Chapter 7
The sun, stabbing its piercing rays into his brain, like tiny pricks and darts.
Fuck… Spencer rolled on his side, groping for his phone amidst all that nausea.
Somehow, it got pushed under his hand so he clutched at it, the smell of coffee flooding his senses.
Squinting in all that light, he blinked at that blurred figure hovering over him.
His vision clearing, Duncan’s eyes swam into his vision, that steaming mug in his hand, close.
“Iss morning?” trying to move his tongue when it weighed a ton.
His voice. “If three in the afternoon is morning, then yes.”
Spencer pushed himself up to sit, trying to keep his stomach content in. His hands laced around the warm mug put in his lap. “You brought coffee?”
“And checked whether you had not died.”
Spencer focused on him, smirking. Somehow, that fright in him too. “I… I slept alone?”
“Yes. Right after I punched your insisting friend in the guts when he kept insisting to get into your ass.”
Spencer whined a laugh and sipped at his coffee. Heaven… He looked at Duncan. “He’s sore?”
“Yes. That’s what a good punch does to your guts.”
“Was it necessary?”
“I’m your bodyguard, and can only be provoked so much.”
Spencer’s lips curled up. “You’d whack my ass too?”
“You deserved it many times already, but you’re also my client.”
His dark eyes smiled. “Would you like that? Whacking my ass?” Somehow, visions of that large hand landing on his ass sent that warm blood straight to his cock. What the fuck…
Duncan noticed that faint creep of red on his pale skin. “Oh, I see… would you like that? Being spanked because you’ve been naughty?”
“Now that you put it that way, it sounds like I’m a naughty kid.”
“Maybe you are.”
Spencer smiled, sipping his coffee. “Do you like it? Whacking asses?”
Duncan shrugged. “What I do in my bedroom is none of your business.”
“You started it.”
“No, you did.”
“Not refuting is admitting.”
“You’re a philosopher now?”
Spencer’s eyes went to the window. “Are the others awake?”
“Yes.”
“Bring me a whiskey?”
Duncan took his mug, standing. “I’m happy to bring you coffee, but serve your poison yourself.”
Spencer’s eyes filled with a small hate.
“I see…” He flung the duvet off and swung his legs to the floor.
Standing, but he lost his balance, landing straight in Duncan’s arms. He stayed there a bit, on that broad chest, wedged against his abs, until Duncan’s scent started fucking with his brain and senses.
He pushed himself away, looking up into his eyes. “I’ll do it myself, then…”
“Suit yourself.”
Spencer swayed, but readjusted his silk pyjamas. “You think you’re so righteous? But drinking helps… it soothes all that fucking ache.”
“Is this your grand speech on how drinking is great? Don’t bother. There’s nothing on Earth that could convince me it’s not a shit addiction. But sure, go ahead and tell yourself how it helps.”
“Fuck you.” He stormed out, as best as he could, still hangover.
Fuck. Duncan went after him, and brought the mug to the kitchen. Turning to Spencer when he walked in with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Prepare the car, we’re leaving as soon as everybody’s ready.”
Duncan blinked at him. “Just like that?”
“I’m the fucking boss here. Just obey, you fuck.”
Eyes a bit wide when Duncan stepped close, jamming a finger in his sternum.
His voice, soft. “You might be the boss, but I’m not your fucking dog.”
Spencer smirked, mocking. “And what will you do? Whack my ass?”
“I might.” He left before he would do something that he would have regretted later. Shit.
Packing, he listened to Spencer argue with the others, a glass breaking against a wall, screaming morphing into laughter, more laughter and shouting.
Driving them back whilst they listened to music in the back, full blast, the whole car rocking.
Probably none of them buckled up either, shit, fuck.
Fuming, but he stayed focused, almost, so close to resigning, but then he realized he had nowhere to go.
Not without a new assignment, and Sinclair sure as fuck wouldn’t give him one fast, not if he ditched this one too so close to the other one.
