Chapter 11 #2
His painting was next, a vast painting of black ravens soaring on that white canvas over a battle field.
Only the blood red, it was dripping down to the edge of the canvas.
Gasps from the crowd, and Spencer had to stand at his name, bow a bit and wave around as his name was announced.
He sat then to listen to the biddings, convinced it would go for nothing, but the price kept climbing, earning some cheers and claps.
A man stayed last, competing with a woman in her fifties.
She raised a last amount, insane, and he bowed out.
The gavel. Sold. Claps and cheers, that astronomical sum projected on a screen.
Spencer could hardly breathe, in shock. What the fuck.
Downing another glass of whiskey, but more people had started to come to their table to ask about his paintings.
His mother talked to them, reassuring them that they would have an exhibition soon. And maybe another auction.
That woman walked over to them then, and offered her hand to Spencer. A tall woman, her dark hair in a bun, some rogue curls around her temples. Red lipstick, matching her dress.
“So young and so talented already…”
Martina perked up. “Yes, we are very proud of him. Thank you for being so generous.”
“I couldn’t let that painting slide out of my hands.
It will have a prime place at home.” She took a small golden card out of her purse and handed it to Spencer.
“You are welcome to see it once it’s been set up.
” Grazing his fingers when he took it. “It’s always good to have the artist’s opinion on the placement. ”
That touch rushed down Spencer’s spine like dry ice. Oh… “I’d be honored but…”
Martina waved him away. “Of course you can go. The least you can do for Miss Blakely now that she has spent a fortune on your… art.”
Spencer shot her a dark look, but he turned back to the woman at her voice.
“It’s not like I bought the artist too, although…” She gave him a smile, and left, her hips swaying in that tight dress.
Martina slapped Spencer’s hand. “You will go and make sure she’s happy with that painting’s placement.”
Spencer snatched his hand away. “Fuck you. I won’t whore myself out to your rich friends!”
“You already whore yourself out, dear, and for free. She’s rich and would spoil you, I’m sure. A widow, too.”
Spencer swayed, almost telling them. Almost. That he was fucking Duncan, a low-life nobody, his bodyguard.
Almost, when he glanced at Duncan and their eyes met.
Duncan couldn’t have heard the conversation, but had seen enough maybe to guess, and there was nothing else in his eyes but his worry and caring, that simmering anger.
Spencer stood, flinging the card on the table. “Fuck her if you want her money that much.”
“Spencer! Just where do you think you’re going?”
“My talentless shit got sold? I’m done here.”
Henry looked up at him, puzzled. “You’ll miss the dinner and the dancing.”
Spencer sometimes wondered if his father did it on purpose to seem clueless. “Doesn’t matter.” He gestured at Duncan but he was already there by his side, waiting. He looked up at him, trying not to collapse in his arms. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“As you wish.” Giving him a puzzled look, but he trailed him outside, and called a driving service for a decent car.
They waited; the press thankfully gone somewhere on that night street. That cool air made Spencer shiver, his teeth chattering softly, when he felt a warm jacket on his shoulders and back.
He looked up at Duncan standing in his shirt as he pulled the front of the jacket closed. “You’ll catch a cold.”
He smiled, his eyes scanning the street. “No. I can bear the cold, no worries.”
Not wanting to probe, watching the car turn the corner. Stop. This was a reliable service, one of Sinclair’s companies, so they sat in. The driver already had the address and took off straight away. Duncan kept glancing back at Spencer but he was lost in his phone.
Scrolling the posts on his painting. Several viral ones. Shit. Posts digging up stuff on him, somehow, he had become more visible.
He tapped Duncan on the shoulder, showing him the phone when he turned. “Is this real shit?”
Duncan frowned, reading that post. “It could be… more press means more light on you. And your parents’ money. It’s never good.” His heart tight, thinking of how this would affect Spencer’s life, his already fragile thread to it.
Spencer leant back. “Shit…” Replying to his friends’ blowing up his notifications, the tags buzzing in his hand. Too much. Too fucking much. He could hardly wait to be home.
Fucking finally. He dashed out of the car. “Come up to my room.”
