True Colors

by Clare London

  “Miles….”

  Miles continued to speak, quickly, overriding Zeke’s protest. He realized he was afraid to let Zeke speak, for fear of what he might say. “And then your style grew familiar to me; something about the movement of the outlines. It reminded me of my own possession, like I said.” He pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “I never got to framing it, in all this time…. It felt fragile, you know? I kept it protected in here.” He unfolded the tissue paper and held out the exposed artwork to Zeke. Zeke’s gaze shifted to the offered picture. Miles’ eyes followed the same path.

  It was another sketch, indeed. A little smaller than the others, but on a similar theme. Held next to the copy sketches, it was obvious that it was by the same artist.

  It was of a boy—a young boy, less than ten years old, twisting around to look at someone behind him. His face was sketched in just a couple of strokes: a mischievous grin; a wide eye. He had shoulder-length curls, tousled on his head. It was the most identifiable sketch of Zeke in the whole set. It wasn’t as finished as the others, because there were rough lines that hadn’t been inked in, shading that hadn’t been finished. It looked as if it were a practice run—a prelude to later, more mature work. But it held the same magic.

  Zeke glanced back up to Miles, his expression fierce. His eyes were wet with unshed tears.

  Miles swallowed carefully, trying to ease his tight throat. “It’s not just the style that was familiar. It was you, as well. It’s so obviously you. It had lodged inside me, even before I knew you personally.”

  “So there it is.” Zeke grunted. “Shit.”

  Miles ran his hand back through his hair, confused. Was Zeke pleased? Angry? Dear God, if he’d misjudged this and upset him again…. To Miles, all he could see of his lover’s face was a blank page of amazement. “Zeke?”

  Zeke didn’t turn to look at Miles. “It’s okay. Just another fucking shock. Seems like an embarrassment of them today, eh? But look. I’m glad you’ve got it, Miles. Honestly.”

  “Zeke. Talk to me. Please.” When Miles put a hand back on his shoulder, Zeke nudged into the touch. Thank God.

  “I should’ve been with him that night, you know? The night he died. But we’d had another fight, about Carter as usual. About Jacky seeing other people all the time. Anyway, we were both still sulking and I took myself out for the night, leaving him to go to the show on his own. Or not, as the case might be.” He groaned. “All those other partners; I don’t know why I got so upset. It was just sex for him, and I guess Carter knew that too. It was up to them whether they were content with what they had. I wasn’t very mature about the whole thing, I suppose.” He turned his head around, finally meeting Miles’ gaze. “You look like you gained a picture and lost a gallery, man. That was just me and Jacky, you know? That’s how it went. Yes, he was sort of my sanctuary: I needed him. But it was a role he didn’t particularly enjoy. I suppose I just didn’t want to admit that.”

  “This is a chance to move on, Zeke,” said Miles, quietly. “There’s no guilt attached to you, now we all know the truth. Your life should never have been so troubled; your career should have been allowed to run its course. You should have been given your chance.”

  The flicker of suspicion danced in Zeke’s sharp eyes. “Hey, you were at the opening, weren’t you? The opening of the Roswell gallery, when I launched my work, and my brave new career. You bought a painting that night, I know. But I bet you visited in person, as well.”

  Miles’ eyes widened. How the hell had he guessed? “Yes. I don’t quite know why, because it wasn’t scheduled for me, and I was still buying most of my art through agents. But the gallery was in the same business district—one of the reasons I subsequently wanted to buy it—so I just thought I’d drop in and see what kind of art was being displayed.”

  “Did you see me?” asked Zeke, slyly.

  Miles nodded and smiled wryly. Who could have missed Zeke Roswell at the height of his fame? “I saw you. You were front of house, showing all the vibrancy I’ve always admired in others. No, envied, though I was wary of it, as well. You seemed very… outrageous to me, then. But the show was impressive—a show that you apparently designed yourself—and I wanted to own one of your paintings. I remember thinking that I wanted to watch your career, though I pushed it out of my mind over the next year or so.”

  “Pushed myself out of most minds, all that time,” growled Zeke.

  “I wanted to watch you,” Miles continued, thoughtfully. “Though I never really questioned why. And I never knew I wanted to know you like this….”

  “Like what?” murmured Zeke, mischievously. He leaned forward and his mouth breathed warm desire onto Miles’ cheek. Another couple of inches and his lips touched Miles’mouth. Zeke’s fingers sank into his dark, thick hair, and tugged his head toward him for a deeper kiss. Miles groaned.

  Zeke was the first to break away, panting slightly. “Look, before we start making out on that lumpy leather couch, I want to call someone. Is that okay? She lives near here. I want her to bring me something.”

  Miles was puzzled. “Bring you something? Look, I’m sorry I shocked you with all this. But I don’t want any more secrets, Zeke.”

  “No, Miles.” Zeke smiled, his eyes sparkling again. “That’s what this is about. No more secrets.”

