Chapter 4
4
H ow does one fill out an online dating questionnaire?
I couldn’t believe I was seriously considering it, but the more I thought about it, the more I warmed to the idea. I’d know what a prospective date looked like and what his interests were before I agreed to meet anywhere. There was always the chance he’d post a photo from ten years ago or lie about his profession, but I figured I’d catch on if I were being duped. However, I couldn’t begin thinking about dating anyone new until I found out if Matt’s reference to the British painter was the one I knew all too well.
It was too strange a coincidence that we had an ex in common. I’d done some research after I left Curt at the bar. It felt creepy to even type Simon’s name in a search engine after years of consciously avoiding any mention of him. I made a concerted effort to look only at the past six months and was rewarded immediately with a plethora of photos of the esteemed painter and his young protégée in happier times.
A sudden flash of heat was accompanied by a strong wave of nausea. I hated knowing Simon had touched him, though I had no right. It didn’t make any sense. Seth wasn’t mine and never had been. As I stared at an online picture of Simon dressed in a tuxedo with his arm draped possessively over Seth’s shoulders, I recognized my angst for what it was. Jealousy.
There was a time I dealt with it on a daily basis, when my lover instigated scenarios to incite my reaction. It was classic. He’d flirt shamelessly with a young, pretty boy. I’d get angry. We’d fight and then we’d fuck. Passionately. Then he’d disappear into his studio for days on end and I’d be torn between missing him and being grateful for the reprieve.
I hadn’t felt the excruciating stab of envy in years. Sure, I had my moments of covetous longing for something close to what my friends had, but I figured my time would come. I didn’t want their lives. I wanted something for myself. Eventually. But when I looked at Simon and Seth together, I felt an almost violent surge of jealousy. It frustrated me because I couldn’t tell who the feeling was directed toward.
Was I jealous of Simon for knowing Seth, or did I simply hate seeing proof of their past liaison? I pushed back my sleeve and traced the jagged scar on my wrist. My physical reminder of my time with the mad artist. This kind of jealousy was dangerous to my sanity. It was the horrible kind I knew would be difficult to shake unless I actively did something to get it out of my system.
Like create a profile for an online dating service.
So Sunday evening after I’d organized my calendar and sorted out my countless meetings for the week, I decided to give it a go and complete the questionnaire. There was no harm in it and if I changed my mind or, God forbid, met someone on my own, I could always delete it.
It was daunting. Advice on how to set up a “standout” dating profile ranged from keeping it short and staying positive to listing fun hobbies and making sure you watched your spelling and grammar. In other words, not so helpful. I spent more time on it than I should have, but I was careful not to overembellish or come across as a braggart, which in turn made me wonder if I sounded boring.
As paranoia began to set in, I thought about refreshing my wardrobe with brighter colored shirts and—fuck it. If this experiment failed and I was doomed to single life forever, it would be best not to own a closetful of fuchsia floral shirts I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anyway.
I gave the questionnaire one last read-through, attached a recent photo, and pushed Send before I could change my mind. Maybe nothing would come of it, but I liked the idea that my next potential coffee date would be one I made without the help of my well-meaning friends. With any luck, I might even avoid the usual dramatic artistic type I seemed to attract, and find someone normal for a change.
There was no time to worry about potential online dates come Monday morning. From the moment I stepped into my office, I was hit with a barrage of issues ranging from panicked editors wanting to confirm contract styling clauses to internal drama when headquarters in London called questioning the taste level of a layout I’d recently approved. I managed to keep calm as I dealt with one firestorm after another with my Bluetooth headset practically glued to my ears.
By Tuesday afternoon the more pressing issues were settled, but I was still in the “take no bullshit” mode I realized came with my new position with the agency. Everyone had questions and complaints, and no one liked the answers.
I paced the floor of my spacious corner office, willing myself not to hang up on the conference call I was listening in on. Stupidity was a difficult trait to endure. I bit my tongue when a junior editor suggested rewording some of the copy in the ad campaign. These were the days I was sure I was surrounded by idiots.
How could they not understand those little “ads” took months of research and development? There was no such thing as “off the cuff” campaigns. The Phillips Agency was a highly respected and reputable firm, for Christ’s sake.
Another call buzzed on my cell, giving me the perfect excuse to end the torture gracefully. I said a quick apology and ended the call before answering the next.
“Paul Fallon.”
“Hey, how’s it goin’?”
“Um….”
“It’s Seth. I told you I’d call. I’m calling. You sound busy. Call me back lat?—”
“No.” I licked my bottom lip as I struggled to shift gears. This was very… unexpected. A warning voice told me to end the call quickly, but strangely I heard myself say, “It’s fine. I can talk.”
“’Kay,” he chuckled. His voice sounded deep and sexy as hell. “I’m on my way to the studio. I’ve got a couple errands to run but I was wondering—um, how late do you work?”
“Well….”
“Like tonight.”
“I—I’m not sure. Probably six. Why?”
“Cool. Well, text me when you’re on your way home. Maybe we can get together. Ciao.”
He hung up before I could respond. I stared at my cell for a moment, then looked out the window unseeingly. The afternoon spring day was sunny and pleasant without a cloud in the sky. But it barely registered over the wild beating of my heart. Yes, we’d parted as friends after our impromptu excursion through the Natural History Museum, and while it was true he’d promised to call… I didn’t expect him to. I wasn’t so sure spending time together as friends was a good idea. Not for me anyway.
My traitorous pulse and suddenly damp palms were a fair sign I was still under a spell where Seth was concerned. If I were smart, I’d forget he called and go straight to the gym after work. And check my online dating prospects.
