by Clare London
And oh, but it felt wonderfully good!
They broke for air at last, with a deep groan from Greg and a heartfelt sigh from Perry that took him almost by surprise. He was so hard he could match one of the logs in the fireplace, and from the way Greg was shifting beneath him—ah yes, that was it—he was in the same state of arousal.
Easy does it. Perry was in no rush. This was something special.
He settled back against Greg’s chest. His breathing rose and fell faster than Greg’s, but Greg’s deeper rhythm was stimulating. For several minutes they just lay on the sofa together, arms wrapped around each other. Perry allowed himself to savor the bliss that was still thrumming through his veins.
“So,” Greg said at last. His voice was hoarse.
“Hm?”
“So now it’s your turn.”
“Sorry?”
“It was the deal, remember? You sat in my boat all that time and suffered that disgracefully fresh sea air. For God’s sake, you took a freezing cold dip.”
Perry chuckled and was glad when Greg joined in. Perry didn’t often bear grudges.
“But now it’s time for your pitch.”
“My…?”
Greg gave an exaggerated sigh, though he was still smiling. “To tell me about this London business. The makeover. Your mission, remember?”
“I suppose so.” Perry was surprised how reluctant he was to relinquish his current position. But Greg was right, they had a deal. “If you’re sure.”
“God, you’re a bad bargainer, aren’t you?”
Perry snuffled a laugh and sat up. He felt colder the minute he pulled away from Greg’s chest. “Okay, you’re right. Let me get my files.” He clambered off the sofa and padded out of the room. A quick run upstairs, and a few minutes later he returned with his small, stylish briefcase. Greg glanced at the case and his eyes widened.
Oh well. Perry sighed to himself, but bravely. He knew the large, salt-rimmed water stain on the back of his luggage meant it would never recover from his arrival in the Scottish rain. But it could be replaced, couldn’t it? It wasn’t as important as… other things. He settled back on the sofa but a distance away from Greg so he could reach the low table beside it.
“You’re up for this?” Greg said suddenly. “After the water? Maybe tomorrow—”
“Hey. I’m not letting you go that easy.” Perry chuckled, his banter restored. “I’m dry now, and I wasn’t that long in the loch, was I? I’ll have a hot bath before bed and make sure to keep wrapped up warmly.”
“Okay. But I know you’re waiting for the rest of your team—” Greg started.
“Oh, they’re not coming.”
“What?”
Perry grimaced. “They’ve aband—I mean, I’m their sole representative for the project.” He couldn’t look Greg in the eye any longer. Greg’s gaze was soft, his expression tender. Perry didn’t want to humiliate himself in front of his man.
My man?
The sound from Greg was like a growl. “So how come it was the most important thing on the bloody planet to drag me off to London, and now—it’s not?”
“It’s still important.” Perry bristled in defense. “Of course it is! It’s just that… people are busy elsewhere.”
Greg snorted. “Sounds like you’ve been dumped on, in my opinion.”
“It’s fine. I can cope. I know all the details.” Perry cleared his throat. “Well, most of them. And I can check out the rest later.”
An unfamiliar expression twisted Greg’s face. Perry might even have mistaken it for sympathy. “You tell me about it, Perry. Just you. That’s fine by me.”
“Yes?” Perry tried not to blush at the unexpected support. He pulled a bundle of photos out of the case. “It will be a big budget show. It’ll follow the family’s progress over the course of several months, with professional editing, of course, to produce hour-long episodes. You know how those programs go.”
“No I don’t. I don’t watch TV.”
“You—what?” Perry was momentarily stunned at the concept of someone who didn’t watch popular culture. Whether you loved or despised it, it was part of everyone’s life. Wasn’t it?
“Well, the odd sporting event at Dougie’s.” Greg shrugged. “That’s not to say I can’t guess what relation ‘professional editing’ bears to real life. But they want my family?”
“They’re big news back in London, Greg. The Venturas are well-known in sport and business. And now the twins are dating oligarchs or something equally glamorous.”
