The Art of Control

Chapter 17

Dylan

“Whiskey scotch and just bring the bottle,” I grumble to the bartender.

He looks me over strangely but finally does as he’s told. He brings the bottle and pours my first shot and I down it quickly, forcing myself to concentrate on the here and now. It’s been six weeks without Isa, not including the three before she left me: Nine tormented weeks in total. The days that have passed are hazy in my memory, everything blending together and I don’t even know day from night anymore. It seems like I’ve been in perpetual darkness and the sun hasn’t shown since we left Paris. Paris. We never should’ve left. I should have bought that condo on the moon like Isa asked.

The reporters, the camera flashes, and the requests for interviews… my life has become one unbearable day after another. The maddening after effects of not being able to locate Isa despite having my best men on the case are taking their toll on my psyche.

Six shots later, my blood starts humming with a dull energy. The alcohol is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.

“Are you Dylan Young?” a female voice asks.

Turning my stool, I come eye-to-eye with a wide-eyed, dish-water blonde who looks far too young to be in an establishment like this and much too immature to be interested in me. I nod yes and she seats herself next to me. Not this again. I turn away from her, not wanting to play the ‘let’s see if I can get laid’ game, but it doesn’t deter the eager girl.

“I’ve read about everything that’s happened to you. It’s so crazy. Are you really into that sort of… stuff?” she asks, referring to my sexual preferences I can only assume.

I gulp down another two shots and decide to play with the nosey little tart.

Facing her, I respond, “Yes, I am. Are you?”

I arch a suggestive eyebrow at her and her look of enthusiasm changes to apprehension.

“Well, um, I’m not really sure…” she says coyly.

“You’re not sure? Either you like being whipped and f*cked hard or you don’t. So… do you or don’t you?”

Her mouth gapes open to my lewd question and she sits silently stunned, her nervous eyes scanning my face. I’m such a shit. Out of habit, I reach down and touch my left wrist, tracing the letters engraved into my flesh. I look to my other wrist and run my finger over Isa’s name recently tattooed and still fresh and sore.

“Listen, it makes no difference to me if you do or not because I’m not interested,” I state bluntly and looking directly into her timid eyes, and she quickly retreats.

Yes, I’m an a*shole to the n degree.

I don’t think you’re an a*shole. I think you’re determined and used to getting your way, that’s all.

Smiling at the thought of Isa’s words, I touch her journal in my jacket pocket and raise my shot glass in the air. Here’s to finding my p-ssycat I whisper, bringing the glass to my mouth. Just then a hand reaches over and pulls it from my grip. I swing my stool around ready to beat some ass when I’m faced with Sawyer.

“I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?” he asks cantankerously.

“I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough,” I snap back.

“Everyone is waiting for you.”

“I’m not going. I told you this was a bad idea and I’m not f*cking going,” I grouse.

“God damn it, stop pouting. You committed to this and people are counting on you. Now get your ass off that stool before I drag you out of here.”

I snort laugh at the balls Sawyer’s recently grown. “You can try.”

“Do you really want to go there, Young?”

I look into Sawyer’s narrowed eyes and I’m reminded of the time we spent together in Guam and the shit storm that ensued on our fieldtrip. That was the first time I ever saw Sawyer’s true killer nature. F*ck it. I don’t need my expensive dental work to go to waste so I sulk behind him to the car. The alcohol is starting to kick in and I’m mildly wobbly on my feet, but Sawyer promptly steadies me and helps me into the Rover.

“You have to stop this shit. Your drinking is getting out of hand,” Sawyer grumbles.

“Seriously, Morrison, drop it. I don’t need another lecture from you. We all have our ways of dealing with things, this is mine. Now back the f*ck off,” I growl.

Just then we arrive at the Cherry Canyon Gallery. F*cking hell, I can’t do this. I can’t look at Isa’s paintings. I can’t face them.

“Please, Sawyer, don’t make me do this. Isn’t it enough that I donated Isa’s paintings? Do I really have to be here to see them sold, too?” I plead.

Sawyer’s hard eyes soften and he puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Isa would want this…”

“God damn it, I know what Isa would want, okay? You don’t need to f*cking remind me!” I yell and immediately feel like shit for being such a prick to Sawyer. “I’m sorry, Morrison.”

“I know you are. Now let’s go inside.”

