Chapter 8
8
T he editor in chief at Aaron’s magazine was a savvy businesswoman. Marsha Feinstein recognized the importance of balancing a tasteful upscale vibe with hip fashion-forward sensibility. A nod toward convention in the nation’s political mecca was always a prudent choice.
She’d hired a staff of young professionals who shared her talent to effortlessly push the boundaries of the conservative side with a cutting-edge flare without alienating its readership. It was how she came up with the bright idea to use Simon Pickard’s work in the upcoming spread featuring British fashion and interior designers. It was to be released in conjunction with a royal visit to the White House. Brilliant.
However, I still wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t care how they juxtaposed the art with the clothing. I trusted Aaron to do his job. I had a premonition even the slightest show of interest would lead to a “meeting” with the esteemed artist. It was odd enough to be part of some broken triangle with someone I’d happily shed from my life years ago. Avoiding Simon altogether was for the best.
If Aaron was curious about my obvious absence during what many would have considered a pivotal edition featuring a few of my clients, he didn’t say a word. It could have been he was distracted with his job and wedding plans, but either way I was fairly sure I’d dodged a bullet when I heard through the grapevine the shoot had wrapped up the first week of September and the Brits had finally flown home.
I had a feeling something was amiss when I stepped into the chic lobby at the magazine that afternoon in mid-September. A buzz in the air or maybe an intuitive pulse I misread because it had been too long since I’d worried about the once all too familiar sly negative energy invading my head.
Once upon a time, it had been another part of me. I woke up next to a sinfully handsome creative genius and wondered where his passion would lead us that day. Some days the rush of the unexpected made time move in a blur of neon lights and brightly colored canvases. Others, I waded through a mental pool of molasses, hoping for a way to trip the switch and find the light again.
I didn’t know what fueled Simon’s quest for inspiration. Sometimes it was natural beauty. We would take long walks in the woods and make love under a lush canopy of evergreens. Other times, it was macabre. Walks in the woods became jaunts through the cemetery. Not my favorite, but not terrible. When his muse directed him toward more hedonistic pursuits, I’d finally put the brakes on.
It was one thing to kiss another man while he watched. But to have sex with another man or two to fuel his fucked-up notion of artistry wasn’t going to happen. It took me five bloody years to realize I’d been nothing more than a puppet on a string. A play toy used to channel his creativity. A conduit, he’d said, between his hand and the canvas.
I wasn’t a stupid man. It was astonishing I’d given up so much of myself to please someone else. Much like my mother did for my father. That was the part I hated. Knowing I’d fallen into the trap I’d hoped to avoid. I’d become someone else’s muse at the expense of myself.
So I left.
And it wasn’t pretty. He hounded me relentlessly, sometimes with tender pleas and other times with a feral tenacity that on more than one occasion made me think he was certifiable. It wasn’t until I’d moved to the States that I really sensed I’d gotten rid of Simon Pickard. In the five years since I’d left England, I’d done a decent job avoiding any and all news regarding Britain’s so-called “national treasure.”
Until today.
I said a brief hello to the receptionist sitting behind an enormous sleek pale wood elliptically shaped desk. I had started to tell her I was expected for a meeting when I was interrupted by the sound of Aaron’s cheerful voice coming from the direction of the elevators off to the side. He was chatting animatedly to an unseen companion using his signature hand gestures and a friendly dialogue indicating he was bidding his guest farewell. I turned with a grin to greet him and froze.
“Hi Paul! Are you here to…?” Aaron’s melodic voice became static white noise. I could hear his words and even catch the meaning, but my brain was doing its best to figure out what the hell to say to Simon after all these years.
“Hello Paul. How are you?”
“I’m well. You?” I was proud of my cool but courteous tone and amazed I felt… nothing. No malice, no anxiety. I didn’t want to stand about asking after old friends or, God forbid, reminisce, but I was glad to not feel intimidated by his presence. I took it as a good sign and was relieved to feel my shoulders relax. Until I thought of Seth and felt a strong surge of loathing. I hated that Simon knew any part of him. My smile dipped as I took a step back.
“Well. You look fantastic,” he commented with a slightly lecherous tone.
I probably didn’t look half bad in my light gray Hugo Boss suit and navy print tie. My hair was streaked with sun and my skin was a shade darker than normal from sitting at Seth’s side for hours at the river or on the grass at the park while he sketched tirelessly and chatted about anything from literature to a recipe he wanted to try. However, Simon was better looking than ever.
I gave him a brief once-over, noting how his dark curly hair fell enticingly over his brow and gave him a rakish, youthful appeal. He was tall and commanding with broad shoulders, and there was no denying his close shaven beard sealed his status as an extremely handsome middle-aged man.
As my eyes swept over him, cataloging changes and looking for signs of the familiar, I could honestly say I felt a sense of immunity. The indescribably fierce longing that at one point threatened my sanity was long gone.
