Compulsion Ch. 03

The curved porcelain of the bathtub was so unyielding, and yet my body fit so well against it. I imagined I was laying in Adrian's arms, in her lap, my naked back against her bare breasts, my curves against her lean thighs.

My own thighs spread as I teased a hand down over my hard nipples, my stomach, between my legs. Adrian would start slow... she'd touch me in circles beneath the water. My fingertips pressed lightly against my most sensitive spot and I moaned.

You'll be quiet. Her words drifted through my mind and I shut my eyes, pressed my lips to my shoulder to muffle myself. My pulse throbbed beneath my mouth.

She would open me up... fingers caressing between my folds, thumb circling against me. It was her mouth on my shoulder, her hand moving between my legs...

Tell me what you want.

"You... inside me..." I whispered, and pushed my fingers deeper. The bathwater sloshed gently as I found my pace. My wet hair stuck to my neck, cold and ticklish against my scars. With my eyes closed and the pleasure building, it was so easy to make it Adrian who was rocking me, her fingers that were finding my centre with every stroke, her breath that was tickling against my neck.

I want you, she'd say, and I would know what it meant this time, the full truth and depth of it.

I threw my head back, baring my throat for her, and squeezed my thighs tight around my hand as I shook. "Then I want you to take me..." I was breathless, could barely hear my own voice over the roar of the pulse in my ears.

She'd nip at my shoulder. Then at my neck. I would come apart between her teeth and on her fingers all at once. The sloshing water was spilling over the edges of the bath just as my blood would spill from her lips, down the white column of her throat. I threw my other hand to my neck, raked it down her bite marks, and came with a shuddering gasp.

I lay there for another moment, stunned as Millais' Ophelia in the river, eyes half-lidded, hand still clenched between my thighs. The pleasure washed over and through me. When at last the waters went still, I slipped my fingers from myself and sat up, clutched my knees to my chest, and blinked.

I half-expected the bathwater to be dyed red around me.

*

"So have you called her yet?" Ellie wanted to know.

It was the third day, and we were having lunch at the little place on Elgin. We used to eat there all the time in school, especially when we were stressed, so it always reminded me of finals. Of having too much to think about, of being right in the middle of the most overwhelming week of my life, desperate to get to the end.

"Not yet." I twirled my fork across my plate, finessing just the right ratio of noodles to red sauce. God, I loved pasta. Food had never tasted as good as it had lately. "Adrian told me to go home and think on it."

Ellie gave me a skeptical look. "And have you been thinking on it?"

"Oh, yes. Um, quite a lot, actually..."

"Well, do you wanna know what I think?"

"I feel like I already know what you think."

Ellie told me anyway. "You should either be her client, or sleep with her, but it's gotta be a one-or-the-other thing. Oh, or even better--a neither thing." She took a moody bite of her burger, getting a drop of ketchup on the collar of her garish western shirt.

"Or maybe..." I savoured my carefully-curated mouthful of spaghetti. "Maybe they're two great tastes that taste great together?"

"Ugh. Don't say it like that. You're gonna put me off my fries." Ellie wrinkled her nose. "You seriously can't see how it's a conflict of interest?"

I shrugged. "Well, it worked out fine the first time, didn't it? She sold my piece, and we both, um... got what we wanted..." My fingers drifted up to the scarf I wore around my throat.

Ellie pushed her plate back sharply. "So fucking gross, dude. I know you know that."

"Ellie, chill."

She let out a long, frustrated sigh. "I'm still not convinced that this isn't some elaborate pickup artist scam. Her gallery's Instagram is weak as hell, and she's got no other social media that I can find. You sure Adrian Samotáršký is her real name? What kind of name even is that?"

I splayed my hands. "It's on her business card."

"Yeah, I'm sure she's wrist-deep in all kinds of business..."

"Oh, well, now who's being gross?"

Ellie brandished a fry at me. "I bet you'll call the number and it'll be, like, some random massage parlour or a funeral home or something."

My heart throbbed and I pressed my hand to my chest. Long breath in, slow breath out. No... Adrian had told me she wanted to see more of me.

"Not funny, El." I glared at her.

Ellie wasn't chided. "Maybe you'll call and they'll be like, 'No one by that name has worked here for twenty years!'" She wiggled her fingers and made a spooky ghost sound, and then gestured emphatically, as if she'd made some sort of point.

