In the Ring (BOXER Book 1)

by Rie Warren

  Romance, heh.

  Yeah, I was all about that.

  He wasted no time opening my jeans, finding my stiff cock. With a practiced hand, he covered my shaft in a condom. I was probably the cleanest motherfucker on the planet thanks to all the tests I had to have, but he didn’t know that. He was smart to suit me up. I wasn’t going to let it interfere with my pleasure.

  I wasn’t going to let thoughts about Michael intrude either.

  The guy’s lips immediately wrapped around me, and he had talent, no doubt about that. I fucked his mouth, shuddering through my entire body. He liked it when I grabbed his hair. He moaned, and his gaze tracked up my body to lock on mine.

  He wasn’t gonna stop until I overflowed the rubber with come.

  But when the dude reached for my hands and clasped them within his, I pulled out with a gasp.

  I couldn’t do it.

  This wasn’t what I wanted.

  I wanted date nights and nights in bed. I wanted to hold hands with the man I loved and no one else. I wanted sex, and fucking, and lovemaking for hours. I wanted to get blown without a condom because I knew the guy’s first name, his last name, his phone number-address-favorite-fucking-food, and preferred position for fucking. Kisses like the one I’d experienced with Michael. And sharing worries, and laughs, and a life that maybe I deserved after all.

  After lingering for just a moment longer in case I changed my mind, the guy left. I rested my forehead against the ugly green stall.

  I wanted Michael. No two ways about it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Got No Game

  MY COMMERCIAL FLIGHT FROM Cincinnati to NYC was basically takeoff, reach cruising altitude, and prep for descent. Hardly worth the seven hundred-plus bucks it cost. I stuck my nose in A Clash of Kings the whole time, hiding behind my glasses and beneath my Reds cap. Man, I’d reached the killer climax of the novel when people started shuffling out as soon as the seatbelt sign went off.

  I caught a cab to my apartment, double-timed the stairs instead of taking the elevator, and let myself in. Even though I’d just left my family and hadn’t unpacked more than a few boxes yet, this place still felt a lot more like home turf than the house in Cincinnati.

  Kicking the door shut, I tossed my duffel into the bedroom. I walked back through, opening the windows to air out the rooms.

  Some stupid sense of superstition almost stopped me from checking the fridge. Michael always stocked the kitchen with food no matter where we were, but what if he’d decided to write me off after the hot naked in-the-shower kiss he called a mistake and I couldn’t get over?

  Growing a set of balls, I manned up enough to peek inside the stainless steel appliance. With an arm slung over the open door, I took in the rows of drinks, the bowls of fruit, the drawer of veggies. All Michael Fairweather foods of choice—otherwise known as a dietician’s wet dream but my idea of a culinary nightmare.

  Thank fuck I hadn’t totally blown it with the man.

  The others had arrived a couple days ago from Chicago—Michael, Sean, a piss-mad Devlin—while Anya continued her ringside appearances on tour.

  Settling down to finally sort out my life, or at the very least make my apartment livable, I headed to the bedroom to unpack my duffel. I discovered my miscellaneous shit from Chicago washed and folded on the end of my bed. How the hell it had gotten there, I had no idea because—wuss that I was—I’d up and split from my hotel with the bare essentials.

  I’d abandoned everything and everyone as well as my pride in Chicago.

  I was still too much of a pussy to check my phone.

  I spent the next twenty-four hours being a genius at avoiding people and my Ping-Pong thoughts. That meant I made a lot of headway in the this is my castle department. Boxes emptied, belongings put away, cardboard broken down.

  I’d forgotten I had a collection of old CDs—totally obsolete according to Mary-Kate and Conor—a full set of decent-enough dishes, one box of high school mementoes, and enough books to start my own library.

  By the time I finished, the place didn’t look half bad. I’d ordered some sort of living room suite as soon as I’d signed the lease. The furniture came complete with huge overstuffed armchairs and a couch big enough for me to sprawl on. Unearthing more ready-made furniture, I found a table, chairs, and—wow—a couple of nightstands. Lampshades on the blown glass lamps instead of bare bulbs sure made a difference, too.