“Even George?”
Perry caught Greg’s eye. His smile was of a fellow conspirator. “Yes, I gathered he’s gay as well. Or maybe bisexual, because he’s been dating men and women. Let’s say he’s generous in his fluidity.”
Greg laughed. “George was always generous with favors, fluid or not. He never had any money, was always having his heart broken. But the bisexual thing… that’s okay with the media?”
“It’s hardly scandal any longer. Maybe some people disapprove, but it’s still—”
“Newsworthy?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. But that’s the way it’ll become fully acceptable, isn’t it? With familiarity.” Perry could hear his voice tighten.
“Have you been discriminated against?” Greg asked bluntly.
“Sometimes.” Perry bit his lower lip. “I’ve been passed over for a couple of jobs I know I could have done well. And my mother’s not much of a support, I must say. She still thinks I’m going through a teenage phase. But I’ve never let those things stop me.”
Greg’s eyes had darted down to where Perry’s lip eased out between his teeth, but his tone was enthusiastic. “Good for you.”
Perry felt even more flushed. “I’m good at my job. I love it! My talent is making the best of people, especially when they don’t recognize it in themselves.”
“They’re bloody lucky to have you,” Greg said firmly.
“Um. I haven’t even made the pitch yet,” Perry said with a small laugh. He tilted his head to one side, considering the mystery that was Greg Ventura. “May I ask, is that why you came here? Because you’re gay and you suffered discrimination…?”
Greg’s scorn came out as another snort. “God, no. There was always so much drama going on in my family, being gay was probably the least interesting thing. Not compared to the time Gerry crashed a demonstration sports car into a shopping center when he hadn’t even passed his test, the time a dozen naked female fans streaked onto the pitch when Geoff was taking a trial for Arsenal, the time the twins took a train—on their own, aged six—to find the real Middle Earth. Jesus, it was one spotlight thing after another, but it was never the gay thing.”
Perry stared at him, wide-eyed.
“The pitch,” Greg said firmly. “I haven’t talked about any of this for years, and I’m not about to start now. Off you go.”
Chapter Thirteen
AT first, Greg felt quite sanguine about it all. Perry smiled as he spread a selection of photos on Greg’s small wooden side table with a flourish that looked faintly ridiculous from a pale young man with tousled hair, dressed in pajamas that fell in folds around his ankles. But Greg didn’t find it ridiculous at all. He just wanted to smile back. He’d never imagined he could be so sentimental about a man, let alone one he’d only just met….
“Here’s the look I’m going for, you see?” Perry said brightly. “It doesn’t have to be a suit like that”—he pointed at a group shot of Geoff, Gerry, and a couple of other men in elegant suits—“because I’m not sure the cut would suit your shoulders. You’d look better in a single-breasted, and it’s really fashionable at the moment. Straight leg trousers and ankle boots would look perfect.”
Greg couldn’t take his eyes off the photo. “I haven’t worn a suit since my graduation.”
“Well, I think it’s expected for the interview at the beginning of the pilot episode. But then it’ll be casual clothes, I’m sure. I know just the designer to use for yo
ur jeans and a whole range of shirts. To be honest, you’ll wear it better than your brothers, you know? You have a wonderfully natural way of walking tall that they don’t have, at least not without working at it.” Perry cleared his throat and blushed. “I mean, it’s obviously a result of the outdoor life here.”
Greg wasn’t listening properly. The photo held his attention as if by emotional glue. He’d had no idea he would feel like this, seeing pictures of his brothers after all these years. Spreading out another half-dozen, he slid his gaze from one to another. Here they all are. There was Geoff in his football kit, worn in this shot for effect rather than for a game. His hair was perfectly groomed and his skin shone with good, clean, unsweaty health. God, he looked like a movie star. The twins’ picture had been taken at some kind of premiere, because Greg could see the red carpet stretching away behind them. They’d slung an arm around each other’s shoulders, their heads close together, accentuating their similarity. Luxury fabric suits; big grins on their faces; provocative amusement in their eyes. Greg ran his fingers slowly over the photos, following the shape of his brothers’ faces. A picture of Gerry in another setting again—he was at a club, surrounded by well-dressed older businessmen. Maybe they were even politicians. Whatever the situation was, Gerry looked comfortable and confident.