I kicked her under the table.

By that evening, Adrian's bites had nearly closed over. Only at their deepest points--where her long incisors had sunk in--were they still red and open. The rest was a tangle of scars, raised and pink.

As I drifted to sleep, one hand pressed to my neck and the other between my legs, I imagined myself kneeling before Adrian. She was seated like a Roman emperor, white and lifeless as a marble statue, and her commanding gaze drew me closer and closer to her. My fingers trembled as they slid along the flesh of her thighs, and she was cold against my hands, and then against my lips.

I kissed her and licked her, and she was cool and soft as silk, and so still. My hand followed the slight curve of her hips, roved up across her taut stomach, and rested over her breast. No heart beat below it. Her lashes fluttered over her black, black eyes as she took my hand and raised it to her lips. When her teeth cut into my wrist I moaned against her, and when she came to life under my tongue it was my blood that heated her. She took her pleasure from me and I gave it freely. As much as I had in me to give.

*

On the fourth day, I did my laundry. My sheets really needed the wash.

I put Adrian's pocket square through, too, but the fine silk had soaked up my blood indelibly. She wouldn't mind if I kept it, would she? I had an empty wooden case that had once contained a set of acrylic paints, and I folded the stained pocket square up, placed it inside, and then set Adrian's business card atop it.

I had to laugh at myself. It was like a homely little reliquary--a crude version of the gilded masterpieces they used to make to house the bits and pieces of old martyrs, of incorruptible bodies. But that was okay. Adrian wasn't some twelfth-century saint, after all, and my body wasn't incorruptible. And, now that the fever had left me and her bites had healed to scars, it made me feel a little closer to her. Like I held a piece of her the way she held a piece of me.

That afternoon, I plugged myself into an audiobook and drew. I began a new sketchbook with some studies of the Reliquary Shrine. My photo reference was open and zoomed-in on my laptop, and I tapped my pen to my chin as I considered how I might reimagine the architectural details, all the little inlaid scenes. I would replace the Virgin and Child at its centre with two women, locked in an embrace, and the archangels flanking them would be women, too.

I didn't stop drawing until the sun came up again. I feel asleep with my open sketchbook over my heart, and I was too exhausted to dream.

*

By the end of the fifth day, the new sketchbook was full. Its pages were warped with painted colour tests and thick with pasted-in post-its where I'd redrawn details. Pride and anxiety burned in my chest and thrummed in my veins as I flipped through my work.

Would she like it?

*

The last day was the hardest. Just a short shift at the café, and then there was nothing left to do but wait. I sat in bed and turned Adrian's card over in my fingers again and again, playing with its sharp edges until, eventually, I drew blood.

*

In a week's time, you'll call.

I awoke with a start, hand at my neck. The scars there were flat now, and the sensation in them was so dulled. I had to really press my nails in to feel the echo of Adrian's bite.

I called.

I was so ready to bask in Adrian's flowing, expressive tones. Instead, I got a clipped, unfamiliar woman's voice. "Demeter Gallery."

"Oh. Uh... hi. I mean, good morning." My pulse thudded and I winced. In my eagerness I'd forgotten to account for how nervous phone calls made me. Usually I wrote out a script beforehand. "Is, um, is Adrian there?"

"Nope, she's out. This is Lana Deschamps, coordinator. Are you calling in regards to a purchase or hold?"

"No, no, it's just... in regards to Adrian, I guess..." I winced again as the babbling spilled over. "I'm an artist? We met last week? And she gave me her card, and told me to call, so I'm just... calling. Now." I slapped a hand to my burning cheek.

"Ah," said Lana, and then she sighed. "She did mention something about that. What's your name?"

Adrian mentioned me. A slight twinge in her marks. "Grace Bergeron."

"Yeah. She thought she might hear from you. Let's see what her schedule looks like..."

My heart throbbed as I waited.

"Well, she could do Wednesday or Thursday next week, or... oh, would you look at that." Lana sighed again. "She does have an opening, so if it's not too last-minute for you... I'm sure she'd be keen to see you tonight."

"Tonight?"

"I know. It's short notice. If you--"

"No! No, that's perfect." My heart skipped a beat. "I'm ready whenever."

Lana let out a short laugh. "Right. Of course you are. You can come by the gallery at eleven, then. You have the address?"

