HoldingtheCards

by Joey W. Hill

  Lauren sat back, her heart breaking, and spilled her tears into her wine.

  Chapter Five

  “Did he ever break the chain?” she asked softly.

  The answer was a long moment in coming.

  “When it was time,” Marcus said.

  She reached up, touched his hand against her hair. She did not know him well, but she knew the flood of pain that could exist behind such casual words. When love was real, not puppy love, not lust, not a crush, it became an internal organ that grew behind the heart and buried its roots there. When it was torn out, even the act of taking one’s life to end the pain required too much awareness. Numbness was the only way to survive it, and it took months, maybe even years to grow the courage to allow the anesthesia to wear off and see if the pain was still excruciating.

  Her hand slipped away, and she plucked at her robe. Though she had sensed Marcus had a Dominant sexual personality, and he knew the same of her, if not by sense then by personal knowledge, was he picking up the same warning signals from her that she had detected in Josh? Careful folks, you may be getting into a damaged vehicle here. Don’t press the “go” pedal faster than this one’s guardian angel can fly and, by the way, her wings may be clipped. Or she may be at her therapy session and off the clock.

  She was losing her grip; she tightened her fingers on the chair arm to get it back. In her soft silk robe, with a glass of wine at her elbow, and Marcus turning her hair into the same silk stuff as her robe, she could relax. She would relax.

  “Are you a hairdresser?” she asked.

  Josh chuckled. Marcus snorted behind her. “I have thought about training to be one. Something to fall back on. You know if my career as a New York art dealer earning over six figures a year in commissions ever falls through. There’s always room for one more gay hairdresser, after all. I don’t think you even have to have formal training—you can just show up in a beauty parlor and say, ‘I’m gay!’“ he ratcheted his voice up to make it effeminate. “They’ll hire you instantly. Like being black and seven feet tall. Automatic NBA material.”

  Lauren tilted her head back. “I’m sorry. I offended you.”

  “You’re not entirely sorry. You were asserting territory, darling, and I respect that.” Marcus curled his hand in her hair so she was caught and held, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he said, more gently. “I apologize for being intrusive.”

  She nodded, a slight movement of her head, and he released her, but she continued to look up at him an extra moment, which was an apology in itself he acknowledged with a similar small movement of his head. He considered the brush. “I suppose you did have some context for asking the question. I have a sardonic wit I use liberally.”

  “Excessively,” Josh put in.

  “Only on Neanderthals with no sense of humor at all,” Marcus rejoined. “Now, hold still another moment. Josh is ready to feed you and I haven’t finished making you beautiful.”

  “She was already that,” Josh pointed out.

  Lauren smiled in his direction and was amused when he busied himself with the food again. Marcus leaned down to her ear.

  “He is quite something, isn’t he, our boy?”

  He straightened and went back to general topics as he began to plait her hair into a loose braid on her shoulders. Lauren let his voice fade to pleasant background music that stirred the senses, like soft jazz, and watched Josh finishing the plates. There was something about watching a man involved in a task with his hands that could absorb a woman’s attention. Perhaps it was the female subconscious connection to the earth, to creation and fertility. Those long fingers, taking things of the earth, carrots and snow peas, potatoes and onions, and transforming them with care into sustenance. His eyes, intent on his task as he sliced the potatoes into smaller pieces. A quick, careless brush of his arm against his forehead where a lock of hair caused an itch. The movement drew her eye to the ripple of muscle over his ribs, the soft hair beneath his arm. He shifted his hips, transferring his weight to his other foot, which was bare. He had removed his sneakers when they came in and tossed them carelessly by the door, like they were all home.

  The two men seemed not the least bit uncomfortable to be cooking in Lisette’s house, caring for her friend and entertaining one another with casual conversation.

  “What does a caretaker of the homes of five famous artists and writers do, Josh?” she asked at last, taking a sip of her wine.

