Legal Bindings

8. Evan

Evan marchedout of the house with a scowl on his face, determined to put Nick’s snarky rebuke behind him. Nick didn’t know shit. Carl had been flirting back.

Also, Evan had bigger things to worry about than his new roommate’s hostile attitude—like the fact that Evan was hemorrhaging money. The lease, the first month’s rent, a security deposit, the storage unit, the moving company—all outflow, no inflow because he’d gotten rid of the phone that held his clients’ numbers after texting his favorites to let them know he wouldn’t be available anymore. A few had texted back before he chucked the phone into the garbage, but he’d left them on read. He knew himself well enough to know that if he began justifying his actions, he’d end up coerced back into someone’s bed with a sob story.

There had also been a significant outlay of cash on supplies. Canvas and paint and drop cloths galore, along with new brushes and knives and all the other bits and bobs he’d felt like treating himself to when he visited his favorite art-supply store. Never let it be said that a healthy dose of capitalism and some shiny new toys failed to inspire. Now he had all the supplies he needed as well as all the time in the world to create.

The movers were efficient, and Evan pushed Nick out of his mind and directed the last of the show, using it as an excuse to check out the way their biceps and shoulders moved beneath their tight company-issued shirts. God, what he wouldn’t give to have one of them down on their knees, their arms bound tight behind them and his hand fisted in their hair.

“You want the last of it in the living room?”

Evan’s eyes snapped to the chiseled blue-eyed face of Lead Mover—Jack—who was standing next to him with a clipboard. “Oh. Ah, yes.”

“Sure.” Jack made a note then headed back to the truck, presumably to talk strategy with Mover Number Three.

Number Two—Carl, the one Nick had given him such a hard time about—brushed past his boss, holding a heavy box and catching Evan’s eye then giving him a broad smile, not for the first time that morning.

Evan knew that sort of smile. That was a flirty smile—or at least, an “I’ve clocked you as gay, and I might be bi-curious” smile. Which meant that Evan could take great pleasure in checking Carl out as he walked up the ramp to the truck.

Jack approached, the final paperwork in hand, and Evan signed while Carl and his colleague finished depositing the boxes inside. After leaving the house for the last time, though, Carl crossed the lawn to Evan in a half jog that showed off his impressive pecs moving beneath the shirt that really was obscenely tight.

Pulling his mind out of the gutter, he faced Carl with a smile.

Carl returned it, using a bandanna to wipe his forehead as he came to a stop. “Hey. Sorry. I don’t mean to bug you. Just, uh, I noticed some of your stuff. You’re an artist, right?”

“I am.”

“Anything I’d know?”

“Do you know art?” he asked, regretting the ask when Carl’s broad shoulders stiffened. For all that Evan had been annoyed at Nick projecting stereotypes onto his actions, he was doing the same thing, assuming that because Carl had a physical job, he couldn’t possibly be cultured.

“I’m actually majoring in visual communication design at UW. So yeah. I know a little.”

Evan felt like a real asshole and blurted the first question that came to mind. “Is that, like, art psychology or what?”

“Sort of? It’s, like… how does design impact culture, and things like that.”

“What do you want to do with a degree like that?”

“Maybe getting into marketing or PR or whatever. And I was thinking, I mean, if you ever wanted to get coffee or something, we could, uh… talk more about it?”

Well, well, well. Too bad for Nick and his dated assumptions.“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Technically, no. We’re not supposed to ask customers out, so I’m asking you to get coffee. Platonically.”

“As soon as I cut a check to Jack for the balance, I’m not a customer anymore. We could fuck in the van if we wanted to.”

That was strong for a come-on, but Carl just laughed. “Let’s save that discussion for when I don’t work for you.”

“So, like, five minutes?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

That timeline suited Evan fine, and once the check had been paid, he and Carl made plans for their coffee date the following weekend. After that, the movers left, and Evan was forced to face the fact that he’d left things with Nick on a sour note.

Back in the house, he found Nick in the living room, where he’d chosen to sit on his own couch rather than Evan’s. That felt pointed, mainly because Nick’s couch was smaller and shabbier and… Evan really needed to stop caring about what Nick did or didn’t do. Nick was annoying, among other attributes. Handsome? Sure, if you liked stock models. Intriguing? Sort of, because he made you wonder how someone survived so long being such an uptight snob.

But annoying? That was his number one trait as far as Evan was concerned.

“I just thought you’d like to know one of the movers asked me out,” he said, draping himself across the overstuffed arm of his couch. “Unprompted.”

Two bright spots of color flared on Nick’s pale cheeks, and he studied the thick book he was reading like it was a sacred text. “Good for you.”

Evan didn’t feel the slightest bit of remorse as he pressed on. “So you being weird about me flirting with them…”

“I wasn’t being weird. I just find it inappropriate.”

“Why shouldn’t I flirt?” he said, hating the way his voice got higher and tighter when he was upset. Definitely a helpful trait for a queer kid growing up in the Midwest. “He was flirting back!”

“Yeah, and he couldn’t tell you to stop because you were his boss!”

“I’m sorry, but, like… Betty-Sue Smith from down the street probably flirts harder with the mailman.” As if he needed to justify his actions by comparing himself to what straight women did. That wasn’t even the point—Evan knew where the line was. He knew what harassment looked like. He hadn’t crossed it. Nick was just a self-loathing sad sack, and so what if Evan only knew about the self-loathing part because of his friendship with Max? He would have picked up on it eventually on his own, considering the derision dripping off Nick like he’d taken a bath in the stuff. “Sorry the stick up your ass doesn’t allow you to—”

Nick spluttered and slammed his book shut. “You got your date, didn’t you? So I guess I’m wrong!”

“Yeah, you are. Some lawyer, right?”

For the briefest of seconds, Nick’s face showed something real, raw, and hurt before he clamped down on his expression and got to his feet. “I have a headache,” he said then fled. Seconds later, Evan heard his bedroom door slam.

That was one way to get a relationship off on the wrong foot. Still, as Evan replayed the argument in his mind, he found some inspiration in it. Clashing colors on a canvas. A nude figure surrounded by a swirl of conflicting messaging—a live, laugh, love ethic that cut deep with conventionality.

There was something in that, but he was missing something too. Chains maybe? Rope? No, too reductive.

He couldn’t see it yet, but it was the most inspiration he’d had in months, so he fled to the attic studio with his sketchbook, determined to get his frustration out on paper while it was fresh.