“Thank you,” I replied with a real smile as I glanced sideways at Aaron.
I was amused by his transparent curiosity. He’d probably wrangle the story from me later, but I wasn’t about to dive into ancient history while standing in his office lobby with the receptionist and other passersby as an audience.
“No introductions necessary I see,” Aaron commented with a grin. “How do you two know?—”
“We met in London years ago,” I intercepted. “I’m headed upstairs to meet with Marsha. Cheers, Aaron…. Simon.” I inclined my head and turned toward the elevators.
“It’s good to see you again, Paul.” Simon’s deep voice stopped me in my tracks.
“You too,” I lied. I waved a short farewell and dashed toward an open elevator as though it was the last lift available for the day.
Just as the doors finally began to slide shut, he called my name again. I glanced up, surprised to find him closer than expected. His head was cocked and though his demeanor was casual, his lips were curled in a cruel twist. “Tell Seth hello for me.”
I gulped and pushed the button hard. My pulse quickened as an allover flush sent a heat wave through my body. I was dizzy and sick to my stomach. My senses were on overdrive. A panic attack was imminent if I didn’t pull myself together. I took a deep breath and then another before silently admonishing myself. He is nothing to you. Do not let him win.
I willed myself to breathe and stay in the moment, but the claustrophobic confines of the elevator didn’t help. I clutched at my wrist without thinking and closed my eyes, expecting to feel a warm rush of blood drip down my hand. When the door slid open, I licked my upper lip and cautiously looked at my wrist. There was no blood. No pain. I was safe. Questionably sane, but safe.
On my way home later that afternoon, Sarah Vaughn was singing a seductive, slow version of “You Go to My Head” as I reached for the garage opener. The arrangement and haunting vocals conjured thoughts of sipping champagne with a naked lover. I had no idea where mine was.
Perhaps unexpectedly bumping into my past made me long for something solid from my present. I was desperate to stay in the here and now, and possessively anxious to be with him. Seth had mentioned Rand was in town in the morning before we’d peeled ourselves from the warm cocoon of my bed to get on with our respective days. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to tell me I was on my own for the evening, but I really hoped not. Not now.
My cell binged loudly. I listened to the garage door begin its ascent before picking up my phone to read the text.
Sending coordinates. Come after work.
Where?
No response. I squinted at the display, waiting for the explanation I should have known wouldn’t come before typing the address he gave me into my car’s navigation system and heading north. Ten minutes later I passed the Safeway market he’d sent me to a couple of months ago. I smiled at the memory, but quickly sobered when I realized he was inviting me to his studio for the first time. This was a big deal. This was Seth’s sanctuary. To be granted entry to an artist’s workspace was an enormous show of trust not to be taken lightly. I knew this from the very rare occasions I was allowed into my father’s studio as a child.
The address he’d given led to a narrow street in an upscale boutique area east of the supermarket. I parked and looked around the neighborhood at the brick facade buildings with their brightly colored awnings. It was quiet and peaceful, but not at all what I expected.
I wouldn’t have blinked at an industrial-style space in an abandoned warehouse, but a neat and tidy, respectable studio above a FedEx storefront was unexpected. I climbed the whitewashed stairs adjacent to the shop and paused before knocking on the door. It was slightly ajar, which I assumed was for my benefit until I heard a voice I recognize as Rand’s.
“It won’t kill you to play one night with us. Don’t make me beg.”
“I’m not asking you to beg. I’m just not interested. And I have plans.”
“With your boyfriend?” The sneer in his friend’s tone was obvious. I heard a snapping sound and a chuckle before Rand continued, “I have an idea! Blow the guy, fuck him senseless, and put him to bed early. He’s old, right? You have a thing for ancient guys. He won’t even notice you’re gone. Then you come downtown and shred with us for a couple hours. Please?”
“You are unreal.”
I tapped the door once to announce my presence before opening it. Seth stood with a paintbrush in his right hand behind a canvas that faced the back wall. The room was large with light colored hardwood flooring. It was lined on all sides with paned windows situated high on the white-painted walls.
The late afternoon sun flooded the room with natural light and cast a brilliant glow across the canvas-filled space. There were three large easels set at various angles. A table laden with paints and supplies stood against the back wall, anchored by an enormous drop cloth. An ancient, tiny desk and chair took up a corner and a miniature refrigerator and microwave sat nearby.
I would have easily guessed this was an art studio, but I was puzzled. Every single canvas lining the space was turned to face the wall. There was no hint at the artist’s style other than he was fairly neat.
“Ah, the boyfriend. We meet again. How’s it goin’?”
Rand’s tone was friendly enough but laced with vague distrust as if to say he hadn’t decided if I was worthy yet.