Greg hadn’t seen his brothers in the flesh since he left home at twenty-one. Five years ago. A fucking age ago. For a moment, he didn’t know what the emotions of that memory meant to him. Was he sad? Nostalgic? Bitter? Lonely? He’d made his choice—or rather, he’d always reckoned they made it for him. He’d started to tell Perry about the dramas in the Ventura family from when he was growing up. It had all been true. His brothers were atrocious attention-seekers, desperate always for the limelight. He knew now, with the hindsight of maturity, that was where the bullying started.
In his early years, when they were all small kids together, there had been good times. There was only six years in age between all the Ventura boys, and they’d been left to their own devices for a lot of the time: their high-flying parents weren’t often available for play. The games had been fun, the camaraderie reassuring.
But things had swiftly changed.
Greg was different from the very beginning—much bigger in build, much slower to banter, more serious about life. He stood out from the others, and for all the wrong reasons. The teasing had started mildly at first, just something that brothers “do,” just a way for the tumble of boys to differentiate themselves—all from the same family, all in each other’s pockets. And then it grew more malicious. Gerry Ventura may have initiated that edge, but it became such an integral part of Greg’s life, he couldn’t have said for certain who started it or where it began. Just that it did—and it consumed his life. Obviously he couldn’t do anything about his looks—that was just the way he was, with odd features and ungainly limbs—but the teasing also exacerbated his clumsiness. He was bright enough, but a gangly child often falling over his own feet and stuttering for words was a gift to jokes at his expense. And that, of course, meant he did it all the more. He was pointed at and laughed at, an anomaly in among his athletic and more graceful siblings. They were succeeding at sports, in popular clubs, with girls. How could Greg be part of the same glorious family? The nickname Ugly Duckling was coined at around age fourteen, when school groups became cliques, and girls—even though Greg knew by then he wasn’t interested in them sexually—became the judges of whether a boy was good-looking or a loser.
Greg Ventura didn’t meet the grade.
His school life was a misery, even when he grew older and could recoup some ground with good academic results and minor success in basketball. But as soon as he had his degree in Art and his inheritance, he left home. And never looked back.
Why should he? Did they have any idea how they’d hurt him? How painful his childhood and teenage years had been? Maybe not. But he’d be damned if he’d remain a victim for the rest of his life, so he took himself away from the temptation. Better for all of them that he led his life elsewhere. And he’d always reckoned that strategy was successful.
But here was Perry, today, with no idea of the real story behind these photos; no idea of the real reason for keeping the Ventura brothers divided. Earnest, naive Perry, who probably had an army of happy, loving family members and friends. Who just wanted to do his job well. Stirring things up, poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Disturbing this particular lochful of Greg’s miserable baggage.
It isn’t Perry’s fault.
Of course it bloody wasn’t. But who else was with Greg at that moment?
He sat up abruptly, refocusing on the living room with some difficulty. “I can’t do this.”
“What?” Perry was startled. “Did I say something wrong? I haven’t been through the whole process with you yet.”
“Not today. Sorry.” Greg wanted to leave the room, wanted to hit something, wanted to do anything but talk further about his family. He stood, swaying slightly on his feet. It was Perry who’d had the physical shock today, wasn’t it? But Greg felt worse, both exhausted and horribly, resentfully restless.
“This isn’t fair—” Perry started.
“Fair?” Greg nearly spat the word, and Perry recoiled. Greg dragged himself back under control and stood. “We’ll… you can tell me later. Tomorrow.” Maybe never.
Perry looked like he was struggling with his words too. “I… okay. If that’s what you want.”
