Going to California

Chapter 8 – Pigments and Shocks

After I spent a couple of days pondering the situation, running all the scenarios and outcomes, I decided against going to Stan Edgar with my suspicions. If he already knew about what I suspected was wrong with Homelander, he would never divulge that information to me. Within Vought, information was power, not something to be shared unless it could magnify your own power. If he didn't know about the condition I suspected, something Homelander had no doubt gone to a lot of trouble to conceal from him would be betrayed, and I didn't want to betray him, despite everything that had happened between us before we'd come to our current arrangement of semi-trust.

Was it possible for me to figure out whether Homelander actually did have a split personality without asking him? That was the only reason I didn't cancel the Wednesday session that Dr. Roth was covering next week. It might be easier to talk to someone who didn't already know me, a stranger. Maybe I could talk about the fact that I had done a scene with Homelander. And, at that point, I would have done a second scene with him.

Friday morning he turned up at my office, right on time for lying on the sofa with me. I felt a little spurt of fear, but it was obviously the friendly Homelander who wanted me to dominate him, so the unease dissipated quickly. When we curled up together, my head on his chest as had become our usual, he asked, "When can we get around to planning our next scene?"

I laughed a little. "Right now, if you want. I was thinking Tuesday, since that's when we had our last scene."

"That works. Same time, too."

"Okay. And this time you want me to give you a blowjob."

"Yes." He said that with absolute certainty.

I couldn't help but grin. "Do you want the bed again or did you want a change of scenery?"

"Like what?" He was smiling as I looked up at him.

"Well, since we have the whole apartment to play in, I thought you might want to try a different room. If you don't, that's fine."

Homelander started to say something, then had a thought that stopped him. "Now that you mention it, I've had some fantasies about you that could work with a change of scenery, like you said."

"You have, huh? I'm flattered."

His hand slid along my back and sent a shiver through me. "For this one, maybe handcuffs would do. I was sort of thinking we could maybe use the rainshower, and you could handcuff me before you blow me?"

I noticed he seemed a little unsure of himself. "Sounds like fun," I told him, and he relaxed. "Is there anything else you want me to do for you?"

"I still want to suckle you. You can do whatever you want to me."

"With the exception of physical discipline, correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything specific you want me to wear? I forgot to ask last time, but if there's any jewelry or perfume you want, just let me know."

"You can wear whatever perfume you want. I may buy you something in the way of jewelry because I think you might look really sexy wearing some heavy, elaborate necklace and bracelets. And nothing else."

I nodded. "Okay. Just let me know before we start the scene and I'll wear it. Any preferences for clothes?"

Homelander thought about that for a while. "Something really buttoned-down and repressed-looking. Do you still have that outfit you wore the day we met Blindspot?"

"Yes. I didn't think you liked that outfit since you made me get an entire new work wardrobe after that."

"I don't, but it works for this occasion."

"Okay." I didn't let him know that I'd bought a bunch of clothes for work that I knew were unattractive because I'd gotten the sense from Madelyn that Homelander's sexual interest in her last assistant was the reason that assistant didn't work for her anymore. And the way I'd dressed did seem to work; he hadn't shown any interest in me until after Madelyn's death, sexual or otherwise. I wondered why he'd decided I was the best replacement for her. I didn't ask because I was concerned about the usual Homelander returning, and the unlikeliness of getting a truthful answer.

Roman's upcoming gallery showing occupied a large portion of my attention for the rest of the day and I had nothing else on the agenda when I woke up Saturday. Homelander had decided we'd have dinner at the Times Square Planet Vought before going to the showing. Since I expected Ryan to be pretty bored, I didn't want him being hungry on top of that.

The sky was iron-gray and a steady stream of sleet fell. Even though it was a summer dress, I pulled one of my favorites out from the right side of my closet. It was an A-line cut, short-sleeved with a V-neck, made of floaty chiffon, all different shades of blue and thin streams of gold that resembled lightning. When I'd bought it in college, it reminded me of a summer sky with a thunderstorm moving in. I wore Manolo Blahnik gold satin pumps with square crystal buckles over the toes and my usual black trenchcoat. The dress was a little casual for the setting, but I wasn't busting out a Vought dress for my father.

Homelander had requisitioned a company limousine to take us to the gallery, which might impress Roman if he saw it. I really didn't care whether he was impressed, though. Dinner at Planet Vought was fine, even if I didn't really care for the atmosphere, and the conversation stayed casual. I felt myself getting more keyed up as the limousine approached the Rappard Gallery, and Homelander squeezed my hand. "Everything's going to be fine," he said. "Ryan and I are here."