It turned out I wasn’t so smart after all. The moment I pulled out of the parking garage, I called him. He answered on the first ring.
“Are you done?”
“I’m leaving my office now.”
“Cool. Can you meet me at—hang on.”
I heard a muffled curse and what sounded like a child yelling in the background. “Where are you?”
“I’ll text you the address.”
“No! Don’t hang up. And don’t text me. I’m driving. Just tell me the address. My car’s naviga?—”
“Cool.” He gave me a Georgetown address on Wisconsin Avenue and told me to call him again once I was there. He hung up before I could ask where there was.
I repeated the address and let my Audi’s sophisticated navigation system lead the way while I mentally berated myself for being a fool. Thankfully, a work related call interrupted my reverie, so for the twenty-minute ride from downtown, I was distracted by deadlines and placating an editor who was concerned about ad placement. Until I approached my destination. A Safeway Supermarket. What in God’s na?—
My cell rang, reverberating noisily in the quiet automobile. “Where am I?”
“How am I supposed to know? Are you here yet?”
I sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of my nose. I was torn between confusion and a sinking feeling I’d been played for an idiot. Again. A car honked behind me, forcing me to make a decision. I pulled in front of the bus stop and stared at the wide screen map in the car’s lush leather console.
“Seth. I’m currently parked in front of a large market. Is this the address you intended to give me or?—”
“Yeah. Park and meet me in… um, let’s see. I’m in aisle four. And hurry up, man. I’m starving!”
Of course he signed off before I could say another word. I gritted my teeth and shook my head angrily. Go home, Paul. Don’t park the car , I cautioned myself. But when a giant transit bus pulled in behind me, I actually had to pull into the underground parking structure to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic.
“Fuck me,” I muttered.
I parked the car on the first level and sat in silence for a moment. I’d had a grueling couple of days at the office after an odd weekend spent in part with the man I was inexplicably meeting in a market. This was not me. Yet, here I was. I wasn’t certain I’d been tricked either. I simply hadn’t asked the right questions. I took a deep breath for fortitude and opened my door. I was here. I might as well see what game Seth was playing now.
The market was a standard, overly bright food emporium. My idea of hell. I’d been completely honest when I’d told Curt I rarely went to the market. And almost never to larger grocery stores. There was a small family-owned shop near my house on N Street that I stopped by occasionally. Otherwise I ordered takeout. I’d never stepped foot in this particular store. I pulled out my cell as I looked up at the overhead signs neatly labeling the aisle number and what types of goods one might find there.
“I’m here and you are not on aisle four.”
“No. You took too long. I’m in produce.” Click.
I smiled tightly at the harried-looking mother dressed in yoga gear who nearly ran me over with her ridiculously overloaded cart, and made my way toward the produce section. Other than an old woman carefully examining Granny Smith apples talking to a familiar figure with longish dark hair, it was blessedly quiet in this part of the store. I squinted at the two for a moment before heading toward them.
“That’s the problem with apples nowadays. They do a fine job making them green and glossy, but that doesn’t mean they’re decent. You never really know if they’re going to be good until you take a bite. Just like anything else in life, dear.” The old woman’s voice and hands trembled as she held up the produce in question for Seth to inspect.
“True. I try to buy organic usually. They have a nice selection over here if you’re interested. Do you need help with any other fruit?”
“No thank you, dear. Just the apples. I don’t trust that organic nonsense. They charge you twice as much for an apple that’s half the size of—oh hello.” The tiny woman glanced up at me with a pleasant smile.
“Hello.”
“Is this your beau?” she asked Seth.
I smiled kindly and was about to correct her, but the furious blush reddening Seth’s gorgeous face stopped me. In fact, it was well worth this unexpected jaunt.
“Oh uh….”
“Don’t say a word. I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your evening. Your young man is very sweet. You’re lucky to have this one,” she said with a wink as she toddled away.
“Uh… I didn’t tell her?—”
I rolled my eyes and shoved my hands into my suit coat pocket. “Why am I here?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he took a step back and gave me a once-over. A small lopsided smile slowly morphed into a lecherous megawatt grin. It was a jolting transformation from the blushing, almost shy look he’d given me while he was chatting with the old lady. “I like. Armani?”
“Yes, but?—”
“Beautiful cut. Navy is definitely your color,” he added flirtatiously before turning to a leafy green display of lettuce, parsley, kale, and scallions. “I need Italian parsley, an onion, and some garlic. Are you any good at picking out tomatoes? I think we’ll need four. No, make it five. I have?—”
“Stop.” I set my hand on his elbow and pulled him toward me a little harder than I’d intended. He was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes and smell the faintest scent of mint and maybe cloves on his breath. I gulped and dropped his arm when my dick swelled at that slightest bit of contact. God, what was it about him?
I gave him a stern look, or attempted to anyway, and tried again. “What are you up to? In plain words please. I’ve had a long couple days at work and chasing you about was not on my agenda tonight. Out with it.”
“I’m making you dinner,” he replied with a sunny smile. “You said we could be friends, right?”
“Right, but?—”
“So I figured I’d start with dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, but I’m keeping it simple tonight. Spaghetti marinara with homemade meatballs and a salad. I had a photo shoot this morning and painted all afternoon and—I wasn’t sure you’d say yes. Do you mind?”
“Well, at least you admit you tricked me. That’s progress. I think.”
“I didn’t trick you. I asked if you were busy.”
“I assumed you meant to grab a drink or—something other than meet you at Safeway,” I shook my head and brushed my fingers through my hair in frustration.
“Why did you come, then?” he asked as he studied the parsley. “Didn’t your fancy car tell you where you were going?”