  I sat in the middle of the living room floor on a decent geometric patterned rug to cover the polished floorboards. The apartment might even be good enough to have the kids come and stay after I did up the spare bedroom. A little pipe-dream to stash away, when I wasn’t travelling all the time. When I could be a better role model.

  The walls were a little bare, though.

  Which gave me a fantastic excuse to visit a certain painter I knew, which meant I could get away before anyone figured out I was back in the city. Hey, ducking and diving was all part of the job description. I was a genius like that.

  After catching the subway to Queens, I ventured into the same itty-bitty gallery I’d stumbled across a few weeks ago. It was stupid of me to expect to bump into Gideon, but that didn’t stop me from hoping for another run-in with him.

  I should’ve been relieved to find he wasn’t there, that I could avoid the truth about myself for a little while longer. Instead a small gnawing ache formed in the pit of my stomach. I covered the momentary disappointment by wandering around the showroom, checking out the pottery exhibit that had replaced Gideon’s erotic paintings.

  I immediately came up with a new game plan. Genius. I picked out a couple heavy, brown and gray and green pieces, and while I paid for them I picked the brain of the clerk. She was all too happy to supply a patron of the arts with the address of one Gideon Cane.

  After giving my details for delivery, I walked the few blocks to Gideon’s place. The street was lively and noisy, home to resident chic people and ethnic restaurants. My mouth watered with the smell of hot food full of spices. I heard conversations in every foreign language, most of which I couldn’t place, but there was some Ukrainian littered here and there I’d absorbed from Anya.

  The warehouse was old brick with huge many-paned windows. I rang a beat-up doorbell bearing Gideon’s nameplate, announced myself, and walked through the buzzed-open door. Up I went in one of those cargo elevators big enough to stash dead bodies or butchered meat or . . . holy shit . . . giant canvases. Because as soon as the door groaned open, I faced a massive un-walled space that had to be both Gideon’s home and his studio.

  One side boasted stack upon stack of life-sized paintings as well as easels arranged at the windows and around a white-skirted platform. Globs of every color of the spectrum daubed the floors. Old-fashioned china hutches housed tubes, palettes, brushes, and from the smell of it, jars of turpentine. The scent of oil hung in the air, too.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  From the other side of the space where a fully functional kitchen abutted an area with a vintage-looking velvet couch, Gideon strolled out. He wiped his hands on his paint-splattered overalls. He didn’t wear a shirt and his body beneath the half-hooked bib was well sculpted, his shoulders ropey and just broad enough. What I could see of his chest was nicely defined with a smattering of dark hair.

  I lifted my eyes to find his green ones dancing.

  Ah, shit. Caught staring.

  I offered my hand. “I don’t know if you remember me but—”

  “Hmm. Let me see if I can place you.” He pumped my hand and squinted at me. “You do look familiar.” He sucked in that full bottom lip of his. “Nah. That’s not it.” Rubbing his jaw, he tried again. “Nope, not that one either. Oh wait . . . nope.”

  A flush raced up my cheeks.

  “Are you kidding me, Liam? Of course I remember you.” His teasing smile broadened. “So, you didn’t call, but you dropped by. Even better. What can I do you for?”

  Foot shuffle. Awkward. Jesus Ch
rist, I don’t even have game when I don’t even want to have game.

  “I just got back into town, and I’ve been fixing up my apartment. It looks pretty bare, and I remembered your paintings. Thought I could buy one?” Throat clearing, staring at the sitting area instead of his sparkly green eyes and big handsome grin.

  His place was totally bohemian down to the candles dripping wax over empty wine bottles to the faded tasseled lampshades and the paint-marked concrete floors. Exactly what I’d expected, and like nothing I’d ever seen before.

  “I like your . . . warehouse?” I tacked on when he remained silent.

  When I cut my gaze to him, he seemed to be chewing on a smile. I grinned and ducked my head.

