Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (5 page)

Or rather, something
underneath
the white drape moved.

Peter took that as his cue. In one fell swoop, he pulled off the drape and revealed what was underneath.

The audience issued a collective gasp. Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw.

TWO

The white drape fluttered to the floor, revealing the work of art underneath.  And it was a work of art that nobody could possibly have expected----and yet, it fit perfectly into the context of the exhibit.

Hiding underneath that white drape were two live models.  Two live
nude
models.  One male, one female. Their bodies were covered from head to toe in colorful body paint. The woman was decorated in bright blues, purples, and yellows in an abstract, almost impressionistic pattern----it reminded me somewhat of Van Gogh’s
Starry Night,
with a modern twist. The man’s design was more muted, almost postmodern. His body was entirely painted black, with a gridlike design in contrasting white. It almost made me think of the electronic gladiators in the movie
Tron.
Both models’ bodies were perfect, almost like live Greek sculptures, with the perfect mix of rippled muscle and soft flesh. You could get aroused just looking at them.

But that wasn’t the
piece de resistance.
Not the painted flesh, not the perfectly sculpted bodies. No, the highlight---and the shock value----lay in what those models were doing to each other.

The woman was supine, on her knees and leaning forward in a variation of child’s pose from yoga
, except with her hips and buttocks raised high in the air. Around her neck was a leather collar.  Attached to the collar was a metal chain. The man stood over her, holding the chain in one hand and a thick leather strap in the other. The leather strap ended in a bunch of thinner straps, each one tipped with a glass bead. He swished the leather whip---for lack of a better term---back and forth across the woman’s back, making short, sharp cracking sounds. The woman’s flesh was hidden underneath the body paint, but the sound of the whip cracks was more than loud enough to show everyone in the room that the whip was leaving marks.

But that wasn’t even the most shocking part. No, the entire exhibit had featured plenty of
artistic depictions of nude bodies sporting body paint and wearing bondage gear. So having live models doing the same wasn’t exactly a shock. No, the shock factor lay in the fact the man had a huge erection and was fucking the woman in the ass.

Well, now I’ve seen everything
, I thought. I snatched my iPhone out of my purse and used it to take some impromptu video and snapshots. Most of the other people in the room did the same, but the lighting was so poor that none of us were getting much on film. Even so, I knew I’d struck reporting gold.

Boy, what a story this would make. I had a major scoop here. Hell, who even cared about a lousy art review for
Art News Now?
  I could write up a shocker exposé and sell it to the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
.

The audience stood in stunned silence watching the two models fucking
, snapping photos with their phones and iPads and whispering among themselves until reality sunk in. Then mass chaos ensued.

Richard Darling burst into the center of the room, red-faced.  He grabbed the white sheet from the floor and tossed it over the fucking couple, swearing under his breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly apologize,” he called out to the crush of people, about two-thirds of which were he
ading for the door in disgust. The other third was watching the show, gape-mouthed, holding up their iPhones and iPads and Droids to capture the moment. A few of the men were noticeably drooling, with erections showing through their clothes.

Richard turned to Peter, who stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest, his face emotionless.

“Peter, WHAT THE HELL?” Richard boomed, making no effort to save face in front of the dwindling crowd. “I did NOT give you permission to stage that---that, whatever it is!” He stamped his foot and kicked the pedestal that held the two live models, who were still fucking---rather vocally now. “STOP! Take it somewhere else, for Chrissakes!”

Peter looked upon the scene with noticeable amusement. “Richard,
as I recall you told me to go big and bold with the live exhibit.”

“I didn’t mean have
to have people
fucking in public!
This is Cleveland, not the Amsterdam red light district! Good God Peter, we could be shut down for this!”

As if on cue, a pair of police officers burst into the room, guns drawn.  “Everybody FREEZE!” one of them shouted.  Everyone did.  Everyone except the two models, who kept right on fucking. “This
is a raid,” the lead cop barked. “We find this establishment in violation of Cleveland City Ordinance 876-dash-102 against Public Indecency. We are hereby revoking your business license and shutting you down pending a hearing.”

Richard dashed up to the cops, wringing his hands. “Officers, please,” he begged. “This is all a big misunderstanding
. Had I known the artist would stage that type of exhibit I’d never have allowed---“

The police were having none of it. “You are the owner of this establishment, I presume?” asked the younger cop, who holstered his weapon.

“Yes. I’m Richard Darling, owner of the Flaming River Gallery. But I claim no responsibility whatsoever for what those two, um,
people
---“ he jerked his head in the direction of the two fucking models---“over there. I had no idea that the artist had something like this planned.”

“It’s still your establishment, sir,” said the lead cop, who kept his service revolver in hand. “You’re responsible for what happens here. We’ll have to issue you a citation.  Ditto for the two indecent individuals there.  We’ll wait until they’re done, of course.”
The man and woman were partially covered by the sheet now, but they kept right at it.  I watched them with fascination. It was the first time I’d seen sex live and up close. Sure, I’d overheard Hannah and her various boyfriends fucking down the hall over the years, had even watched the odd porno scene, but this was my first experience seeing the real thing. (Technically it was anal sex, and not the regular real thing, but still.) My only regret was that it wasn’t me who was getting fucked at the moment.

I
shuddered. Christ, did I really just think that?  This was no time to be thinking about sex. I needed to concentrate on the task at hand----getting my story. I was a professional journalist who’d just stumbled upon a great big scoop, not an undersexed housewife. I needed to get a hold of myself.

Focus, Nancy,
I thought.
Focus
. But that was a tall order, because the male model chose that exact moment to have his climax.