“No. It didn’t tell me the end coordinates were leading me to a bloody supermarket. Nor did it ask if I was certain I had the address correct or better still… if I was out of my fucking my mind. If it had?—”
“I get the picture, Paul.” He turned angrily and shoved a neatly tied bunch of parsley at me. “Are you coming for dinner or not?”
The air around us crackled with an intense magnetic energy. We stared at each other heatedly. I felt like I was tied to the moment and wouldn’t be able to move my feet of my own free will if I tried. Moreover, I was afraid if I did I’d give into temptation and kiss him in the middle of the produce aisle in spite of my vow to keep my distance.
“Well?” He inclined his head. His eyes blazed with challenge, and a ghost of a smile lifted the corner of his lush lips.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then make yourself useful. I need those tomatoes and I’m pretty sure they have fresh mozzarella in the deli section. I’ll meet you there.” He turned to the green leafy veggies, then looked back at me when I didn’t move.
“You are incorrigible and very sneaky.”
He chuckled lightly and grinned. “Maybe a little but, I swear I’ll make it worth your while.”
As he probably intended, the offhand comment went straight to my prick. I huffed as I headed toward the mound of plump tomatoes, letting his musical laughter wash over me. It was spaghetti. A simple dinner. Never had the metaphor of having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other seemed more apt. “I shouldn’t do this” quickly became “Why not?”
I chose the tomatoes and left him to search for mozzarella in the deli section, which of course was located on the other end of the store. I sidestepped other anxious shoppers wielding carts laden with groceries down crowded aisles. Many were dressed in work attire like myself. Unlike me, however, they seemed to know their way around a market. I became lost in a maze and nearly conceded defeat when I found myself peering at freshly made sushi behind a glass display. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Where are you?”
“I’m lost.”
“I figured. I got the mozzarella. Where are you?”
“I’m in the sushi section.”
“Sushi and spaghetti. Mmm. Nah. That won’t work. Stay put. I’ll come find you.”
My stomach growled. I was dead tired, hungry, and more than a little confused. Seth turned the corner before my brain could catalogue any further complaints. I studied his casual attire as he came closer. Worn black jeans, a white T-shirt with paint stains, and an unbuttoned black and blue striped cardigan.
He looked more like a wacky artist than a sophisticated couture model, I mused. His sharp features were undeniably attractive but it seemed as though he’d chosen the basic clothing to downplay his beauty. Or maybe he’d just painted and couldn’t be bothered. There was something ridiculously appealing to me about our very opposite looks. Corporate formal versus art student chic. I glanced down at the sushi and willed my dick to behave.
“There you are. What kind of pasta do you want? I don’t have time to make it myself, but don’t worry, I’m buying prepackaged but fresh. Your choices are spaghetti, tagliatelle, or pappardelle.”
I looked at the three choices he held up and pointed to the one in the middle. The tagliatelle.
“Really? I was thinking basic spaghetti but?—”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I want your opinion. If you want the tagliatelle, we’ll get that one. Done.”
“Good. Let’s go. Do you have wine?”
“Yes. Hmm. I don’t know about the tag?—”
“Seth. Get the spaghetti. I’m not bothered.”
“What do you mean by not bothered?”
“I mean….” I took a step forward so we stood toe-to-toe, Italian loafer to dirty white trainer and gave him a pointed glare. “I don’t give a shit. Pasta is pasta. It doesn’t matter to me what shape it comes in. At all.”
“You’re hungry, huh?”
“What tipped you off?”
“Sarcastic and cranky. Let’s go. You need food.” He turned away, carrying his basket of goods toward the front registers.
“What about wine?” I called after him.
He stopped in the middle of the aisle and curled his finger, motioning me to come to him with a devilish grin on his handsome face. I complied. We were alone for the moment, surrounded on either side of the cramped space by white bread and a variety of colorful cereals chock-full of preservatives and food dyes. I eyed him warily, wondering why he was stalling.
“I told you I have wine. Good wine too.”
“Marvelous. Let’s go.”
“But… there’s a catch.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course there is. What is it? You need to swing by the dry cleaners first or?—”
“Kiss me.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Why is it so crazy?” he asked innocently.
“Here are a couple reasons. One, we’re in the middle of a market in a family oriented part of town and two, we’re barely friends. Not lovers. Friends don’t kiss.”
He grinned. “Sure they do. What they probably don’t do is say something like, ‘you look so fucking hot in that suit, I wish I could take it off you right here next to the Cheerios and Wheat Chex,’ so I won’t go there, but I still think it’s okay to kiss.”
I stared at him with my mouth wide open, unable to find my voice. When he chuckled in amusement at my expense, I acted with uncharacteristic impulse and reached out to cup his neck and draw him close to me. He gasped in surprise at the quick movement.
I smiled as our noses brushed, perversely pleased by his shock, and suddenly glad to be the one pushing him one step further. I licked his bottom lip before fusing my mouth over his in a swift but passionate kiss. I backed up with a grin and sauntered away, taking care he didn’t see me adjust my trousers as I moved with purpose to the front registers.
I set my bag of tomatoes on the conveyer belt and stepped aside when Seth joined me a moment later.
“You play dirty,” he muttered as he set the contents in his basket with mine.
“You asked for it.”
“Maybe I did. Beware. I can play dirty too.”
I bit my cheek hard and turned toward the rack of magazines nearby, hoping to diffuse the sexual tension racing through my body. Stress, exhaustion, and hunger were suddenly nonissues. All I wanted now was sex. The one thing I couldn’t have with this man. Not without risking more than I was willing.
