Chapter 6
Six
Asher
“You said something on the phone earlier,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “Something I thought about all the way over here.”
“Yeah?” I’m distracted by the California rolls; they’re the best I’ve ever had, and I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since last night; I never do before a shoot, so I’m not paying attention.
“You said that for years, people had told you what to believe and how to think. What did you mean by that?”
I finish chewing before saying, “You caught that, huh?”
He nods. “I assume you didn’t mean school?”
“In a way, yeah,” I say. I guess, of my two biggest ‘reveals’, this was maybe the one least likely to make him bolt. “But my parents, too, and our church.”
His eyebrows go up, and he sits up a little straighter. “You’re religious? I never… I didn’t think…”
“Relax, I’m really not. I mean, not anymore.
” I sigh, wondering how deep I want to get into this tonight.
If at all. “I look back now and I wonder if I really ever was, you know? Or if I was just told that I was by everyone else. No such thing as an independent thought where I grew up. Or like, there were, but we were normally punished for it.”
Some complicated look moves over his face. “That’s… I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what to say, and I’m not sure what I even want him to say. “Is it something you feel comfortable talking about?”
It’s not. But it’s not because I’m ashamed of it.
I know it makes me something of a curiosity to have been raised in such a deeply religious environment and to now be making porn and painting ‘degenerate’ art, and I also know people want to equate the two things in a sort of cause-and-effect kind of way.
The aesthetic of it is interesting to people.
Same with Leah. I get that. I just don’t love talking about it because it forces me to think about things that hurt to think about.
But there’s something about the look on his face, the genuine interest on it, which is so unlike the usual interest people have when they find out about it.
And I want him to be interested in me. I want him to know me, I guess.
I wipe my hand on the napkin and sit back on the stool. “You really wanna hear about this now?”
“Only if you’re comfortable, Asher. I don’t want you to share anything with me you don’t want to.” He means this part, too.
I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t mind sharing. But I want you to share something with me first.”
There’s a sexy-as-fuck little glint in his eye when he asks, “And what might that be?”
“Well, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Darling.”
The word, spoken in his accent, makes a warm shiver roll over me.
“Yeah?”
He smiles all the way to his eyes.
“No, my surname is Darling.”
I blink. “Seriously?” He nods. “Christian Darling,” I say, getting a feel for it in my mouth. “Suits you. A proper English last name.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I like it.”
“I’m glad. So… you were about to share something with me…”
I thought maybe he’d want to move on. But he does want to know. Which means that maybe, just maybe, he is here for more than sex. It could be the painting, but I figure he could have made me an offer for that over the phone and not bothered coming over.
“Okay, so until I was like eighteen, I lived in a sort of commune. Heavily religious, heavily controlled, led by a guy who was convinced God spoke through him—who convinced everyone else He did, too.”
“A cult?” Christian says, blinking. He says the word like it’s maybe the first time he’s ever said it aloud.
“I mean, sure, if you like. Though it never felt that way when I was inside it, that came later, after I got out. Which, I guess, even phrasing it that way sort of implies that I was trapped in some way. Which I wasn’t, not really.
I just…” My heart pinches slightly in my chest as I picture my mother’s face the day I told her I was leaving.
Like she knew we’d never see each other again.
“I didn’t know any other way to live. And for a long time, I was happy.
Joyous even. Until I started to question things.
.. So yeah. Massive religious cult baby. ” I point at myself sardonically.
His face has gone a little pale, mouth open in shock.
“Christ, Asher.”
I make a face. “Ummm, triggered.”
He visibly cringes. “God, I’m sorry.”
I give him a pointed look, then I smile. “I’m kidding.”
He laughs, but it’s a little grim. “Does it have a name?” he asks after a moment, something sharp coming into his expression.
“I don’t know how well-known they are in England, but have you heard of HHM?
” He shakes his head. “They’re pretty huge here, especially in the Midwest, though they’ve centres all over the country.
They homeschool kids to be these little mindless followers of the message.
HHM means His Humble Messengers. So entirely lame.
Anyway, my parents joined just when my sister was born, and they’re still there, delivering the message or whatever…
I mean, I assume they are. My sister left when she was seventeen, and that’s when I started to question shit, too.