"It's on her card." My voice had gone a little breathless.

"Bring your portfolio. And anything she hasn't seen yet. She likes originals, if she can get her hands on 'em."

"Yes! I'll bring it. Thank you. Thanks so much. Okay. Bye."

I fell back onto my bed, hair fanning out behind me, phone clutched to my chest. My pulse raced against its cold, black screen.

Tonight. A queasy mix of nerves and excitement washed over me. I had to tell someone or the anticipation was going to burn me up.

Elllllieee, I texted her, knowing as I was doing it that she was going to be annoyed. guess what I'm doing tonightttt

Her answer came a few minutes later. Let me guess... getting exploited by a shady-ass art dealer? Eye-roll emoji.

I rolled my eyes back. Why couldn't she just be excited for me? Yeah that sounds about right. Help me pick an outfit?

Shouldn't you be thinking about your portfolio instead of what you're wearing? Or have we just accepted that it's more about tongue emoji, peace-sign emoji than woman artist emoji.

It's all put together already. And I finished a new sketchbook too.

Good. Keep things focused on the art. And remember you can say no to her.

Why would I say no to Adrian, when just thinking of her made my heart flutter like this? And you remember I can say YES to her.

Seriously, dude. The vibes are predatory af. I've been trying to find info about other artists and shows at that gallery and there's practically NOTHING online. So damn sketchy.

I pulled a face and rolled onto my stomach. okay well why are you being a creepy stalker tho

She took a long time to compose her reply. A tremor of anxiety edged its way into me as I waited.

It's not stalking, it's RESEARCH, which YOU should be the one doing since it's YOUR art career that could get fucked over. But since you're sooo busy planning a fckin date night, I figured I'd be a good friend and do it for you. You could at least pretend to listen to me instead of brushing me off and calling me a fckin stalker‼

I threw my phone across the bed and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst in time with my hammering heartbeat. My shoulders were tight. I didn't breathe. My stomach hurt.

"Get it together," I whispered to myself as tears pricked in my eyes from the pressure. Long breath in. Slow breath out.

Okay. So I shouldn't have called her a stalker. I would apologize for that, I resolved. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it right now, while the anxiety was still caving my chest in. We both worked today anyway. I would say it in person.

When I showed up at the café, Ellie wasn't there. It was Maya instead. She said Ellie had texted her last-minute to cover but that it was cool, though, because she was super broke anyway and needed the extra hours, and did I have any shifts I was trying to get rid of...?

I shook my head, not really listening to her. I took out my phone and stared at Ellie's last message to me, and my last message to her.

After work, I picked out the evening's outfit on my own.

I decided on a buttoned top with a wide scoop neck--it left me bare from shoulder to shoulder, showing a generous amount of cleavage, the arch of my collarbones, and the lacy straps of my nicest bra. The pale pink colour matched the blush that spread across my décolletage as I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to see myself as Adrian might.

There was something mesmerizing about the tracings of my veins beneath my flushed skin--a secret pentimento layer of me that I had never really noticed before but that she, I imagined, would appreciate.

That, along with a short skirt that cinched my waist, vertical stripe tights to lengthen my legs, and a silk scarf tied coyly around my throat? I looked good enough to eat. A flutter of nerves seized me and I pressed a hand to my chest.

Ellie texted me again as I was curling my hair.

Hey here's the most recent newsworthy event to happen in that building, as far as I can find. Check out this 2004 police report about a fckin missing persons case. GREAT GALLERY. SEEMS LEGIT. A line of red flag emojis and a link to the report in question.

Ancient police reports? She was madder than I thought if she was going into full investigation mode. I tried to think of what I could say to her that wouldn't make her more upset.

I didn't reply.

My phone buzzed one last time just as I was leaving my apartment, portfolio case in hand.

Look. Please just call me if it gets weird tonight, okay. I could come pick you up. Or whatever.

I paused, typed out a quick Sorry, El, and then deleted it. It just looked so weak. Breathe in, breathe out. I was going to apologize, but I'd do better than that. I'd take her to brunch. Right now I just needed to focus on the night.

I didn't reply.