  “All right, sexy Liam, so you want a homoerotic painting, do ya?”

  Shit, when he puts it like that . . .

  I nodded like I was nine instead of twenty-four, and we were talking about Legos instead of six-by-three-foot nudes.

  Beckoning me across the floor, Gideon led me to his studio area. “Which one?”

  “Do you paint on commission?” And where had that come from?

  He turned in profile, standing between his artwork and me. “Yes.”

  “Do you use live models?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Mind if I have a look?” I asked.

  Sweeping his arm aside, he motioned me forward.

  I took my time. I wasn’t a jump-straight-into-bed kind of guy about investments, even when it came to considering a huge painting of naked men. He never painted faces, just hints of masculine features—a broad nose, a cleft chin, half-mast eyes. Gideon didn’t pose the couples in any flagrant act, but he suggested the moment of penetration, a mouth opened for a blowjob, the moment a lover accepted his man into his body.

  “They are evocative,” I said in a hush.

  “It’s how I see men. Beautiful, naked truth. Soulful. Sexual.”

  “Could I buy that one?” The painting I wanted depicted two equally strong bodies, chiseled through visible brushwork.

  One man was light as the sun, dazzling somehow, the other man looked shadowed, unsure and hopeful as their mouths almost met in a kiss.

  “It’s not cheap.”

  “I fucking hope not.”

  Gideon laughed beside me. “You’ve got a good eye. I’ve had a lot of offers for that one, but I didn’t approve of the potential buyers.”

  “What about me?”

  “Oh, I definitely approve of you.” He spun toward a massive old desk practically collapsing beneath piles and piles of sketches, books, and papers. “The painting is called Momentous.”

  “It really is.” I eyed the canvas again.

  “Was everything okay with your boyfriend that night we were at the café?”

  I wheeled around. “Oh! Who? Michael? I’m not . . . we’re not . . .” A lot of flappy hand movements and the same old litany ensued.

  “Hey, take it easy, Liam.” Gideon tilted a smile at me. “It’s just I used to have wicked good gaydar and I could’ve sworn there was something between you and Michael.” He knocked his knuckles against his forehead. “Maybe it’s not working. Doesn’t matter. We could be friends, you know?”

  I thought back on the friends I had. Most of them were on my payroll. I needed a life, seriously. I nodded just a little bit hesitantly.

  “So the painting is for what?” His long fingers brushed mine before pulling away. “Since you’re not out.”

  Viewing? Goes with my décor? “It reminds me of—”

  “A momentous occasion,” he supplied.

  “Yeah.”

  “And there are far too few of those.” Gideon shuffled through a few hundred papers on his desk then swept a bill under my nose.

  I tried not to let my eyes bug out at the price. I failed.

  “Still want it?”

  “Money’s not a problem.”

  “So for frames . . . wood or metal?” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear, poised to scribble.

  “Wood.”

  “Dark or light finish?”

  “Blond.” Of course.

  “Great choice. I can get it done tonight, delivered tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “Awesome.” I grinned.

  “Credit card?”

  I handed it over, and somehow I didn’t expect him to be so professional, which was nearsighted on my part. He flourished his iPhone, plugged in a little white cube, and ran my card through it. All I had to do was sign and bingo, the painting was mine. And my bank account cried.

  Gideon walked me to the elevator. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Liam.”

  “Likewise.” I clasped his hand before stepping inside the cage.

  “You know, you can call me. We can talk about whatever you want or nothing at all. I promise not to flirt, too much. As friends.”

  “I will.” You won’t. “Thanks, Gideon.”

  “Shit, I just made ten Gs. Trust me, the pleasure was mine.”

  #

  Devlin turned up like a bad penny the next afternoon. Sean walked out from behind the maroon-suited buffoon, lipping his unlit cigar.

  “How did my stuff from Chicago get here?” I stood in the middle of the room.

  “What?” Dev pushed past me.

  “My gear, my clothes—”

  “His crap.” Sean’s voice scraped out.

  “Michael. He was like a whirlwind. Pissed off to high hell, he was, too. He wasn’t the only one.”