  THE young woman stood hesitantly at Miles Winter’s front door. She had spiky hair and bright, intelligent eyes. She wore jeans and a bright shirt, and clutched her large canvas bag nervously. When the door was opened by Zeke, her face broke into a relieved smile.

  “Zeke. Hi….” She was nervous in a different way, now. Her face flushed, and her grin was affectionate.

  Zeke smiled. Yeah. The memories were pleasant for both of them. “Hi, Jo,” he said, warmly. “Long time no see, eh?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “You look good.”

  Zeke grinned. He knew he did. Despite the fact the button of his jeans was still undone, and his hair was escaping its loose tie in more than a couple of places. The leather couches in the art room were—as he’d suspected—damned uncomfortable places for a make-out session. “Come on in. So they let you in okay at the gate? Miles let them know you were coming, told them to smuggle you in discreetly.”

  As she stepped into the spacious hallway, Jo looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. Zeke felt the shiver of possessive pleasure run through him. Without looking himself, he knew how Miles would appear to her. A tall, dark-haired, handsome man. Very handsome. He wouldn’t look as tousled as Zeke did, and his expensive clothes were probably all in order by now, but he’d still have that brooding, sensual confidence that made people take a second look. And his eyes…. Zeke turned around, no longer able to resist gazing into those gorgeous pools of mysterious color. “This is Miles, Jo. Miles Winter. It’s his house, you know.”

  She smiled, like she’d never have believed it was Zeke’s. “Mr. Winter,” she said, formally. “I’ve read about you in the papers.”

  “Christ, I thought we’d escaped all that?” Zeke snapped.

  Jo stared at him, puzzled. “Mr. Winter is in the business papers, Zeke, almost every week. I’m doing a business management course now, you know. I follow a lot of his companies’ stocks.”

  Zeke laughed. “Oh, that. Of course. Mr. Winter’s fame was well established before his notoriety, right?”

  “Hush, Zeke.” Miles stepped forward and held out his hand to Jo. “You’re Zeke’s friend. So am I. Call me when you’ve graduated, if you’re looking for a job.”

  Jo flushed, obviously pleased.

  “Lay off charming the girl, Miles, or I’m going to get insanely jealous,” Zeke joked. He saw Jo’s gaze flicker between him and Miles. She must have seen the fierce, protective look in Miles’ eyes; the way his hand brushed at Zeke’s hip, as if drawn there instinctively. Zeke smiled sympathetically at her. It wasn’t Jo causing the jealousy, of course.

  She smiled back at him. “I’m glad for you,” she said softly.
“You look very good.”

  He grinned. Kept grinning.

  “Zeke, honey, it’s great to see you again but I’ve got to go soon,” she said. She glanced at Miles, then back to Zeke. “I’ve got a class later on this afternoon. I got a bus here….”

  “And Miles will arrange for you to get back,” announced Zeke, cheerfully. Miles nodded agreement, and Zeke turned back to Jo. “So—to business. Did you bring it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I have it here. Just like you always told me. You said you’d call for it sometime.” She reached into the canvas bag and pulled out a small package. It was about the same size as the one that Miles had uncovered earlier. Zeke felt his lover’s body tense beside him.

  Zeke spoke softly as Jo started to unwrap her little bundle. “You see, Miles, I haven’t been entirely honest about the sketches. But I thought it was best, you know. I couldn’t stand the hassle, and the questions, and the arguments that were going around at that time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Zeke smiled. He knew it probably looked a little sad. “I knew that Jacky’s first two sketches were the ones missing. You’re right about the pattern of the set, the progression of his work. I always knew, and yet I let people believe they’d been lost, or burned, or were never there in the first place. I felt that Jacky—both of us—had been harassed enough for the sake of a few sketches. I told you, I was pleased in some ways to see them gone.”

  “But you didn’t know I had this one…?”

  “No.” Zeke smiled ruefully. “I didn’t. Some kind of irony, eh? The one you have is the real, second one of the series. God knows how it made its way here. Jacky probably sold it to your agent for a bottle of something—or for a shag. Then he was too ashamed to tell me or forgot about it afterward. I wouldn’t be surprised at either scenario. Remy was right about that too. Jacky was only ever interested in the creative process. The possession, and the selling, and the security issues… he had no fucking interest in them.”

  Jo drew out a slim square of board, with a drawing attached. Miles looked down at it and drew in a sharp breath.

  “The very first one, Miles….” Zeke tried to keep his voice steady but it was damned hard. His breath felt too weak, too elusive. “He’d already given it to me. He said he’d ask me for it back when he finished all the others, but of course he never bothered. After all, I was to have them all anyway. He was always very sure about that.”

  Jo held out the drawing for them both to see, her face somber.