I smiled at him. "My two Sir Knights." He smiled and kept hold of my hand.

The gallery was three-quarters full of the art world movers and shakers, along with a fair share of New York glitterati. Homelander still beat out all of them in terms of fame, and I saw a number of women giving him the eye as we came in. He didn't seem to notice, although I felt sure he did. He noticed everything.

Roman came across the gallery. "Ashtree! I'm so glad you were able to make it." He took my wrists and placed a kiss on my cheek. "Will you introduce me to your two men?"

I laughed. "Of course. Roman, this is the Homelander and his son Ryan." I'd had a qualm or two over introducing him as Ryan Butcher, as that might cause questions, and decided to avoid the problem altogether. "Homelander, Ryan, this is my father, Roman Deranian."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Homelander said as they shook hands.

"And you as well. Of course I'm familiar with your career—native New Yorker and whatnot." He also shook hands with Ryan. "It's nice to meet you too."

A woman moved up behind Roman, a girl really, and my face froze in shock. I knew my father, how he was, and I didn't want to acknowledge the obvious conclusion that was this girl who couldn't be as old as twenty-five.

She was much taller than me, tall enough to be a model if she'd had a face the camera loved and a clotheshanger body, but the huge pregnant belly preceding her would ruin the line of any haute couture garment, including the expensive designer maternity evening gown she wore. She'd crapped out on the photogenic face too; I wouldn't call her homely as a mud fence, but she was no beauty, not even really pretty. Maybe, if she had the right personality, she could be cute. Her hair was cut in a straight Dutch-boy bob and dyed metallic platinum, and she wore heavy cat's-eye makeup and the dark lipstick that Homelander didn't like when I wore it.

Roman noticed her, put an arm around her waist and pulled her in, close to his side. "There you are, darling. I wanted to introduce you to my daughter and her beau. Ashley, this is Casey Pringle, my fiancée. Casey, this is my daughter Ashley Barrett, and the Homelander and his son Ryan."

With how numb my face felt, I didn't even try to fake a Duchenne smile, just lifted the corners of my mouth while the skin around my eyes remained smooth. "Very nice to meet you. Have you known Roman long?" I guessed six months at the very least, judging from the size of her belly.

She gave me what was probably her best smile. Never hurts to get on the good side of the current sole heir. Jesus, when this baby turned twenty-one, Roman would be ninety-six years old, if he even managed to hang on that long. "We met back in September, when Mr. Rappard put me in charge of Roman's retrospective."

So a little over six months, then. He didn't let the grass grow, that was for sure. "How nice. It's a big responsibility for someone your age." Roman looked uneasy, but it had been his call to break the news of his impending blessed event like this, so he had nobody but himself to blame for any fallout.

Casey chose to take this as a compliment, ignoring my plastered-on smile. Homelander had a slight frown, as he'd probably heard my vitals change. Ryan just looked confused. "Thank you. It's my first big showing."

Judging by your state of pregnancy, I'd call it your second, said a bitchy part of my mind. "Do you plan to keep working after the baby's born?"

"I thought I'd take at least a year off so Roman Junior doesn't get any attachment issues. I think it's best that way."

My face felt number than ever. "So it's a boy, then?"

Roman answered for her, his arm still protectively around her. I wondered if he'd ever displayed such tender concern toward my mother when she was pregnant with me. "Yes, we're thrilled about it."

"I'm sure." I almost asked him if he was deliberately trying to slap me in the face with this but controlled myself, the way I always did. "I'm very happy for the two of you. When's the wedding?"

"June, after the baby's born," my future stepmother who was probably ten years younger than me said. "Of course you'll be invited."

Good job letting me know that there'd been some question about that. "Naturally." Roman Junior—what a bourgeois name, putting the lie to all the free-spirited nonsense my parents had preached, but it fit Roman Senior's narcissism to a T.

Homelander touched my arm and I couldn't control a flinch. I'd forgotten he was there, and at the same time he touched me a flash went off in my face. Stupid—I'd known photographers would be present and any of them who had half an eye knew something had just gone down. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Deranian, there are some paintings I'd like to view. I don't know if you're aware that I'm an art collector?"

He smiled, now that the conversation had made its way through the war zone of his child fiancee's bulging belly. I hadn't made a scene, which he must have counted on, and I wanted to punch him in the face for this entire episode. "You do have a reputation for an excellent eye where art is concerned. Are there any particular paintings you were interested in?"