We loaded my car in companionable silence. When he hopped in the passenger seat and turned to me with a wide grin, I was instantly suspicious. I turned on the engine and asked where I was going. Seth laughed gleefully.
“This car is sick! I’m talkin’ seriously swank. I bet this baby would have told you exactly where you were heading if you asked nicely.”
“Sick?” I shook my head, determined not to be drawn into a nonsensical conversation. “Where do you live?”
“On Bank Street. Off of Prospect. You kno?—”
“Yes, I know where that is. I live on N Street.”
“Cool. We’re neighbors. And sick means awesome. This car is unreal!”
“Thank you. I like it.” I chuckled at his over-the-top exuberance.
“What’s not to like? A sleek black Audi R8. I’m speechless.”
“If only,” I mumbled.
“Ha. Ha. Man, advertisement must be good business,” he whistled appreciatively, running his hands along the black leather console.
“It pays the bills.”
“Hmph. Maybe someday when I’m old like you I’ll own a car this fine.”
The traffic light turned red, giving me the perfect opportunity to turn in my seat and cast an evil eye in his direction. “Perhaps one day you’ll be mature enough.”
“Perhaps….” He drew out the word, mimicking my accent before chuckling at my mock irritation. “For now I’ll have to settle on my bike.”
“No wonder you’re always late. How do manage getting around on a bicycle everywhere? This isn’t a terribly large city, but there’s still a lot of?—”
“Not a bicycle, dummy. A motorcycle. I have a Suzuki V-Storm. Nothing fancy. It’s kind of a placeholder until I can afford a BMW or a tricked out Harley. It gets me where I need to be and that’s all I care about. Can I turn on your radio?”
Of course he rode a motorbike. God. Maybe one day I’d learn to ask the right questions on the first date before investing a piece of myself I shouldn’t. I didn’t go for men on bikes. At all. It was a good thing we’d come to the mutual conclusion we could only be friends. Though, the jury was still out as far as I was concerned, I thought ruefully.
“Help yourself. Why a motorbike?”
“Why not?”
I made sure he saw my eye roll before I began a list of negatives. “They’re dangerous, inconvenient?—”
“Inconvenient? Motorcycles are the most economically savvy and totally convenient way to travel. You can zip through traffic?—”
“Yes, I believe I pointed out they were dangerous.”
“So are cars. Hell, walking down the street or taking public transportation can be hazardous.”
“True,” I conceded. “But if it’s a rainy day, at least you’ll stay dry.”
“Good point. A dry corpse is better than a wet one.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re a snob. With an accent. I think that makes you worse than the garden variety snob.”
“Why do I do this? I couldn’t be a bigger fool if I tried. I swore I wouldn’t, but here I am.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Myself.” I turned to face him at a stop sign near M Street. “I’m wondering how on earth I got suckered into being your glorified taxi service. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“You needed a ride. And possibly a good laugh so you decided to ring me?—”
“You’re wrong. And melodramatic. Um… the guy behind you is honking. You may want to put the pedal to the metal.”
“Bloody fucking hell. Where now?” I snarled. I was surprised at how agitated and upset I was. I felt an almost overwhelming urge to punch something. Hard.
“Geesh. Turn left on Prospect. Touchy, touchy.”
He leaned forward to fiddle with the navigation system and satellite radio. I had it set to jazz. My teeth were clenched in anticipation of him turning it to a rock station and then blaring it until I was forced to come completely unglued.
He didn’t. Instead he turned to me with a sweet grin and said, “Diana Washington. I love this stuff.”
And suddenly, I was all right again. Confused, but… okay.
Seth directed me to a gray two-storied house and instructed me to pull off to the side so he could unload the groceries.
“I’m in the back unit. Let me get these to the gate. You can park up the street where it’s not so narrow then meet me upstairs. Oh… wait. Come here.”
I glanced across the console at my handsome companion. He had a funny look on his face I didn’t trust.
“A little closer.”
“What are you about?”
Seth’s hair fell into his eyes as he bumped my elbow and grinned mischievously at me. He stared at me with that inscrutable smile in place until I opened my mouth to once again ask what he was doing, and then he lunged forward and sealed his lips over mine. I didn’t think about… well, anything. I simply responded. His mouth felt soft and supple. I couldn’t help wanting more.
I pulled him closer, threading my fingers through his hair as he tilted his chin to deepen the kiss. His tongue slid sensuously over mine, making me groan with desire. I didn’t want to break this connection. I caressed his face as I held him still, nibbling his lips, sucking his tongue until he broke for air.
He sat back slightly, studying me in the dim lighting from the overhead streetlamp. Our heavy breathing was accompanied by the sweet soulful voice of Diana Washington singing “Since I Fell For You.” The moment was fraught with lust and longing. It dared me to stop thinking and take a leap. Possibly off a cliff, but God, it might just be worth it.
He opened the door flooding the car’s interior with light… and the moment was gone. I stared after him, unable to put a string of coherent thoughts together between the erratic beating of my heart and my throbbing cock. I needed someone else to steer for a while because I really wasn’t sure where I wanted to go anymore.
“I’ll grab the groceries, you park the car. See you upstairs.” Seth’s tone was huskier than normal and commanding in a way that should have bothered me. Instead, I found it sexy as hell.
I took a deep cleansing breath and pulled the car forward after he’d taken his bags. The song’s poignant lyrics about unrequited love taunted me with perfect sentiment. This wasn’t love, it was lust. I couldn’t seem to stay away from him. I tried to remind myself we shared an ex and if nothing else, it meant we both had questionable taste. I should know better, I repeated. Perhaps I did, but I wasn’t going anywhere now.
