Hard

  “Hi. How are you this evening?” she asks.

  This is the same generic greeting I’m met with every time I come here.

  I nod tightly, not bothering with empty formalities.

  “What can I get you?” Holland’s eyes look right through me as she waits for my reply. I wonder what’s behind that dead gaze of hers. How much are we alike, her and I? And then, as an after thought, I consider how her eyes might change when she comes. When her orgasm has her at the verge of euphoria—that moment when, no matter how tightly controlled someone is, they all eventually let go.

  That moment when her body becomes all nerves and sensations, consumed with pure and utter bliss.

  I want to witness that.

  I need to witness that.

  I have to capture that.

  “Whiskey Sour,” I say. My words are curt, bordering on rude, because I’ve ordered the exact same drink for the last three months. Regardless of this fact, I am just another customer. A faceless patron she serves with that mild, false smile that has become routine. She flashes it now as she turns to go make my drink. My gaze flicks down to her round ass as she walks away. I imagine what her face will look like when I get my hands on her. When I sink my incisors into that supple flesh.

  It’s painful to consider. Agonizingly so. I want to follow her behind the bar, lift her skirt in front of all these people and plunge deep inside of her. The thought has my balls tightening. But knowing I can’t causes an ache in my gut. All in time. And until then, I will enjoy the sight in front of me.

  Beauty is for the eyes. And she is a sight for these sore eyes.

  Holland goes right to work, mixing my cocktail. Always efficient. Always the good employee. She drops the cherry in and places a straw into the glass, never once looking away from her task. Even as she brings it to me, her eyes never shift my way.

  She reaches across the table, setting my glass down, and I grasp her wrist around the cuff of her sleeve. My thumb overlaps my long fingers and I wonder how good her delicate arms will look tied to my bed. Yes. I need to experience that.

  Her eyes snap up to finally meet mine. I find it interesting that though I’m squeezing her arm, her pulse remains steady beneath my grip, and her gaze shows no sign of fear or anger. Though it should. It definitely should. I am not a nice man.

  This woman is a robot. A highly educated, well-mannered, nearly perfect, cold, emotionless machine. Maybe that’s what sparks my need further and fuels my next move.

  “When do you get off work, Holland?” If she’s surprised by my question or use of her name, she hides it well. Even more fascinating, she answers me immediately, without hesitation.

  “Two o’clock.”

  Still holding her wrist, I quickly check my watch. Two is not good. It’s too late. Too dark. I don’t like to drive at night. But I’ll make it work. I tug on her arm, pulling her closer.

  “I’d like to take you somewhere.” I don’t present it as a question. Though she has a choice—because I always give them a choice—I state it in such a way that makes it clear I won’t be taking no for an answer.

  The light clinking of glass reminds me we’re still in a public place. I release her arm, but she doesn’t step back to a safe distance. It’s this lack of self-preservation that has me fixated on this woman.

  So undeniably damaged to perfection.

  “Where?” she asks.

  “Does it matter?” I lean on my elbows, inclining toward her. It doesn’t matter to her. I know it doesn’t. I could tell her I want to take her into the woods to sacrifice her body to the devil and I don’t think she’d bat an eyelash.

  Her small shoulders lift in a shrug, her head shifting from side to side, and my dick twitches with yearning. She has no inkling what she’s just signed on for.

  I am contradiction in its most basic form. There’s nothing I love more than a compliant, pliable woman.

  Easy.

  Submissive.

  Willing.

  And at the same time, she’s a puzzle that needs solving. A challenge. An enigma.

  “Two o’clock,” I confirm. “And don’t change.”

  She looks down at her white blouse and black pencil skirt, running her fingers over her stomach. “You want me to keep my uniform on?”

  Yes. Yes I do. For now.

  I nod dismissively. Inside, I’m elated, already envisioning the night.

