30. THIRTY
THIRTY
Sick of being stuck in a car or hotel, I start to drive us towards the downtown area but change my mind at the last second.
It’s been easy today.
Forgetting who I am and how many people can recognize me.
Knowing I've ruined it, I want to lighten the mood, but I’m unsure how to do it.
An idea sparks as I spot a stoplight with graffiti on the pole. Altering our course, I drive us deeper into the city, knowing that this might perk Gray up.
Hopefully.
Not that I ever like doing it, but rejecting Gray damn near killed me.
Almost admitting how badly I wanted to kiss him, to do more , makes me feel like a creep.
Anyone with eyes can see the clear power imbalance between us.
The very clothes on his back wouldn’t exist had I not bought them.
Growing these feelings for him only makes me out to be a blood-sucking predator, taking more than I should.
There’s no doubt in my mind that my emotions are genuine—that this attraction is based on more than a vulnerable target.
I’ve never been that sort of person.
But I wasn’t lying before. He deserves everything a person can give and more.
In all my life, I’ve never stood up to my dad—I've never even tried. I’m scared to be disowned and cast out.
I’m terrified to work from the ground up because I have never had to.
Being brave has never been my strong suit, and deep down, I still wish my dad would look at me and see his son instead of a puppet.
More than anything, I want to see love in his eyes instead of disappointment.
Stupid, I know, but it’s the truth.
Some people can live with it—knowing they’ll never measure up and are a failure in their parents’ eyes.
They allow it to strengthen their resolve, push them closer to their goals, and remain authentic to their identity.
I don’t have it in me. And with the public eye constantly trained on every move my family makes, I would live in constant shame.
No one would work with me; no one would understand.
I’m fucking alone, stuck in this damn mask.
Gray doesn’t need that. I won’t push my bullshit on him either. He’s got enough to worry about.
Still, even as I try to convince myself I made the right choice, I catch myself peeking at him.
Needing my eyes on him constantly, I glance down at his lips.
Those soft, kissable lips might’ve been mine in another life if I were someone else.
The sting radiates through my chest when I look back at the road, spotting our destination. I can do this for him.
Keep the day good.
Keep everything else away .
Finding street parking usually is a pain in the ass on this side of town, but as luck would have it, there’s a spot right in front of the building. I swoop into it, put the car into park, and watch Gray realize where we are.
He leans so close to the window that I’m sure he will smash his nose into it. Little breaths escape him, almost pant-like, as one hand reaches up to palm the barrier between him and the art studio.
“Ever been?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Never. What’s it called?”
“Court Syde.”
“That’s a stupid name,” he says through a chuckle, then hurries to unbuckle himself.
“I think you’ll like what is inside it.”
I get out of the car first, opting to open his door for him, but he beats me to it.
The doom and gloom surrounding him only moments ago vanishes, replaced by golden beams of excitement.
If his leg wasn’t in that brace, I’m sure he’d be jumping.
I get his crutch out of the backseat, offering it to him.
He grumbles something about not needing it but takes it regardless.
“May I get this door for you?” I tease, reaching for the handle.
He rolls his eyes but smiles immediately after.
Pulling it open, I go to guide him but drop my hand before it makes contact. It’s instinct with him—the desire to cater, give, and please.Knowing I have to divert from those instincts hurts more than I thought it would.
“Oh hell yes,” he growls. It’s an eager aggression, the sound far more than appealing to my ears.
Limping over to the first wall covered in street art, his eyes round in their sockets as he fawns over the image.
Uncanny, the picture is a cartoon alien with exaggerated body parts, obscenely large facial features, and flamboyant neon colors.
Rainbows and words are slashed over the canvas in graffiti font—I don’t know what that style of writing is called.
Stepping beside him, I start trying to view the piece as he would, utterly confused by its appeal.
Just as I’m about to ask what it all means, he zips away—well, as fast as he can zip with a broken leg.
“This is so badass!”
I follow him around the impressively sized studio for the next twenty minutes. The building is deeper than it is wide, with various exhibition rooms.
With my hands in my pockets, I observe his wonder.