Roman got Homelander's publicity-photo smile. He could even fake the Duchenne crinkles around the eyes. "Not at the moment. I thought I'd just take a stroll around, since I'm not current on your work. Do you have any paintings of Ashley?"

"Well, the Ashtree series, of course, but I can't sell any of those. Her mother insisted I lock those up so Ashley will inherit them. But there are some individual pieces you might like."

"I think he might be interested in the Greenwich series. That's one with my mother and me," I told Homelander in an aside. Greenwich 3 was the one I had in mind, as it involved my mother breastfeeding me. Roman had been in his Dali stage at the time, so his combined surrealism and photorealism made for unsettling pictures. I wondered what Homelander would make of it.

"Excellent taste, Ashtree," said Roman. "I'll be glad to give you a tour." Since the expected knock-down-drag-out fight hadn't materialized and the prospect of a sale loomed, he was in a much more expansive mood.

Casey spoke up. "I'll go speak to the gallery director. He has some paintings that haven't been put on display. If the Homelander doesn't like anything on the walls, that is."

"Wonderful idea, darling," he said before kissing her on her carmine-lipsticked mouth. I pushed down the anger simmering inside me and took Ryan's hand as we trailed along behind the two men.

"Are you okay, Ashley?" Ryan kept his voice down so my father wouldn't hear. It was a foregone conclusion that Homelander was listening, even as he seemed to pay rapt attention to Roman's monologue.

"I'm fine, sweetie," I told him.

"No, you aren't. Your blood pressure's gone up since we got here and you smell angry."

"What does anger smell like?" Homelander had never told me that he could smell emotions.

"Hot, and sharp, kind of like it stings."

I lagged every further behind Roman and Homelander, who were now having an animated conversation about Dali's use of color. "Okay, Ryan, I am angry but it doesn't have anything to do with you. My father and I don't get along sometimes, but I have to be polite."

"Mom says we should always be polite."

"She's right. Don't worry about it. My father makes me mad every so often. It's normal." He didn't seem convinced, but he dropped the subject before we caught up to them.

"Kathryn, Ashley's mother, and I were living separately when I did the Greenwich series," Roman was explaining to Homelander when we joined them. "She lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, as the title indicates, and I lived here in New York. I didn't find her home artistically inspiring, so she took the train to the city every day for three months with the baby so I could finish Greenwich 3. It's the most important piece in the series." I'd heard the story before, but Roman seemed to be babbling a little. Was he nervous? Was he, possibly, even starstruck by the presence of the leader of the Seven? That gave me an inner chuckle.

We arrived in front of Greenwich 3 and Homelander let out a whistle. The picture was quite striking. Despite the title, its background was a baking desert vista in all shades of red and orange and gold, with two giant saguaro cacti in the foreground. My mother hung suspended from the cactus on the right, pierced through by multiple spines, her bare toes dangling above the golden sand, her face a mask of pain as her hand rested on me while I nursed, streams of creamy milk flowing over my face. I always liked the barely noticeable horns he'd put on my head. No ambivalence about fatherhood there, no sirree. He only seemed to have gotten over that with his little pregnant chickie. Multiple spines from the second saguaro pierced me as well.

"It's not for sale. I couldn't break up the series, but I wanted you to see it since Ashtree thought you'd be interested."

Homelander stared at the painting. Someone who didn't know him might think him deep in artistic contemplation, but I had knowledge of his kink and saw the darkening of his eyes and the way his mouth had opened slightly. Was he picturing himself as the baby? I didn't look down to see if his codpiece betrayed any…lower body enthusiasm. It gave me an idea for our upcoming scene that made me bite back a grin. His kink had to be dealt with, one way or another, and what I had in mind might get him past his reluctance to discuss it.

Before his attention became awkward, he turned away to face Roman. "It's a compelling piece. I would like to see some of your work that's for sale, though."

That was music to my father's ears, and Ryan and I tagged along as Homelander became the owner of three original Roman Deranians: one early still life featuring copper pennies, silver screws, and an old black Bakelite rotary phone, all the objects shining with their own inner light, a famous seascape of Puget Sound that was featured on the movie poster of an H.P. Lovecraft adaptation, and the last painting of me that I ever modeled for. It was titled Spiderwebbed, Ballet Shoes and depicted me at the age of sixteen, plastered to a gray cliff wall over a sheer drop into a pale blue spring sky. A mess of silver strands held me in place. I wore a black leotard and tights, while the tips of my pink ballet slippers peeked out beneath the edge of the cocoon.