  He glanced up, the corner of his mouth tugging in a half smile. “Just about everything. Repairs, home maintenance, water plants. They want the house to look lived in when they come. I also do things like this sometimes. If Mrs. Von Haugwitz doesn’t want to cook herself dinner because she’s at a crucial point in her latest sculpture, she can give me a ring. I’ll let myself in and cook up dinner. I’ve given massages to Mr. Grimes because his back bothers him when he works with the scroll saw too long. That type of thing.”

  “So you cook, you’re a masseuse, a tree climber, a carpenter and an HVAC man.”

  “And many, many other things. He has so many talents, our Josh.”

  Josh shot Marcus an obvious warning look. The undercurrent of tension felt flammable, so Lauren held her questions. For now. She took another swallow of wine and pretended not to notice their by-play.

  Josh was certain the woman had no idea how she looked sitting there, her fingers toying with her wineglass. The pale pink silk of the robe outlined every feature of her body, from the point of her right breast to the long line of her thigh. The neckline parted to show him the graceful curve of the left breast as she stroked that glass stem with her slender fingers.

  He turned away and took a bracing swallow of his own wine. Needles of sensation prickled along his back as Marcus passed him, sliding casual fingers along his spine, a little too close to his waist.

  Josh shot him a narrow look that Marcus returned with a guileless expression. He snagged one of Lisette’s imports from the refrigerator.

  “She’s about to drift off over there,” Marcus murmured, giving Lauren a nod. Josh glanced over, saw the woman was in fact nodding a bit, her head turned toward the sliding glass doors, her body framed by the view of dark silhouetted tree tops and the ocean beyond, glittering with a rising moon.

  He didn’t realize he was just staring at the picture she made, until Marcus chuckled.

  “More candles would be appropriate, I think. And cards.”

  Josh snapped back. “Marcus—”

  His friend was already headed toward the back bedrooms. Josh stifled a curse.

  Lauren roused herself with a smile as Marcus passed behind her and patted her head. “When do we eat?” she wanted to know.

  “Now.” Josh brought in a tray and began to lay out the feast on the glass table.

  “Do you live here all year?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and straightening in the chair.

  “Yes. Here, stay there. I’ve got a tray to put over your lap so you can keep that foot elevated.”

  He put the plate of food on the tile tray and bent to set it over her lap. She raised her arms to keep them from getting in his way and drew his eye to her breasts again. Josh concentrated on arranging the tray and tried not to think how much he’d like to spread open the robe and watch her eat with the silk framing her bosom like the work of art it was. The combination of ice pale pink and lily skin reminded him of mother of pearl on the inside of a shell, and he expected she would be as silky to the touch.

  Maybe she’d even let him feed her with his own hand. Some of the soy sauce might slide off the glistening carrot and splash onto one of those breasts, and he’d have to put his tongue there and lick it off…

  She glanced down his body, and her soft lips curved. “I guess Lisette was definitely wrong,” she murmured.

  Her gaze rose, and Josh saw the sly humor there. It alleviated some of his embarrassment, as he was sure she intended it to do. She was a kind woman, he could see it in her eyes, but her kindness was not of
interest to him right now.

  Hunger uncoiled low in his belly, and he picked up a carrot, daring to lift it toward her mouth.

  “Stop.”

  He froze in mid-motion, and her steady blue eyes held his. “Ask me.”

  The warmth in her eyes contrasted with the coolness in her voice. That feeling in his belly spread, kicking up the pulse of blood through his thighs, the ache in his testicles. The way her lips formed the words, with just a hint of teeth, made him want to put his mouth on her, anywhere she wanted.

  “May I feed you this?”

  She nodded. “Since you ask so nicely.”

  He was wrong. She could be cruel, too, and he found it just as arousing as her kindness. Perhaps more, though that thought made him vastly uncomfortable with himself.

  He brought the carrot to her lips. They parted, and his eyes sparked to flame when her eyes fell half shut. He stroked the vegetable over her bottom lip, making it glisten with sauce. He laid the carrot on her tongue when she opened her mouth, and the pad of his finger slid along the small bumps of her taste buds, traced the enamel of her underbite, and then withdrew.

