The Art of Control (24 page)

Reaching behind my neck, I unclasp the collar slowly, wanting to prolong its warmth around my neck. When I remove it, a cool chill s
ettles on my skin where the soft leather resided for so long. Trying to stifle my sobs, I gasp out and choke on my tears as I hand it to Sawyer.

“
Please give this back to Mr. Young.” 

Unable to face Sawyer,
I pull the covers over my face. It’s time to float away for awhile, to retreat to my mental hiding place where it’s warm, safe and dark, and where Dylan still loves me.

“Isabel, I can’t stand seeing you like this. I’m calling Sonya to come stay with you.”

Closing my eyes, Sawyer’s voice recedes and Dylan’s voice fills my heart and ears…
I love you, pussycat.

A loud knock on the door brings me
back to reality. The sun is completely set now and the room is darkened. It must be Sonya. I’m glad she came. I need someone,
anyone,
to make me feel whole again.

***

Sawyer

Exiting the elevator to Young’s home office, I take a few moments to gather my senses, trying to push the heartbreaking
image of a completely broken Isabel out of my mind. Entering the office, Young is facing away from me. He’s seated in his office chair and looking out the window. His clothes are still damp from the rain and his hair is a wet mess.

“Did you go to
see Isabel like I asked?” he asks.

“Yes,
I got what you asked for.”

I throw
the envelope with the annulment papers on his desk and when he turns around, the look on his face is disturbing.  His face is blanched, his eyes are bloodshot and puffy and it’s obvious that he’s been crying.
Fuck
. I’ve never seen him look so badly. If I weren’t so annoyed with him, I might try to offer some comforting words.

“She
signed them?” he asks, shaken.

“What the fuck did you expect after what you told her?”

The color in Young’s face quickly comes back with my remark and he looks incensed.

“Did you really tell her she wasn’
t worth the effort?” I ask trying to hold my temper.

“Yes. I
t was the only way I knew how to hurt her after what she did to me.”

“A
fter everything her father has done and said to her, I should kick your ass for having said that to Isabel. I would, too, but I can see that you’ve already punished yourself more than I ever could. Come to think of it, I should lay you out for having filed for those damned papers in the first place. What the hell were you thinking?”

“
I was thinking about what a selfish bitch Isa was for leaving me. Why shouldn’t I have filed for an annulment? What other choice did I have? I was lying in the hospital and when I needed her the most, she fucking left me. And why? Because she’s afraid to be alone and of losing me like she lost her mother. What about me? I lost my parents too and I would
never
have left her side. I was alone, God damn it, and the woman who supposedly loves me, the woman I devoted my life to, was too selfish to get past her own fears. She made a promise on our wedding day not to ever leave me and she fucking left me. I own her and
she left me
!” Dylan yells at me.

“
We’ve already been through that. You don’t
own
anyone. Isabel isn’t a piece of property, you dumbass. And I was at your wedding, remember? I know damn well what she promised you. As I recall, you promised that you would never let anything or anyone come between the two of you,” I snap at him.

Young looks me up and down
and I ready myself for a fist fight.

“
I already told you once, Isa
is
my property and I
do
own her. I won’t say it again,” he scowls with gritted teeth.

“Good, because I don’t want to hear
that bullshit again,” I snap back.

His eyes narrow down to slits and he sits forward, ready to lunge at
me, “And who the fuck are you calling a dumbass? I didn’t let anything come between us,” he answers defensively.

“Except
for your fucking pride. Did it ever occur to you that maybe,
just maybe
, she didn’t have a choice?” I’m trying to remain apathetic, but talking to Young right now is like dealing with an unreasonable, petulant toddler.

“Isabel is a grown woman, o
f course she had a choice and she
chose
to leave me,” he pouts.

I can’t control myself anymore. Young’s stubbornness has aggravated me to the point of no return. “You’re a damned fool if you think Isabel left you of her own volition, you know that? A
God damned fool,” I say gruffly, barely containing my rage.

Young looks affronted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you use that over-sized brain of yours and figure it out, genius.”

Young
clenches his jaw and looks as if he wants to punch me in the mouth, but he remains seated. I roll my eyes at him when he doesn’t take the hint.

“Isabel told me something that got me thinking. I checked her phone records and her father called her
the same day she left you.”