“Good to see you again.” I offered him my hand in greeting. He stared at it for a long moment before grinning good-naturedly and finally shaking it.
Seth set his paintbrush aside and greeted me with a soft kiss. Suddenly the other man standing a few feet away disappeared from view. The most innocent touch of Seth’s lips made my head spin. We’d been naked in bed sucking each other to oblivion that very morning, but it felt like forever ago. Just being near him made me dizzy. Nothing mattered but Seth. Not Rand. And certainly not Simon.
The moment that last thought filtered through my brain, I flinched, instantly uncomfortable with my thoughts. I gave Seth a small smile and reached out to rub paint from his cheek.
The grin he gave in return was glorious. “You’re here early. I would have gotten rid of this guy if I’d known you were coming soon.”
“I left after a meeting.”
“So you’re British. Tell me something interesting about yourself. Do you like music? Oh wait—this is the jazz enthusiast, right? I might like you after all. Who’s your favorite jazz artist?”
“John Coltrane,” I answered immediately.
Rand nodded and gave me a begrudging half smile. “Favorite album?”
“ Blue Train .”
“Favorite track?”
I gave a short chuckle, amused at his rapid-fire questions and strange intensity. “The title track followed closely by ‘I’m Old Fashioned.’”
“Lively and sexy then sentimental. Hmm.” Rand turned back to Seth, who was watching our exchange with his arms crossed and a bemused expression. “I’ll give him a tentative thumbs-up. Too bad you’re British. This guy’s got a thing for accents. Dontcha?” Rand squeezed Seth’s cheek like an old aunt might a favorite nephew. Seth smacked his hand away and gave his friend a hostile look of warning.
“Weren’t you just leaving?” Seth asked in a syrupy tone.
“Fine.” Rand moved toward the door and turned back. “Look, if you change your mind, I’d be grateful. If not… I’ll still love you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sure thing. Hey Paul… sorry if I sounded like a jerk, I?—”
“Nice try, asshole. I don’t care if you’re suddenly the nicest guy on the planet, I’m still not playing tonight. Get your guitarist to sober up or better yet, find another one who’s reliable.” Seth shook his head and pointed toward the door. “Bye.”
“Why am I the guy in charge of this shit?”
“Because it’s your band and your dream. I’m doing my own thing now. It’s time to let me go, Rand.”
The two men stared at each other in a quiet that spoke volumes. It was easy to tell they were old friends who no longer had to rely on words to communicate. I envied their ease and was thinking Seth was lucky to have that in his life when the other man spoke again.
“But Seth… I’ll never let go. Not completely.” He stepped back toward Seth and captured his head in his hands before kissing his mouth noisily. He gave me a cocky smile and a short wave before finally opening the door. “See ya, Paul. You seem better than that shithead, Pickard. Don’t hurt my boy… or else.”
Seth rolled his eyes and spun back to his canvas on the other end of the room. He was saying something about a show near the campus and the band’s fucked-up guitarist with drug issues, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could hear was “don’t hurt him.” Everything sounded like space in a vacuum. A whooshing noise colliding with quiet and soft chatter.
“Hey, what’s wrong? I thought you’d want to see this place. What do you think?”
“I—”
Seth cocked his head and gave me a searching look. With his paint-stained T-shirt and holey jeans, he looked younger than ever. I felt so horribly out of my element, I could have choked with it. “What is it? You look kinda pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. I licked my lips and swallowed convulsively. My mouth had gone dry. I was so far from fine I needed a life preserver.
“Huh. Want water? There’s some bottled?—”
“When your friend said ‘don’t hurt him,’ he—what did he mean?”
Seth rolled his eyes and shook his head dismissively as if to say it wasn’t important. He walked across the room and bent to grab a water bottle from the mini refrigerator. He handed it to me with a sardonic grin.
“Nothing important. He’s a troublemaker. You gonna beat him up?”
“That day at the museum, the black eye. The first time I topped and you said your last experience wasn’t good. It was Simon, wasn’t it? He hurt you. He?—”
“Stop!” His stormy expression was my answer. His posture was rigid and tension rolled from him in a tumultuous wave. “Stop.”
I couldn’t. “Did he? What did he do to you?”
“Fuck!” Seth turned abruptly and threw the paintbrush, sending a splatter of blue across the table. He gave me a derisive once-over and adopted a “no bullshit” tone when he spoke again. “If you must know, he wouldn’t take no for an answer and things got out of hand.”
“Did he?—”
“Stop it! Leave it the fuck alone!”
“I can’t. I can’t bear the thought of him touching you. And if he hurt?—”
“He hasn’t touched me in months, Paul. So drop it.”
“How can I? He’s evil.”
“Simon’s not evil. He just hates to lose. He thinks wanting something or someone is all it takes. He doesn’t worry about reciprocal feelings.”
