by Clare London
BEHIND the bar, in among the babble and laughter of the other customers, Marty glanced over at the booth. He was wondering when to offer more drinks. He’d seen the tension in the two bodies sitting there, and despite years of running a bar in the city center, he wasn’t entirely sure what would happen between them. For a while, he’d left them to it, watching slyly while pretending to polish the glasses.
They’re still talking. It was a damned surprise. At one stage, he’d thought Davison would walk out. He knew the guy; he was one of his favored regulars. Marty knew that tightness in Carter’s body, the set of his chin when he was angry. He rarely shouted, and never caused any trouble at all in the bar. But Marty had seen him angry with the kid, and he’d also seen Carter so low that Marty had been afraid to leave the bar, even for a minute, in case Davison left and he never saw him again. Marty didn’t consider himself one of your jovial, fatherly types of bar owner, but he was fond of Davison. His opinion had often been that the kid needed a good kicking, but Davison was a man carrying a crap-heap of misery. He deserved better.
So there’d been that awkward moment between Davison and his mystery friend, then Davison had relaxed a bit, and the two of ‘em had talked seriously for twenty minutes or more. Then the mood had eased again, as if they’d got their business done, and were just two guys chatting over a beer.
The blond one looked like a good talker. He kept Davison’s attention well, and he rarely took his eyes off him in return. Marty had to admit, he liked the way that Davison had been smiling. He’d been smiling a heap of a lot this evening.
Marty peered at them from the corner of his eye. The blond guy was something different, of course. There was money there, for sure. He looked an arrogant, spoiled type. A type that didn’t often sit in a booth at Marty’s bar with such ease, coat thrown carelessly on the seat and beer ordered quickly and with appreciation. And he didn’t know many who’d tip quite so generously.
Marty was intrigued. In his experience, those who had the riches usually held onto ’em.
“YOU’LL have another?” asked Red, gesturing at Carter’s empty bottle. “Marty keeps looking over like he thinks I might mug you for your wallet or steal the non-matching glassware.”
Carter smiled slightly. Red noted—again—the attractive way his mouth creased at the corners. Christ, but this man ought to get happy more often. He wondered what brand this damned beer was. He seemed to feel more than a little intoxicated tonight.
“We finished discussing your business a long time ago, Red. Don’t you want to be off somewhere else?”
“No,” said Red, rather too quickly. “Blame my curiosity. Though, God dammit, it’s all but jaded nowadays. But I’m enjoying talking to you, Carter. It’s good to meet someone who knows the artist boy.”
“You’ve known Miles for a long time? What’s your opinion of his relationship with Zeke?”
“Yeah. A long time. I’m pleased he’s seeing Zeke. Of course I am. Guess I’m hopin’ he knows what he’s doing, though. For both their sakes. There’s a need there for each other, but there still seems to be some kind of barrier….” He laughed softly. “Guess I hope he’s not too jaded himself to recognize what he wants and to go for it.”
“No,” said Carter, slowly. “It’s more than that. Zeke is resisting it as well. He hasn’t ever given his deepest affection to anyone except Jacky. Jacky was all he needed, all he relied on. Then life knocked him back too much, too young. He’s mislaid his one talent; lost his one anchor. He’s a mess of guilt about Jacky.”
“But Miles likes him a hell of a lot.”
Carter paused to think carefully about his reply. Red liked that in a man; it was one reason he got on with Miles Winter so well. “Yes, I can believe that. And he likes Miles, probably just as much—when he lets himself. But for Miles… is that all there is?”
Red sighed. “Miles has never given his deepest affection, period. This is a wild and scary time for him. He’s not used to anything where he isn’t in control. Where he can’t plan or anticipate the outcome.”
Carter looked unsettled. Red wondered how often the man shared his personal thoughts and opinions. He suspected it was rarely, and couldn’t be blamed on the modest amount of beer they’d had together. “I think it’s because of Miles that Zeke is drawing again,” Carter said. “It’s opening him up, socializing him again. That’s so good for him. I welcome it.”
