The Art of Control

Chapter 8

Sawyer

I’m busting my ass to get to Moreno’s Pub to see Sonya. The Winston-Salem account should be fine until Young can get back and deal with the heads of the company and set them straight. They obviously don’t want to hear from me about how their current fail-safes are, for lack of a better word, shitty. It’s times like these I’m glad Young is the man in charge and not me. My lack of give a shit impedes me from being politically correct, while Dylan, on the other hand, always maintains a cool exterior, and it’s what makes him an excellent CEO.

I pull into Moreno’s and see Sonya’s silhouette near the window. She’s chatting on her phone and sipping a brightly colored cocktail. No drinking tonight, I remind myself. I’m not going down that road again.

I walk in and Sonya greets me with a smile that could melt any man’s heart. Great Gatsby she’s beautiful. I seat myself in the chair across from her and she leans over and kisses me tenderly on my mouth, and I can taste the faint flavor of rum. I don’t dare make eye contact for fear she’ll read my perverse thoughts of wanting to get inside her. Instead, I scan the tabletop and cough nervously.

“I ordered you a Coke with lime,” she tells me.

How thoughtful of her. She knows I don’t drink anymore and I’ve never had to remind her of that after confessing my addiction months ago.

“How was work? Did you do anything interesting?” she asks.

“Interesting? Define interesting,” I tell her.

She purses her lips together and gives me wide eyes.

“Ever the mysterious, Sawyer. Fine. Let’s talk about something else. Have you heard from Dylan and Isabel?”

I don’t mean to be mysterious; I’m just not accustomed to talking about work. I never even talked about it with my wife. She eventually learned to just stop asking and I was grateful for it. I would’ve hated to see the look of disapproval on her face when I told her the dreadful things The Agency asked of me.

“Not since a few nights ago.”

Come to think of it, I should probably call Young and make sure everything is going okay. After his little incident, I can’t help but feel uneasy. My intuition is telling me that the attack was deliberate. Nothing came about from the fingerprint Young sent me, though the scanned image was less than ideal.

“Something’s bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?” Sonya asks, reaching over the table and touching my hand.

She has an uncanny way of reading my body language which makes me uncomfortable. I shrug my shoulders and look back down at the table. She reaches over and pulls my chin up and her touch warms me.

“Hi. My name is Sonya. Do you come here often?” she asks lightheartedly.

I chuckle at her remark. She’s trying to draw me out.

“Sorry, doll. My mind is on what happened to Young.”

“The mugging?”

“Yes, that.”

“It’ll work itself out,” Sonya says, sipping on her beverage.

Oh, to be so naïve. Just then my drink arrives. I no sooner get a get gulp down and my phone rings.

“Sawyer, this is Murphy. The shit just hit the fan. If you’re near a television, turn it to the local news.”

F*ck. Now what? I jump up and go over to the bar area and ask them to turn the channel on the overhead television. Our local news reporter is talking excitedly about Denver’s Golden Boy being outted as a sadist.

“…the video footage is too graphic to be shown here, but there is no doubt that the players are Dylan Young and his new wife…”

Motherf*cking hell. My stomach drops.

“Turn it off,” I snap at the bartender, but he’s too engrossed in the story.

I quickly walk over to Sonya, grab her by the hand and drag her out of the bar and to my car.

“What is it?” she asks concerned.

“An intimate video was leaked showing Young and Isabel in a very compromising position,”

Sonya’s eyes widen and she pales.

“Dear Lord, haven’t those two been through enough?” she sighs irritably.

“Apparently not. I guess your Dear Lord thinks they should still be tested a little more before He decides to break them,” I reply sarcastically.

“Sawyer, stop,” Sonya tells me impatiently.

I roll my eyes at her and immediately regret doing so.

We get into my car and she glares at me.

“You know I hate it when you roll your eyes at me. It’s disrespectful and it means you think what I’ve said isn’t important,” she huffs.

Sighing loudly, I decide to swallow my pride. “Yes, you’re right. I apologize.”

“Thank you. Now what are you going to do? Call Dylan?”

I love that Sonya doesn’t hold a grudge; it’s another of the many qualities that endears me to her.

“Shit. I know I should but it’s their honeymoon. And hell, his birthday is in three days. I mean, seriously, what can he do about it that I can’t do myself?”