“That isn’t okay! And I cannot believe you’re defending him.”
“I’m not defending him, but?—”
“He knows about us. Is this a setup of some sort? A triangle of old lovers who?—”
“Hang on a second! What are you saying? I didn’t conspire to create some weirdass love triangle. If you think?—”
“I don’t!” I shouted, surprising us both with my anger. I closed the distance between us so we stood chest to chest, staring at each other intently with fiery mistrust and frustration. I held his chin between my thumb and forefinger and rubbed his stubbled chin. “The problem is… I don’t know what the hell to think. And I fucking hate the idea of him knowing any part of you.”
Seth swallowed hard and smacked my hand away. He pushed my chest, glaring at me as he pulled out of my grasp and made his way across the room to his canvas. He picked up a brush and bent his head. The message was clear. Fuck off and go away. I should have. I should have taken the cue to walk out while I still had some semblance of dignity. I was haunted by unexpected parallels. It suddenly seemed too convenient we’d been with the same man. Maybe it was a coincidence, but I had a strong premonition Simon had been aware of us for some time. And he didn’t like it. I could process this very odd twist and move on… with or without Seth. But I couldn’t seem to leave it. I was too tense, strung out and more than a little volatile.
I followed him, standing just beyond view of whatever he was painting. My respect for the creative process was too ingrained for me to peek at his work without invitation. I racked my brain for a cool, calm way to ask how the hell he got involved with Simon Pickard, but I failed. Miserably.
“When was the last time you saw him?” My tone was clipped, angry, and unfortunately… accusatory.
Seth barked a laugh devoid of humor and took a step forward, holding his paintbrush like a shield.
“Hmm. Interesting question. I wonder if you’ll believe I saw him maybe a month ago when he demanded a meeting with Harry and me to incorporate some of his pieces with mine. We fought. As usual. But I had to make nice ’cause I need that exhibit. So?—”
“What do you mean by ‘make nice’?” My tone was low and sharp with an almost menacing edge I hardly recognized. I was out of line and I knew it. I should back off but?—
“Fuck you. Do you think I fucked him? You think I?—”
“No, of course not.”
“Then tell me what you’re thinking.”
He twisted the paintbrush in his fingers. His eyes were ablaze with righteous indignation. I closed my eyes briefly and reached out to touch his arm.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t touch me. Go on. Explain.”
“Seth….”
“I said?—”
I couldn’t be sure who was more surprised when he lashed out and painted my expensive designer shirt with a wide swath of a muted shade of blue. I was suddenly grateful I’d taken off my suit jacket and tie at the end of the day. I looked from my ruined shirt to the wide-eyed culprit standing with his brush still in hand, poised to create more damage.
“What have you done?”
“It looks like I painted you. I might be able to get it out with?—”
“No. You actually won’t be able to get this out. It’s bloody ruined.”
“Yeah well….”
I snatched the paintbrush from his fingers and cocked my head thoughtfully before raising my hand to paint a neat line across his cheekbone when I quickly realized there was no satisfaction in messing with his already damaged T-shirt.
His eyebrows rose comically as he reached up to touch his cheek. He examined his blue-stained fingers with an inscrutable expression. I knew he wouldn’t let it go, but I was surprised at his speed when he lunged for me, knocking me back to grab for the brush. I tightened my grasp and held it above my head like a preschooler commandeering a sought-after toy.
“This is mine.”
“Fine. There’s more where that came from.” He waltzed to the table at the opposite end of the room and took a brush from a container holding dozens in varying shapes and sizes before heading back to the canvas to wet it.
“Enough! This is childish. I told you I believe you.” I shook my head in exasperation. I could hardly comprehend I was participating in this ridiculous meltdown.
“Oh thank God. I was worried for a second,” he sighed theatrically as he reached out to brush paint across my nose, mouth, chin, and along the buttons of my already ruined shirt.
“You little shit!” I plucked at his shirt and dragged him against me. He held his brush out of my reach, wriggling to free himself from my hold. I tightened my arms around his waist until he went still.
“Let go.”
“No.” I tilted my hips against his as I tightened my hold.
Seth’s eyes took on a feral expression I’d never seen before. Anger and self-righteousness turned into a completely different kind of passion. He dropped his paintbrush and wrapped his arms around me like a snake as he pressed himself close so there wasn’t a breath of space between us. He hooked his leg around mine and jutted his hips forward, grinding his obvious erection against mine.
“What’s your plan now? You gonna fuck me and make sure I know who’s boss? Huh? Are you gonna?—”
I plunged my tongue in his mouth as I clutched at his longer hair. He gasped in surprise, but quickly caught the new tempo. The kiss was wild and manic. We stood groping and clinging to each other, desperate for friction and a release of the pent-up, crazy swell of energy surrounding us. I slipped my hands under his T-shirt and moved my splayed fingers up his back. He made a purring sound as he gyrated against my impossibly hard cock.