Red saw the effort it took for Carter to admit that. To admit other devotion into his precious Zeke’s life, to consider it all objectively. Carter Davison was a scarily honest person.
“You care a lot for him, Carter,” he said, carefully. “Strikes me you’d kill for him, but you won’t live his life for him. And that’s how a true friend should be.”
Carter shook his head, but he smiled. “You’re a lot sharper than you like people to believe, Red De Vere.”
“You’re one of the better knives in the box, yourself,” was Red’s quick response.
They stared at each other, half-smiling, until Carter lifted an arm to call Marty for another beer. It broke the mood for a few minutes.
When Red spoke again, he leaned forward slightly, resisting the urge to touch Carter’s hand. “So… you want to do dinner sometime?” He instinctively used his best, lazy drawl. “No strings attached.”
“You can drop the act, Red.” Carter smiled. “It does nothing for me.”
“I can see that,” replied Red. His heart was beating rather faster than usual. “Maybe you’ll let me know sometime just what does.”
Carter raised his eyebrows at an approach that he obviously found too blatant, as if amazed that anyone would try it on him. But as Red smiled at him, he saw something flicker in Carter’s eyes, a combination of amusement and grudging tolerance. Maybe the smallest glimmer of admiration too.
“A drink, then, maybe? Another day, another place?” Red persisted.
Carter shook his head. Red was sure he meant to say “no” immediately. “I don’t date,” were the words that he actually said.
“And I don’t ask very often,” Red replied gently. “They usually come to me if I want them.” In his soft, seductive voice, it sounded so dreadfully arrogant, even to his own ears. “I mean, you’re safe from me, Carter Davison. If that’s what you want.”
Carter did laugh aloud, then. Red exulted in the rich smile—the way the man’s face lit up. “I’m not scared of you, Red De Vere.”
“No, hon, I know. I think I’m scared of you.”
“Ridiculous.” Carter grimaced.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Red. “It is. But you’re an unusual, attractive man, Carter. I think anyone would be a damned fool not to be faithful to you….”
He knew immediately he shouldn’t have said it, even before he saw Carter flinch. Of course, everything he’d seen today told him that Carter Davison was a very private person. What the hell had possessed him to practice his frivolous banter on him? He was private—and also very controlled. God knows what he’d be like if he let that control go a little.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
Carter seemed to ignore his apology. “And you, Red? How are you with your lovers?” His tone was very cool.
“Mine?” Red sighed. He didn’t know whether he’d been scolded or scorned for his clumsy remarks. But what did he have to lose? “I like my lovers tall, dark, and silent, Mr. Davison. Amenable and adoring. Preferably lying on a bed and preferably without overnight bag. Without any baggage, to be honest. I apologize deeply for being presumptuous. I’m not qualified to comment on anyone’s relationship when I’ve had so little experience of my own.”
Carter nodded. “So there is genuine breeding under that flippant charm, Mr. De Vere. I appreciate you showing me that. I suspect that you enjoy your act just that little bit too much to let your guard down very often.”
“My act?”
Carter smiled again. “Maybe you didn’t notice that you’ve dropped almost all your speech affectations over the
past hour. And you’ve ceased running your hand through your hair in that matinee idol way when you’re preparing to answer a question.”
Red flushed. He turned toward the bar and nodded over the fresh beers. After Marty had delivered them to their table and returned to the bar, Red turned back. Carter was staring at him, a rueful expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, Red,” he said. “Guess that was my turn for presumption.”
Red laughed. “That makes us even, I believe.” They grinned at each other, relaxed again.
Carter took a sip of beer. “Do you always get your own way?”
Red met his gaze, wondering if his own eyes reflected the unusual turmoil of his emotions. “No. But I’ll always try.” He marveled how his name had sounded different on Carter’s tongue—like a fine wine; like a delicacy to be savored. He wanted to hear it again.
“Hasn’t anyone ever challenged you?” Carter’s eyes flashed. “Ever tried to tame that wild arrogance you trade on so confidently?”
