by Clare London
Yeah, we both loved him, but he royally fucked us over, didn’t he? Loved us both. Was our main encouragement, our main supporter. Then he slept around regularly, mocked my work, dismissed your loyalty as weakness….
Zeke could never work out these mixed feelings he had about his brother. It all hurt so much.
Carter was still holding his shoulder. “I want you to be comfortable again, Zeke. Happy again.”
“I’m happy enough. It’s you that’s so fucking sad, you know? Worse ’n me, sometimes. Yet you keep rescuing me. Can’t I rescue you in return? Give you something to bring the smile back?” Carter was a good-looking guy, Zeke saw that. And his smile had a deep, rich beauty to it that lit up his whole face. Like a gift, every time it appeared. Just wasn’t that often, nowadays. Zeke placed his hand on top of Carter’s and squeezed his fingers. Gently. Carter tensed up behind him, and Zeke heard the other man draw in a breath.
He spoke quickly before Carter could withdraw. “He loved you, Carter, even when he was a shit to you. You put up with a lot more from him than I ever did. And I love you, too, you know. You’re as close as a brother—better than one, in some ways.” He turned at last, still clasping Carter’s hand, and came face to face with the brown-haired man. They were only inches apart. Zeke could feel Carter’s breath on his cheek; it smelled of mint. “Don’t I look like him? Don’t you see him, when you look at me? I see it often enough, even in strangers’ eyes.”
“I… maybe….” Carter’s voice was a gentle moan. Zeke knew it was true. He knew he had the same bright blue eyes, the same broad forehead as Jacky’s. The same grin, full of mischief. The same sun-darkened skin, the same dark auburn hair....
“Make it work for you, Carter,” murmured Zeke. Carter was breathing more heavily. Zeke could feel his own heart beating quickly. He stroked at Carter’s chin and slipped his other hand around Carter’s slim, warm waist. The muscles shivered under his touch. “Shut those cute green eyes and hold me, and you can have a hell of a lot of fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything more.” He knew he was talking nonsense, but he kept going. He dipped his head sideways, reaching tentatively for Carter’s mouth with his own. Carter’s tongue slipped out, moistening his lips, stretching a little toward Zeke. And Zeke knew he could kiss that smile, and everything would be easier for them both, just for the moment….
But Zeke wasn’t surprised when Carter suddenly flinched away from him, and the hand that had gripped so hard at Zeke’s shoulder pushed him away instead.
Zeke stepped back, holding up his hands in appeasement. “’s okay, I understand. I’m sorry, Carter, that was out of order.”
“You meant it for the best, I guess.” Carter was panting slightly. His eyes were glistening. “I mean, you’ve offered before. I know how you care for me; what you’d do for me.”
Zeke swallowed, hard. “Not just for you,” he muttered. But Carter wasn’t listening.
“You want to give me something that doesn’t hurt so much… some kind of relief. But I can’t do that, Zeke. It wouldn’t feel right. He told me to look after you, if anything ever happened to him—not fuck you.”
“Shit,” Zeke protested. His skin felt tight, his eyes pricking as traitorous tears threatened. “Maybe I need something too. I mean, I’d enjoy it a lot; of course I would, you’re great-looking. And I don’t need a lot of attention myself. Besides, it’s only fucking, and I really like that.”
Carter looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He leaned back against his couch, a hand to his chest as his breath returned to normal. “Dammit, Zeke, don’t you see that’s the problem? I know what it’s like to get beyond that. Whatever Jacky thought about me, I loved him, and that was the best I’m ever going to get. That’s what you should be looking for. Not a quick comfort fuck, for your brother’s depressed ex-lover.”
“Hey. Didn’t I say it’d be more than that?”
“Okay. I’m sorry too, Zeke.” They stared at each other, hesitantly. Then Carter gently smiled. “Thanks, Zeke. For the… offer. For the flattery. But it’d still be less than we want, right?”
Zeke grimaced. He rubbed a hand over his face—a familiar gesture that Carter often said was particular to him. From the look of relief on Carter’s face, it seemed to break the spell of Jacky’s ghost a little. “Guess so. Though I don’t believe in all that sentimental stuff. The devotion, the commitment. The monogamy.”
