25. Kael
KAEL
This legendary party feels like my video game’s last level, and locking my phone in a security bag at the entrance is my point of no return.
Confrontation waits below. Beat the boss, keep the boyfriend. That’s the theory, anyway.
I still feel Ash’s hands on my hips from last night, but the memory only makes this place feel colder.
Canvas pressed to my chest, I descend into the party’s opulent depths while hyping myself up. Be the bigger man. Don’t rise to his bullshit. Get through this. Gram’s advice, Jamal’s blunt encouragement, and Ash’s unwavering faith all swirl in my head.
My mind does it’s thing and tries to weave a fantasy image of Alistair taking this well, but the party cures me of that delusion fast.
The waterfall beside the staircase blows cold air on my courage. The city glitters beyond the glass, beautiful and far away. Guests in black tie orbit Alistair in slow, obedient circles. What happens to a moon that leaves its planet?
I have to do this. For Gram. For Ash.
“You know your way from here?” the escort asks, gesturing to the artists’ back room.
I nod, and he hurries back up the steps.
The fourth-floor basement is a pop-up gay nightclub, throbbing with music and bodies. Bass rattles my ribs. Strobing light freezes the room into stuttering frames of sweat and glitter. I thread my way through with the canvas held tight to my chest like a shield.
If the universe keeps tabs, then Alistair has evaded what’s due by purchasing his own, temporary universe that bends around his gravity. Men lean in when he speaks. Heads tip back when he laughs. His money is in crystal wine glasses, expensive bottles, sequins, lights, free drinks, and loud music.
I keep moving.
Rocky weighs heavy in my pocket, and I give the pet rock a quick squeeze before reaching for the door handle. Shoulders squared, chest puffed, and canvas in hand, I open the door to the back room.
No courage comes with me.
Alistair’s already inside.
“There he is,” he sings, gliding to my side. “I was so relieved when they contained the Carter Creek Fire.” He drapes an arm around my shoulders to pull me close. “This boy was trapped, hiking away from the fire. Posted the whole thing online. I was just. So. Worried.”
I remember his so-called worried text: This will cost much more than rent.
I stiffen, then pull away from his touch with the excuse to hang my canvas—our canvas—the one with the chains, the fire, and the… love? Is that what this is?
Stepping back, I watch his eyes fix on my work.
“And you’ve painted it,” he whispers. “You must tell us the story.”
He means now. Rich people say things like that, making their demands light enough for people like me to inhale. That’s how my father spoke to my mom in the rare instances they saw each other before she left, never as an equal and always with the answer already decided.
Not today. Alistair wants a story? I’ll give him one with a surprise ending.
“It was sudden,” I begin. “It started at a retreat in Philbrook. When the fire came, everyone evacuated, except me and this guy—”
Alistair lifts a hand, his smug, thin smile curving. “Asher Pierce, right?”
He knows. The thought slams into me, stealing my breath and sending my gaze skittering from Alistair to the exit.
“How…?” I whisper.
“I care about you, Kael,” Alistair says. “You posted Ash’s name. It didn’t take a whole lot of sleuthing, nor was it hard to find out he works for my company.”
My boyfriend’s caught in Alistair’s web, and it’s my fault.
“I have the resources,” Alistair adds. “And I care about my employees.”
My throat tightens. I want to tell him I’m done. I want to protect Ash. I can’t do both.
“You’re so generous,” I say, cheeks puckering.
A few of the other artists sense their chance to suck up and echo me. “So generous.” “Thank you, Alistair.” “We love you.”
But Alistair ignores them, smothering me with attention.
“We’re all dying to know,” he continues, gaze intensifying. “How did you escape?”
With no help from you.
“A couple found us,” I say, searching for a way out of this conversation without implicating Ash further. “I had to chainsaw through a tree, but we, uh, made it.”
“We’re so, so glad,” he replies, then turns to greet someone else.
“I thought we were going to die,” I add. “I kept thinking… ‘this will cost much more than rent.’”
A nervous ripple of laughter moves through the room, but Alistair’s expression hardens. His chin lowers as his lips pull tight. I’ve done it again. He had drawn some invisible line and I’ve toed it, pretending it isn’t dangerous.
He steps up to my piece. “This is not what I’d imagined,” he murmurs.
Déjà vu strikes with the memory of the last time Alistair used that phrase. His warning might be my opportunity.
“I’ve disappointed you,” I say, seizing the opening. “Maybe another artist would do better in my place.”
Alistair turns, the corners of his mouth twitching. He can’t quite hide how much he enjoys dangling me over the edge of a game I don’t want to play anymore.
“No,” he says, voice flat, another command. “I like it. I think you’ll be with us for a long time.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” I ask, everything on the line now that the final boss has revealed his second phase.
Alistair gestures toward the door. “My patronage has no strings. I always wish my people well, whether their leaving is their choice or mine.” He pauses just long enough for it to sink in.
“Of course, stepping away can come with… complications. Access dries up. Reputations fray. Sometimes HR has to make difficult decisions. It’s never personal. ”
The words land softly, almost politely, but I can hear it’s a threat—to my future, to Ash’s job, maybe even to his safety. I came here to cut ties, and wound up tangled worse than ever.
And now Ash is too. Alistair’s trying to turn him into the one thing I swore to avoid—an anchor.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up, like it knows what to do even if I don’t.
It starts trying to dig him out of me, to pull him free before this gets any worse and before my disaster drags him down with me.
I stand there, face steady, trying to dismantle all the ways Ash makes me happy, but it’s no use.
Ash is already lodged too deep in me to pull out clean. And worse than that, somehow, horribly, I’ve become weight around his neck too.
Jamal would be disappointed, because instead of punching Alistair and running for the door, I accept defeat, smile, and step in front of my work.
Let Alistair think he’s won. Men like him need that.
I didn’t paint this for him anyway. I painted it for my boyfriend, and I’m not ready to let this be the ending.