Safeword Quinacridone (10 page)

“Fuck. I didn’t...
you’re right. Shit.”

“You thought you were capturing their pain and the storm’s fury, didn’t you?”

“I
was
painting their pain and the storm’s fury, but I had no idea I was exposing the loss of choice, too.”

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Travis is in the living room talking to Kiki. I think you should talk to him and I believe the painting would be a good place t
o start. I’ll bring him in here,
or you can go to your room and I’ll send him up, or I can go tell him you don’t want to see him and escort him out of the house.”

Cara shook her head. “I don’t want to see him, and please ask him to leave me alone when I’m working, too. I don’t want to have to wait his table anymore. Tell him it made me feel as if he were paying for time with me, and I felt dirty.”

He briefly patted her shoulder and rubbed her arm with his huge hand before walking to the door. “I’ll let him know you don’t want to see him but I won’t promise to deliver the rest of
your message. You say he was a gentleman, so I’ll treat him as one.”

Chapter Seven

Cara called Junior the next day and met him at his place. She wore a summer dress with no underwear, and when he opened the door she walked past him withou
t saying a word. She took a direct route to his bedroom, taking her dress off and draping it over the footboard
as she stepped
out of her sandals.

He followed her, smiling as he unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans down.

“I like this about you, darlin’. You’re here to fuck and I don’t have to mess around with stupid romance shit.”

She looked at his wide leather belt, wonder
ing
if he’d pull it from the loops and hit her on the ass with it, curious how it’d feel. No way would she suggest it though
,
Junior was rough enough without getting ideas about possible uses for a belt. She reached for his cock as he dragged his shirt off, and he grabbed her and kissed her, pawing her breasts, groping them and groaning as his tongue invaded her mouth,.

“Mmmm, you have the nicest tits. Not huge, not small — barely more than a handful. I love these tits.”

Why wasn’t this working for her? She was usually worked up enough to want to jump his bones by now.

“Lean against the wall bitch. Let me get a condom on so I can fuck you like you need. I don’t think we’re gonna use the bed today.”

She turned, hands on the wall as he’d said, and his cock nudged her pussy once before he drove in hard enough to lift her legs off the ground and thrust her into the wall.

A strangled grunt of pain escaped her chest and he said, “What the fuck? You aren’t wet? Need me to diddle your clit first? You don’t usually need that.” He reached around and mashed his finger into her clit, but it still didn’t do much. A twinge, not enough to get her excited.

“How’s a man supposed to fuck you like this, with your cunt dry? Ah hell, I ain’t got patience for this.”

He pulled out and she heard him spit a few times, and then felt his cock at her ass, the spit-slick condom pok
ed
into her and she worked to relax. Oh yes, being used for his pleasure, no care for how she might feel. Her pussy wasn’t wet so he’d use her ass after spitting on his cock. This was about his satisfaction; hers didn’t matter. She imagined he’d paid her
and
had a right to be pissed about her lack of arousal.

It almost worked. Almost. Now that she knew the fantasy could include him whipping her for his pleasure, it was all she thought of. How would the whip feel on bare skin? Would it be as good as the spanking? Would it make lines of fire instead of the large slap of heat his hand delivered?

Junior was fucking her ass now, her face and breasts pushed into the wall, her feet off the floor, and she wasn’t the least bit aroused. She relaxed, let him in, even f
ought the wall a little, but...
nothing. What’s more, she knew there was no safeword that’d make him stop at this point. He was a first class asshole who truly cared nothing about whether she was enjoying this or not. Travis had wanted to hurt her, but he’d wanted her to enjoy it.

Junior didn’t take long, thank goodness. She put her dress on, slid her feet into her sandals, and left while he discarded the condom in the bathroom.

Chapter Eight

Travis walked into the dining area as Cara refilled glasses and she tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed him. She made sure her people were okay, topped off their drinks, and turned to see him sitting at one of her tables. So
n of a bitch. Not again. She looked up, hoping no one would be snapping pictures of her taking his order. That’s all she’d need
—
someone to grab a picture of her with him at work, where they could get her name.

She’d had to field endless phone calls from family and friends a few days after returning from Atlanta, as someone had recognized Travis at Six Flags, taken pictures of them together, and sold the images to a tabloid. The gossip sites assumed she was another of his call girls and she’d had to assure her family and friends it’d just been two dates, he hadn’t paid her, and she didn’t intend to ever go out with him again. The tabloids didn’t know who she was and assumed she was from Atlanta, thank goodness.

She put the water pitcher up and walked to him, pasting on her best fake smile
without
caring how phony it looked. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Sweet tea, please. I know you have a break coming up, can we talk?”

Her heart beat double-time and her legs went week. He’d been watching her, if he knew that. Or maybe he’d asked someone. She managed a courteous, “I’ll be right back with your tea,” before turning and heading to the kitchen.

Her body went through the motions without needing her brain’s involvement, filling his glass, retrieving an order for another table, delivering it to the family, and finally taking the tea to Travis.

“Are you ready to order?” She was impressed her voice sounded almost normal. She felt as if it should be wavering all over the place.

“I’m sorry Cara. What can I do to convince you to go out with me again?”