“Finding your one true love?” Carter murmured.
“Yeah.” Zeke laughed, probably too loudly. “Some crap made up by fiction writers, eh? There’s more to life than that.”
Carter’s voice had grown in strength; his reply was harsh. “More drink, you mean? More bedmates? More excess? More loneliness? Shit, Zeke—”
“Hey. Carter, no, that’s not what I meant, not what I want—”
“So decide what it is you do want. Then go and find it. Not from the bottle. Not from me.”
Zeke knew a dismissal when he heard it. Carter wanted to be left alone, and honestly, he didn’t blame him for it. He sighed, and went out into the hallway to find his coat. It wouldn’t take him long to amble off back across town to his apartment. There were pizza boxes to clear away, and perhaps he could find those plans and drawings of the gallery he’d thrown in one of his storage boxes, and study them tonight for a while.
He stood in the hallway of Carter’s apartment, with everything of Carter’s around him, having just made a pass at his best friend. And yet his mind was full, suddenly, of the memory of another body standing close to him: another smell of shower-clean flesh, another gentle yet expensive cologne. Miles Winter and his cool, steady gaze. Zeke’s body registered it too, the blood suddenly throbbing heavily in his veins and his groin tightening in warning.
How fucking mad was that?
Carter had followed him out of the living room, and now he touched his arm. “Zeke? Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” said Zeke. It was like coming back from a strange, deep, and rather stimulating dream. “I’m good. I’m cool.”
Carter murmured gently, “I don’t want you to be like Jacky, you understand? Don’t choose that route.”
“Carter….”
“I don’t want you to be Jacky!” Carter snapped.
Zeke had no answer to that. Stepping out into the hallway, he pulled Carter’s front door firmly closed behind him and set off for home.
“ZEKE Roswell?” Malia’s voice rose an octave. Tony’s desk was directly opposite hers, and he winced. “Do you hear who he’s put in charge, for God’s sake? Zeke fucking Roswell. Working with us for the grand opening of the gallery.”
Tony coughed nervously. “I think that actually we’re working for him—”
“I won’t have him in the gallery!” Malia interrupted heatedly. “Jesus, Tony, he’s a… a maverick. Unbalanced. Destructive. A liability. What, for Christ’s sake, does he know about promotion? About client relations, about the media? Ten years I’ve been in this business. Of course, I was barely a child when I started.”
“He used to be an artist,” Tony tried to placate her. When Malia first burst into the office that morning, he’d been composing a letter to his parents, a fairly groveling one, in fact. Malia’s temper tantrums were wearing him down, and the occasional adventures in bed with her were poor compensation. He was going to try to get a flight back home at the end of the month, and see whether Dad still had the job open for him there….
“Used to be. Exactly,” she crowed. “Hasn’t produced anything new for over six months, or at least nothing with a market value of more than a pack of peanuts. So he’s a washed-up artist and knows even less about business. The gallery crashed and burned when he was in charge, and now he’s on his way to ruin it for the corporation as well.”
“Mr. Winter appointed him. He must have had his reasons—”
“Mr. Winter must have had a sense bypass,” she sneered. “You know the background, don’t you? About Jacky and Zeke Roswell? Two manic artists�
��two monstrous egos, I daresay. They never got on. They argued like cat and dog, or so the neighbors told me when I started negotiating to purchase the gallery. Jacky sniffed around every piece of ass in town, with brother Zeke hanging on his coattails, going the same way, I hear. So Jacky sinks half his fortune into the gallery for baby brother, just to show off his immature dabbling, and blows the rest of his money on the horses. Then one night his apartment catches fire, and the whole damned lot goes up in smoke. Loads of paintings ended up nothing but ash. You know, it’s rumored the casualties included the missing sketches from that vastly overrated ‘Family’ series? I always thought it looked like he dashed them off on the back of a cigarette pack. Well, the whole apartment ended up charred like a barbecue.”
“He died in the fire,” said Tony, quietly.
“Yeah, whatever,” snapped Malia. “Then baby brother goes slightly mad himself, starts turning out paintings that look more like Buster Keaton meets Freddy Krueger, and plunges toward the same kind of disrepute and bankruptcy as Jacky.”