Seth’s apartment was the back unit of a large gray shingle house. The worn wooden staircase leading to his flat was accessible through a gate. I noted a small, tidy vegetable garden on the right as I navigated the narrow walkway with stepping stones laid on neatly trimmed grass. It was a pretty spot. I wondered absently if Seth took care of the garden as I fussed with the sleeve of my suit coat, and then cautiously made my way upstairs.
I knocked once and opened the door. Into a kitchen. Seth was standing over a tiny stove, stirring something in a large pot. He looked up at me and smiled in welcome. It was funny that the simple gesture set me at ease while at the same time butterflies danced in my stomach. The juxtaposition of comfort with a dose of heady awareness was bewildering, though not unpleasant.
“Close the door and come in. Wine?”
“Uh, yes please.”
I shut the door and stuffed my hands in my pockets as I turned to take in my surroundings. The kitchen was old-fashioned by anyone’s standards. As in nothing had been updated in a few decades. The decorative blue and white tile on the backsplash and the plain white painted cabinets reminded me of something from an old sitcom from the 1950s.
The room was a perfect square with a tiny window over the sink on one wall, stovetop oven and refrigerator on another, while a small cabinet for dishes graced the wall opposite a narrow doorframe leading to another room in the miniscule flat. Smack in the middle of the kitchen was an old wooden table with two mismatched chairs. A plain white spherical pendant hanging above the table appeared to be the only source of light in the space.
If Seth told me his grandmother lived here, I would have believed him. I couldn’t picture him here, though. The room seemed too delicate, too small, and much too traditional for an international model, wannabe rock star slash artist. I was intrigued. I looked over at my host who was wrestling with the corkscrew on a bottle of cabernet.
His longish hair covered his face, but I was taken with the set of his broad shoulders and his lean body. I averted my eyes and moved around the cramped quarters to peer into the pot he’d been stirring as he poured two glasses of wine.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you. Cheers.” I raised my glass to clink it gently against his. I fought the desire to squirm slightly as his shrewd gaze swept over me.
“I thought there was a chance you might bail. I’m glad you didn’t.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I kept quiet and sipped my wine. “This is good,” I commented.
Seth chuckled and set his glass aside to resume his place behind the stove. “Don’t sound so surprised. I like good wine. Living in Italy spoiled me. I can’t eat bad Italian food or drink swill knowing how amazing the real thing is. The sauce has been simmering for a while. I just need to warm the meatballs I made earlier and cook the pasta. Feel free to wander. It will take you less than two minutes to see the rest of my pad. I have a piece in the living room you might like.”
“Your art?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you’re interested. If not, pull up a chair and tell me about your day. This will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“How—did you make everything before you called me? I don’t understand how you’re so prepared.” I fussed with the top button of my shirt, grateful I’d pulled off my tie earlier. I felt overly warm and flustered. A common side effect of being around Seth, I mused.
“Yeah but I didn’t know if you’d come. I took a chance and made this before I went to my studio to work.”
“And your studio is near the market?”
“A block away,” he answered as he turned to pull the tomatoes from the bag of groceries on the table.
“I’m not sure why, but I thought you painted from your home.”
Seth guffawed, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “That’s hysterical. There are four rooms in this place. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bath. This may honestly be the biggest of them all. There is no way I could work here. Go on. Take a peek. But I’ll warn you, if you’re claustrophobic, you’re in trouble.”
I rolled my eyes, but decided to see for myself rather than ask any more questions. He wasn’t joking. It was very tiny. But unlike the kitchen, at least the other spaces gave a hint that the tenant wasn’t ninety years old. The furniture was new and contemporary, in subtle shades of blue with splashes of red. It was tasteful and hip enough to believe a twentysomething-year-old man lived here. But it was the huge canvas painting above the sofa that caught my attention. I moved closer and turned on a bell-shaped lamp next to the sofa to get a better look at what I realized was a rendering of the Key Bridge.
Seth’s style was expressionistic with a nod toward impressionism. Paul Cezanne meets Edvard Munch. He used strong colors with a heavy application counterbalanced with lighter hues and soft edges. The water under the bridge was turbulent, though the sky was painted a placid blue. It was a study in contrast with a hint of deeper meaning that kept my attention. I stared at the individual elements, the bridge, a boat, and wondered if the dark charcoal shades of gray or the brilliant reds were symbolic somehow.
“Either you got lost or you’re trying to escape out the bathroom window, but if you’re still here and you’re hungry, dinner is almost ready,” Seth called from the kitchen sarcastically.
“Very funny,” I quipped as I made my way toward the delicious scent of homemade cooking emanating from the next room. I stopped to lean against the doorjamb and observe my host as he set a plate piled with fresh tomatoes, mozzarella and basil on the table. “Caprese?”
“Yeah. I guess I should have asked if you liked it first or if you have any food allergies, but—do you? ’Cause I can always?—”
“No, this is perfect,” I said softly, charmed by his uncharacteristic show of nerves after the wild goose chase he’d set into play this evening. “I love all Italian food and as far as I know I’m only allergic to dust.”
Seth grinned and motioned for me to sit. I obeyed but waited for him to join me before picking up my fork.
“ Buon appetito ,” he said lifting his wineglass with a flourish. “Caprese first followed by tagliatelle marinara with Italian meatballs.”
“Thank you. This looks lovely.”
“Simple but good. At least I think so. Caprese is hard to fuck up, but I haven’t made the marinara in a while so we’ll see.”
“You’re quite the mystery,” I commented as I leaned forward to help myself to tomato and a slice of mozzarella.
“How so?”
