sullen
with a definite strange taste in artwork, but surely that doesn’t
constitute being eccentric. Does it? I put it out of my head. I
look at the clock and it’s time to leave for
the meeting.

I let my coworkers know that I’ll be
going into the city, and taking an extra hour for an appointment.
Monica is the only one to object. She wants to know exactly why I’m
going into the city.
Nosey bitch.
I make something up, but I’m such a terrible liar, she gives
me a look of disbelief and rolls her heavily eye-shadowed eyes at
me. I wish I had the balls to scratch her money-hungry green
eyeballs right out of her head.

I head to the restroom to try and make myself
presentable, but as usual, there’s not much to work with. I’ve
brought a change of clothing; my best pair of khaki’s and a light
pink short-sleeved button down shirt. They’re both wrinkled as all
get out, and now I’m wishing I had ironed them before I left. Oh
well, I’m obviously not his type anyway, so why bother. I put on
the clothes and try and rein in the craziness on my head. It’s no
use and with that, I leave.

The whole cab ride over, I’m trying to
find the words to say to Mr. Young. I decide it would be wise to
take notes and write out my questions, pleadings and/or demands
ahead of time. I can feel the cab driver’s eyes on me and I look
up. He’s smiling at me in a weird sort of way.
What?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” He inappropriately
asks.

Why is he asking me that?
Like I don’t know.
He must be
delirious and/or desperate. I seem to attract those types. I shake
my head yes and continue writing my notes. We’re almost there and
I’m becoming more and more anxious and exasperated by the nervous
‘I’ve got to pee’ feeling. I seriously need to calm
down.

We arrive at Republic Plaza, a tall
building that looks cold and sterile, although the architecture is
breathtaking. As I get out of the cab and pay the cabdriver, he
winks seductively at me.
Yuck.
I turn and head into the building and put on my oversized
jacket that I’ve brought along as I feel suddenly
chilled.

Once inside, I look at the names on the
directory and I find him, Young Security Corporate Headquarters,
and head up to the 35
^th
floor.
My stomach starts to free fall the closer I get to my final
destination.
Stay with it Isa, stay with
it
.
You can do
this
. Man up! I tell myself. The ping of the elevator
startles me. The doors open up to a brightly lit area where two
pretty young ladies sit at a large desk – one is a brunette, no
surprise there, and the other a strawberry blonde. They both look
up at me, their eyes scanning me head to toe, and there’s that
disapproving look again. I muster all the courage I can and
approach them.

“I’d like to see Mr. Young please.” I ask in
a whisper. I was hoping for a more forceful approach, but again, my
mouth betrays me.

“Your name please?” asks the brunette as she
looks me over critically.

“Isabel Ibanez.”

She scans her appointment book, scans it
again, and looks at me puzzled.

“You don’t have an appointment?” She asks
with a look on her face as if not having an appointment is the most
absurd thing ever.

“No, I don’t,” I reply and before she has a
chance to respond, I keep talking, “it’s very important that I see
him. I have an important matter to discuss. It’s very important.
Please. ” This time I used my big-girl voice and I think it worked.
She half rolls her eyes at me and picks up her phone. I hear her
say my name into the receiver, and then she abruptly hangs up. Oh
no. She looks much sterner now.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Young will not see you.”
She says assertively and I get the distinct impression, she’s not
really sorry at all.

Damn, now what?
Think quickly, Isa
. A note! Yes, I’ll write him
a quick note. To both the receptionists surprise and dismay, I
reach over the desk and grab a piece of notepaper and a pen,
frantically trying to think of what to write.
I got it
. I write the quick note, absentmindedly
signing it “Isa” and not putting any contact information on
it.

I hand it over to the receptionist and give
her my biggest saddest puppy dog eyes and plead with her to give
Mr. Young the note. She rolls her eyes at me again and says she
will. I wait, but she just sits there and stares at me. Finally
getting irritated with me just staring at her, the receptionist
stands up and with a loud sigh, heads towards his office.
Satisfied, I turn to leave.

Once on the elevator, my anxiety kicks
into high gear.
What the hell was I
thinking? What have I done?
What if Greer
finds out
? I wasn’t supposed to know who bought my
paintings and I snuck into his office and stole that information.
Surely he’ll fire me for such gross misconduct. As the elevator
comes to a stop, I want nothing more than to get the hell out of
Dodge, but to my alarm, I’m stopped by security. Why? Surely asking
for a meeting unannounced without an appointment isn’t a
crime.