Duncan followed him, puzzled a bit. Closing the door. Eyes wide when Spencer just threw his arms around him. He pulled him close, holding him tight as Spencer heaved in his arms, his mouth open, panting against Duncan’s chest.
“Stay with me tonight.”
“Here?” Dead anguished.
“Yes, here… you stayed before… nobody gives a shit. I’ll put the ‘Do not disturb on the door’ and that’s it.”
Duncan was a bit thrilled he wanted him to stay, but fuck if it wasn’t insanely dangerous. Stiffening a bit at that small plea, like a breath against his muscles.
“Please…”
He pushed his hand in that lush hair, cradling him. “Alright.”
Spencer just sighed and pushed himself out of his arms, walking to the door. He opened it and flipped a sign on it, closing it with the latch then.
He turned to Duncan with that small smile he had, but he seemed so tired, Duncan’s heart lurched.
Spencer walked close. “We’re fucking alone… can’t make much noise though… you’re only supposed to guard me here.”
Duncan ran his knuckles down his cheek. “Hey… what about a bath? You seem tired.”
“This whole fucked up shit!” He glanced towards his bathroom. “I don’t really bathe…”
“Time to start then.”
Spencer caught his hand. “Only if you join me.”
“We’ll fit?”
“It’s a fucking huge tub.”
Duncan smirked and they walked to the bathroom, an enormous marble tub with golden taps taking the whole wall.
“Wow…”
“Told you.” Spencer pushed a few buttons and several holes in the tub started rumbling water. He turned to Duncan, burning with fatigue. With lust. “Time to strip.”
Duncan just unbuttoned Spencer’s shirt, not leaving his eyes as he carefully peeled that soft shirt off. Going to his knees to unzip Spencer’s boots, he eased them off whilst Spencer held onto his shoulders, dazed. Duncan pulled Spencer’s pants off too, his boxers, gently nudging him to the tub.
Spencer climbed in and looked up at him. “And you?”
“I can undress myself.” He took his holster off, his shirt, and the rest followed, carefully draped on a stand.
Spencer’s eyes ate him up. “Come already… you’re taking forever…” The warm water was getting at him though, but he waited until Duncan sat in to wedge himself against him. Sighing when those broad arms went around him, that tattoo even darker with the water. He traced the letters.
“That woman wants to fuck me.”
Feeling his breath hitch. “What?”
“Yeah… that woman who bought the painting. She invited me over. It was pretty obvious. And my mother would sell me out in a heartbeat.” Tracing his arm, that silence, a blessing. That he didn’t scold, make a scene. “Do you think I’m whoring myself out?”
Duncan tipped Spencer’s chin to him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I sleep around.”
“So what? Whom you fuck is not anybody’s business.”
“It could be yours.”
Duncan sighed. “Ok… it’s not like we’re… a couple or anything. You are free to do what you want.” Even if his heart had pinched at his own words, it seemed right not to fuck up what they had.
“But I should not fuck that woman.”
“That’s your choice.”
“I need an answer from you.” Mad a bit, that anger was lapping at his throat.
“No, I don’t think you should fuck her.”
Spencer shuddered despite the warm water, and Duncan just took some shower gel and started washing him, soaping him up, gliding his hands on his arms, his chest, scooping some water on his hair, smoothing it back, combing it with his fingers.
Massaging his scalp. Spencer had closed his eyes, on the verge of breaking down, but he would not allow himself that luxury.
Floating on his touch, on being blended against his skin. Feeling safe.
He swallowed that lump in his throat. “Do you think I’m a majestic fuckup?”
Duncan’s hand stopped in his hair. “No…”
Both of them silent, because words felt like major fuckups.
Not needed. Not when Spencer just parted his lips and Duncan sealed his mouth, their tongues meeting, slow, mellow, deep.
Tasting, drinking, breathing each other’s breath.
Faster, wilder, wider. Spencer turned to straddle him, and Duncan pulled him into his neck.
Caressing that lean back, he whispered in his ear. “You’re not a fuckup, ok? Not to me.”
Spencer just heaved softly to try and kill that ache in his throat. Failing. His tears spilled as his breath hitched. Crying. Silent. Not letting his voice out. And Duncan just cradled him, his lips parted on his soaked neck, drenched in his taste laced with salt.