T
he light bulb goes on over his head and the gears start turning. His face flushes red and he slams his fisted hand onto his desk.

“What
exactly did Isa tell you?”

“She told me with her out of your l
ife now, you would be safe.”

“Jesus Christ. Why di
dn’t she just tell me?” Young shrieks. His temperature is rising and I know this heated look. He stands and fists both his hands at his sides.

“Maybe because she thought she was doing the right thing, you stubborn ass.
Maybe
because she thought it was the only way to keep you alive. Here, she told me to give this to you.” 

I pull out the collar-looking necklace and throw it at him and he catches it. He immediately sinks into his
chair and lets out the most pathetic sob I’ve ever heard come from a grown man and my annoyance with him rapidly dissipates.

In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him cry.
Young is by far the strongest man I know. Yes, he’s stubborn beyond reason most of the time and immature quite frequently, but he never falters or wavers in his dominance. I’ve seen strong men beg for their lives more often than I care to think about and was never affected. But seeing this man who is like a brother to me weep like this rips at something deep inside of me.

A memory of a
20-year-old Dylan flashes in my mind. I remember how indifferent and mature he tried to act, but even then, I knew he was just a boy hiding behind the façade of a man’s shell. He was bright as a whip and cocky beyond reproach, but still, he was
just a boy
. I have to remind myself that Young grew up during his most vulnerable years, alone and harboring whatever secrets that were eating away at him. His biggest fear is to be alone; I can see that very clearly now.

He puts his head in his hands and whispers, “What the fuck have I done?”

I kneel in front of him and grab him squarely by his shoulders.

“What’s done is done. Isabel loves you. Now let’s go get her
and find out what her father has done.”

Young looks up at me and
hastily pulls himself together. He glances down at the necklace again, running his thumb across the clasp and nodding in agreement.

“Yes, l
et’s go get my pussycat,” he says quietly.

While Young gets his coat and wallet, I inform him that I sent Sonya over to the hotel to try and console Isabel as she was damn near
close to a complete breakdown when I left. Again, he looks distressed and I wished I had kept my loud mouth shut about that little bit of information.

I speed dial Sonya’s
number only to find out that Isabel wasn’t at the hotel when Sonya arrived.
Shit
. I have to relay this information to Young and face his wrath and furious outburst. Hanging up, I think about how to say it without Young going ballistic.

There’s no other way of putting it so I guess being blunt is the
only way to go. “Isabel is gone,” I say just as we reach the Rover.

Young halts in his tracks and looks nothing like I thought he would. He’
s not angry at all; he’s bewildered.

“What do you mean?” he asks with wide eyes.

“Sonya said Isabel was already gone when she arrived at the hotel,” I tell him, expecting the worst.

Young stands motionless before me.
What the hell am I supposed to do now
? His mouth parts as if to say something, but nothing comes out and he shakes his head, looking me up and down, waiting for me to tell him what to do.  Shit, he’s the boss; he’s supposed to tell me what to do.  It’s as if he’s forgotten his place. Fuck it. I guess I’m in charge for now.

“Okay then. So we find out where she went.
Let’s go back inside and start tracking her phone and bank cards.
Right
?” I state, hoping Young will chime in and take the lead.

He gapes at me and simply nods in agreement.

When we get back inside, Young digs the necklace out of his pocket and slumps in his office chair again, silently staring at the collar.

“Snap out of it, Young,” I say
forcefully, exasperated with him. “Do you want your wife back or not?”

He whip
s his head up and glares at me, obviously irritated with my statement.
Good
. He needs to be irritated, and pissed, and infuriated - just like the Young I know. He needs to stop pouting and take charge, God damn it.

“Damn straight I want my wife back,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Then stop sulking. She can’t have gotten too far.”

Young momentarily finds his balls and starts frantically tracing all of Isabel’s bank cards and phone. To
both our disgust, we’re unable to find anything. I call the hotel where she was staying only to be informed that she left without being noticed and that all of her belongings were left behind. We spend hours searching and calling every hotel, cab company and airline hoping to find something -
anything,
but it’s as if she simply disappeared. Four hours pass by when Sonya shows up with a late night dinner for us.