Red blanched at Carter’s blunt, personal criticism, but couldn’t deny it. “I don’t do ‘tamed’, Carter.”
Carter laughed, and then Red realized that he hadn’t intended any real hostility toward him at all. It was just Carter’s way to be so direct. “So I imagine. And if you did, I can’t think you’d be as much fun, would you?”
“So…?” asked Red, his mouth a little dry.
“So another drink will be fine, another day. Sometime after the show. I think that we still have to get through that day, for the sake of both Miles and Zeke. Then we’ll see. But just that. A drink.”
Red looked into Carter’s eyes, and although they showed no obvious encouragement, there was challenge there too. That was what he’d hoped for. That’s what he suspected would buy him more time with Carter Davison.
“I’m not looking for anything else, you see, Red.”
Red appraised the handsome, confident face and his heartbeat quickened. “But neither am I, Carter.” His voice dipped lower. “Neither am I.”
IT was around ten p.m., the night before the show. Miles stood alone in the darkened gallery and wondered why he felt things were going so wrong.
One of the issues was, admittedly, that the gallery was still shrouded as before. None of the exhibits could be seen; all of the displays were hidden. He’d argued fitfully with Zeke over the past couple of weeks, demanding he show him what was planned. Miles wanted to know what to expect; what to be prepared for. He wanted to know whether 4:DRMS had been finally included or not. But Zeke hadn’t relented. The final preparations were his alone.
Of course, I could just pull off the dust sheets and see for myself.
But he didn’t.
Was that the problem? That he was worried about what Zeke might do with his gallery? That he’d argued with him? Surely not. They argued all the time; it was nothing new. They were in agreement only when they let the passion take over.
Was that all there was to it, to their affair? The physical passion?
He hadn’t seen Zeke for the past forty-eight hours, not even spoken to him. He’d been called away to an acquisition meeting up north so he hadn’t been able to visit. But even so, there were always phones. Zeke had replaced his cell phone some time ago, and Miles could have contacted him at any time. Instead, knowing that Zeke would be busy on the show, Miles had convinced himself that the artist wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe he’d never wanted to be disturbed in the first place; had never really wanted any connection with the Winter Corporation, let alone Miles Winter himself. Their last meeting had opened up all sorts of confusion and contradiction. The passion ran side by side with the pain. There’d been such physical ecstasy—matched with emotional discord.
But then he’d already been warned how Zeke felt about it all, hadn’t he? Zeke had told him once, had confessed to the way he fucked: “plenty of enthusiasm, but no fucking commitment,” he’d said. Miles couldn’t deny he knew how things stood. But he wasn’t used to this sort of thing, this personal conflict. His only strategy had been to take himself away, and try to regain some perspective.
For the first time ever, he hesitated at going up to see Zeke. There was a sliver of pale light under the closed door up to the apartment that suggested that Zeke was at home. Just a few feet away. Quite deliberately, Miles turned back to stare around the gallery instead. They always met here, didn’t they? The gallery felt like neutral territory in the middle of a war zone. They planned here; they argued here; they discussed here. Zeke drew here and Miles watched. They fucked here. He wanted Zeke to come to his apartment sometimes; he wanted him at his house. But there’d never even been the suggestion of it.
Then there was a rustle of noise behind him, and a slice of the low light spread out across his feet. The door up to the apartment had opened. He didn’t turn back to face it. When Zeke spoke behind him, it wasn’t a surprise, though the tone of his voice was. He sounded a little drunk.
“Miles Winter. Now there’s a surprise. You’ve been Mr. Busy for the past couple of days, I think. But it’s a little late now for checking the hold, isn’t it? The pirates have been and gone. We sail tomorrow, with or without your blessing.”
“Is that how you see me?” asked Miles, trying to keep his voice steady. “Checking up on you?”
“I’m an employee,” Zeke muttered. “I do what I’m told.”