  2

  Holland

  This man has a nice ride. I inhale the new car smell and rest my back into the soft, leather seat as we pull away from The Pub. It’s silent outside of the smooth hum of the engine. I have nothing I want to say, so I remain quiet. Most other women would probably have questions. Like, for starters, who is this man? And what does he want with me?

  Or maybe they would want to know what he does for a living. Where he lives. What his hobbies or interests are.

  Or perhaps they would be concerned about getting into a car with a man they just met. Driving off into the night without having told a soul. No plan, no direction, no idea where he’s taking them.

  I’m not like most other woman, though. I rest my forehead to the cool window and watch the blurring lines on the road. My only thought is of him. Not the man beside me. But of the precious little boy with chubby legs and the bluest of blue eyes. And I think of how much I miss him. How every fiber of my being aches for his baby powder scent or the silky soft texture of his skin. I would do anything, anything to hear his high-pitched laughter. Anything to listen to his babble.

  I press my fingertips into my palms, letting my nails dig into the flesh there. What good are a mother’s hands if they can no longer hold her child?

  Useless.

  Completely worthless. Just meat on the end of pointless limbs.

  My eyes fall closed and I allow the memory of his face to consume me. This is the only time I experience something close to emotion. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Usually this is the moment I’m reminded part of my heart is definitely inside my chest because I feel it shatter all over again.

  I’ve been told there are five stages of grief.

  Just five.

  Then you’re fine. You move on. Live your life. Everything goes back to normal.

  I must be doing something wrong because I seem to be repeating them over and over again. I’m on a wheel of misery, running as hard as I can and getting no closer to my end goal.

  Acceptance.

  The fifth and final stage. That magical place where everything is suddenly, miraculously better.

  Where I stop denying reality.

  Where I am no longer angry with God and fate and everything in-between.

  Yes, I must be doing something terribly, terribly wrong.

  It’s hard to believe my life was completely normal less than three years ago. I was normal. Happy.

  Three years was a lifetime ago.

  “I’m Jensen,” the man says, breaking the silence and invading my thoughts. I shift my head, my gaze falling on his dark eyes, noticing he’s now wearing glasses. Ah, there’s another question most women would have asked from the beginning. His name.

  “Pain,” he adds.

  “What?” I ask, caught off guard by this one word. Was that a question? Is he asking me if I’m in pain? Because yes—God, yes—I am in the most excruciating pain a person could ever feel. Emotionally and mentally. How can he tell? I thought I’ve hidden it well.

  “My name,” he states slowly, “is Jensen Payne.”

  I return my attention to the window. That doesn’t sound real, but I don’t bother to call him on it. Maybe it’s a pseudonym. Or an alias he uses to keep his work life separate from his night life. Either way, I don’t care.

  “Holland Howard. Nice to meet you.”

  Jensen makes a sound, something throaty and almost affronted. “I’m sure the trees are pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  When I glance back at him, the ghost of a smile remains on his full lips and I realize he’s trying to tease
me. Most women would smile back or counter with a cute quip.

  I’m not most women.

  When you no longer care if you live or die, life becomes surprisingly…simple.

  Simple in the way I no longer hurry. When you stop giving a shit, time is meaningless.

  Simple in the way money has relinquished its hold of me, of my life. I stopped dreaming a long time ago, so I have no more use for the dream home full of expensive things.

  Simple in the way I don’t worry about the outfit I choose or the style of my hair—ironic, really, since I spent so many years focused on it. But when you can’t find it inside yourself to care about anything, what other people think has no effect on you whatsoever.

  Everything I have ever cared about has been ripped out of my hands. Ripped, shredded, and destroyed. And so I wait. I continue the useless cycle. I get up every morning, go through the motions until my day is done, and I wait for the moment when I don’t wake up. When I no longer have to pretend I’m living. When my suffering finally ends.

  Some days, I open my eyes and burst into tears because I’m still here.

  Others I am resolute.