He drags me out of the Rover practically kicking and screaming, but my tantrum promptly subsides and my Dom takes over when the cameras start flashing. When we reach the entrance, I’m met by the representative for the Abused Children’s Fund. She poses next to me, hanging onto my arm and smiling happily. We no sooner get inside and she starts thanking me profusely.

“Mr. Young, your charitable donations and the recognition you’ve brought to our organization are appreciated beyond words. From the very bottom of our hearts, we want to thank you for donating your wife’s paintings for the charity auction,” she gushes.

Yes, Isa would’ve wanted this. God damn her father. Everything has fallen to the wayside since her disappearance, including our pursuing the case against him. I guess he got what he wanted.

The night is a blur of publicity bullshit. I pose for more photos than seems necessary and make my way around the room, avoiding Isa’s artwork. My head is spinning from the liquor and there are spots in my vision from the flashing cameras making my headache almost unbearable.

Making a wrong turn, I come face-to-face with one of her images and damn near break down. I remember the day she painted it. Christ. I can’t do this. I turn on my heel and bolt to the other end of the gallery to catch my breath. I’m standing staring into space when I catch a glimpse of Isa out of the corner of my eye, standing outside the gallery and peering into the large front glass window.

Pushing my way through the crowded room, I run out to the sidewalk looking around frantically. I just saw her. She was right f*cking here. My p-ssycat... I jog up and down the street, searching for her but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Young!” Sawyer catches up with me. “What the f*ck are you doing?”’

“I just saw Isa, she was here. I just f*cking saw her!”

Sawyer dutifully scans the street with me, but it’s a futile hunt. I look towards the bus stop bench and she’s sitting, searching through a large bag. I run over, Sawyer right behind me and I pull her into my arms, tears pricking the corners of my eyes, my heart beating madly and threatening to burst out of my chest. Abruptly, I’m slapped across the face and she jerks away from me. Holy Christ. The girl I’m holding on to is a petite blonde, but it’s not Isa. The poor woman looks frightened and Sawyer proceeds to apologize profusely, stating this was just a case of mistaken identity.

I’m paralyzed with desolation and confusion. I could’ve sworn it was Isa.

“Take me home, Sawyer,” I almost cry, trying to suppress my mental breakdown.

“Yes, Dylan, let’s go home.”

I just want my p-ssycat back…

***

Sawyer

Stopping off at Moreno’s Pub after a long workday, I allow Young to get plastered one last time in an effort to try and make him forget that Isabel’s birthday is tomorrow, though I know deep down it’s a fruitless effort. After his near breakdown last week after the gallery auction, I’ve decided tonight will be his last hoorah for partying. I’m done with this shit. I’m putting my foot down and he’s getting help.

After scanning my phone to make sure I still have Maggie’s number, I attempt to drag his drunken ass out and into the Rover, but he’s not having it. He’s mumbling perverted things and laughing raunchily at his own lame jokes, stumbling around the bar while women throw themselves at him. He rebuffs them, but not before teasing them and making them think they have a chance. He’s become an embarrassment to himself, but no one here seems to give a shit. Everybody in the bar thinks he’s the life of the party as he buys round after round of drinks on the house for everyone. I let him enjoy himself, but know full well how the night will end.

Nearing midnight, I’ve had my fill of watching strangers take advantage of Young in his sloshed state and I drag him out by his ear and toss him into the Rover, loading myself into the front seat.

“Where’s my p-ssycat, God damn it?” he slurs. “She needs a good spanking. Where is she? Tell her to get her back ass here and present herself for punishment.”

His jumbled words don’t amuse me. I’m not sure the extent of the kinky shit he and Isabel were into, but his reference to punishing her doesn’t sit well with me either.

“Morrison, why aren’t you listening to me? I want my p-ssycat! She’s a naughty little thing, did you know that? She likes to be whipped and I’m just the bad ass Dom to give it to her. Yeah, you heard me… I’m a motherf*ckin’ bad ass. But, Isa…” his voice lowers and cracks, “she’s one helluva Mistress. Hot damn that woman can wield a bullwhip like no one I’ve ever seen. My precious angel will be 26 tomorrow…”

Here we go. This is how the night ends up every time he’s had too much tequila or Irish scotch. He’s a sloppy drunk and it’s not a pretty sight.

He sniffs and it begins. “Where’s my p-ssycat, Morrison? I need her…Where’s her collar?” he asks frantically, searching his pockets and bouncing around in the backseat searching everywhere.

