by Kelly Jensen
“Lang?”
Lang turned back with a troubled expression, and Dillon silently cursed his big mouth. He should have kept the discussion pointed toward his class tomorrow because that was what he was anxious about. Right? Not him and Lang. They were fine. Better than fine. Ecstatically happy, even. What had they just said? Very good.
Everything was very good.
“It’s all good,” Dillon echoed softly.
Lang nodded and smiled, and Dillon turned his attention back to the gaping maw of the Lincoln Tunnel.
Chapter Six
Park Arts had two classes booked for the winter session—a toddler playgroup scheduled for midmorning and an afternoon class for seniors. Though the seniors’ class was hours away, Dillon had already decided he preferred retirees to toddlers. The toddler class had been the first to fill, though, and every squalling and sticky brat currently breaking his lovely new crayons into tiny little pieces could potentially be a student for life.
Take me now.
“Jared, no,” one of the moms said, pulling a moist purple blob out of her little boy’s mouth.
Fifth crayon death by chewing. Crayons had to get broken at some point, but did they all have to torn apart in the first week? Tattered paper, stubby ends, and squashed points littered his beautiful floors. Yes, he’d been impatient for them to become “authentic” but he had hoped for a gradual transformation.
Dillon crouched beside the next parent in the circle, the third of three dads in the group. This dad was an attractive guy in his mid-thirties, with messy brown hair, warm brown eyes, and an adorable two-and-a-half-year-old girl.
“How are we doing here?” Dillon asked as he studied the page attached to the lapboard. The assignment had been to draw breakfast. Dad and daughter had a bowl of SpaghettiOs in the middle of a forest of… “Is that broccoli?”
“It’s her favorite vegetable.” Dad gave a tired smile, one that didn’t linger.
“Whatever works!” Dillon patted his shoulder and sucked in a short breath as he suddenly remembered the guy’s name. Keenan. Then, inexplicably, his mind filled with images of skin. Bare skin. Male skin, and lots of it. Dillon’s face heated, from his forehead down, and his fingers and toes prickled. Now was so not the time to recall what he and Lang had got up to last night, especially when he was touching another man.
Snatching his hand back, Dillon fended off Keenan’s wrinkled brow with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. I’ve been crouching too long. Blood isn’t circulating properly.”
Dillon tottered to his feet and moved on before Keenan starting thinking in terms of sexual harassment. Not that he’d have any inkling what Dillon had been thinking about. Not that Dillon had any inkling as to why he’d been thinking about… Yeah. That. Maybe because Keenan and Lang had similar coloring? Both were tall and lanky?
Whatever. Moving on.
The next pair was Jared-the-crayon-chewer and Mom. Dillon knelt rather than crouched and squinted at the paper. Slashing red and green lines interposed by a scatter of large black blobs. And there went the purple crayon.
Dillon arrested the torn and broken crayon right before it touched Jared’s drooly lips. “They really don’t taste that good, buddy.”
“He’s working on a molar and wants to chew everything,” Jared’s mom said. “Or maybe he’s orally fixated.”
Dillon cleared his throat, banishing the first hint of inappropriate thoughts. “Have you tried frozen bagels?” In an effort to keep his mind in the present—and away from oral fixations—he ran through possible names for Jared’s mom and settled on Cindy.
Cindy’s smile was as tired as Keenan’s. “Frozen carrots, frozen bagels, frozen peas. Everything. This is his last molar, though. Then we’ll be done!”
“Being a kid is rough, isn’t it?” Dillon commiserated, and Jared nodded as though in full agreement.
“Sorry about the crayons.” Cindy plucked another one from Jared’s sticky fingers.
“They’re nontoxic, just so you know.” And narrow enough not to be a choking hazard—unless one got turned sideways. Jesus. Do not think about that. Dillon glanced up at the first aid kit affixed to the wall. There was one in every classroom, and he and Josh had updated their CPR training in December. But, he didn’t want to have to put any of it into practice.