*

The gallery was on a quiet side street not far from the Byward, in a narrow three-storey nestled between two squatter buildings. The brickwork of the facade seemed recently redone--stark and white in contrast to the ruddy tones of its neighbours. Silver lettering declared it to be the DEMETER GALLERY in the same font that I'd been staring at all week on Adrian's business card. The entrance was sunk a step below street level, recessed beneath an archway. The windows were arched, too, and too dark to see through despite the faint glow burning from within.

Adrian greeted me at the door. She was even paler and sharper and leaner than she was in my memories. And my fantasies. And she really was that tall...

She was dressed more casually tonight, in a tailored elbow-patch jacket over black jeans and a white t-shirt. Vaguely academic, effortlessly stylish--very much the picture of an off-duty art dealer. The lenses of her wire-rimmed glasses were impossibly dark, and yet I knew that what lay behind them was even darker.

Her cold hands were on my bare shoulders. "Well, aren't you tempting tonight? All dressed up with nowhere to run?" She grinned at me and the points of her teeth were already showing and it was all happening so fast.

I was frozen in place as I stared up at her. My pulse twitched under her touch. There was a near-unbearable intensity to being the object of Adrian's desire now that I understood what it was to be desired by her.

But, despite that, a little voice in the back of my head was going, I knew she'd like this outfit.

Adrian released me and cut her grin down to a gentler smile. "Or perhaps I mean to say, don't you look lovely? And please, won't you come in?" She stepped to the side, indicated the stairs leading down, and offered me her hand.

"Thank you," I said, smiling back. I took a deep breath and placed my hand in hers. "And yes. I will."

She drew me downward.

"So glad to have you tonight, by the way, Grace," Adrian said as we descended. "I suppose I should apologize for missing your call, shouldn't I? Perhaps I could have mentioned that I rarely see to business during daylight hours? Business or pleasure, for that matter..."

"Business or pleasure," I echoed, and my hand felt suddenly hotter in hers. Daylight hours? Right. Maybe I should've guessed that...

The stairs opened came out into an atrium that lifted all the way up to the ceiling of what would have been the ground floor. The windows I'd seen outside at street level presided high overhead. The lights were dimmed and the walls were white and the floors were dark, varnished wood.

"Oh, wow... it's so airy and open in here."

Adrian looked around, too, and her expression grew a touch fond. "The renovations were such a nightmare, but it's always worth it in the end, isn't it? It's really so necessary to keep modern--especially for someone like me, hm?"

I shot her a glance. "...A contemporary art dealer?"

Adrian shot me an arch glance back. "Of course. What else?"

She pulled me along, but I dawdled to peer at the pieces on display. They were nothing like my paintings, really.

"Ah, yes." Adrian was behind me, and I shivered as her hand settled at my waist. "That's Sasha's lovely work. She's one of my other artists, of course." Her voice was so low and so lilting as she guided me past Sasha's pieces. "Precise and striking. Architectural. But see how she considers her material sidelong--here, a dim room in the reflection of a mirror. And here, a skyline reflected in a dark window. The elongated shadow of a structure not depicted directly. An enigmatic perspective that gives the viewer space to consider the true nature of the subject. Captivating, no?"

I was captivated. I was leaning into her touch and her voice. But behind that, a bitter seed had found root in my heart. I wanted Adrian to talk about me that way. About my work. Not her other artists.

I shook my head, trying to banish the flush of jealousy that had overcome me. How ridiculous was I being? Of course she had other artists, and of course she liked their work, too. She wants me. I knew that. I was here tonight, wasn't I?

At the far end of the gallery was a monolithic partition. Around the other side of it were a small bar and a seating space, appointed with neo-Victorian furniture--plush, jewel-toned, and ornately embroidered. Sitting at the bar, illuminated in the harsh light of her laptop screen, was a stout woman, maybe mid-fifties and quite butch. She sported a crisp button-up, a steel-grey crew cut, and horn-rimmed glasses, and she tipped her glass of red wine to me as I came around the corner.

"Grace, you spoke to Lana on the phone, didn't you?" Adrian said by way of introduction. "My assistant. If you ever miss me, you'll get her, and she'll pass your message along--won't you, Lana?"

"Yeah, boss, people sure seem to miss you a lot." She sipped her wine. "Good to meet you, Grace. You want a drink?"

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink, too?" Adrian flicked a switch by the bar, shutting off the lights in the main gallery space. Darkness crept in around the sides of the partition.