She lowered her voice. “For starters, you can give me space. If I could
quinacridone
out of this situation I would, but it’s my job to take care of the person sitting at this table, and you know it. You’re paying for me, specifically, to serve you, and I feel dirty and cheap and
...
shit. Unprofessional.”

It occurred to her perhaps the girls he’d paid had felt the way she did now, and she didn’t like the thought. She’d wanted the guys she didn’t care about to objectify her, but the thought of Travis buying her just
hurt
. The sooner she got him out of her life, the better. Out of sight, out of mind...right?

She took a deep breath and steadied her nerves, glad the restaurant was especially noisy and no one seemed to have overheard. Pulling her order pad from her apron she said, “I’m sorry. What would you like?”

He looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry, too. That wasn’t my intention. Just bring me some lemon pie and leave the check so you won’t have to come back more than necessary. I’ll eat it and be gone, and won’t do this to you again. I hope you’ll change your mind about seeing me, but I’ll give you some space.”

At a loss for how to respond, she nodded and said she’d be right back.

True to his word, he ate his pie and left. It’d cost $4.90, and he left a ten-dollar bill on the table.

Cara spent part of her break crying in the bathroom, her mind relieved she wouldn’t see him again, and her heart broken.

Chapter Nine

Cara was beyond nervous, and incredibly grateful to Papa Bear for driving her to Atlanta.

A gallery owner named Magnus Romano had discovered her and was holding a huge event featuring four artists tonight, one of which would be her. Magnus had even given her an advance on earnings so she could buy a suitable dress, stressing it should be a party dress by a well-known designer to impress the clientele he’d be attracting. But Travis had shipped the dresses he’d bought and she’d decided to wear one of them, as she learned they cost way more than Magnus advanced her and were a similar style to his suggested designers.

Travis wouldn’t see her tonight and it couldn’t hurt to make use of the beautiful pearl white dress. Kiki had done her hair in a fantastic updo, and she’d splurged on a pair of low healed pearl shoes, figuring the dress was free and the shoes were just too perfect. Besides, with what she stood to earn this evening, she could afford it.

Magnus loved her painting of the girls in the briars, and he’d put an eight thousand dollar price tag on it. She’d only get two thirds of the selling price, but still, if only a quarter of the paintings he’d chosen sold, she’d be set for a while with a nice cushion. Between what this showing could mean, and the extra graphics jobs coming to her lately, she planned to give the restaurant her two-week notice Monday.

Cara wandered around her section of the gallery, looking at her paintings hanging in groupings. She hadn’t expected the briar picture to actually sell while she painted it; she’d considered it therapeutic and figured even if it sold, it wouldn’t bring much. But Magnus said she’d painted part of her soul into it, and people were willing to pay more when it meant they were buying part of someone’s soul.

She wasn’t certain how he’d done it, but the pieces she had an emotional investment in had much higher price tags, though she thought he’d priced them all too high. No way would they sell for these amounts in Chattanooga.

She stopped suddenly, not sure what she was seeing. The shapes slowly began taking form
as
her brain
came
to terms with the image in the large framed photograph
— a
woman bound by ropes, her body twisted artistically, the light catching her beautifully, and her face a combination of love, pain, and adoration. Her nipples were trapped in the red and black roping and looked like they hurt, and the mirror behind her reflected angry red
whip marks on her back.

Magnus had told her the other artists highlighted tonight were a photographer, a woodcarver, and a sculptor; but he hadn’t mentioned what kind of photos would be exhibited.

Cara turned to look at another picture and saw considerably more complicated rope work,
with a
woman’s arms behind her in a way that had to hurt — straight
back
and bound together from wrists past her elbows. One leg was on the ground, the other stretched in an obscene sideways arabesque. Her arms were lifted up, away from her back, which would’ve bent her over except her ponytail was woven with more rope and tied to an unseen anchor above, forcing her to stand nearly upright. The way the shadows were manipulated, you couldn’t see her genitals, though you knew she was nude.

The next photo displayed a man on his knees, his cock obviously hard beneath a small piece of fabric. He wasn’t bound but his hands grasped his ankles
as
his spine arched backwards
and
his head
looked
down at his feet so he formed a continuous circle. His muscles were strained, and his face again a mixture of pain and bliss as he fought to hold the pose. Cara turned, saw Papa Bear watching, and blushed.

“I told you before; all pain is not bad.” He regarded the image a moment before focusing on her with a friendly smile. “You should talk to people about your artwork. That’s why you’re here, to hobnob with customers so they can brag about meeting the artist when someone mentions the art on their walls.”

An hour later she wished she’d chosen flats instead of low heels, and longed for better social skills, though the patrons she spoke with seemed okay with her lack of them. Maybe it was expected for artists to be a bit off? Papa Bear had told her not to worry abo
ut feeling shy, to just be nice
and people would be fine with her not being a social butterfly.

She occasionally wandered back to the photos and grew terribly flustered at such in-your-face evidence of so many people obviously aroused by pain, and who seemed to adore the person hurting them. These pictures didn’t make it look wrong — they made sense to her, and didn’t feel dirty, kinky, or bad. They were beautiful.