Chapter Seven
Caldwell
I could barely breathe, being inside of Daphne, drilling into her like my life fucking depended on it. I was out of control, not thinking about anything but taking us over the edge. No foreplay, just pure animalistic pleasure that had me growling and nearly howling. She felt so good…oh, so tight as she pulled me in deep, squeezing me. When her body shuddered and she chanted my name along with yes, I lost it and spilled into her—marking my territory…ultimately making her mine.
It was completely surreal like a Salvador Dali painting—it felt like I was floating in a dreamlike state. I didn’t want to let her go and I didn’t. I dared to take things further, throughout the night and into the early morning hours when I woke in her bed for the first of many mornings to follow.
Tasting her body with a nibble to her neck, followed by a long lick down her neck to her shoulder, I silently mumbled against her soft skin, “If I’m dreaming, leave me the fuck alone.” I didn’t dare to open my eyes, I just continued my path to her great tits and savored each one before my journey down below the covers. Playfully biting each thigh, I heard moans—a good sign that it was happening, not merely a shower time fantasy—and continued in my pursuit. Licking her plush lips and her little bundle of nerves, I dipped inside to really taste her. “So good,” I groaned and when two sets of fingers wove their way through my hair, holding me in place until her body shook and quaked, I knew it wasn’t a dream.
It was just fucking fantastic!
I was living in a fucking dream—my dream house, my dream woman, my dream life…yet it was as real as could be and I was hoping that telling her the truth wouldn’t fuck things up between us. Technically, I wasn’t really doing anything wrong. She wanted work done on her house by Tate & Sons Construction. I was a Tate. I was a son and I was doing the work. Hell, I hadn’t even billed her…I was doing things out of pure love. Love…love as in:
Love of creating.
Love of restoring the Streamline house.
Loving the time spent with her.
Love…did I actually love her?
It was true that once I had a taste of everything Daphne, I wanted more of her day and night, only leaving her when absolutely necessary. Staying with her in my dream house was far more exciting, satisfying…and so much better than living with my brother.
The only tricky part was running off to my other life where I was the boss; in charge of things, where I had to be present at least for a few hours of the evening and some weekends. The weekends were the most difficult but were doable as she was doing research for a book she hoped to publish and reporting on cultural scenes around the greater LA area. It was pure luck that our paths never crossed since she was a journalist that focused on the creative arts.
I knew my time was running out though, her house was almost complete and I would be free to move on to another project. The thing was, there weren’t any other so-called “construction jobs” to tell her about when she asked what I was working on. So I was vague and I told her I was remodeling, painting, and building a few things. They were true answers. I wasn’t lying, but I may have been deceiving her a bit by the act of omission. I didn’t mention that they were for my gallery.
If I had told the truth, things would be easier for me as it was a real pain in the ass to go from her house to my brother’s place. He lived in the complete opposite direction of work for me to go clean up and head back in the direction of where I had left. Eventually, I gave up and moved a good portion of my business clothes to my office downtown which had a tiny shower stall with no hot running water—something I should’ve probably fixed.
Then came a really big problem…actually a major opportunity which I needed to tend to on the opposite side of the country and over the pond—London was calling for me. I couldn’t say no to a very important client being presented to me. It was that long trip and the little white lies that I had to tell that had me thinking about where Daphne and I were headed. If we were going to move forward toward a real relationship—things needed to be out in the open. I couldn’t keep making up stories about finding incredible pieces of art that I needed to see in person for business. It was not a lie, but it was not related to the Tate & Sons Construction business as I had implied.
I swear I justified my fib…lie…omission of the truth by reminding myself that I was going to meet with a secret artist. I truthfully could not tell anyone, or Daphne, any details. However, I had left out even more than I needed to. But, something told me, if she knew about my real profession, I believed that she would’ve kept my secret. She seemed so trustworthy in so many ways, but for that moment I had no choice but to keep every part of the introduction I was about to experience under the covers.
Wonderful. Fantastic. Amazing. I couldn’t believe that I was going to meet Renaldo Rossellini or all of the hoops I was having to jump through to make it possible. At least I wasn’t being blindfolded and flown off to the middle of fucking nowhere. That was exactly what happened to my art writer friend, Julia, when she scored a major interview with an eccentric artist named Constance Chiani. The artist had been in the public eye several times, but wanted to keep her studio hidden away. Renaldo Rossellini, on the other hand, had never been seen publicly or, at least, not to anyone’s knowledge.
No one knew what he looked like or even if he was actually a man. For all I knew and everyone else, Renaldo could’ve been a woman using a man’s name. At least I thought of the name Renaldo as a masculine name—these days no one could be certain. I understood that probably better than most people since my own first name (and my brother’s) sounded more like a last name than a first name. Whatever his or her name represented, I was about to meet the person behind the name and I could tell no one.
Knowing that my silence was vital, I started thinking about how I had lost my business partner and how I had to sell my house to buy him out so I could keep the gallery. If that had not happened he would’ve been sitting next to me in first class and I would’ve been worrying about him leaking our secret meeting to the press once contracts were signed. I had learned that he wasn’t trustworthy and, suddenly, his departure finally felt like a good thing. Maybe it was truly a blessing in disguise for more reasons than him bailing out in tough times thanks to harsh criticism.
I had to snicker to myself as I sipped a glass of champagne that was presented to me by a flight attendant. It took every ounce of restraint to not shout out as if I were giving a toast or victory speech. “Wait until he finds out who I am representing and realizes that he made a big mistake…a major one.” I heard that in my head and smiled while giving myself a private fist bump or high five—whichever held more weight.
“Someone’s happy,” I heard a male voice say in the seat across from me and I wondered if any of my words had slipped out. Not that I really gave a fuck if they had.
The funniest or strangest part about the comment from my fellow passenger was that once I arrived at the ODE Gallery in the heart of London’s art district, that man showed up moments after I did. Who knew that I had spent eleven hours on a plane with none other than the reclusive artist known as Renaldo Rossellini or that he knew exactly who I was? Imagine traveling to a foreign country to meet someone that actually lived in the same general area that you did. It wasn’t really surprising, it contributed to the craziness that surrounded the infamous RR—his initials were how he signed his paintings. How his name was discovered or reported was a big marketing campaign: Who is RR? However, that led to other artists (male and female) copying or attempting to copy his artwork and claiming to be him which in return had an article popping up with his full name.
The latest Renaldo Rossellini news had involved rumors that the artist was looking for a gallery to represent him and that led to every gallery owner of significance being watched. The media was frantic to capture him. I knew that to be true because I felt like a few critics were breathing down my neck. They called or stopped in asking questions about what new installations were coming my way—anything out of the ordinary or overly exciting. I guess that warranted the artist to be extra careful.
“Sorry, I didn’t speak to you. You must know what it’s like to have to keep a secret to ensure that you get what you want?” Renaldo stated as he shook my hand and I nodded knowing full well what that was like and my thoughts ran to Daphne.
Fortunately, I was able to focus enough to make it through our introduction and meeting with the two owners, Olivia and Dmitri, of the ODE gallery. But once I knew everything was set, I couldn’t wait to get back on the plane and get home to Daphne. I just wasn’t sure if I was ready to stop being the construction worker. Meeting Renaldo Rossellini and listening to him speak about his anonymity had me wanting more time to nurture the relationship between Daphne and me as it was and how it had been for months. Once I was able to tell the world about my new client then I would be ready to come clean about the life I lived outside of our dream one.