“Not quite the same,” came the slow drawl from behind them. “It’d be difficult to exit this world quite as spectacularly as Jacky Roswell, wouldn’t you think?”
Malia spun around, startled; Tony was only a fraction behind her. Zeke Roswell stood there, leaning against the doorframe.
There was a sudden, shocked silence.
“So. Is there a problem with my team? With me?” Roswell levered himself off the door and walked over to Malia’s desk. He was tall and took long strides, and Tony just knew the artist wasn’t the man to make any concession to her personal space. Roswell put his hands down on Malia’s desk, leaned forward, and leered at her. A lock of his curly hair fell forward over his forehead. The movement caught and held her horrified eye.
Tony sucked in an anticipatory breath.
Malia was very flushed. She looked deeply confused, unsure whether to be afraid of Roswell’s aggression or humiliated at being caught gossiping about him. She sniffed involuntarily.
Tony stood up awkwardly, his chair scraping back over the floor. He didn’t know which boss he was supposed to be supporting, if it came to a fight. Christ, he wished he’d never come to the city. “We just… just wondered why you’re here. Mr. Roswell. Sir.”
“Gotta eat,” shrugged Roswell. “Same as you all.” He stood upright again in a sudden, fluid movement. When Malia flinched, he smiled wryly.
“You… your family. You’re famous… you’ve sold paintings…,” Tony stumbled on.
“Do you think I have family money?” sighed Roswell. “Is that what you both resent? You think I have rich friends, secret funds somewhere.” His eyes softened a little as he turned to face Tony. “I have to work, the same as you, or I don’t survive. There’s no other reason for me to be here, I can assure you. But it’s going to be a lot easier and a lot more fun if we can all get along.”
He turned back to Malia, who had risen from her seat and was smoothing her hair down in a gesture that Tony knew was purely nervous—it was already so well-lacquered that there wasn’t a strand out of place. “You summed me up rather succinctly, Ms. Trent. I may thank you for that one day. But as for now, it’s time to get started, right? We need to get down to the gallery and measure up. Then you can give me the benefit of your ten years’ experience, right?”
He grinned suddenly, the tension lifting. “And call me Zeke, okay? I don’t have any appetite for this executive/non-executive game. It’s all the same to me.”
Tony smiled, much encouraged. He ignored Malia as she glowered at him. Grasping her purse, she tried to sweep past Zeke with dignity and obvious contempt, but the shaky clatter of her heels let her down. Zeke smiled at her retreat.
“And as for Miles Winter, Malia….”
She paused abruptly, as if his gaze was enough to hold her there. Her mouth fell slightly open, but without any words to spill out.
Zeke Roswell glanced at them both, and then shrugged easily. “I doubt you know the man as well as you think. After all, I can’t see that guy suffering any sense bypass, can you?”
RED De Vere considered it had been an amusing three months, the time elapsed since his friend Miles Winter had brought the young Zeke Roswell on to his payroll.
He relaxed back into his couch, nursing a generous vodka tonic. The luxurious den of his apartment was dimly lit, casting shadows across the black and dark red upholstery, and the thick velvet drapes. He was dressed in tight leather pants and a vivid red silk shirt. It was party wear, and he was well aware of the fact, of course. He glanced impatiently at his watch.
Miles sat down on the armchair opposite him and then stood again. He paced across to the drinks table, but came back empty-handed.
“Sweetheart,” drawled Red, letting his smile widen. Damn, but it was fun to see the cool Mr. Winter so disturbed. “Decide whether you’re comin’ or goin’ and stop wearin’ out the expensive flooring, okay?”
“To hell with that, Red,” snapped Miles. “I just need to think things out….”
“Too late,” sighed Red. “The gallery opens tomorrow night. I have an invitation, remember? Seven-thirty p.m., a bunch of exclusive guests, champagne and canapés, and a modest collection of some of the finest art pieces in circulation today. And shortly after that time, dependin’ on the effect of the Roswell touch, the reputation of your precious new gallery rises or falls.” He softened his voice, knowing that Miles—for whatever reason—seemed to need reassurance. “Why are you so nervous? You’ve opened many an event before. I’ve never seen you fail, Winter. Surely you know what Roswell has planned? He’s workin’ for you, isn’t he?”