“So, what do we have here?” Dillon gestured vaguely between the lines and dots.
“I have no idea. We did have spaghetti with meatballs last night, though.”
“Green and red spaghetti?”
“Not exactly.” Cindy bit her lip.
Dillon reached out to pat her shoulder and stopped, leaving his hand hovering awkwardly in the air between them. He didn’t know what was up with his weird brain, but images of Cindy naked were not what he needed in his head right now. “We’re here to have fun, okay? It doesn’t matter what you draw. Some kids need a reference, an idea. Others just want to draw whatever is in their head. Both are great exercises.”
She smiled and Dillon moved on. By the time he’d circled the entire group, offering praise and encouragement, the class was at an end, the floor was covered in crayons and goo, everyone was exhausted, and Dillon had decided he was never having kids.
Josh wandered in while he was chipping wax off the floor. “So, how was the rug rat class?”
“Trying. But fun, I guess. I asked them to draw breakfast, and they mostly drew everything else, but I think they had a good time. About half of the kids ate a crayon.”
“Going to be some colorful diapers tonight.”
Dillon laughed.
Josh picked up a broom and started sweeping curls of crayon wrappers, stray Cheerios, and a single baby carrot into a tidy heap. “Think you and Lang will ever try for kids?”
“After today? No.”
“Aww, you don’t need to try for ten at once. You two would make great parents.”
“Lang, maybe.” A warm bubble of something inflated inside his chest at the thought. It was way too soon to start thinking in those terms, but Lang would be an awesome father. All that kindness and attentiveness. He was the sort of guy a child could rely on. “I think I’m still too much of a kid,” Dillon said, hoping to put Josh off.
“All the better. You can be the playful parent. The fun one. Lang can be the strict one.” Josh grinned. “You can be the one who says, ‘Just wait until your father gets home.’”
“Ha!” Inevitably, Dillon’s thoughts turned to his own father, the man he’d only known as a grandfather. Alien to him in so many ways, familiar in many others. Would it have been so difficult for Roth Fairchild to have been there more than once a year? Would he have been the fun parent or the strict one? Did it have to be either/or?
He shrugged. “We’ve only been living together for a couple of months. I think we’ve got a ways to go yet.”
Dillon’s thoughts flipped back to the day before and the embarrassing conversation with his mother and grandmother. Why was everyone so interested in his and Lang’s future? And why, for the love of all that was three-fingered and lovely, had he imagined naked skin earlier?
“Well, don’t leave it too long.” Josh’s expression was wistful.
“What about you?” Dillon asked.
Josh shrugged. “I dunno. I think about it. Have been thinking about it. A lot.”
“Yeah? What are the odds Micah will be the fun parent?”
Josh’s eyes widened, and then he laughed. “He could surprise us all. He makes a fool of himself in front of Stripes.” A one-eyed cat Josh had literally rescued from a dumpster. “Speaking of Micah, he was asking about you over the weekend. Wanted to know how your eyes were.”
Dillon rubbed at the back of his head, where a lingering ache seemed to have taken up full-time residence. “Still fine! Not an issue since New Year’s.”
“Are you sure? You seem a little ragged around the edges.”
“Gee, thanks.” Dillon reached up to pull his hair into more serious spikes. “You know ho
w much work goes into this look?”
“I’d kill for hair as thick as yours. Well, not kill, but maybe sacrifice a few toddlers.”
“That’s…”
“Micah really would be the fun parent, wouldn’t he?”
Dillon shook his head, laughing. “You’d be a great parent, Josh. Fun and loving and fair.”
“Heh, thanks.”
“Anytime.” Dillon moved on to counting the boxes of useable crayons. “We might need to raise our fees if we’re going to lose this many soldiers every time the toddlers come.”
“Give them the broken ones next time. As long as it makes color, kids don’t care.”
Dillon snorted, and his head throbbed, as though warning him not to think too deeply. Was this school going to kill his love for the creative process? He hoped not.
“You look like you need a cup of coffee,” Josh said. “And maybe a hug.”