“Fuck,
FUCKFUCK!” he called out, let out a long low moan, then slumped forward. The woman whimpered underneath him, then he collapsed on top of her. The metal chain rattled loudly, ringing out across the stunned room. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. My whole body felt like a live wire about to shed sparks. I shut my eyes tight, trying to clear the image from my brain, but it didn’t work. I gave up and tried my best to go back into reporter mode, but the scorching heat that rose between my legs made it almost impossible for me to concentrate.

The cops gave the happy couple a moment to collect themselves, then informed them they were both under arrest for public indecency. The woman wrapped the sheet aro
und herself, while someone produced a trench coat to cover up the man.  The cops handcuffed the pair and dragged them off. A third officer appeared then, toting a clipboard and pen that he used to take statements from witnesses.

I snatched my own reporters’ notebook and
digital recorder, using both to get as many on-the-record statements as I could.  I made sure to give Peter a wide berth, however. I didn’t know what to think of him, or what I’d just seen. I knew even less about the strange sensations wracking my body, which had me so off-balance I could barely think straight, let alone act the role of the hardnosed reporter on a scoop.

I didn’t have long to get my facts straight, though. Richard Darling soon began shooing everyone out of the galler
y. “I’m sorry everyone, but we have been officially shut down. We’ll let everyone know when we reopen. Flaming River Gallery thanks you for your support. Please, everyone leave at once.”

I go
t swept along with the crowd, soon finding myself near the front door. I craned my neck in search of Peter but he had disappeared. I wasn’t sure what drove me to look for him then, but my whole body ached with an unpleasant sensation now that we’d been separated. My inner self longed to be near him again. I didn’t understand why. Or maybe I did understand, and just didn’t want to acknowledge it. These feelings were all so new, all so strange. And all so alarming. The only thing I could think about as I tried to make my way through the crush of people was the growing heaviness
down there,
and what I was going to do to relieve it
.

I should have been already out on the street scrolling through my
iPhone for the number of the
Plain Dealer’s
city desk, but my groin was still calling the shots---and I just wasn’t prepared for that. I’d never allowed the primal needs of my body to overrule my rational mind before, but today my whole world had turned upside down.

I was a strait-laced, serious, studious young woman, a journalist out to get her story----not a silly, shallow sex goddess out to get laid at the
drop of a hat.  That sort of thing was Hannah’s department. Always had been.

I took several deep cleansing breaths, steeling my resolve to get
safely out into the fresh air so I could clear my head and hopefully get back to the task at hand. I finally made it out the door mostly intact, though I noticed for the first time that a few key things were missing from my press kit---among them, the glossy press photos and the artist’s biography.  I didn’t know if they’d slipped out of the folder in the confusion or if Peter had deliberately taken them out when he’d had possession of the press kit. Probably the latter. It fit his overall pattern.

Oh well. Screw him. He’d thoroughly ruined my evening----and from the looks of things, everyone else’s too.  But I still had to hand it to him. It wasn’t often that a college student reporter stumbled upon a scoop as big as this.

Dusk was settling as I stepped out onto the pavement. I parked myself under a streetlamp so I could get a better view of my iPhone screen. I scrolled through my list of personal contacts, silently offering a prayer of thanks that I’d been paying attention when a staffer from the
Plain Dealer
showed up to one of my journalism lectures last winter to talk about how citizen reporters could call in scoops to the city desk, and maybe even cover them on the ground for pay if we were savvy enough. I’d taken down the number that day never once thinking such an opportunity would arise----but boy howdy, one definitely had.  I highlighted the number and pressed TALK.

Someone picked up on the first ring. “City Desk,
Plain Dealer
.”

“Um, hi. This is Nancy Delaney, freelance reporter,” I knew I had to make myself sound as official as possible
from the get-go or they’d just hang up on me before I got a single word out. “I have a scoop I’d like to phone in. Flaming River Gallery Shut Down for Public Indecency, end headline.”

There was a noticeable pause on the line. The editor on call cleared his throat. “So are you phoning in copy, then?”

A slow smile spread across my face. “Yes, I am. Are you recording or taking it down?”

“We’re recording. Start whenever you’re ready, Ms. Delaney
, and include punctuation. You use the usual spelling for your first and last names? For the byline.” 

“Yes, just like it sounds.” I flipped open my reporter’s notebook and started dictating a story, half from my written notes, half from memory. I silently thanked my high school guidance counselor for convincing me to take shorthand, too----it was the only way I could have gotten down all the na
mes and personal details down from all my interview sources so quickly.

I rattled off my story, feeling butterflies rise in my stomach as I did so.  Of course I’d been trained on how to phone in copy during my journalism classes, but never thought I’d
actually get to use that skill in this day and age. My heart raced as I gave each point and detail, and I could have sworn I heard the editor’s jaw hit the receiver when I relayed the little nugget of the models fucking in public----using family-friendly copy, of course. “As of this reporting, the gallery remains closed,” I said, finishing off the kicker line.

The editor thanked me for the copy. “We’ll get this into tomorrow morning’s print edition, and put an abbreviated version up on the website overnight.  Good scoop, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I could barely contain my excitement. “Um, by the way, this is my first time contributing to the
Plain Dealer
, so I would need to, um---“

“Set up a payment account?” the editor finished for me. “I’ll transfer you down to Accounts Payable, they can take care of that. Freelance rate for hard news exclusives
this hot is a dollar a word, by the way. And I think this piece’ll go in almost exactly as you wrote it. No cuts.  Nice work.”