She’s a sight for sore eyes. Her long dark hair is pulled into a side braid and it makes my
dick throb. She’s a beauty. She moves elegantly as she makes Young and I coffee.  Her kindness shows when she pulls Young aside to whisper words of consolation to him. I can’t help but think of Isabel when I look at her right now, only because if it weren’t for Isabel’s good sense, I never would’ve met Sonya. I watch them, as Sonya runs her hand over Young’s back and I feel a pang of jealousy. Her hands belong on me and
only
me. It’s a silly primal response, but it can’t be helped. I look away, not wanting to feel anything but sympathy for Young. I walk towards the large picturesque window and gaze out at the hard rain coming down over the Denver cityscape. I’m deep in thought when I feel Sonya’s hands on my back.

“Are you okay, Sawyer?” she asks, leaning into my ear and kissing me gently.

“Yes, thank you for asking. I’m worried about Isabel,” I tell her.

Sonya doesn’t flinch; she’s not the jealous type and I’m grateful for it. It makes life less complicated and dramatic. I have enou
gh drama dealing with Isabel and Young; I don’t need any extra in my private life.

“I k
now you are and so am I. That poor thing, I hope she’s okay. Oh, Sawyer. Dylan is beside himself. You should talk to him. He needs you right now.”

“
I know. I just don’t know what to say to him. I’m still pissed at him for the things he said to Isabel.”

“Don’t be too angry with him. People do and say horrible things when they’re angry.”

Sonya is proving to be my better half and my voice of reason. It both comforts and frightens me how much I’ve grown to love this woman.

We both look over to where Young is standing in the kitchen and he’s furiously typing on his phone, still trying to locate Isabel.
It’s going to be a long night.

Dylan

“
Whiskey scotch and just bring the bottle,” I grumble to the bartender.

He looks me over
strangely but finally does as he’s told. He brings the bottle and pours my first shot and I down it quickly, forcing myself to concentrate on the here and now. It’s been six weeks without Isa, not including the three before she left me: Nine tormented weeks in total. The days that have passed are hazy in my memory, everything blending together and I don’t even know day from night anymore. It seems like I’ve been in perpetual darkness and the sun hasn’t shown since we left Paris.
Paris.
We never should’ve left. I should have bought that condo on the moon like Isa asked. 

The reporters, the camera flashes,
and the requests for interviews… my life has become one unbearable day after another. The maddening after effects of not being able to locate Isa despite having my best men on the case are taking their toll on my psyche.

Six
shots later, my blood starts humming with a dull energy. The alcohol is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.

“Are you Dylan Young?” a
female voice asks.

Turni
ng my stool, I come eye-to-eye with a wide-eyed, dish-water blonde who looks far too young to be in an establishment like this and much too immature to be interested in me. I nod
yes
and she seats herself next to me.
Not this again.
I turn away from her, not wanting to play the ‘
let’s see if I can get laid’
game, but it doesn’t deter the eager girl.

“I’
ve read about everything that’s happened to you. It’s so crazy. Are you really into that sort of…
stuff
?” she asks, referring to my sexual preferences I can only assume.

I gulp down another two
shots and decide to play with the nosey little tart.

Facing
her, I respond, “Yes, I am. Are you?”

I arch a suggestive eyebrow at her and h
er look of enthusiasm changes to apprehension.

“Well, um, I’m not really sure…”
she says coyly.

“You’re not sure? Either you like being whipped and fucked hard or you don’
t. So… do you or don’t you?”

Her mouth gapes open to my lewd question and she sits silently stunned
, her nervous eyes scanning my face.
I’m such a shit
. Out of habit, I reach down and touch my left wrist, tracing the letters engraved into my flesh. I look to my other wrist and run my finger over Isa’s name recently tattooed and still fresh and sore.

“Listen
, it makes no difference to me if you do or not because I’m not interested,” I state bluntly and looking directly into her timid eyes, and she quickly retreats.

Yes, I’m an asshole
to the n
th
degree.

I don’t think you’re an asshole. I think you’re determined and used to getting your way, that’s all
.

Smiling at the thought of Isa’s words,
I touch her journal in my jacket pocket and raise my shot glass in the air.
Here’s to finding my pussycat
I whisper, bringing the glass to my mouth. Just then a hand reaches over and pulls it from my grip. I swing my stool around ready to beat some ass when I’m faced with Sawyer.

“I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?” he
asks cantankerously.