Sonya nods in agreement. We both sit quietly for several minutes while I contemplate whether to call Young or not. F*ck it. I’m letting him enjoy his honeymoon and birthday. Its better that they lay low while this fiasco runs its course. The both of them being out of the country is probably the best damn thing anyway. So much for getting a good night’s sleep.

I drop Sonya off at my place, kiss her goodbye and make my way back to the office. I’ll be pulling an all-nighter.

Prevalent on my mind: First: Who? Second: Who? Third: Who the f*ck?

The first phone call I make when I get to the office is to Young’s PR people. They’ve already caught wind of the situation and are in complete meltdown mode. I tell them that under no circumstances are they to call Young and let him know what’s going on. Then I send out a mass email to all employees stating that no information or interviews are to be given unless they want their balls and/or female parts cut off and legal action taken against them.

My next email is to all of our account heads letting them know of the situation and that Young’s actions in the bedroom in no way impede his ability to provide the best God damned security for their company and if anyone has the audacity to argue otherwise, they can go f*ck themselves and take their business elsewhere. I dare them to try and find better. Okay, I didn’t quite say it like that, but it was damn near close. I don’t have the politically correct gene embedded in my DNA like Young does, but he’s gone and right now, I’m in f*cking charge.

Okay, so as far as I know, Cassie was the only one with the videos, but she’s still in the mental institute under lockdown. I guess that means I’ll be paying her a late night visit. I decide to call in a few favors on behalf of Young and I’m granted a brief visit to the Rocky Mountain Behavioral Health Center, AKA, Colorado’s home of the batshit crazy.

When I arrive, Young’s reputation precedes him and I’m treated very well. The physician leading me to meet with Cassie is very talkative and polite.

“I’ve heard what’s going on. You know, despite what society says, sexual sadism isn’t actually a sickness. Quite the contrary, it’s a lifestyle choice. Some people just need to pull their heads out of their asses and wake up to the new sexual revolution,” he says very professionally.

His statement shocks the living hell out of me and I pause and gape at him, not knowing how to respond.

“Are you coming?” he asks, guiding me by my elbow into the interview room.

The room is brightly lit and Cassie is sitting at a table, twirling her hair between her fingers which, oddly, reminds me of Isabel. When she sees me, her look of eagerness turns to disgust and her hand drops to her lap.

“Were you expecting someone else?” I ask.

She grimaces at me and casually looks away.

“You were hoping for Dylan, I take it,” I say sardonically.

Cassie turns to face me, glaring at me with the creepiest, empty eyes. The physician seats himself at the far end of the room and another male stands near Cassie, ready to step in if she decides to go ape shit on my ass.

“I’m going to get right down to business. Who did you send the videos to?” I ask her.

Cassie’s look changes to something sinister and a disturbing smile plays on her mouth, repulsing me completely.

“A friend,” she counters.

“You should know that by admitting that, you’ve now become accomplice to the person who will be charged with attempting to ruin Young’s reputation.” I remain cool and never break eye contact.

Cassie’s smile quickly fades, but she remains silent. I need to find a way to get through to this crazy bitch and I know just how to do it.

“Dylan is very disappointed in you,” I tell her. I immediately get the response I was hoping for as evidenced by her body language. She imitates Isabel again by playing with her hair in the same signature move and shifts in her chair, looking like an apologetic schoolgirl. Still, she remains quiet.

“Okay then. I guess I’ll just go back and tell Dylan that you don’t give a f*ck about him,” I say, standing.

“No, wait…” she stammers out, panicked.

I remain standing on the other side of the table, waiting for her response.

“I gave it to that gold digger’s father.”

I have to fight the urge to slap Cassie upside her stupid head.

“Now that I told you, can I see Dylan?” she asks.

How ignorant is this woman? “No. Not now; not ever,” I tell her flatly.

Cassie mumbles something under her breath and looks psychotically irate.

“You said he was disappointed in me,” she grumbles through gritted teeth.

“I lied. He’s disgusted with you. You tried to kill his wife, what else did you expect? The one thing Dylan hates is betrayal and when he finds out what you’ve done now, he’ll push you out of his mind forever and won’t give you a second thought.”

I turn my back to walk towards the door and Cassie leaps up and screams profanities of every kind at me, but I don’t turn to acknowledge her reaction. The sound of the chair being thrown across the room and a loud booming voice, which I can only assume is the man standing guard, can also be heard as I walk out the door.

So Isabel’s father is at the root of this. What a complete shit bag.

The physician catches up with me, we say our goodbyes and he asks me to give my best regards to Young and Isabel.