And also when I began to realise I was… well… not exactly like other boys.”
His eyes turn sad. “You have no contact with your parents now?”
I look down and shake my head. “My dad and I were never all that close. But my mom… well, I miss her, and no, we haven’t spoken since I left.
People who leave aren’t considered part of the family anymore, and Jeremiah has probably convinced them I’m the literal spawn of Satan or whatever, so, yeah, that’s that. ”
Christian sits very still, watching me intently. It’s hard to look directly at his stare, so I brush a hand through my hair and swipe up the last California roll.
“That must have been incredibly hard for you,” he says at last. “To leave everything you knew behind, to have no contact with your parents. I’m so terribly sorry you had to go through that.”
“I’m okay,” I say dumbly.
He nods, then says, very sincerely, “Yes, I can see that.”
It’s meant as a compliment, but I don’t know, it makes a wave of sadness come over me. After a few moments of heavy silence, I ask, a little playfully, “So, do you think I’m damaged goods or something now?”
Christian softly says, “That... actually could not be farther from where my mind is at the moment.”
I give him a small half smile. “Really?”
“I think,” he says, “that you might just be one of the most magnificent creatures I’ve ever met.”
The full-body shiver is intense. “Creature? That a compliment where you’re from?”
He laughs a little as he lifts his glass to sip at his wine. “It can be. It was.”
“Alright then.”
We tidy away the plates, refill our glasses, and carry them to the couch, where I sit with my legs crossed, facing him.
He’s sitting at an angle, his long legs stretched out, dark blue fabric tight over his thighs, and the thick bulge of his uncut cock distractingly visible. My mouth waters. I sip my wine.
“So do you work for the government or…” I ask. “‘Politics’ is pretty vague, you gotta give me something else.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”
“Yeah. I gave you my cult, you give me yours.”
He laughs that warm, honeyed laugh I’m starting to really, really like. He thinks about it. “No, I don’t work for the American government.”
“English government then?”
“British, sweetheart. There is no English government.”
“Oh, okay, noted.” I nod. “So that’s who you work for then? The British government?” When he says nothing, I say, “I could just Google you right now, you know. Now that I have your full name, I could just Google you. I won’t. But I could.”
Some flicker of something, concern I think, passes over his eyes, but then it’s gone. “Yes. I work for the British government—not as a spy,” he adds before I can make the joke again. He studies me a long moment, takes a deep breath, and says: “I’m the UK Ambassador to the United States.”
My mouth falls open a little. “I’m fucking the UK Ambassador to the United States?! Holy shit. That definitely sounds like something US Weekly would want to know.”
“Asher…” he says seriously.
“Sorry, joke. I’d never do that.” I look him dead in the eye. “You know I’d never do that, right?”
He searches my face for a minute. “I think so, yes.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t. I’m not that kind of person.”
He nods, then sinks back in the couch as he lets out a long breath. “I’m beginning to think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for me if you did.”
“Oh, trust me, it really would…” I sip my wine. The headline WIDOWED UK ABASSADOR CAUGHT WITH MALE PORNSTAR flashes across my frontal lobe.
“Then perhaps I just don’t care anymore…” There’s something very tired in his voice.
“You wanna talk about it?” I’m desperate to get under that polished outer skin he keeps real nice and shiny.
Break the surface of him. He looks at me again, and this time it sort of feels like a cry for help.
Because as immaculately put together as he is, and as hard as he tries to hide it, Christian Darling gives off the vibe of a guy who needs a bit of help.
And while I’m not sure what I, a painter with demon twink energy who takes dick for a living, can do for a guy like him, I’ll gladly give it my best shot.
“Maybe another time. Right now, I’d really like for you to come here”—he pats his thigh—“and let me kiss you senseless.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I set down my glass and climb across the couch and onto his lap, straddling him.
Staring down at him, I wait for him to kiss me this time.
First, he reaches up to curl a hand around my neck, finger gently brushing the curve of my jaw, then across my lower lip, up to my cheek. He stares into my eyes.
“You are exceptionally beautiful,” he muses. “Do you know that?”
“Vanity is a sin where I’m from, but thank you.”