“Neither would go astray right now.”
Reaching out, Dillon curled an arm around his friend’s shoulders. Josh smelled of crayons and coffee, and it was wonderful. His solid presence was always a balm, and Dillon found it easy to lean in and hang for a moment. Instead of clearing and settling, though, his thoughts began to boil.
Talking about kids was a big step, and Josh felt he and Micah weren’t ready for it yet, even though, deep down, he knew these classes wouldn’t be enough. Dillon didn’t know how he knew that, but the feeling was so strong, he couldn’t help responding with a tighter hug.
Josh would be a great parent. He and Micah both would. A child of their own would be amazing. Someone who shared their best qualities, and maybe their worst. Something—no, someone more responsive than a half-feral cat.
Huh?
“Hello?”
Dillon uncurled his arm and frowned. “Did you say something?” God, his head hurt.
The call came again from two floors below. “Hello-o!”
Shaking himself lightly, Josh spared Dillon a questioning look before extracting his iPad from an apron pocket. “Hopefully that’s Penny.” His second cousin twice removed or some such relation. If they added additional classes or students, they’d need a third teacher, so they were interviewing. “We’ll be right down!” He started toward the door and then turned back. “Want me to handle this? You look like you need a few minutes.”
“No, I’m good.” Dillon rubbed the back of his head again. If this headache persisted, they might need Penny sooner rather than later. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, Dillon followed Josh to the door.
Do not touch Penny. At. All.
And stop thinking so hard.
Oh, and find something for this headache. Like, now.
Lang checked the time, again, and resisted the urge to drum his fingers along the edge of the conference room table. Wesley Kohen being late didn’t concern him as much as not hearing from Dillon. With Park Arts opening today and Dillon’s first classes, Lang had expected a flurry of anxious and possibly elated text messages.
Tapping the face of his watch, he murmured, “Upero?”
“I am here,” the AI answered.
Lang checked the door of the conference room before speaking again. Though he could mask a conversation with Upero as a phone call, he preferred to remain discreet where possible. “Is Dillon at the apartment?”
“He is not. Do you want me to page his cellphone?”
“No, I’ll text him again. Thanks.”
“Your blood sugar—”
“I don’t have time for a nap right now.”
“Do you have time to eat?”
“Conversation mode off.”
“You have not enabled conversation mode in several weeks,” Upero reported.
“Huh.” Ship AIs often became the closest companions to itinerant clan; therefore they were programmed to not only be able to think for themselves, but to evolve. Upero had jumped the gap between helpful program and valued assistant some time ago. Lately, the AI had felt a lot more personal, though.
Lang surveyed the small coffee service laid out for the interview. “When my guest arrives, I’ll eat something.” Were those blueberries poking out of the muffins, or raisins? Did he have time to pop one in the microwave so that the fruit warmed and softened?
“Thank you for following my advice,” Upero said.
Lang frowned down at his smartwatch. “You’re… welcome?”
“Would you prefer I kept such observations to myself?”
“No. Could you alert me the moment you hear from Dillon?”
“Yes, Steilang.”
Lang went to survey the muffin selection. The conference room door opened as he passed it, surprising him. Dillon stood there, pink-cheeked from the cold weather, hair spiking with more determination than usual, and his beautiful eyes heavy with fatigue. Lang immediately swept him into a hug.
“Sorry I’m late,” Dillon said into Lang’s shoulder.
“You’re here now.”
“Man, you feel about as tense as I am.”
“I was concerned for you.” Lang eased out of the hug. “How did your classes go?”
“Fine. Great. Well, the senior’s class. I’m off children for life. Or at least until Wednesday when we have the toddlers again. The older folks, though, everyone was so excited to be out and about. The vibe was crazy. The only older person I’ve spent a lot of time with is my grandmother, so it was neat to compare their energy with hers.”
“Compare energy?”
“Um, you know. How people feel.”
“Mm-hmm.” Lang reached up to smooth some of Dillon’s purple spikes. “Your hair is very cold.”