Even through the layers of clothing, I could have sworn neither of us had been this turned on before. It was madness. I should stop. Angry sex wasn’t good, I tried to tell myself. But I didn’t think I was angry anymore, I was just horny and possessive and?—
That’s what it was. I was possessive. Seth was mine. Not Simon’s. I wanted him to know he belonged to me. But… he was talking again. Something about tearing clothes and fucking like animals. My vision blurred as the dirty words combined with urgent groping sent me to another realm.
“Stop! You’re mine. Do you understand? Not his. He can’t have?—”
“Hey.” Seth went still before pushing out of my arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t bring him here. He has nothing to do with us. Don’t even say his name.”
I nodded and stepped toward him, desperate to continue where we’d left, but he put a hand up to stop me.
“I’m not your boy toy or your property.”
“You know I don’t think of you that way.”
“I know. I do, but….” He lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly across the room before moving back to me. He set his hand over my belt and began to slowly work his fingers around the buckle and through the loop while he kept his eyes fixed on mine. “What we have here is special. It’s ours. It’s not for anyone else. Don’t let him in.”
I shook my head furiously as I reached for his nipple, tweaking the sensitive flesh before exploring his torso, then dipping my fingers to fumble with his zipper. “I won’t. I just don’t want to share and I hate?—”
He set a finger over my lips and replaced it with his tongue a moment later. I moaned loudly as I renewed my effort to get to his cock. “You aren’t sharing me. I’m only with you. You know that, right?”
“Yes but—fuck!” I threw my head back and clutched at his arm when he gripped me in a punishing hold.
“Good. Then no more talking. I want you. Only you. And right now….” He pushed at my shoulder, indicating he wanted me on my knees. I wordlessly obeyed. I was practically salivating when he pushed his jeans and briefs over his ass and held his penis inches from my lips in invitation. “I want this.”
I stared at his beautiful cock and breathed in his manly scent. God, he was magnificent. I stared up at him in wonder. How did I get to my knees so fast? The energy surrounding him was turbulent. Dangerous. And he was no safe harbor. He stood with his hands on his hips like a proud Viking warrior waiting to be serviced. The idea that Simon or anyone might have power over him was laughable. He was his own entity. And fuck me, I wanted a piece of him. Whatever he’d give.
I gripped his ass for purchase, then swooped forward to swallow him whole.
“Fuck, Paul!”
I sucked furiously, up and down, running my hands over his strong thighs and in between his legs. I pulled back to slow the tempo, licking him leisurely until he grabbed a handful of my hair to guide me where he wanted me. He pumped his hips wildly into my mouth. I heard his soft hum of pleasure somewhere above me.
The feeling of being so completely consumed and dominated turned me on. I unzipped my trousers and pushed the fabric aside. My cock hurt, I was so hard. I could already feel a tingling sensation along my spine. It wouldn’t take much for me to lose control.
He pushed me off and sank to his knees, quickly covering his lips over mine, his tongue gliding and probing as though he were desperate to taste himself. Then he bent over to suck my dick with his ass in the air. I heard myself groan as I smoothed my hands over his back, then leaned over his sweat-slicked body to slide a finger along his crack. He arched and inched his knees closer to give me better access to finger his hole.
“You want to fuck me, Paul?” He sat up and kissed me. All tongue. Pure sex.
My vision blurred. “Yes.”
“Say it. Tell me how you’re gonna do it. Make it dirty, make it something I won’t forget.”
“Holy—”
“Tell me you’re gonna pound my hole and?—”
“Seth, stop. I’ll cum without bloody touching you if you don’t shut up. Condom, lube?”
“Right. Be right back.” He shucked his jeans, shoes, and socks off before making his way to the tiny desk in the corner. I watched my naked lover move about the darkening room. I couldn’t help admiring him. He was young, fit, and beautiful, but it was his confidence and ease of being that set him apart. A particular spark that was uniquely his. He smiled at me as he stroked his impressive cock and meandered seductively back to crouch at my side. “Lose your clothes and put the condom on. I’ll be right back.”
I did as instructed and chuckled when he returned a moment later with the red and white checked blanket he always brought with him on his sketching excursions. I started to make a comment, but my mouth went dry as he unfolded the fabric hurriedly and positioned himself on his hands and knees.
“Uh….”
“What are you waiting for?”
I made a pained noise as I fell to my knees between his spread legs and reached for the lube. Seth began a new round of raunchy commentary about how hard and how fast he wanted it, but went blessedly quiet at the first touch of my finger at his entrance. I tried to be as gentle as possible, but I couldn’t take my time. I slipped a finger inside him, angling it slightly before moving it in and out.
“Another, and don’t fucking ask if I’m sure,” he growled.