He grabbed the wheel, feeling like howling again.
Trying to imagine how Spencer would be without all that alcohol and weed flooding his veins, his brain…
failing… because sure as fuck he was drenched in them, maybe all his cells filled with them to the brim.
Chuckling a bit, to quench that despair. He leant his elbow on the window and clamped his teeth on his index finger, that pain soothing. Keeping his hand wedged against his mouth, his teeth sunk into his skin, he drove, a bit more at ease, floating a bit as the road wound down the mountain.
Spencer only called him the next day, and he walked up to the mansion, up to his room. Empty. The window open. His stomach clenched as the adrenaline flooded him, but a voice stopped him from rushing to the window.
“I’m over here…”
Duncan hurried to the workshop, pushing the door open.
Spencer turned to him from his stool, an open white shirt with rolled up sleeves flung on his torso, black loose pants, barefoot. An empty canvas in front of him. That mocking smile. “I figured you shat yourself, but I opened the window out of courtesy and aired out before you arrived.”
Duncan blew a breath, the adrenaline bending into anger. “Fucking great!”
“People filled your head that I might throw myself out the window? There’s a French verb for that.”
“I know.”
His eyes took that peculiar light, roaming him. “I know you know… would you strip?”
“Excuse me?” Incredulous, his anger lapped at his throat.
“Not naked… although…”
“Forget the fuck it!”
“Just the top then? I could use a model.”
“Then fucking hire one.”
Spencer stood and walked close, looking up into his eyes. Somehow, he seemed sober, or at least, maybe hadn’t drunk yet.
“I’d be grateful if you sat with your shirt off… for me… would save a lot of trouble… like hiring a model and waiting for them.” He squeezed Duncan’s bicep through his shirt. “Some nice muscles here…” He batted his eyelashes. “Please?”
Duncan’s lips parted, but somehow, he got lost in those dark eyes, his gentle pleading. Fuck this. “Alright.”
Cursing inwardly, but Spencer’s eyes had lit up, almost not believing him.
Duncan’s hands went to his buttons. “Just the top.”
“Correct.”
Somehow, he wouldn’t look away, couldn’t maybe, and their eyes met as Duncan slipped the shirt down his shoulders, down his arms. He put it on a chair, feeling like a virgin maiden on his first night. Or lad? Fuck.
Spencer’s eyes ate him up, even if he had seen him in a T-shirt, this was different. A bit mad that it made his stomach clench. “Thank you… Just sit there…” He gestured at a stool behind the canvas.
Duncan walked there, almost thinking better of it because it felt awkward as fuck, but he sat, and looked at Spencer who had sat too. “And how do you want me to sit?”
“Comfortable. Just relax. Like you would sit.”
Duncan sighed and leaned his elbows on his thighs, lacing his hands together. Fucking shit.
“Perfect…” That signature mocking smile, he flung his hair back and reached for a palette that seemed straight out of hell. Brushes, a dirty rag.
Dipping his fingers in the paint, mixing it on the palette, he seemed transfixed, somehow, something Duncan had never seen, and he kept watching him, what he could see from the canvas.
Who was the model now? Almost smiling, he relaxed though, but as soon as Spencer looked up, and his eyes glided on him, he almost blushed. Shit.
Spencer traced his finger on the canvas, his hand, smearing the paint on it, gliding Duncan’s outline on that blank, virgin canvas…
Gliding down his jaw, his neck, the curve on his back, the ridges of his muscles.
A warmth there he had never known, as if he was caressing that body, feeling that skin in all that warm paint.
Breathing softly, dead scared of his own feelings, he glanced at him, sometimes catching his eyes too.
Eyes… dipping his finger into another color, that grey…
eyes… nose, mouth, lips… playing a bit, to catch that bitter smile, match that bitter light in his eyes.
Hair… brushing his fingers into that thick paint, like silk.
Transfixed, as if he would live under his hand.
Waist, that dip made his mouth water on his lower back.