Since Homelander had put so much cash in his pocket, Roman had started suggesting pieces that the supe might like. "Have you seen Ashtree 17? It's in the series that her mother locked up so I can't sell it, but it's arguably my best work." He'd painted it after I wasn't speaking to him.

Homelander grinned. "Lead the way!" He seemed to be enjoying himself quite a bit. The fact that everyone inside the gallery was looking at him and no doubt talking about him was sure to buoy him up. Only the fact that the attendees were blasé New Yorkers saved him from having to sign autographs.

Ryan's eyelids were drooping, so I whispered, only loud enough for his father to hear, "Ryan's tired. Can we call it a night?" He nodded the slightest bit, and then we were in front of Ashtree 17.

The painting always made me feel sick, as Roman had distilled every iota of my grief and rage in the wake of my mother's death and his essential abandonment of any duty he had to his only child in favor of his art. He'd painted me as a dryad, an ash tree spirit with bark for skin and long red leaves brushing the cracked concrete sidewalk where I grew. Fragments of shattered glass hurtled toward me from the Escher-style collapsing building in the background. I bent backward as though blown by a hurricane-force wind. My hands were gnarled branches, a ragged bloom of flame erupting from my mouth to meet the falling glass. My eyes were the only humanity in the piece. I turned my gaze away as subtly as I could. I didn't want to remember my life falling apart, the role he had played in that. I'd survived, I didn't need him anymore, and that was the important thing.

"This is the one they used for the retrospective poster, right?" Homelander smiled a little as he studied it. I hoped he didn't think it revealed anything about me.

Roman nodded. "My best-known work. Casey told me it was a no-brainer."

I had an impulse to make a most unkind remark about the fact that he was old enough to be his fiancee's grandfather but stifled it. I wanted to at least look like a polite person. I would be three decades older than my half-brother. Future Widow had better make damned sure he set up a trust for the baby or she'd wind up like my mother, with an uncertain job future dependent on his goodwill and a child clinging to her, needing to be fed. But I didn't expect this chickie to be any smarter than Mom.

"I appreciate the guided tour, along with the paintings I now own, but it looks like it's getting too late for my son and we need to get him home."

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Homelander. I believe you're the first of Ashtree's boyfriends that I've been allowed to meet." That obviously puffed up his ego, and I didn't mention that this was only because I hadn't been popular in high school and could count the number of dates I'd had then on the fingers of one hand. "I'll make your excuses to Casey."

"Thank you, Roman." I leaned forward for the obligatory cheek peck and then we were outside, into the limousine, and driving away. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Ryan cuddled up to my side and was asleep in seconds. I put an arm around him as Homelander asked, "Why does your father call you Ashtree?"

I shrugged. "Childhood nickname. When I was born, he wanted to name me Rowan. You know, Roman, Rowan, no junior since I was a girl. Mom had just finished reading the Mayfair Witches series and said no. I heard her exact words were, 'You'll bury me in the cold cold ground before you name my daughter after Anne Rice's Mary Sue.' Another name for a rowan tree is American mountain ash, so they compromised and I was Ashley. He got into the habit of using that nickname because it pissed her off."

"Why were you angry tonight?"

"Heard Ryan asking, huh?" He didn't even bother to nod. "I thought the invite maybe had to do with wanting to repair our relationship, get on a better father-daughter footing, but it was just to drop the pregnancy-slash-wedding news on me in a setting where he didn't think I'd make a scene by saying, for example, that he's nothing but a randy old goat who knocked up a girl who's young enough to be his fucking granddaughter and probably will die before his son is even old enough to have any memories of him."

"Ouch," he said. "Is it just that she's so young?"

"Nope. He just proved to me that Mom was right about something she used to throw in my face that I always told her she was wrong about. Turns out she knew him better than I did."

He didn't react to that. "What did she say to you?"

"That he would have married her if I'd been a boy." The memory of her face, twisted in fury as she blamed me for crushing all her hopes and dreams, intruded on my mind's-eye and I pushed it aside with an effort.

"Your father's an asshole if he puts more value on the baby than on you just because it's male."

I wanted to ask him if he would have been so hellbent on tracking down Becca Butcher if she'd given birth to a girl but restrained myself. I was irritated with Roman, not Homelander, and I didn't want to take my anger out on him. "Well, maybe. Did you actually like those paintings you bought or were you just buttering him up?"