“I’ll let you know when I’
ve had enough,” I snap back.

“Everyone is waiting for you.”

“I’m not going. I told you this was a bad idea and I’m not fucking going,” I grouse.

“God
damn it, stop pouting. You committed to this and people are counting on you. Now get your ass off that stool before I drag you out of here.”

I snort
laugh at the balls Sawyer’s recently grown. “You can try.”

“Do y
ou really want to go there, Young?”

I look into Sa
wyer’s narrowed eyes and I’m reminded of the time we spent together in Guam and the shit storm that ensued on our
fieldtrip
. That was the first time I ever saw Sawyer’s true killer nature. Fuck it. I don’t need my expensive dental work to go to waste so I sulk behind him to the car. The alcohol is starting to kick in and I’m mildly wobbly on my feet, but Sawyer promptly steadies me and helps me into the Rover.

“You have to stop this
shit. Your drinking is getting out of hand,” Sawyer grumbles.

“Seriously, Morrison, drop it. I don’t need
another
lecture from you. We all have our ways of dealing with things, this is mine. Now back the fuck off,” I growl.

Just then we arrive at the Cherry Canyon Gallery
. Fucking hell, I can’t do this. I can’t look at Isa’s paintings.
I can’t face them.

“Please, Sawyer
, don’t make me do this. Isn’t it enough that I donated Isa’s paintings? Do I really have to be here to see them sold, too?” I plead.

Sawyer’s hard eyes soften and he puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Isa would want this…”

“God damn it, I know what Isa would want, okay? You don’t need to
fucking remind me!” I yell and immediately feel like shit for being such a prick to Sawyer. “I’m sorry, Morrison.”

“I know you are. Now let’s go inside.”

He drags me out of the Rover practically kicking and screaming, but my tantrum promptly subsides and my Dom takes over when the cameras start flashing. When we reach the entrance, I’m met by the representative for the Abused Children’s Fund. She poses next to me, hanging onto my arm and smiling happily. We no sooner get inside and she starts thanking me profusely.

“Mr. Young, your charitable donations and the recognition you’ve brought t
o our organization are appreciated beyond words. From the very bottom of our hearts, we want to thank you for donating your wife’s paintings for the charity auction,” she gushes.

Yes, Isa would’ve wanted this.
God damn her father.
Everything has fallen to the wayside since her disappearance, including our pursuing the case against him. I guess he got what he wanted.

The night is a blur of publicity bullshit
. I pose for more photos than seems necessary and make my way around the room, avoiding Isa’s artwork. My head is spinning from the liquor and there are spots in my vision from the flashing cameras making my headache almost unbearable.

Making a wrong turn, I
come face-to-face with one of her images and damn near break down. I remember the day she painted it. Christ.
I can’t do this.
I turn on my heel and bolt to the other end of the gallery to catch my breath. I’m standing staring into space when I catch a glimpse of Isa out of the corner of my eye, standing outside the gallery and peering into the large front glass window.

Pushing
my way through the crowded room, I run out to the sidewalk looking around frantically. I just saw her. She was right fucking here.
My pussycat
... I jog up and down the street, searching for her but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Young!”
Sawyer catches up with me. “What the fuck are you doing?”’

“I just saw Isa, she was here. I just fucking saw her!”

Sawyer dutifully scans the street with me, but it’s a futile hunt. I look towards the bus stop bench and she’s sitting, searching through a large bag. I run over, Sawyer right behind me and I pull her into my arms, tears pricking the corners of my eyes, my heart beating madly and threatening to burst out of my chest. Abruptly, I’m slapped across the face and she jerks away from me.
Holy Christ.
The girl I’m holding on to is a petite blonde, but it’s not Isa. The poor woman looks frightened and Sawyer proceeds to apologize profusely, stating this was just a case of mistaken identity.

I’m paralyzed
with desolation and confusion. I could’ve sworn it was Isa.

“Take me home, Sawyer,” I almost cry, trying to suppress
my mental breakdown.

“Yes, Dylan, l
et’s go home.”

I just want my pussycat back
…

***

Sawyer

S
topping off at Moreno’s Pub after a long workday, I allow Young to get plastered one last time in an effort to try and make him forget that Isabel’s birthday is tomorrow, though I know deep down it’s a fruitless effort. After his near breakdown last week after the gallery auction, I’ve decided tonight will be his last hoorah for partying. I’m done with this shit. I’m putting my foot down and he’s getting help.