Ass, thighs, gliding down, he had to close his eyes for a moment, breathe a bit better.
More. Down is arms, that left arm… blotches for the tattoo, an armor, down to his arm. Letters.
His voice came, soft. “What’s ‘semper fi’?”
“Always faithful… or loyal. It’s Latin.”
“I figured…” His lips curled up, but he traced those letters on that painted arm. “Marine?” His eyes met Duncan’s.
Duncan shrugged. “Your little investigation didn’t lead anywhere?”
Spencer smiled, picking a brush up. “I didn’t pursue it.”
“Why do you want to know? It shouldn’t matter.”
Spencer looked at him. “Why not? It’s top secret?”
“No.”
“You’re super secretive, so I’m thinking Seal?” Grinning at Duncan’s silence. “Don’t worry, I won’t dig.”
“I don’t trust you.” And it was true, even if he had no idea if Spencer could find anything.
“I’m a bit reassured that you’re not fully incompetent after all.”
Duncan scoffed. “Thanks.”
Tracing his scars, on his arms, his chest. Painting them, gliding his fingers in them.
His tongue poked out between his lips as he got lost, and Duncan became one with the canvas, with that man taking shape under his hands and fingers.
Wondering how his skin felt, a bit mad at his own skin and chest burning with a soft fire he had never known.
No matter. Finish this. Bold movements, his eyes guiding his hands, his heart hammering…
the eyes, last, and above that bitter light, something else.
A dab of paint, he had to catch his eyes several times, noticing that light…
leaning a bit back, a bit out of breath as sweat broke out on his back.
Looking into his eyes. They seemed alive; the whole man transposed on that canvas.
A masterpiece. Somehow, Spencer knew that he had never painted anything like this.
I need a drink… maybe two… that fright there. He jolted at Duncan’s voice.
“You’re unwell?”
Spencer blinked at him, and wiped off his forehead with his arm, smearing some paint on it. “No… come and see… needs a bit of polishing but it looks ok…”
Duncan stood and walked behind the canvas, his eyes going wide.
He was happy to have his discipline because he almost fell over, being eye to eye with himself, even if it was not fully realistic, somehow Spencer had captured him sitting there, a bit lost. He couldn’t school his face fast enough though, moved.
“This is… amazing…”
Spencer smirked and walked to a small bar, pouring a glass of whiskey. His hand shook, so he set it around the glass, walking back to him. Feeling his heat, his skin, so close.
“Decent, I would say… the model could have been a bit more beautiful…”
“Fuck you.” The anger was missing though, his eyes roaming that painting.
“I’d like to exhibit this, if you don’t mind… not your name, no… just the title, maybe…” He sipped at that fiery liquid, soothing burn. “Semper fi… my faithful guard dog.” Grinning.
Duncan turned to him, fed up a bit. “Alright, smartass… I told you…”
Spencer looked up at him. “I know… just teasing…so, may I?”
“This is your work, do whatever you want with it.”
“You don’t mind?”
“No…” Somehow, he didn’t. Feeling a bit proud too. “You’re very talented, from what I can tell.”
Spencer smirked, that hate creeping back into his eyes. “Decent, as I said.” Eyes a bit wide when he felt Duncan grab his arm, turning him around.
“You’re fucking talented, ok?”
Lost a bit under that hard touch, his eyes. “Ok… ok mister Righteous… you’re a life coach now?”
“No. Just… stop always thinking you’re shit.”
“I might be…” But above that burning glass, another warmth crept into his throat. Fuck. “Ok, time for you to dispose, and for me to get drunk.”
Duncan rolled his eyes, but dressed. “Can I tempt you with some food?”
Spencer’s eyes gleamed. “Only if it’s a cheeseburger with an extra-large portion of fries.”
“Deal.”
“Oh, hurry then… before there’s nothing to soak this whiskey up.”
Duncan left, and Spencer’s eyes went back to the painting. Semper fi. His lips curling up.