I added more lube and obeyed. I wanted to comment on him being bossy, but I was too turned on. When he asked for a third finger, I complied, but knew he’d want something else quickly. I stroked my sheathed cock, removed my fingers, and gently pushed inside my lover.
The sensation of being surrounded by his heat was intoxicating. I could never tire of this. I inched my way in slowly and stopped to wait for his signal or his exasperated plea for me to get fucking moving.
He pulled his hips forward, then back, testing his readiness or perhaps just once again topping from the bottom. I met him with an impatient thrust that knocked him off-balance. His fingers gripped the blanket with white knuckles as he repeated his backward motion. This time he was ready for me, and of course, he wanted more.
“Harder. Fuck my ass. Do it har?—”
I clutched at his shoulders and pummeled my hips into him. The steady pounding of sweaty flesh and labored gasps of breath echoed in the room. I ran my hands along his sides, caressing his lower back and his legs before grabbing for his bobbing prick.
“That’s good. Ah, more,” he demanded in a low guttural tone.
I squeezed the tip and tried to twist my wrist to get a better grip to stroke him, but our position didn’t allow me to do everything he wanted at once.
“Turn around, love. On your back.”
He obeyed, quickly lifting his legs and drawing me in. We chuckled when I fell on top of him, but when I steadied my weight and guided myself back inside him with my eyes locked on his, something changed. I brushed his hair away from his forehead and kissed him softly as I rocked gently into him.
The heat was all consuming. Except now it seemed to move beyond the act of physical connection. There was something under the surface, and every thrust and sigh was a testament to its existence. It couldn’t be ignored. I screwed my eyes shut and reveled in the intense sensations, willing myself not to be guilty of romanticizing the moment. But when I opened them to find him staring up at me, I knew with an odd certainty that I was correct. He felt this too. I wasn’t alone.
The enormity of the realization, while wrapped in his embrace with his legs firmly holding me in place, was my undoing. I came apart with no warning, flying high above a beautiful moment as though I had wings. I shook and struggled to bury myself deeper while hoping to cling to the high. When he came a second behind me, I got my wish. I held him tightly, wrapping myself around him and fusing my mouth over his. He gasped for air, trembling in my arms.
The stillness in the aftermath frightened me. It was potent. I couldn’t be the one to address the change. I would surely muck it up or scare him too. Silence was better, I thought. I lay flat on my back, listening to the sounds of him moving about. Running water, footsteps. He nudged my side with his bare foot when he returned with a warm cloth and a box of tissues.
“What am I to do with the Kleenex?” I asked, taking the cloth from his hand.
“You have a used condom on your dick, dude. Time to get rid of it. Put it in the—never mind, I’ll take care of you.”
I started to protest, but the sight of him rolling the condom off me then neatly disposing of it in tissue was sexier than it should have been. And his hands moving over my spent flesh with a warm cloth felt too amazing to question. I sighed and beckoned him to lie at my side. He cocked his head and smiled shyly before lying naked, facing me with his head propped on his hand. We stared at each other and let the silence take over again.
“Thank you.”
“For?”
Sappy, sweet words sprang to the tip of my tongue. Thank you for being amazing, original, and utterly unexpected in the best possible ways. But I wasn’t a complete fool. If I didn’t want him to bolt, I had to play it cool.
“For inviting me here. It’s brilliant.”
“You say everything’s brilliant,” he chided playfully. His smile was beguiling. He was pleased his invitation hadn’t been taken lightly.
“I was sure it would be an old warehouse space. This is nice.”
“Yeah. The rent is manageable and the lighting is great.”
“Hmm.”
“Hey, I don’t necessarily want to do this, but what got into you? Don’t get me wrong, the end result was sexy as fuck, but… he doesn’t belong here and?—”
“I saw him today. He was leaving the office just as I was entering and—it was the first time in years.”
“Ah. Out of curiosity… how long were you with him?”
Talk about a buzz kill. Ugh. I flopped to my back and looked for cracks in the ceiling.
“Five years.”
“What?” Seth scrambled to sit up, staring down at me with an incredulous expression. “You have got to be shittin’ me.”
“I shit you not. Lie down. You’re too far away.” I pulled his left arm and turned so we were facing each other.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. I’m a sucker. He was wonderful, then he was questionably sane and I was too stupid to figure out I was quickly becoming my mother. All the worst parts, that is.”
“How so?”
“My mother enables my father’s art, which in turn means she enables his capacity to overlook all common sense and decency when he decides he’s above mere humans. His work is his world. It always was. I was a bystander they hardly noticed.”
“But five years….” He shook his head in disbelief, plucking at the blanket.