  “How do you all feel about French vanilla scent?”

  Josh turned to find Marcus at the kitchen counter, lining up a charming mismatch of pillar candles. He was lighting them, and four already cast soft light into the room.

  Lauren straightened and turned, bringing her foot to the floor. The confidence she had possessed only a moment before now seemed to evaporate. “I’m sorry,” she told Josh, surprising him. “I didn’t mean—I’m not—trying to play with you.”

  “Of course you are,” Marcus blew out the match. “That’s what we do. Except Joshua. He’s afraid of games. He’s Joshua the Monk, ensorcelled by the fair—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Marcus,” Josh exploded. Lauren jumped. He pressed his lips together, shaking his head as if reproaching himself for the outburst, but he shot Marcus another dangerous look, regardless. Then he knelt before her with an apologetic expression, firmly pushed her back in the cushioned chair and replaced her foot on its pedestal of pillows on the ottoman.

  “—Winona.” Marcus finished calmly, taking a pull from his beer and bringing the candles in on a tray. He placed them around the room, dimming the overhead so the room was bathed in soft light. “Do you give good massages, Lauren?”

  She raised a brow. “I—”

  “Josh has a muscle that knots in his shoulder when he gets nervous. It’s quite painful. Will you tell him to sit down and have you work it out for him?”

  “I am not nervous, I’m pissed off,” Josh seized his wine glass up, but Lauren saw him flinch as the movement jarred his shoulder. She shook her head. She was being silly. They were all being silly.

  “Come here,” she leaned forward, taking the wine glass and placing it on the coffee table. “Come. Sit.” She took his long fingered, unsteady hand in hers and tugged. “Sit down on the ottoman next to my foot. I’ll work it out and then we’ll eat.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” he grumbled, but when she tugged harder, he sat, presenting her with his back.

  Lauren felt over the line of his shoulder and found the knot without difficulty. She had taken a couple credits in alternative healing, and had enjoyed exploring the more tactile healing practices, such as massage. She began to work it with gentle pressure, imagining it loosening and easing out, and let the work of her fingers be guided by that image.

  Marcus sat down on the carpet so he could stretch his legs out under the coffee table and prop his back against the sofa. He was shuffling a deck of cards, and, as Lauren watched, he spread them out on the glass-topped table in a circular fan around the candles grouped in the center, which were wafting light vanilla fragrance through the room. Celtic harpstrings played their magic on the CD player, the notes combining with the effect of the candles to create a magical atmosphere, capable through the ages of lowering a woman’s defenses.

  Josh’s back had been tattooed as well, but at the moment her attention was drawn to the unmarked area, the skin brown and stretched smoothly over muscle and bone. He was lean, the sign of someone whose body had been sculpted by labor, not a gym. She could well imagine what it would be like to knead and stroke not just that shoulder, but the ridges of the spine, the curve of the lower back, and rest her palms on his waist.

  His skin felt warm beneath her touch and she recalled the slight sweatiness of his palm. Nervous, Marcus had said. Did girls make Josh nervous? A smile curved her lips at the thought. He hadn’t seemed nervous in the tree. Maybe he only got nervous when he wasn’t holding the cards, so to speak.

  Like Jonathan? The unexpected thought erased her smile. No, she decided. Not like Jonathan. In a way, though he had submitted to her, he had held the cards all along. She had wanted love, and he had used her belief in that to almost destroy her. It was only when she realized love was not what drove him, and, more importantly, that she could not change that, that she had been able to break free. Of him, at least. The memories he had inflicted upon her were like a Bible imprinted on her soul that she kept searching to find an interpretation that would make sense to her. Well, at the moment, she wasn’t in church.

  “Do you like cards, Lauren?” Marcus asked. She felt Josh stiffen beneath her touch, but did not break her rhythm, soothing his shoulders down again.

  “You should say no,” Josh warned.

  She had her own demons to fight, far larger and more wicked than any mischief Marcus could devise. She gave Josh a reassuring squeeze and cocked a curious brow at Marcus.