"I like them. The one of you is my favorite, though."

"Good taste," I told him, and he grinned. "That was the last picture I modeled for."

"What about the tree picture?"

"He had photographs of me and painted from them. I didn't speak to him for years after Mom died."

Homelander must have picked up on my tone of voice because he changed the subject. "I didn't know you'd danced when you were younger."

"Prima ballerina with the New York City Ballet, that was my dream for years. But I injured my knee and Mom's insurance wouldn't cover the surgery, so here I am."

That troubled him. "But your father's rich. Why didn't he pay for it?"

I shrugged. "No clue. I don't even know if Mom asked. They may have been on one of their cold swings then."

'Do you still like ballet or is it too painful?"

I heard the uncertainly in his voice. "I get box seats for the ballet every season. It doesn't make me sad anymore."

"Then we'll go to the ballet sometime. What's your favorite ballet?"

"Coppelia, but not the modernized versions that they've done. Usually they turn Coppelia into an android or a robot. I prefer the original dancing doll."

"I'll keep an eye out for it."

When the limousine pulled up to my building, I eased Ryan away from me onto the seat without waking him and Homelander walked me into the building, got into the elevator with me, and accompanied me to my front door. "I had fun tonight, when my father wasn't blindsiding me with pregnant girlfriends."

"It'll put a damper on any evening," he agreed. "I'm glad you let me meet your father."

"You're welcome. You know you're totally in his cool book now since you dropped hella money on his paintings."

"That was the idea." He drew me toward him, into his arms. "Do I deserve a goodnight kiss?"

I pretended to consider it. "Well, I suppose," and started laughing when he didn't even let me finish before he was kissing me, his tongue in my mouth, and my arms had wrapped around him without me even noticing it.

"I'm looking forward to Tuesday."

"So am I." And he could tell by my vitals that I was telling the truth. I went to bed happy, despite the sneaky pregnant fiancée reveal.

Only to be awakened early on Sunday morning by my phone playing "Sex and Candy." I fumbled for it and managed to answer on the fourth ring. "Adam?"

"You bitch. You fucking bitch."

"Adam? What the hell is going on?" I tried to shake off sleep to deal with this new crisis.

"You said you weren't with him. You're a fucking liar."

I took the commanding tone with him that I used during our humiliation sessions. "Shut the fuck up and tell me what you're talking about."

He drew in a breath. "There's a picture of you with him at some gallery opening in the New York Times."

"Is that all?" I needed to do some fast, convincing lying. "He wanted to buy some of that artist's work but didn't want to go there alone. People might think he couldn't get a date. He also needed an unpaid sitter for his son, so I got drafted."

"Bullshit."

"No." I remembered the flash going off in my face and had an inspiration. "Do I look happy in that picture?"

"Well, no," he was forced to admit.

"That's because I wasn't. Watching Homelander and that puffed-up artist haggle over dabs of pigment on canvas is the most boring thing you could ever imagine. And all his son did was whine because he had to look at dumb old pictures and couldn't play his video games. I'd rather have a tooth drilled than repeat that evening."

A long silence stretched out as Adam considered my words. "Okay, yeah, that's reasonable."

Lucky that Adam wasn't a walking lie detector like last night's date. "Are you going to apologize for calling me a liar and a bitch?"

"Will you punish me if I don't?" I heard the note in his voice and knew I was in the clear.

"You bet your stupid ass. You could use a heaping helping of discipline."

Adam laughed. "Are you still coming out this weekend?"

"Just like we planned, as usual."

"Okay." He sighed. "I'm sorry I accused you, Ashley. I know how frightened you are of him. I should have known without asking that he was forcing you. I don't want to be that kind of boyfriend who controls your every move."

"You're not. You were just surprised. I should have called you last night to warn you, but I was so tired when I got back that I just fell into bed. Alone."

Adam spent a few more minutes apologizing before we ended the call. I pulled up the website for the New York Times and found the picture in the Style section. I looked horrified while Homelander was touching me, like every nightmare I'd ever had in my life was coming true at once, so there was no reason for Adam to suspect me of lying. I felt more than a little guilt that I'd manipulated him as readily as I had, knowing that everything he'd accused me of was basically true, except that I was not with Homelander. We'd had scenes, but I still clung to the idea of convincing him that having someone else in my job would be better for him. How having those scenes with him would convince him of that was something I didn't want to examine. And all the stuff that had come up about my parents unsettled me.

Well, it was one more thing to discuss at the Wednesday session with Dr. Roth.