“Yes, five years I’ll never get back.” I tried to infuse the statement with levity when I noted Seth’s knit brow. “It wasn’t all horrible. You probably know firsthand how charming he can be. But his volatile side… it was déjà vu. You’ve heard the saying you end up marrying someone like your mother or your father, right? Simon was self-serving like Dad and I was his puppet like Mum. Or a pushover.”
“You aren’t a pushover.”
“Not now. I like peace and order in my life, but I think I’m past trying to appease others to get it. I don’t come from a so-called normal world, Seth. My parents live on canvas in a cottage behind a stately manor in the Kent countryside. My father creates. My mother provides inspiration. That’s how they work. The simplest provocation can lead to World War III. They have two gears… love and hate. The process of getting from one state to the other to fuel inspiration is what drives Dad’s art. It’s not uncommon really. But think about it from a child’s point of view. Days of screaming and crying followed by declarations of love and a steady thumping of a mattress were my commonplace. Then silence. I was afraid of the quiet too. It meant another storm was coming. Something dysfunctional. Like the time Mum broke her leg and gave the doctors two different stories… she tripped in the garage or she fell down the stairs. I remember visiting her in hospital and asking her to cooperate. To get help. She wouldn’t tell the truth, but of course I knew he pushed her.”
“What do you mean, your dad pushed your mom down the stairs? Is that British code or?—”
I chuckled as I slid my foot between his legs. It was warm in the room and we were still covered in sweat, but I had to touch him somehow. “No. Unfortunately I mean it at face value. It was fucked-up, as you say, but….” I shrugged and rolled my eyes in self-deprecation “It was home.”
“Do you talk to them anymore?”
“Of course. Dad and I will never really move beyond surface pleasantries, but Mum is relatively normal. She visited me often when I lived in London, and I swear it was as though I were meeting someone new. She’s a gifted curator. If it hadn’t been for Dad, I think she could have had a career at any major international museum. I love my parents in my way, but I’m desperate not to be anything like them if I can help it. Simon was my road to repeating their dysfunction.”
“Sounds like he did a number on you.” Seth let out a long breath of air. He reached for my hand and entwined our fingers.
“A restraining order and an ocean have helped more than I can say.”
“What are you talking about? What did he do to you?”
I sighed and lifted my arm to show him the scar on my wrist. “It’s faint now and smallish, but I’m sure you’ve noticed it. Courtesy of Simon. He turned into Jack the Ripper one night. Slashed my arm in a rage and—” My breath caught. I realized I hadn’t actually told this story to anyone other than a therapist. Seth ran a soothing hand over the old wound, silently waiting for me to continue. “There was blood everywhere. I passed out and when I came to, I was in hospital with kind-faced nurses begging me to tell them what really happened. Just like Mum.”
I bit my bottom lip and glanced over at Seth. I was calmed by his presence. The shame I usually felt at dredging up this unpleasant chapter in my life was noticeable in its absence. I looked over at him with a weak smile. “I lied. I made up a story about fumbling with a sharp knife or something equally ridiculous. Everyone looked uncomfortably at one another and moved on. Maybe it was the knowing glances or the fact it was the same story at a different hospital from Mum’s. Either way, it was a wake-up call.”
I smiled when he lifted my hand and kissed my fingers. “Now you know what a bloody mess I am.”
“Now I know you’re human. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Telling me about them. About Simon. And you. I like to think I’m relatively normal, whatever that means, but Paul….”
“Hmm?”
“There is no triangle and no?—”
“Shh. I know. Leave it now. Forget about him. Forget about my parents and their brand of madness. There are too many crazy people in the world.”
“I think that saying is true… it doesn’t matter where you come from, it’s where you’re going that counts. Some people, some places, are only tests of your strength. You’re a survivor. I am too. I used to hate my parents, but now I feel sorry for them. They don’t know what love is. Love isn’t rooted in jealousy or in following rules from a book written thousands of years. They’ll never understand that. But I still think about them more often than I should. I wish I was immune or numb. It’s unfair in a way that love isn’t clean-cut and evenly divided. Nothing in life is fair.”
“Well said.” I studied his profile in the shadows, thinking the darkness made it easier to be completely honest. “Simon is someone I left behind with good reason. Seeing him was disconcerting and I wasn’t prepared. It’s been a long time and—” I brushed a strand of hair behind his ear and tugged at his lobe when Seth’s expression turned guarded. “What is it?”
“He’s going to be at the opening at Harry’s gallery next month. Simon is good friends with Harry. He weaseled a few of his pieces into my ‘exclusive’ show. Asshole. I don’t know that for sure, but it’s probably the reason he’s still in town. He won’t go back to London until the end of October at least. I’m only guessing. I haven’t talked to him in a month.”
“Lovely,” I grumbled sarcastically, swiping my hand over my jaw. “I suppose I should be grateful for the warning.”
“Maybe I should talk to Harry and?—”
“Don’t. It’s over. I think the worst is over now that I’ve seen him.”