  And then, as usual, Devlin gave me an earful. As usual I tuned him out. It was all bla bla bla and fuck dis, fuck dat. I decided he wasn’t a snake or a shark but a weasely chatterbox type of creature. Come to think of it, wasn’t there an arcade game called Bop the Weasel? I’d have to get one, set it up right here in my living room, use a Sharpie to color in his mustache . . . yadda yadda . . .

  Sean was silent, but his expressions said everything from Dev’s been an insane asshole since you’ve been gone to What you gonna do, kid, eh?

  I only channeled back in to Dev when he screeched for a second.

  “Wha da fuck is that?” His voice and his finger shook at Gideon’s painting hanging with pride in the center of the wall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Defensive Tactics

  AFTER WHAT I’D BEEN through with my da, I didn’t really give a flying fuck what Devlin thought.

  Stepping up to the oil, Sean leaned his head to one side, then the other.

  “Huh. Reminds me of that Mapplethorpe feller and his photographs.” He scratched the white whiskers on his chin. “If I remember right, Mapplethorpe had an exhibit banned back in 1990 in your hometown, boys. The museum director was charged with propagating flagrant obscenity. Gotta flame the flamers before they get to ya. Gay porno they called his photos. Seems to me it weren’t nothin’ but an appreciation of male bodies in motion. Kinda like boxing. Kinda like what you got here.” He took in all of Gideon’s painting.

  My eyes grew twice as wide as Sean waxed on.

  Dev hissed. “Stuff it, Sean. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He knows what he speaketh about a lot more than you do, Dev. Holy shit, I needed to stop reading the medieval fantasy stuff already.

  “You’re not gonna dictate what I can and cannot put up in my own apartment. Get out,” I snarled.

  Devlin sputtered.

  “Sean can stay,” I amended.

  The old Mick grinned at me. It was always good to have someone in your corner.

  Retreating to the door, Dev left in a fine fume of foul words. I laughed, the simple release of nervous tension.

  Nervous tension that mounted again as I heard Michael’s voice inside my apartment. “Do you think I could have a moment with you in private, Liam?”

  I spun toward Michael standing in the doorway. My stomach bottomed out.

  Sean swaggered away, landing a punch on Michael’s shoulder. “Hey, take it easy on the kid. Sometimes he’s got shit for brains, right?”
r />   Nice. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sean. He wouldn’t be invited back either.

  The door closed behind Sean, and Michael moved into the kitchen. I followed slowly. I expected him to hit me—that was our way—but his hands balled at his sides, and his head lowered.

  “Why didn’t you get in touch with me? Return my calls? Answer my messages?” His voice alone sent shivers through me.

  Not to mention I hadn’t seen him in over a week.

  Still as fucking gorgeous as ever.

  I stood stiffly across from him. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. You ran out on me, remember?”

  “I don’t even know what you are.” He clenched his sun-bright curls in his hands as he looked up at me. “And as for running out? Yeah. What the fuck do you expect? You’re in bed with half a dozen women, including Anya, and I had to read the morning press to find out you went home?”

  “You were already home with Wade yourself. Don’t blame me for cutting out.”

  He snorted. “That’s another thing you’ve got me tied in knots about. You piss me off, Liam.”

  “You’re not so bad at that yourself, Michael.”

  “Fuck you.” He pounded a fist on the island bar separating me from him. “I waited up for hours. I didn’t sleep. I wondered if I’d misstepped with you after we kissed—”

  “We did more than kiss.” I ranged closer.

  “We stopped too soon for my liking.”

  My breath skipped in my chest, and I halted.

  “I hate that you make me feel like this. Clueless, aching, angry. You fucking disappeared, Liam!”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me. Jesus!”

  “No. That’s right. You have other worries, like your women, like Anya.”

  My hands fell to my sides as he braced his palms against the kitchen island. “There is no me and Anya aside from friendship. I couldn’t fuck her or any other broad if I tried.” My dry husk of laughter fell short. “Not my type.”