“Yes. No,” replied Miles, distractedly. “I don’t know. I mean, I saw his initial plans, and I talked through his choice of the pictures that had been offered. It looked very promising—a theme of color and movement. He explained it well, very enthusiastically. His team is all in place; in fact, I’ve never seen Malia Trent work so willingly and with such concentration. She arrives at work early and stays late. Her assistants look positively cheerful, if rather worn. They’re all working really hard, which, of course, bodes well. I… well, I wasn’t sure how he’d work in a team.”
“Zeke Roswell, you mean?” murmured Red, with a large slice of tongue-in-cheek. Only the guy Miles hadn’t stopped talking about for the past hour.
“But then he canceled the conference calls, didn’t adhere to the e-mail updates. He’s kept me completely out of the loop for over a week. The gallery windows are covered up, and he won’t let me in to see the preparations.”
‘Won’t let me in’? Red smiled wryly to himself. What kind of guy keeps Miles Winter at bay?
“And there’s something about his attitude,” continued Miles. His tone was sharp, his voice getting louder. “I’m just not sure he’s followed those original plans. Dammit, I should have known he was too much of a risk.”
Red stared. For a moment, he forgot to maintain his usually languid, bored expression.
“What?” snapped Miles. He was looking very flushed. “What the hell are you staring at? You’ve seen me angry enough times for the novelty to have worn off.”
“Angry, yeah.” Red grinned. “Ain’t never seen you so flustered, though, hon. Who is this guy, who ruffles the coolest cube in the ice bucket? That has you so tense you’re keepin’ me waiting, when I’m all dressed up and ready to rock?”
“Leave it, De Vere. You want to go on ahead, feel free. Maybe I’m just not in the mood for socializing tonight after all.”
Red was quiet, knowing instinctively to keep back while Miles gathered himself together. His friend had a fierce, cold temper, but he disliked himself when he let it run unchecked. He’d hate himself for arguing with Red about… well, about what? A minor gallery opening; a missed conference call or two? Or the man himself, Zeke Roswell, his rather rebellious employee?
“Tell me about the Roswells, Red.” Miles’ voice calmed, and he stopped pacing. Red’s eyes ran quickly up and dow
n his friend’s body; the black satin shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest; the slim-legged pants; the soft leather boots. He sure looked like a man ready to go clubbing with his best friend. But he just as surely didn’t sound like one.
“More about the Roswells, hon? Seems that’s all you want to talk about nowadays.”
Miles obviously didn’t hear the hint of acid in Red’s tone. “What about Jacky Roswell? I hear he was fond of the horses. You’d know him, then, wouldn’t you?”
Red took a while before he replied. When he did, he kept his voice deliberately toneless. “Yeah, I saw him often enough. He came to some of the race meetings.”
“How was he? What sort of man?”
“Charmin’.” Red sighed. “Charismatic. Damned good-lookin’—and he knew it. Arrogance by the barrel-load. But no head for gamblin’, I’ll tell you that.”
“Was he ever married? Did he bring dates with him?”
“Plenty of them.” Red struggled now to keep the hard edge from his tone. And it wasn’t part of his usual, cynical air. “I don’t think the guy was particularly fond of women, Miles. His dates would be both girls and guys, though. Never anyone for any length of time. There was a steady lover back at home, I think. But that didn’t seem to hold him back any.”
Miles frowned. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to upset you. The way you talk about him….”
Red sighed and sank back a little further into his couch. “It’s just… he epitomized waste, you know? Talent and selfishness. An unpleasant set of bedfellows. Did you ever see any of his work, Miles? Collect any of it?”
“No… I don’t think I did. The art collection was started for me by agents, as part of the trust investment program. I don’t think I’m fully aware of everything I own, to be honest. But I will be. It’s only in the past couple of years that I’ve come to appreciate the collection. I intend to spend more time with it now.” His eyes shone briefly with pleasure. Red knew what it meant to Miles, to be able to choose and appreciate art for himself. It was one of the very few things Red thought stimulated his friend nowadays. Well, that’s what he used to think, before the past few months.