It’s nearing 9:00 p.m. when I get back to the office again and start looking into Emilio’s accounts. It seems he’s upped his security and my probing is time-consuming and tedious. After several hours of poking and prodding and using many of the tricks Young has taught me, I’m able to penetrate his technical defenses. By happenstance, I come upon an email to someone named Simons. The email itself is benign enough and references a business venture. I almost completely bypass it, but something catches my eye - a code word. To the casual onlooker, it would’ve been ignored but my experience with The Agency has stuck with me. The word couteau is used in the signature, which is the French word for knife.

I promptly look up information on Simons and come across his driver’s license photo. I save the image and decide to email it to Young for verification, but I already know it will be a positive I.D. Within moments of sending the email, my phone rings.

“Yes, that’s him. Isa recognizes him, too. Who is he?” Young asks. He sounds as if I’ve woken him. There’s an 8 hour time difference so it’s the early morning in Paris.

“I’m still looking into it,” I tell him. “Sorry for waking you. I should’ve waited to send the email.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m glad you sent it. How are things on your end?” he asks sleepily.

I detest lying to Young, so I end the phone call quickly before he can decipher my tone. He’s got a weird ability to read voice stress and body language, and I don’t need him prying me for information right now.

I’ve done what I can do for tonight. I leave the office and stop off and pick up some flavored water before going home. I grab a paper and the headline reads Denver Entrepreneur Exposed as Sadist. I briefly read it and just end up even more pissed off at Cassie and Emilio. Momentarily putting my anger aside, I drive home.

Sonya is already sleeping in my bed when I arrive and I undress and lie next to her. She awakens and turns to look at me. Her hair is down and hanging in her eyes. The way the moonlight hits her face in the darkened room takes me by surprise as I’m flooded with memories of my amazing wife, Serena, whom I lost to leukemia, and her last days with me. I quickly turn on my other side and away from Sonya’s piercing gray eyes.

“Sawyer, whatever secrets you’re keeping won’t scare me away,” she says hugging me close to her.

I lay motionless. “Goodnight, doll,” I tell her.

“Goodnight, honey buns. Sweet dreams,” she says teasingly as she squeezes my ass.

She’s trying to draw me out and it’s working. My dick trembles thinking about being inside of her. I’m tired, but Sonya’s touch is irresistible. I turn back around to face her and her eyes gleam with lust, lust for me. A woman hasn’t looked at me like that in such a long time, I enjoy the moment for as long as I can.

“You make me feel like a woman again,” she whispers, her words heartfelt and earnest.

“You make me feel again,” I confess.

The love we make is impassioned and ends much too quickly. My stamina left me years ago but hopefully being with a woman again, I can work up to lasting longer than ten minutes.

“My apologies Lady Sonya for being so speedy,” I apologize as we both lay on our backs, breathless.

Her laugh is deep and sexy. “I’m thankful for it. Five minutes is more than enough. Wait… no. I take that back. Five minutes is good enough for now. We can work our way up to lasting longer. Anyway, the way you just made me feel, it could’ve lasted five seconds and I’d still be glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife.”

“Meatloaf?” I ask.

“You know that song?” she asks surprised.

“It’s one of my favorites.”

“I’m aging myself by quoting lyrics like that,” she says, sitting up on the edge of the bed and drinking a bottle of water.

“Then I’m aging myself as well. Anyway, you’re only 43. I wish you’d stop making yourself sound so old. Although, according to Isabel, you’re a cougar.”

Sonya chokes on the water and laughs happily. “Did she really say that? Oh, that Isabel. She’s a sassy little thing.”

She hands me the bottle and I finish off the last little bit of water in it. Her comment makes me think about the email with the code word knife.

Sonya falls asleep and my mind wanders to what action I will take regarding Simons. That bastard tried to kill my boss. Even worse than that – he attempted to kill my best friend and for that, he will pay.

***

Isabel

The last three days have been pure bliss I think to myself as I jump out of bed. The days were spent wandering the streets of Paris, the nights spent getting occasionally whipped and when the time called for it, being gently f*cked vanilla with a twist style. But it was the late nights spent confessing the things my father did to me that has brought Dylan and me closer together. It’s been cathartic; more so than I thought it would be. Dylan doesn’t judge me and he listens quietly, offering me words of comfort and holding me, immersing me in feelings of security and safety. I think maybe he missed his calling as a counselor.