Is this what he saw earlier? If passion had an expression, it would be Gray’s face. Beauty, awe, obsession, and rapt attention wrapped into a 5’9, bleached-blond man with my favorite shade of blue for eyes.
Eventually, we get to the final area tucked in the back, and Gray abruptly stops.
Brick by brick, the wall he usually hides behind comes back up as all the color drains from his face.
I frown, wondering what happened. Art is meant to invoke emotion, although I doubt this sort does.
I’m still not sure what the appeal of it is, but that’s not for me to judge.
Gray loves it, so I’m feeling some hostility towards this offending canvas that he can’t look away from.
At first glance, there’s nothing obvious about the painting.
A swath of greys in various shades with harsh lines.
The longer I look at it, the more I see the depths of the shading and how intricate and purposeful it is.
I’m not an art guy, but whoever made this has obvious talent.
Focusing my attention back on Gray, I watch his features become more anguished by the second.
“What’s wrong?” I ask gently, wanting to slip my hand in his but keep it in my pocket instead.
He swallows hard, eyes glued to the bottom right corner where a name is scribbled. It takes me a few times to read the name, but when I do, I make the mistake of saying it aloud. “Caleb Brooks.”
“I want to go now,” he blurts, spinning on his heel and limping away with speed.
Catching up to him, I palm his shoulder, easing him to stop. His eyes are rapidly flooding with tears. “Hey,” I soothe, searching his face for answers.
His chin wobbles as he sucks in his bottom lip. “I’m trying to understand. Was that…artwork just really emotive or something?”
A few other people wander back to where we are, and his eyes dart around frantically. “Okay, alright. Come on.”
I take his hand, locking our fingers together. Someone might recognize me, but at this moment, I’m more concerned with getting Gray out of here. The death grip he has on my hand only worries me further.
What happened back there?
Why is he fucking crying?
My jaw tics as we weave through the studio, making it outside slowly due to his limp. As soon as we get to my car, he rushes me. The crutch clatters to the ground, his arms band around my middle, and he hides in my chest while a soft cry slips out of him.
My heart races as I scan the busy sidewalk, people coming and going. I need to get him out of sight and in the car, but he’s holding me so tight like I’m the only one who can make this better.
Trying not to panic, I shake off my selfishness and wrap my arms around him.
“It’s alright,” I whisper, nuzzling the top of his head. “It’s okay.”
“He fucking stole it. He left me, and he stole it ,” he whimpers, trying to burrow deeper into my body. Long fingers claw at my back, and tremors quake through his limbs as he cries harder. “That’s why he kept me around so long. I’m an idiot. ”
Several pairs of eyes are looking at the scene and the cold sweat of nerves forms on my forehead and under my armpits.
Too many fucking people are watching me intimately hugging another man.
In public.
In goddamn daylight.
Fresh waves of terror crush me, erasing any attempt I might have had to comfort Gray. I gotta get out of here and fast. Before they notice, before the pictures start, before it gets back to my dad.
“Gray,” I say with a wicked bite to my voice. I can’t fucking help it. Calm, thoughtful Hunter is gone. “Get in the car.”
I get him detached from my body, rip open the door, and all but shove him inside.
Jogging around to the other side, I jump in, start the engine, and peel out of the parking spot.
My breaths saw out of me, loud and harsh.
I keep checking the mirrors for signs of paparazzi.
The lump in my throat won’t go away, I can’t fucking swallow, and Gray has shriveled into a small ball in the seat, leaning as far away from me as he can get.
Regret fills me up to the point it’s suffocating.
He came to me for comfort, and I shoved him away because I’m a coward.
A fucking coward.
This—right here—is why I should’ve kept my affection locked away. I should’ve never looked at his face and thought, I could kiss him, and he’d let me. I should’ve never allowed myself to become so obsessed with him that I thought who I was wouldn’t matter—that I could find a way.
Only now that I’m calming down do I realize I left his crutch on the sidewalk. “Fuck!” I roar, slapping the steering wheel, and he jumps out of his skin.
“I’m sorry!” he cries.
I just need to get somewhere.
Anywhere.
A dark, quiet place where nothing and no one can see what a fucking monster I am.