  He laced his fingers on the table top, and fixed his gaze on them both. There was no trace of mischief left now, just a meditative thoughtfulness. As the silence drew out, it seemed to draw Lauren in, surround her along with the haunting percussion music in the dreamlike candlelit atmosphere. She could hear the soft roar of the distant beach, filtering through the cracked sliding glass door.

  Oh, yes, Marcus had set a stage. She recognized it, but she enjoyed a man who would expend some effort arranging a seduction scene. For there was no doubt about it, Marcus intended to seduce. But seduce them into what?

  So often, with Jonathan, she had been uncomfortable, stressed by the constant struggle to figure him out. Here she was warm, enjoying the feel of a man beneath her fingertips, the sense of mysterious anticipation emanating off of Marcus, and the magical quality of her surroundings, a secluded home on a private island, two beautiful men in attendance…

  Marcus was waiting, and she realized her inviting expression was not enough. While he would press limits with what Josh desired, he wanted her permission to continue on his course, and he wanted it verbalized.

  “I like cards,” she said.

  Marcus smiled then, an easy, open gesture. “I thought you might.” He settled his hands on either side of the cards, and his gaze shifted to Josh, though he spoke to them both.

  “What would it be like, do you think, to pretend we were…no, not pretend.” He tapped a pensive finger on the table. “What if we let down our defenses, all those social walls we create to fence in acceptable behavior and fence out anything else, and found the children in ourselves again? That sense of wondrous, unselfconscious adventure, when games were fun and yet utterly serious, the fate of the universe hanging on our shoulders until Mother called us home to dinner.”

  He had her undivided attention. She knew he had Josh’s as well, though Josh was keeping his attention on the window, his hostile eyes focused on glass instead of his friend. “That time when we openly embraced our need for someone to love us, care about us, believe that we were essentially good people, worthy of being loved,” Marcus said. “The time of our lives where, if we were privileged enough, we were equally capable of spending a day as heroes or watching butterflies. Think how it would be if we could do it, in our very adult bodies, recapture that which we did not appreciate then. The savoring of quiet moments that first time you did anything, that intense joy and faith in life, in who
you are and what you could be to others. Think what it could mean to everything else in your life. You can recreate that in a place like this.”

  Marcus leaned forward, eyed Lauren as if he were a god about to impart one of the deeper mysteries of the universe. “A game, as you well know, can be a serious thing with a serious intent.”

  Her brow furrowed, her mind considering the layers of meaning, but he wasn’t done spinning out all the fabric to it.

  “When you were young, nobody played the game if they didn’t want to play. And when you played, you trusted your playmates because they were, after all, your comrades-in-arms, those who would help you save your universe. So,” he shifted, leaning back against the sectional sofa and stretching out his well-defined arms on either side of him. His dark hair brushed his bare shoulders and his jewel green eyes met Lauren’s. “Would you care to play High Card Wins?”

  Josh rose, moving away from Lauren’s touch, and taking his wine glass with him. “I can’t believe you’re pulling this shit,” he muttered, draining it in two angry gulps.

  “Are you afraid of a game, Josh?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, goddamnit,” Josh slammed the glass down and the fragile stem of the expensive crystal broke against the etched glass of Lisette’s side table, spilling the last swallow of red liquid across its surface. “It’s fucking games that…Hell,” he pointed a finger at Lauren, “That’s probably what brought her running here. If people played a few less fucking games, maybe it wouldn’t be such a screwed-up world. Maybe people could just love each other and not frigging wonder if it was all some goddamned cruel trick. They wouldn’t begin to believe that when they die, rather than an afterlife, it will be one single moment of getting the big cosmic joke, that nothing meant shit, ever, and then bam! You’re fucking dust.”

  Lauren registered the tears in his eyes a stunned moment before he spun away from them both, the habitual male defense to keep uncontained emotions screened from view. Her attention snapped to Marcus.

  The art dealer’s expression was filled with pain. She recognized what it was, because a physician was trained to mask that type of pain.