“You’ve never fucking done that in your life,” snapped Miles, suddenly furious, and he whirled around to face Zeke.
Zeke stood, framed in the doorway, backlit by the diffused light from upstairs. Miles noted the insouciant way he leaned against the door, the grimace on his face. He saw the lean, tight body, barely dressed as Zeke so often was: the naked chest and legs; the soft jersey shorts.
Miles realized suddenly that in his brief time away he’d gained no perspective at all where Zeke Roswell was concerned. He realized for the first time in his life what it felt like to want to jump someone’s bones. He realized how damned miserable he was going to be if all they ever did was argue, and he realized how it didn’t matter a flying fuck to him where they met, so long as he got to touch him, and be with him, and listen to that sharp, bright, vivid voice.
He was lost to it all.
“WHOA, Miles, we don’t often hear you swear, do we?” Zeke’s eyebrows rose, and he stepped out into the gallery. His footing was sure, even in the semi-darkness, but he wondered if Miles had smelled the drink on his breath and assumed he was drunk. Miles should know better, of course. He should know that Zeke wouldn’t have risked that, the night before the show. Miles’ show.
But he’d had a couple of disturbed nights and had needed a quick pick-me-up tonight. His regular sleep had been broken by the return of nightmares. They’d been very frequent just after Jacky died, but the therapists all said they’d pass. He hadn’t had them for a while now, and not since he’d been working at the gallery. They just came back occasionally, when he was at his most tired. And at his most stressed. That’s all it was, of course: stress about the show.
“Guess that’s true, about me not doing what I’m told,” he said, more coolly. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, then? Scared of what I’ll be unveiling tomorrow?”
“Of course not,” snapped Miles. He looked around the gallery, and Zeke followed his gaze. They were surrounded by dark shadows looming up from the cluttered piles of display materials. Some pictures already hung on the walls, but were covered in sheets, dull and gray in the dim light. Some others had been stacked against the wall for the time being, and there were piles of discarded packaging and tissue on the floor. The Perspex wall in the center of the room was completely shrouded, with only a couple of mysterious little bumps showing under the fabric. The ceiling wires hung down, glinting above their heads like thin, metallic snakes.
Zeke noticed how Miles held his hands tightly at his side—as if he had to stop himself from reaching out. He was startled to realize how strongly he felt the same. The sight of Mil
es had been a shock that rippled through him, speeding up his heartbeat and shortening his breath. Looked like he’d come straight from work: he wore a smart suit, a little creased from travel. His hair was a little less than perfect but he wore his habitual cologne, a light, musky smell that was all Miles. Zeke’s skin shivered in response. It felt as if Miles were all around him, the warmth of his presence suffusing the cold night air of the gallery, its teasing tendrils creeping out toward Zeke’s body.
“Looks to me like you’re worried about it,” he muttered.
“I want the show to do well,” Miles protested. “I want my gallery to do well—”
Zeke’s chest tightened. “Your gallery?”
Miles cursed under his breath, though Zeke heard it clearly. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”
“But that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Zeke heard his voice rising in both volume and pitch. “Your gallery.”
“It’s part of your life too.” Miles’ expression was pained and the words tumbled out too fast. “Your life will have a share of that success, as well.”
“You took my life away with your damned corporation and your contracts,” spat Zeke. He wondered where the hell such hostility had come from, so suddenly, but he couldn’t bite the words back now. He glared at Miles, instead. The dark indigo eyes met his in return, darkening in anger.
“Damn you,” growled Miles.
“And what am I now?” Zeke continued on, relentlessly. “On a salary. On a leash to the great God of Commerce.” He felt like he’d opened his mouth, and the dam had burst. Words were falling over themselves to escape. “I’m nothing but an employee, nothing but an ill-fitting Mr. Ordinary. Everything else has gone. Everything I cared about; everything that was mine. My dreams, my plans, my talent, my independence.” His eyes blurred with dampness and anger, and for a brief moment he felt as distraught as he had when Jacky died. But this was nothing like it; of course it wasn’t.