“Don’t waste time worrying about him. He’s over. The past.” He smiled. A slow, sweet grin tinged with a soulful, thoughtfulness that was pure Seth.
He pressed a gentle kiss on my mouth as he pushed me onto my back and crawled over me. We shared a long look I was tempted to quantify as meaningful and special, but I let it go and surrendered to the moment.
Perhaps it really was all about where we went from here.
Seth spent the remainder of September in his studio finishing his final piece in the collection for his upcoming exhibit. He claimed it was his pièce de résistance. Though it was still propped on a giant easel in his studio, it was the only canvas I hadn’t been invited to see.
He’d happily turned every other one from the wall for my inspection, and I was suitably impressed. The color, the texture, the vibrant moodiness apparent in each piece was… magnificent. I had no doubt I’d love the one he was putting his final touches on, but he was adamant. I would see it at the exhibit and no sooner.
“That’s hardly fair. Shouldn’t I get a sneak preview?” I asked one weekday morning.
When he didn’t answer, I glanced across the car to find him staring at his phone. I was about to drop him off at his studio on my way downtown. It was part of our new routine. I would pick him up on my way home from my office. We’d eat dinner, watch television, and chat about nothing and everything. Occasionally he’d talk me into playing a video game.
He’d left his gaming console at my house months ago and tried hard to teach me his favorites, but I think he was beginning to realize I was hopeless. When one of us became too frustrated to continue, we settled into opposite ends of the sofa with a book or, in his case, a sketchpad. We’d come together later with soft kisses and tender sighs or impassioned embraces and fevered thrusts. He stayed with me most nights and woke sleepily to make coffee and putter about while I got ready for work. I’d made a conscientious effort to spice up my life with travel and adventure, but now I was extraordinarily content where I was.
Seth was my adventure. He was maddening and mischievous, but he was full of life with a magical outlook and a flare for nonsensical reasoning that I was beginning to understand.
He smirked at his cell before turning to give me an amused look. “You’re looking for the special boyfriend treatment, huh? Sorry, Charlie. Only one week to go. You can wait.”
Boyfriend. Hmm. The word fell so easily from his lips at times, like it had been there all along. It was in the same vein as “let’s go to Starbucks” or “I prefer The Coffee Bean.” As though it were a title or a name we agreed suited us without having to muddle over any fine points, such as “is this a good idea?” But it was a good idea. It fit in a way that didn’t require explanation. It was understood.
“Hmph. Who has your attention?”
“It’s Rand. He decided he’s moving to New York. He wants me to drop everything and try my luck in the Big Apple.” He snorted as he punched a message, then put his phone in his pocket. “As if.”
“It’s not a terrible idea for an artist, you know. I’m actually surprised you didn’t try your luck there rather than DC when you returned home.”
“I would have, but there were a couple things pointing to DC. If I moved to New York, I would have been tempted to take the types of modeling jobs I’d done in Milan. Plus there was Harry’s gallery show and that was all tied to the ex, who wasn’t my ex at the time.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Sorry you asked?”
“No.” I gave a short laugh as I pulled in front of his studio. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” He leaned over to kiss me before gathering his things. “Hey, I was gonna tell you, um….”
“What?”
“If you wanna invite your friends or whatever to the opening, it would be cool by me. You know, like Aaron and his guy or whoever. If you want. I’ll see ya later.” He jumped out of the car before I could respond, but turned back at the last second with a devilish grin and a piece of folded paper in his outstretched hand. “This is for you. Nah ah! No peeking until I’m upstairs, deal?”
I took the paper and rolled my eyes. “Of course. What is it?”
“You’ll see. Later.”
I watched his progress as he fished his keys from his lightweight blue jacket, then hefted his messenger bag over his shoulder before climbing the stairs to his studio. The moment he was out of sight, I opened the paper and chuckled. It was a drawing of me sitting on my sofa at home with a deep scowl on my face, cradling a game controller in my hands. The caption read “This is bloody useless,” my mantra the previous evening when I’d lost at his ridiculous game for the umpteenth time. I picked up my cell and typed a quick text.
I look angry.
I was about to put the car in drive when my phone buzzed.
U were. Sorry to say it, but ur skills aren’t improving. Love u anyway.
I stared at the words for a long moment, then glanced up at his studio. My mouth went dry and I felt a little dizzy. Love. I reread his message. He was joking. It was an offhand, silly nothing. The word didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean. Or did it?
Any worthy ad exec knew his job was to make others believe romantic notions about love, lust, and desire through perfectly chosen lush photographs of gorgeous men and women wearing beautiful clothing accompanied with genius ad copy. A phrase or even a single word to elicit the feeling that you’d do anything to capture that image in your own ho-hum life. Seeing that word flash on my screen felt… significant. Important. I wanted it to be real.