“Calm down, I have it,” I reassure him.

“You calm your tits! Now give it to me!” he howls, reaching over the seat and practically beating me senseless trying to get it out of my hands. Raul swerves trying to avoid Young’s punches and I push Young back into the seat, handing him the collar.

Seeing the necklace, his belligerence immediately ceases and he sinks further into the backseat and caresses it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.

“It still smells like her,” he cries.

I’ll never get used to seeing Young like this. What the hell did this woman do to him and where the f*ck is she?

***

Isabel

It’s been fifty eight days since Dylan walked out, leaving me naked and cold, and unbearably alone. The hot sun is beating down onto my back, the warm summer breeze blowing through my overgrown and mangled tangle of curls as I bask in the sun, trying to forget everything and how much I desperately yearn for my Master’s touch. Watching the people pass by, I’m almost inspired to paint – almost. I miss the feeling of the brush in my hand and the slick paint gliding across the canvas. I’ll never paint again and my heart aches at the thought. Nothing and no one will ever inspire me the way Dylan did.

The air is dry and the dust blows across my skin, leaving me feeling dirty. I miss Denver in the summer - the cool mornings, the beautiful hues on the horizon, the clouds drifting past the Rockies. God, I hate this place. Why would anyone choose to live in Chilé? Antofagasta has become my prison with its mildly exotic seaside scenery and desert backdrop. My father chose my place of banishment well. Leave it to that vindictive bastard to find a place so far off the map of civilization that no one would ever find me.

Another birthday is upon me. I’ve dreaded this day for weeks and here I sit, painfully lonesome and isolated in a country whose language still feels foreign on my lips. Deciding that I’ve waited long enough, I dig my phone out and power it on for the first time since arriving here. I pray there’s enough power left to allow me one last glimpse of my former husband. I take a deep breath and pull up the images of Dylan and me in Paris. When the magnificent image of Dylan’s painted and bound body comes into view, a sob escapes my throat and tears burst forth, the crippling pain of not being with my Master as fresh as if it just happened yesterday. When I see his birthday picture and the heartfelt smile on his face, my body shudders uncontrollably from the pain of not having him anymore. Holy angst, I miss him so much. The anguish is indescribable and I feel it in every part of my body. My vision becomes blurred and another pitiful whimper escapes me. He’s safe now without me.

“Hello, p-ssycat,” I hear from behind me.

It’s the God awful voice of Simons. I’ve come to know it well and despise it. I suck my tears back and fight the urge to stand and beat the living shit out of him for calling me the name only Dylan is allowed to call me. I casually slip my phone back into my pocket, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

“Your father sent you a gift,” he says derisively, throwing a stack of photos into my lap. “It looks like you’ve been replaced. Your ex-husband sold your paintings, too. I guess he couldn’t stand the sight of them. Happy birthday.”

He hovers over me, waiting for me to look at the photos, but I sit defiantly immobile.

“Look at them!” he snorts.

“F*ck you.” I reply casually.

He kneels next to me and wraps his fist in my hair, pulling back hard and then forcing my head down.

“I won’t say it again, you little bitch,” he says deep and hushed.

Not wanting another smack down like the first time I met him, I pick up the pictures and flip through them as nonchalantly as possible. I become heartsick when I see Dylan dressed to the nines with a blonde woman hanging on his arm and standing outside of the Cherry Canyon Gallery. She looks happy. I guess I have been replaced. The other photos show my paintings being held by strangers who are proudly holding them and carting them off. Vowing to myself not to cry in front of this albino son-of-a-bitch, I pull away from Simons and stand, throwing the photos at him.

“So what? I’m glad he’s found someone,” I lie. “Now get the f*ck out of here before I scratch your eyes out, you creepy a*shole.”

His eyes flash with hatred but he immediately backs away from me. After the last time I wailed on him when he tried to take my wedding ring, he should be afraid of me. I inwardly smile at the small scar I left on his chin after he abducted me from the hotel in Denver.

“And you can tell my father I’ll see him in hell.”

Simons laughs condescendingly and throws an envelope with money at me before walking away and leaving me on my own. Mistress Isabel instantly retreats and I slump back into my lounge chair and hide my face in my hands, allowing myself a good cry. God, I hate that I have to rely on my good-for-nothing-father.

I just want my Master back.