“You cook, you paint, you model, you play guitar.” I scoffed. “And you ride a bloody motorbike. Your methods of communication are suspect at best, larcenous at worst. One moment you seem older than your years, the next I could be convinced you’re an overgrown child. You’re a… bit of a quandary.”
Seth smiled at my description, obviously pleased to be considered difficult to know. “I know you hate this, but I really love the way you talk. Your accent is pretty light until you get cranky.”
I held eye contact as I picked up my wineglass. “Add evasive to the list.”
“I’m not evasive.”
“You are. You turn attention to and from yourself with ease.”
Seth barked a quick laugh. “It must be a hidden talent. I’ll answer whatever you want and….” He drew out the word with a chuckle before adding, “I’ll let you know when you do that funny British thing again.”
“I’m sure you will,” I replied testily. It occurred to me this was the perfect time to ask about Simon, but I was loathe to let that bastard in. Not yet. “Tell me about that painting of the Key Bridge in the next room. It’s fantastic.”
“Thanks. I did that one about a year ago when I first came back to the States. I love the water. It draws me. The potential for ferocity or peace at the whim of Mother Nature is humbling.”
“Hmm. I recall you saying something like that about dinosaurs. Are they interconnected somehow? Paleontology and the Potomac?” I waited for his laughter to subside before asking, “What were you thinking when you painted the bridge?”
He cocked his head thoughtfully as though considering the question carefully. “I was thinking I wanted a new start. To me, bridges represent beginnings. You never know what you may find on the other side. Especially if you haven’t crossed one in a while.” He huffed in self-deprecation as he picked up his wineglass. “I sound like a bad poet, huh? Don’t answer. You’ll only hurt my feelings. Again.” He paused to give me a playful grin before continuing. “When I left the US to model in Europe I didn’t think I’d move back. I had nothing to come home to. I’m not trying to sound pathetic or anything. It wasn’t about being the sad little punk who got kicked out. I had friends I knew I’d miss, but I was seventeen and the idea of starting over where no one knew me was too good to be true. And for a while, I loved it. I got to see and experience things beyond my wildest dreams. I lived in Milan and traveled regularly between Paris, London, and Rome. I met some great people and I’d like to think I grew up a bit. But after I hit twenty-two, my body changed and I wasn’t super skinny anymore. I was more muscular, which meant my agent had better luck finding me jobs as an underwear model and?—”
“You were an underwear model?” I gulped, embarrassed by the reverence in my tone.
“Yeah. I still am. At least occasionally. It’s cool but I started to want more. I lucked into my modeling gig, but I’m a realist. I knew it was temporary. And a couple years ago, I decided to take my art more seriously. I sketched or painted like crazy in my spare time until I built a respectable portfolio. Nothing really happened at first. I showed my work to a few gallery owners in Milan but no one was interested. I guess I was a little cocky,” he said with a half laugh. “I kept trying, though, and when I was in London for a photo shoot, I got into a conversation with someone who claimed to be a ‘patron of the arts.’ I can’t remember her name now, but she introduced me to my ex, who—whatever. We won’t go into that, but the guy is well connected. He’s friendly with Harry Weltzer, the gallery owner I’m doing that exhibit for in October.
“So I moved back to DC, signed on with a US agent, moved into this teeny place so I could spend more on the studio rental, and voilà… here I am. In a few months, I’ll see if the risk was worth it, but I’ve got a good feeling. Even if I’m not an overnight sensation, I like what I’m doing.”
“That’s very important,” I replied, picking up my wineglass. “What about music?”
“I’ll always play, but I’m a solitary guy. I’m not interested in being in a band. I’d rather do my own thing, ya know?” He stood abruptly, scraping the wood chair against the old linoleum floor as he reached across to grab my salad plate. “How ’bout some pasta?”
God, he smelled good, I thought when he brushed against my arm. I took a long sip and tried to avert my gaze. Seth was extraordinarily charming with his sparkling eyes and open mannerisms. I smiled at his passionate telling of his life’s story. He’d led an interesting life for someone under twenty-five.
I wanted to know more about him, but I cautioned myself. Seth’s brand of bold charisma shouldn’t appeal to me in the slightest, but it was difficult to deny I was more than a little attracted to him. Bad idea, I silently chided myself. Very bad.
Seth placed a generous helping of tagliatelle, marinara, and meatballs in front of me. I muttered my thanks, watching him clandestinely over my wineglass as he served himself and continued speaking in a low, wistful tone.
“It sounds kinda goofy but… that bridge on that particular day stood for hope. I could say I liked the way it turned out and the color scheme is perfect in the living room, but that would be bullshit. The reason I kept it was to remind myself to never stop hoping.”
I nodded. Hope was a powerful motivator.
“It’s beautiful. You’re obviously very talented. I’d love to see more of your work sometime.”
“I have another one in my bedroom, but I keep everything else at the studio. Honestly, the paintings I have here aren’t really my best work. They’re sentimental pieces.”
“How? Because they remind you of why you moved home or?—”
“Something like that. Would you like more?”
“You’re being evasive again. You’re very selective about what you give away, aren’t you?”
“Geesh, I just told you my freaking life story! The rest isn’t all that exciting. Besides….” He shrugged with deceptive nonchalance before adding, “Everything I have to give, I give in my work.”
“Spoken like a true artist.” I couldn’t help my derisive tone. Perhaps it was his youth, or maybe he really believed what he was saying, but either way the sentiment sounded pretentious and affected. I’d grown up surrounded by that unyielding sort of selfishness. I’d seen firsthand how one man’s desires could overrule common sense and even sanity.
“Ouch. Now what did I say?”