After scanning my phone to make sure I still have Maggie’s number, I attempt to drag his drunken ass out and into the Rover, but he’s not having it. He’s mumbling perverted things and laughing raunchily at his own lame jokes, stumbling around the bar while women throw themselves at him. He rebuffs them, but not before teasing them and making them think they have a chance. He’s become an embarrassment to himself, but no one here seems to give a shit. Everybody in the bar thinks he’s the life of the par
ty as he buys round after round of drinks on the house for everyone. I let him enjoy himself, but know full well how the night will end.

Nearing midnight, I’ve had my fill of
watching strangers take advantage of Young in his sloshed state and I drag him out by his ear and toss him into the Rover, loading myself into the front seat.

“Where’s my pussycat, God damn it?” he slurs. “She needs a good spanking. Where is she? Tell her t
o get her back ass here and present herself for punishment.”

His jumbled words
don’t amuse me. I’m not sure the extent of the kinky shit he and Isabel were into, but his reference to punishing her doesn’t sit well with me either.

“Morrison, why aren’t you listening to me? I want my pussycat! She’s a naughty little thing, did you know that? She likes to be whipped and I’m just the bad ass Dom to give it to her. Yeah, you heard me…
I’m a motherfuckin’ bad ass. But, Isa…” his voice lowers and cracks, “she’s one helluva Mistress. Hot damn that woman can wield a bullwhip like no one I’ve ever seen. My precious angel will be 26 tomorrow…”

Here we go.
This is how the night ends up every time he’s had too much tequila or Irish scotch. He’s a sloppy drunk and it’s not a pretty sight.

He sniffs and it begins. “Where’s my
pussycat, Morrison? I need her…Where’s her collar?” he asks frantically, searching his pockets and bouncing around in the backseat searching everywhere.

“Calm down, I have it,” I reassure him.

“You calm your tits! Now give it to me!” he howls, reaching over the seat and practically beating me senseless trying to get it out of my hands. Raul swerves trying to avoid Young’s punches and I push Young back into the seat, handing him the collar.

Seeing the necklace, his belligerence immediately ceases and he sinks further into the backseat and caresses it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.

“It still smells like her,” he cries.

I’ll never get used to seeing Young like this.
What the hell did this woman do to him and where the fuck is she?

***

Isabel

It’s been fifty eight days since Dylan walked out, leaving me naked and cold, and
unbearably alone. The hot sun is beating down onto my back, the warm summer breeze blowing through my overgrown and mangled tangle of curls as I bask in the sun, trying to forget everything and how much I desperately yearn for my Master’s touch. Watching the people pass by, I’m almost inspired to paint –
almost.
I miss the feeling of the brush in my hand and the slick paint gliding across the canvas. I’ll never paint again and my heart aches at the thought. Nothing and no one will ever inspire me the way Dylan did.

The air is dry and the dust blows across my skin, leaving me feeling dir
ty. I miss Denver in the summer - the cool mornings, the beautiful hues on the horizon, the clouds drifting past the Rockies.
God, I hate this place.
Why would anyone choose to live in Chilé? Antofagasta has become my prison with its mildly exotic seaside scenery and desert backdrop. My father chose my place of banishment well. Leave it to that vindictive bastard to find a place so far off the map of civilization that no one would ever find me.

Another birthday is upon me
. I’ve dreaded this day for weeks and here I sit, painfully lonesome and isolated in a country whose language still feels foreign on my lips. Deciding that I’ve waited long enough, I dig my phone out and power it on for the first time since arriving here. I pray there’s enough power left to allow me one last glimpse of my former husband. I take a deep breath and pull up the images of Dylan and me in Paris. When the magnificent image of Dylan’s painted and bound body comes into view, a sob escapes my throat and tears burst forth, the crippling pain of not being with my Master as fresh as if it just happened yesterday. When I see his birthday picture and the heartfelt smile on his face, my body shudders uncontrollably from the pain of not having him anymore.
Holy
angst, I miss him so much
. The anguish is indescribable and I feel it in every part of my body. My vision becomes blurred and another pitiful whimper escapes me.
He’s safe now without me.