  Mostly, I am in agony so blinding, I think I’ve begun to numb. It just doesn’t stop. It never goes away. It never leaves me.

  I don’t choose to be this way. Just as I did not choose this loss. I guess, sometimes I wish I knew how to make myself whole again. But how can I be whole when half of my heart is missing?

  Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get it back. At least pieces of it.

  Sometimes I know the truth—I know I never will.

  I huddle back into position and snap my eyes closed, summoning the image of my child once again. My precious baby boy. Back when he was happy and healthy. Back to when he was still mine.

  3

  Jensen

  Holland follows me inside my home, eyes sliding indifferently over my belongings. As if they are just things and not works of art. She says nothing as she takes step after step, not stopping until she comes to the sofa. She pivots on her heels, turning to face me. Unimpressed and waiting.

  “Would you like a drink?” I offer.

  “No. Thank you.” Her brows lift in a silent question. She wants to get right down to it, which I normally appreciate. But I am the one in control here. I say how this happens. How this happens and when.

  I move around the chair, taking a seat. My hands curl around the plush arms as I openly examine her at my leisure.

  Holland’s fiery hair is up in a clip, not giving away its length. I’ve seen it down a few times before and know it reaches mid-back. I know it is thick and shiny, sexy, and I want to see it now.

  “Remove the clip from your hair.”

  I see the flash of confusion swim across her features before her hand flits up, effortlessly freeing her long locks. They spill across her shoulders like tendrils of silk.

  My hands ache for my camera as I gaze steadily back at her. I let my eyes rake slowly from her head to her feet, repeatedly. Women typically have one of three reactions to my fervent perusal. They either want to slap me, fuck me, or run from me.

  I don’t strike anger, or lust, or fear into Holland as she continues to stand before me. She’s so goddamn perfect.

  Picture perfect.

  I know already, tonight is going to be so much fun.

  “May I photograph you?” My fingernails sink into the softness of the chair. I’m a man who wants often, but I can’t recall ever desiring something this badly before. I’m also accustomed to getting my way. Always.

  Holland’s brows crinkle this time, her confusion displayed openly across her face. “You want to take pictures? Of me?”

  I nod, the movement stiff in my attempt to conceal how greatly I want this. I never let anyone know how much I crave something from them. I never hand over power in such a careless manner. Control is meant to be held, preserved, coveted—or else it loses its meaning. I never give it away.

  “Why?”

  A gradual smirk forms on my lips. Why? That is my favorite question.

  “I love museums,” I say, rising out of my seat. “My home is full of artwork,” I continue as I make my way around the room, stopping just long enough to ensure she follows. And she does, obediently, heels clicking along the hardwood flooring and hands relaxed at her sides as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  That will change shortly.

  I open a door, inviting her to look inside. “I have a library full of books. Some I read. Some I look at. All were purchased because I liked the way they look.” Holland surveys the room quickly, and then we’re moving on.

  “I like to look at beautiful things. From a fallen leaf, to the sun rising over the ocean, to a rose in full bloom.” I pause, shifting my full attention to Holland. “To the curve of a woman’s back.” My gaze moves over her form meaningfully. “If there is beauty in it, I will find it. Then I will take it and I will keep it.”

  Right here is where I’m used to being bombarded with questions or am forced to ask a woman to leave after suffering a long-winded rant. Some people understand—or at least think they do. Most don’t even try.

  I get nothing from Holland. Not a single inquiry. Not a single lecture. Not even a questioning or loathing glance.

  “There’s a name for people like me, why I am the way I am,” I go on. “Though most people have never heard of it.

  “Scopophilia.”

  We arrive to the studio door and I place my hand on the knob, but I don’t turn it. Not yet. What I am about to show her changes everything from here on out.

  “In its most basic definition, Scopophilia is the love of looking.” I lean in, just close enough to feel the heat of her body and smell the scent of her skin.

  “I find pleasure in staring at beauty,” I rasp.