“Nothing. This is excellent,” I commented as I twirled a forkful of tagliatelle.
“Thanks.”
We ate in silence for a moment. I willed myself not to speak, knowing I wouldn’t be kind. I was relatively successful until he reached out and tapped my hand in a childish request for attention. He knew he was under my skin and he wasn’t letting go. With a quick twist of my wrist, I grasped his fingers and squeezed hard.
Seth looked down at our joined hands and then at me, his eyes alight with humor. “That hurts.”
“You want me to let go?”
“I’m not sure. You look dangerous, like you wanna claw me to shreds or….”
“Or?”
“Fuck me.”
My heart beat so loudly I was certain he could hear it in the quiet kitchen. I couldn’t tear my gaze from him because yes, he was right. I wanted to fuck him. Who was I trying to fool? I couldn’t be his friend when every other thought in my head was a memory of writhing naked with him in a hotel room in Baltimore. I’d loved having him buried inside me. He’d been perfectly primal. Rough enough that I felt him the next day, and yet he’d shown a sweet side too. Nearly a month later, I thought I’d put the experience behind me. But here I was again. The only thing keeping me from upending the table and launching myself at him was my pride. I wanted to fuck him. Badly. But he was no good for me.
I tried a lopsided smile as I yanked my hand away. “Not happening.”
Seth cocked his head and sat back. He took a sip of wine and studied me closely over the rim of his glass.
“I think it will.” He held up his hand to stop my protest. “Not now, but soon. Let’s go back to your crack about me talking like a real artist.”
“That’s probably unwise,” I said, picking up my fork.
“I can take it. What did you mean?”
I skewered him with a scornful stare. “You sounded rather… pompous, presumptuous, and narcissistic. And when you make imperious statements like ‘I give through my art,’ you sound like an arse.”
“Hmph. I don’t think those were my exact words.”
“Close enough. The meatballs are terrific,” I said, taking an exaggerated bite.
“I don’t get you. One minute you seem to underst?—”
“I understand enough. For instance, when you told me on the train you paint to breathe, I understood. Yes, it’s a bit melodramatic, but my father is an artist. He literally lives to paint. The fact he’s made money from his craft doesn’t mean a thing. He doesn’t care about material comforts or currency. His art is how he breathes. He’s a bloody great artist, but quite possibly the world’s shittiest father.” I pushed my plate back, feeling a sudden loss of appetite. “And he loves to say things like ‘I give through my art.’ Lovely. There’s a thin line between creativity and selfishness. And my father never knew the balance. And neither did my ex. I think you know him… Simon Pickard. World-renowned artist and a true prick in his own right.”
“Whoa! What the fuck?” Seth’s astonished expression was priceless.
I let out a huff that resembled a chuckle, then finally gave into a full-fledged belly laugh. It was comical really. Kismet. Like some odd force in the universe was playing a joke.
“Are you saying—It might not be the same guy. Simon was—It’s too fucking weird. Is he tall with dark curly hair and?—”
“Yes. Same man. I put it together after I ran into you at the museum. It’s not important. It’s just very… odd.” I sighed deeply wondering if “odd” was right word.
“Crazy.” He shuddered in distaste. “Think about the war stories we could share. Ironic, huh?”
“The definition of irony is the opposite of whatever you’re trying to convey. Its root is in sarcasm, Seth. This is not irony. It’s just bizarre. Look, I should have mentioned it earlier. I—things didn’t end well between Simon and me. It was a long time ago and he’s the past. But be careful when you claim you give through your art that you don’t end up using it as an excuse to not give what you should in your daily life. In the real world. It smacks of something he would have said.”
“Fuck you. I’m nothing like him and I don’t hide behind my art. I know what’s real.”
“I’m sure you do.” I smiled weakly, then dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin and stood. I didn’t know what I was saying anymore. I was as confused by my outburst as he looked. It was time to retreat. “Thank you for dinner. It was ver?—”
In a preternatural move worthy of a vampire, Seth was out of his chair and I was trapped with my back against the kitchen counter. He shoved his knee between my thighs and pressed his hips into mine. The feel of his hard shaft through our clothing was as puzzling as it was intoxicating. But my instant response wasn’t a surprise. My cock swelled, urging me to make the next move.
Seth did it for me. He locked his gaze on mine as he slid his talented hand between us and palmed me through my suit like a slutty rent boy. I should have pushed him aside and walked out the door. Later I could mull over my second close call with the extraordinarily seductive model who spoke like an immature college student one minute, then a sage old soul the next, and who moved like a preying panther.
Instead I closed my eyes and leaned into his touch.
“This is real. Open your eyes, Paul. I want you to see.”
I could feel his breath on my lips. He smelled so fucking good. Wine and olive oil and something that was his alone.
I obeyed, transfixed by his proximity and intensity. I wanted to see what he’d do next. His roguish grin lifted one corner of his mouth, giving him the look of a dangerous pirate. I tilted my head and met his stare, expecting him to kiss me. I licked my bottom lip and watched as his eyes followed my tongue.
He seemed mesmerized by the movement. His stillness gave me a false sense of control. Until his smile widened slightly as he moved his fingers to my belt. His stare was unwavering. He didn’t blink when he unbuttoned and unzipped my trousers. When his hand dipped inside the elastic of my briefs and covered my leaking cock, I bit my cheek hard and bent my head forward to kiss him. He backed away.
“No.”
“What are?—”
“Shh.”
He pushed the fabric over my ass, sliding his fingers along my crack before he turned his attention back to my heavy member. He held me firmly at the base, then stroked me slowly with both hands. The dual sensation of one finger pressing into my slit as another fondled my balls had me clutching the counter’s edge with white knuckles.