Perry had said that earlier, hadn’t he? When Greg had insisted they do this—insisted that Perry had his chance to put his case. This is all my doing… all my fault. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him acting like a shit. He stumbled past Perry toward the door.
“Greg? Wait—”
But Greg didn’t. He passed over the bottle of homemade wine on the windowsill and grabbed a nearby bottle of whiskey instead. And he left the room in a rush.
Chapter Fourteen
GREG slept badly. Really badly.
When he woke, the light stabbed his eyes, the duvet was strangling him in a bizarre tangle around his neck, and his head felt like a battle reenactment society was practicing inside. With cannon. Fighting his way out of bed, he dragged himself into the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face, trying to wake up his piggy little eyes and ease his horribly parched lips. He crawled into an old, comfortable pair of sweats and a clean but unironed tee shirt, pulled on his boots, then stumped clumsily down the stairs. He should have been up hours ago. Rory needed feeding and a walk, and Greg vaguely remembered offering to help Alasdair with the sheep this morning. And the scallops should have been taken down to Marty’s yesterday; they’d be spoiled by now. Life just kept getting better. Not.
He paused in the hallway. The morning light from the open kitchen door still seemed way too bright, but maybe it’d improve after a mug of strong tea. He could actually smell a pot brewing, hear the pop of the toaster. Oh, if only life were that easy, that he could just wish for tea and the pot would warm itself!
Shuffling into the kitchen, he discovered it wasn’t the power of his mind that had conjured up breakfast, but Perry.
Perry had his back to him, whipping up what looked like scrambled eggs in a bowl on the counter. Greg’s mouth watered immediately in anticipation. It was one of his favorite breakfasts, not that Perry would have known that. Greg peered suspiciously at Perry, wondering for a minute if he was a hallucination, and Greg was still in a drunken sleep. It’s what I deserve for my shitty behavior last night. Perry so pissed off he’s avoiding me, and me having to make my own damned breakfast—
“Morning,” Perry said cheerily, though he didn’t turn around. “I won’t say good, right?”
Greg gave a mumble that could have been taken as any word from “no” to “Nebuchadnezzar,” and slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs. The wooden table rattled at the impact and a fork fell on the floor.
Perry whipped a little faster. Rory sat a few inches away, eyes lifted up to P
erry in the hope some food would escape and launch itself his way. “Eggs okay for you?” Perry continued. “I still haven’t got to any shops to stock up on anything more interesting. But you ought to eat something.”
“Fine.”
Perry poured them into the pan and started stirring. Greg opened his mouth to say he liked a lot of pepper, but before he could speak, Perry reached for the pepper mill and ground a healthy amount of seasoning into the mix.
Magic. Greg sat silently, nursing his headache and coveting the eggs, watching Perry at work. It was odd to have someone else in his kitchen. Perry popped more bread in the toaster and started buttering the slices already laid out on a plate. Greg didn’t recognize the plate: probably another gift from his parents he’d never really acknowledged. He rarely went to the back of his kitchen cupboards. He ate most things—apart from his evening meal—off the kitchen counter or on the way to his work.
“A man called Marty came around early about the scallops,” Perry said, his voice as brisk as his stirring. “Before I went to bed last night, I moved them into that cold area off the kitchen, and so they were still chilled this morning. He said they’d be fine, and he’ll smoke them today.”
He turned at last, but didn’t meet Greg’s gaze. Placing the toast and eggs and a large mug of hot tea in front of Greg, he sat in the chair opposite him. Rory skittered across the floor and resettled at Perry’s feet. The cleared plate in front of Perry showed his breakfast was already eaten, and his mug of tea was half-finished. Greg wondered just how long Perry had been up.
The toast smelled rich and buttery, the eggs fragrant and heaped on top, just as Greg liked it. It tasted even better. Even so, he felt strange, and it wasn’t nausea from the hangover. He had a sneaking suspicion this was what shame felt like.