“Are you Isabel?” A tall burly middle-aged
man asks.

“Yes… what’s this about?” I manage to squeak
out.

He gives nothing away and simply states, “Can
you please just wait here one moment?”

Like I have a choice? I’m seized with panic.
My eyes start darting around, trying to plot out a quick getaway. I
see his name badge and think to myself that his name, Herman,
doesn’t match his appearance at all. I look at the security guard
trying to read his expression, but his demeanor offers me
nothing.

I hear the ping of an elevator and when he
looks towards it, I make my move. I dash towards the front
entrance. I didn’t know my little legs could move so fast. Just as
I make it to the revolving doors, I hear my name being called, but
I don’t stop to see who it is calling out to me. I jump into the
first available cab, cutting in front of someone and not giving a
damn. Luckily it’s not the same creepy driver that was making
googly eyes at me before. I just want to be away from this place
and back within semi-safe confines of my desk.

Once back at the office, I make my way to my
desk and fall into my chair with a huge sigh. Monica glares over at
me and makes some unpleasant remark, but I completely ignore her. I
would normally give her some attitude back, but right now I just
want regain some semblance of calmness. I immediately return to my
earlier task and begin calling artists in hopes of taking my mind
off of my ignorant actions I committed during my lunch break.

About an hour passes by and I realize
that I need some paperwork signed by Greer. I head over towards his
office and I hear voices coming from it, two men; one of them
Greer’s. As I walk in, I’m still scanning the paperwork in hand. As
I look up, my eyes meet the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen…
his
eyes.

It’s Dylan Young. As I stand motionless
like some kind of moronic statue, I feel all the blood drain from
my face and I briefly think I’m going to pass out. By sheer luck, I
don’t. He’s just staring at me. He’s absolutely…
alluring
. His hair is sable brown
and his eyes are a cool blue with a dazzling starburst pattern in
his irises. His mouth is slightly open and I feel his eyes
caressing my body from head to toe. I feel a fluttering deep in my
belly and my pretty kitty tightens and wakes from her deep slumber
as we just stare at each other for what feels like forever.
Does he recognize me?
He acts as if
he does, but surely not. He was in his office and he didn’t
actually see me.

I glance at Greer who looks nervously
back at me.
What does he have to be
nervous about?
He rudely attempts to dismiss me with
some stuttering comment and he calls me Ms. Ibanez. He only calls
me that when he’s angry or irritated. What has Mr. Young told him?
I’m starting to panic again…. I look back to Mr. Young and I try my
best to plead my case telepathically. I’m mentally begging him to
not rat me out.
Please…. Please…. I need
this job…
and to my surprise
and relief,
I think he gets my psychic message. In all reality, I’m sure he
probably doesn’t know who I am. Finally, he looks away and says
nothing. I immediately make my retreat.

I sit at my desk, reeling from my
encounter with
the
Dylan
Young. He’s so much better looking in person. Those Google images
do him no justice whatsoever. My God…
those arctic blue eyes
. It’s as if he could see
right through me. No doubt, he has this effect on all women, silly
girl, I think to myself.

A depressing feeling overwhelms me,
because I most likely will never see him or my paintings again. I
suppose it’s better that way, because I don’t think my libido could
stand it, quite frankly. The way he looked at me….
those eyes
….
that delicious mouth
… I’ll definitely have
naughty dreams tonight.

Dylan

On the drive back to the office, I
can’t stop thinking about her.
Isabel
. The question crosses my mind again, how
can someone who looks so angelic create such erotic images? Perhaps
she’s not as saintly as she looks…
an
angel with a dark side
… mmm... That’s a filthy little
thought.

Damn, I wish that asshole Greer hadn’t
been there so I could’ve asked her all the questions that have been
burning a hole in my subconscious. What’s his deal anyway? She’s
obviously talented, but why was he was so reluctant to sell her
paintings? And what the hell was with his evasiveness about her? I
need to get to the bottom of that, but I’ll worry about that later.
For now, I just want to get back to the office and do a background
check on the mysterious
Isabel
. Owning my own security company sometimes
has its perks, like not having to go through anyone else to get the
information I want.