  “I admit this borders on obsession. I can also admit I have no intentions of changing. As long as I can see, I will soak up as much splendor as I can.” With that, I push the door open, exposing everything I am to this woman.

  She steps inside and does a slow rotation, taking it all in. I hang back, watching her. Waiting for her reaction.

  “So many people are ignorant to the brilliance surrounding them,” I explain. “They step over it, around it, through it. Unseeing and visionless. Blind to how much there is to see. To appreciate.”

  The woman before me is no different from everyone else—she’s been blind for a long time. I knew this from the moment I saw her. What makes her unique and interesting to me is the loveliness of her sadness. The sweet darkness of her defeat.

  Most people throw away broken objects, discarding them like trash. As if they are somehow less important, less perfect, less beautiful. I frame them. Stare at them for hours. Enjoy their striking flawlessness.

  Holland is wall-worthy. And I want her to understand it.

  “All of these women,” she utters softly, slowly. Her fingers come up, caressing a photo gingerly. “They all resemble each other.” She faces me, our gazes connecting and locking. “They all resemble me.”

  4

  Holland

  “You took these?” I ask.

  Several seconds pass silently. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “Yes. These are all mine.”

  Photo after photo aligns three of the four walls. Landscapes. Odd objects. Portraits. Abstract. Surreal. Candid. Close up. Far away. Color. Black and white. Blurred. Focused. On and on and on.

  And then there are the women. Never the same woman twice. Women smiling. Women crying. All nude. All red-haired. Women in sexual positions. In the midst of ecstasy. Bound. Gagged. Blindfolded. They’re all different, yet all the same.

  And every single one of them looks like me.

  Something flutters inside my stomach—something small and unfamiliar. Something similar to nerves or excitement or fear. It’s been so long, I can’t quite identify it. But it’s been so long, I welcome it, whatever it is.

  I can’t stare at any one picture for too long
, but I can’t seem to stop looking at them. I drift from one photo to the next.

  There’s an image of a woman, taken from behind, her skin pale and lightly freckled. Her arms are secured with what appears to be leather cuffs. Hands resting gracefully on the curve of her ass. I can’t see her face, so I cannot be certain, but the way her back arches, pushing her forward, I get the feeling she’s leaning toward someone. Looking for someone. Wanting someone. The photographer is behind her, so I wonder who or what she’s inclining toward. Then I see it; in the upper left corner is the rounded frame of a mirror. So subtle, as if it’s almost a secret. It occurs to me the photographer must have actually been in front of her, his camera angled toward the mirror image of the woman. And I realize it’s the photographer—Jensen—the woman is searching for.

  My fingers brush over the secret frame before moving on.

  In another image, only part of a woman is visible in a side view. She’s on her knees, on the floor. Her long red hair lies down the center of her back. More leather cuffs bind her ankles to a thick black bar, holding her legs open behind her. The bottoms of her feet are facing upward, smudged with dirt. Her slender fingers clasp her ankles where her wrists are also bound, connected to the same bar as her legs. The way her body is slightly twisted, just as in the last photo, it’s like she’s searching for her savior. For the person behind the camera.

  I turn and examine him now. This man who takes such intimate and forbidden, stunning photos.

  Glasses now off, his dark eyes are steady on me, his body perfectly still, allowing my inspection. His skin is several shades darker than mine, as if he spends a lot of time outside, which I find odd seeing as how most of his work is obviously taken within the confines of this room. Nose a fine slope and perfectly straight. His jaw strong and dimpled. Neck thick and lightly shadowed with a day missed shaving.

  My eyes lower to his broad shoulders held stiffly. I expect his chest is firm beneath that crisp buttoned shirt. Waist narrow. Pants filled out nicely. I pause on his hands, rigid at his sides. Solid, capable hands. Fingers thick and rough. Artistic. A divergence from his immaculate dress. He’s pleasant to look at. I knew this before, but it hadn’t really registered until this moment.