Playful Dylan has come out in full force and it’s a joy to see him laugh without restraint and completely let loose. His new form of torture on me: Tickling me to the point of damn near pissing myself. I’ve tried to tell him that shit’s not funny and it’s all fun and games until someone gets kneed in the balls, but he’s relentless in his quest to make me laugh uncontrollably. It’s both heartwarming and adorably annoying.

I wake with purpose and before Dylan. He’s sleeping peacefully after our nightly confessional. It ran into the wee hours of the morning, but he didn’t complain once. I quietly call down to room service to have them bring up the birthday cake I ordered. While I wait for the cake, I find Dylan’s gift and pick something pretty to wear for him. As I’m sitting relieving my bladder, I peruse the pictures on my phone from our photo session three nights ago. I’m definitely having these printed and framed. My handiwork on Dylan’s body was sensational and I can’t help but pat myself on the back. He posed like a pro and didn’t once balk at my snapping photos of his decorated demigod body. My favorite picture: Dylan standing in dominant pose wearing the blindfold with his hands bound in front of him, and his head thrown back. I could rub one off to that image over and over.

I pry myself from the images, dress myself quickly and wait by the door. When I hear the knock, I open it quickly.

My husband turns 31 today and it’s our first birthday together. It’s a special day and I want him to feel treasured and appreciated. I set out the breakfast and cake, light the candles and climb in bed next to him. Rubbing his back, I touch his lightly frosted hair, running my fingers through it. I plant a kiss on his cheek and he smiles, but his eyes remain closed.

“Wake up, birthday boy,” I murmur in his ear.

His grin widens and he yawns loudly and stretches out like a lion after waking from a long nap. His stunning blue eyes open and move up and down my body.

“You’re already dressed? How long have you been awake?”

“Not long. I have something for you.”

He reaches down and under my dress and digs his fingers into my p-ssy.

“This is all I want for my birthday,” he says, pouncing on me before I have a chance to object.

“Dylan, please…”

“There’s no need to beg for it,” he tells me, laughing at his own joke.

I pry myself out from under him and drag him out of bed. Standing him up, I cover his eyes and guide him over to the small table. The candles are starting to burn out and I remove my hands.

“Happy birthday, my sweet lover.”

I walk around to face him to see the look on his face. His smile is so big, his eyes are squinting and I can almost see every tooth in his head. It’s quite a sight. He looks like a child; happy and playful. Grabbing me brusquely, he kisses me forcefully.

“Thank you. No one has gotten me a birthday cake since…” he trails off and I know his response before he says it - since his parents.

He quickly puts on some flannel pants and sits front and center before his cake. When I get my phone ready to snap pictures, he tries to wave me away.

“Don’t be shy. I want to mark this special occasion,” I say, taking a few photos anyway. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head no, but his enormous smile remains plastered on his face.

“That’s a lot of candles, old man. Think you have enough wind in you to blow them all out?”

Dylan huffs, “You can always help me since you’re so full of hot air.”

He pulls me over and onto his lap and I whisper the birthday song into his ear. The grin on his face is one like I’ve never seen and I can’t help but grin in response. He watches the candles flicker, the flame reflecting in his pale blue eyes. When I’m done singing, he and I inhale deeply and we blow them out together. As the last candle dies out, he closes his eyes, his smile fades and he silently makes his wish.

“Did you wish for something good?” I ask him.

His eyes open and he nods yes. Dylan dips his finger into the cake and rubs the frosting on my nose, and then licks his finger clean.

“French vanilla with a twist. You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

I wipe my nose and he buries his tongue in my mouth, holding my face firmly. When he’s done, I reach over to his gift that is wrapped in simple brown Kraft paper and tied with twine. I’m nervous about giving it to him. I’ve been working on it for so long and it’s so personal to me… I just hope he likes it.

I hold it in my shaking hands, close my eyes tightly, take a deep breath and hold it out to him.

“Breathe, Isa,” Dylan sighs as he gingerly takes it from me.

When I open my eyes, he looks confused.

“Why are you afraid to give this to me?” he asks.

“I just want you to love it.”

“You know I’ll love anything you give me,” he declares.

“I know, but I want you to really love it. It means so much to me.”

Dylan hesitates and eyes the package curiously. My anxiousness is getting the best of me. He unties the twine slowly, torturing me with his casualness. Then he delicately begins to remove the paper.

“Just open it already, I can’t take the suspense,” I snap at him, tear the package open and toss the paper to the floor.

“I thought patience was a virtue?” he laughs with gusto.