Dillon’s grin was half sexy, half tired. “And the rest of me.” He leaned in, and Lang instantly responded, pressing their lips together in a chill kiss.
“Well aren’t you two adorable.”
Dillon stiffened, and then turned slightly, moving back far enough for Lang to glimpse Wesley Kohen standing behind them, predatory smile shining.
Lang arched one eyebrow. “Mr. Kohen. I was expecting you thirty minutes ago.”
Kohen lifted his shoulders in an apologetic gesture. “Traffic.”
“Humph.” Lang had half a mind to cancel the interview. Dillon’s exhaustion was palpable. But then they’d have to reschedule and he didn’t want to waste any more time on this nonsense. “You have thirty minutes remaining, so I suggest we get to it.”
“As you wish.”
Sending the muffins a sidelong glance, Lang nodded toward the table. “Have a seat.”
Kohen lifted a messenger-style bag from his shoulder and dropped it onto the table, pulling back the flap as he sat. “Mind if I record our conversation?”
“Actually, I do,” Lang said.
The reporter withdrew his hand from the bag. “Okay, then.” He dipped his hand inside the bag again and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook. After flipping it open, he laid it on the table in front of him, and put on a pleasant smile. “I’m glad Dillon could join us today. It’s Dillon Lee, right?”
With a sigh, Dillon dropped into the chair between Lang and Kohen so that the three of them rounded out one corner of the conference table. “Dillon Lee of Pleasantville, New Jersey. Yeah. No more calls to my mother, okay?”
Kohen offered a careless shrug. “Not a problem. I understand you’ve recently opened a small art school on the Upper West Side. Park Arts?”
“Yes. Today. I’d absolutely love to give you all the details. We need promotion. But if you want to talk to Lang, now is likely your only chance. So why don’t we focus on him?”
Lang shot Dillon a quelling look. Really?
Dillon answered with a contrite smile.
Kohen rattled like a snake sensing its prey. After making a few notes, he turned the page and resettled his notebook. “Steilang, or if I may call you Lang—”
“You may not.”
“How many times have you been interviewed?”
“Twice. This is the second time.”
“It goes a lot more smoothly when you make friends with the interviewer.”
“Noted.”
“If you weren’t interested in talking, why did you take my card?” Kohen seemed truly baffled.
“Taking your card did not mean I had to call.” Though he’d have felt terrible about not honoring his part of their agreement, excuses about lost cards and washing machines notwithstanding.
“I’m beginning to understand why you’re such an enigma.”
“I simply value my privacy.”
“So it would seem.” Kohen glanced at his notebook. “I did a little background research and found very little beyond the fact that your father immigrated to the United States nearly twenty-six years ago and founded a company called Skovgaard Enterprises. A company he built with surprising speed. Over the years, he acquired several international subsidiaries, making Skovgaard one of the largest privately held companies in the world, and you—”
“The thirtieth wealthiest individual, according to one list, the twenty-second according to several others,” Lang provided.
“Business Insider rates you second only to the CEO of Amazon.”
Lang felt his eyebrows lift. Resisting the urge to smooth his rogue eyebrows, he said, “Really?”
“You seem surprised. You obviously have a talent for accumulating wealth. It’s as if you can predict which businesses and industries will flourish.” Kohen widened his eyes in what was probably supposed to be an air of innocence. “Can you see into the future?”
Of course not. Not even the Wren had that talent.
Beside Lang, Dillon was doing a lot of back and forth gaping as he followed the conversation. He closed his mouth, but his tongue darted out to touch the ring through his lower lip.
Lang decided to ignore the question. “As a journalist, I’m sure you are aware there are a number of ways to measure wealth and quantify statistics, which is why these lists change every month. Regardless, I’d rather not discuss my net worth or that of my company. I owe a duty of discretion to my board.”
“Fair enough.” Kohen made a few notes. “I only wanted your reaction and now that I have that, maybe we can switch directions.”