“Does this feel good? Or do you want something else?”
My eyes flew open. He didn’t look roguish anymore. He looked as tortured as me. His nostrils flared imperceptibly as his grip tightened. I heard myself groan with desire, but was too turned on to be mortified that I was literally standing with my trousers around my ankles with a painfully erect cock, hoping he’d speed his movement, or hell… kiss me.
The sexual tension was so thick it was difficult to breathe, let alone speak. I tried to swallow and work up the strength to ask what he was suggesting, but he stopped me with a quick grin before falling to his knees.
“Seth….”
“I’ve been thinking about this for way too long.” His voice sounded strained and low as his hands kept a steady motion up and down my shaft, spreading precum liberally at each pass.
“More.” I pushed my hips forward.
“Mmm. Watch me suck you, Paul,” he commanded with his gaze trained up at me.
He may have been the one on his knees, but he was in complete control. I couldn’t look away if I tried. Though when he stuck his tongue out and licked me from base to tip like a lollipop, I had a difficult time standing, let alone keeping my eyes on the action. He repeated the same up and down teasing motion until I reached out and pulled his hair, silently demanding more.
Seth looked up with a maniacal grin before swallowing me whole.
“Fuck!”
He pumped my shaft with one hand and sucked wildly, angling his head to take as much of me into his mouth as possible. He was beautiful and wanton. The way he swayed into my body as he sucked and stroked was hypnotic. He pulled back slightly and flattened his tongue to bathe my balls with saliva before returning his attention to my impossibly hard shaft. I held his head and ran my fingers through his hair. Fuck, he looked like an angel at my feet. No. He looked like a devil. He was anyone’s idea of a bad influence.
But when he slipped a wet finger behind my balls and nudged my hole, I didn’t care. I felt the telltale tingle of orgasm at the base of my spine as I gave in to the onslaught of sensations. His tongue, his fingers. I pushed at his forehead and heard my muffled cry of warning. Seth released me and sat back on his knees, fumbling with his belt buckle and zipper. He grinned up at me lasciviously and recaptured my dick in his mouth as he stroked himself furiously. The visual alone was my undoing.
“Seth, stop. I’m?—”
He pulled back at the last second and stuck his tongue out. “Do it. Cum for me. I wanna taste you.”
I shuddered violently with the force of my release. My eyes squeezed shut and my knees buckled. I struggled to refocus when I heard his strangled cry. He licked his lips like a porn star as my cum hit the corner of his mouth, then he covered my member and sucked me dry. The suction took on a heightened intensity when his orgasm hit a moment later. He shook at my feet as I held on to the counter behind me, knowing I couldn’t stand of my own free will.
Our heavy panting was the only sound in the tiny kitchen. I licked my lips and tried to catch my breath before bending to pull my clothes up from around my ankles. Seth chuckled wickedly and stopped me, setting his hands on my belt so the fabric was trapped at my feet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m playing with you.” He sat up on his knees and stared at me like a naughty child intent on making trouble.
“I have to go.” My voice sounded raspy with desire. I didn’t recognize myself.
He stood abruptly and leaned against me briefly so our spent dicks rubbed together before he pressed a light kiss on my lips and stepped aside to re-dress. I reveled in the intimacy of the gesture, though I was certain he was only teasing me. I didn’t know what his game was or why he’d started this.
“Um… I—” I gestured like an idiot toward the door.
Seth chuckled. “You’re going to pull your pants up, aren’t you?”
I gave him a harried smile as I yanked up my trousers and buckled my belt. I licked my bottom lip nervously and stepped toward the door. I stopped with my hand on the doorknob, trying to formulate a departing thank you speech. Thank you for dinner? Thank you for the blow job?
I gave up and waved absently as I opened the door.
“I’ll see you around.”
I stopped and nodded. “Yes. I’ll see you.”
“Oh and Paul?”
“Hmm?”
“I was serious earlier… I’m nothing like Simon as an artist or a human.”
I furrowed my brow. I didn’t like hearing his name while I was reeling from the aftereffects of orgasm. “Is that why you just?—”
“Blew you? No, asshole! I?—”
“No, stop. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re like him at all. I… don’t know what to think but I—against my better judgment, I like you and?—”
Seth barked a short laugh and rolled his eyes. “You suck at giving compliments but… I like you too. G’night, Paul.”
I smiled weakly and stepped through the doorway when he stopped me again.
“Heads up. I think I came all over your Armani suit. You may need to send those to the dry cleaner.”
I looked down on cue, though of course I couldn’t see anything in the dim light. I caught on a second later he meant the remark to be a purposefully adolescent, “made you look” taunt. I rolled my eyes as he chortled merrily while he gathered the plates from the table.
“Lovely. Thank you for the warning.”
“Any time.”
I stepped out into the starry night and made my way down the steep rickety staircase. I pushed open the side gate and took my first deep breath of the entire bloody day. Everything that had occurred prior to six o’clock had been annoying. Everything after had been confusing. It was best to try not to think. At all.
What I needed more than anything was to go home and regroup. I headed toward my car parked nearby under a lamplight and fished my keys out of my pocket. I stopped midstride when I felt a damp spot on the pocket front. I turned around to look at the single light above Seth’s kitchen table clearly visible through the open window.
Anyone looking up could have seen what we’d done there less than ten minutes ago. I could hear the faint sound of an old David Bowie song now and maybe even someone humming along. I shook my head in wonder. He was… unbelievable.
I ran my fingers over the spot again and laughed. The sound reverberating down the narrow street had a maniacal tone. Great. I could add impending insanity to my list of worries.