  It was an even more casual sketch than the other, but in some ways, it was more emotive. It showed a figure curled on a cushion; maybe a baby, maybe a toddler. One of its small hands stretched out at something, and the pencil strokes followed the line of the plump baby flesh. Despite the cursory sketching, the eyes were bright and somehow fully expressive. At first glance, the sketch looked banal, but there was a mesmerizing quality to it that begged the viewer to look again, to investigate further. It was the mischievous look in those eyes—the flush of soft, immature skin in the shading; the promise of intelligence and humor and the excitement of life ahead—that lifted it above any other “baby” picture.

  “It’s lovely,” said Miles, simply. There was a smile on his face. The sketch seemed to provoke that warm, protective feeling.

  “Yeah,” murmured Zeke. He moved close to Miles’ shoulder. “I didn’t know what to do with it, to tell you the truth. I never wanted to display it, and like I said, Jacky didn’t seem interested in having it back. Yet I couldn’t give it up. So….” He smiled over at Jo. “Jo was the pretty girl I was with at the end of my first exhibition, Miles. She shared that day with me, as well as you. Well, a bit more than the day, actually. I guess we might have had an even longer time together, if I hadn’t been such an arrogant prick, thinking everything would always go well for me, that I had the world and its pleasures lining up to entertain little old me.” He grinned at her, a little sheepishly. “She was a good friend to me, then. So I asked her to look after the sketch.”

  She blushed. “It was fun with you, Zeke. A bit exotic for me, of course… a bit unpredictable.” Perhaps she caught sight of the look on Miles’ face—his raised eyebrows—because she blushed even more and changed tack quickly. “That’s in the past, anyway.” She held out the sketch to Zeke. “I’m going to miss it,” she sighed. “But it belongs back with you.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Miles saw Jo out to the limo to take her home. It caused quite a stir amongst the few tenacious reporters who had arrived with breakfast and were hanging around the gates to the estate. Most of them had missed her quiet arrival, and now they could only imagine who was behind the darkened windows; they didn’t really have the heart or the waning interest to follow it any further. Besides, a call was coming through to them, about a breaking story in the city: a top model being taken in for police questioning. That had a damned sight more potential than a reclusive gay couple, didn’t it?

  Inside the house, Miles and Zeke stared at the sketches, together at last, in one form or another, safe in Miles’ art room. There were the four in copy on the wall, and two in real life, propped up on stools beside them. It was like a history of Zeke’s life, his growing up; his coming of age.

  “You forgive me for not telling you the truth, Miles?”

  “I suppose so. I understand your reasons. And it was long before I knew you.”

  “But I surprised you….”

  Miles smiled, ruefully. “I don’t think you’ll ever do anything else.”

  Zeke smiled back, startlingly pleased at Miles’ assessment. “You like them? The sketches?”

  “Yes, very much.” Miles appraised them, his eyes suspiciously misty. “They don’t have the aggression of your paintings, or the tactile impact of your drawing. But your brother was obviously an extremely talented man. They’re illustrations of you, Zeke. They’re strokes of emotion; of feeling. They’re magnificent.”

  “They’ll be worth a fortune now,” Zeke mused. “Especially when all six are together.”

  Miles nodded. “And they’re all yours, Zeke. I’m so pleased for you.”

  There was a long silence.

  Miles cleared his throat. He looked worried. “Zeke?”

  Zeke bit at his lip and took a very deep breath. “You can have them, Miles.”

  Miles’s brow furrowed. “What? You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child, Miles Winter.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Miles’ voice was hoarse. “But they’re your inheritance; they’re your fortune. What are you doing?”

  “You think that’s what I want?” Zeke turned to face him, now. He was shaking with excitement again. “An inheritance? A fortune?”

  Miles gave a sharp, low cry of frustration. “Shit, when do I ever know what you want? So what do you mean?”

  “Miles….” Zeke paused. Tell it like it is. That’s all you can do. “Let me have the gallery back. Like you said you’d do, once… when I told you not to be fucking stupid.”

  Miles shook his head, bewildered. “Of course I will.”

  “No, listen to me properly,” Zeke urged. He grabbed at Miles’ arm in his enthusiasm. “Keep the sketches in payment. They’ve got to be worth enough, haven’t they? They’re all I’ve got….”

  “Shit.” Miles was trying to form a sensible protest, but obviously gave up. “Go on.”

  “The sketches were Jacky’s, but the gallery was mine. It was all I cared about; all I ever wanted. And the sketches can buy it back for me. For anyone else, I’d say that they’re not for sale now, you know. I let them go once, because of my confusion and stupidity. But this’d be different. I could trust them with you. We’ll worry about the damned legalities in the morning—Christ, I haven’t even got the four back yet, have I?—but I’d be more than happy for you to have them.” He drew a deep, excited breath. “And I can have my dreams back.”

  “God, what sort of a negotiator are you
?” moaned Miles. He rubbed his arm where Zeke had gripped it. Zeke was very conscious of Miles’ body close to him; his shallow, shaky breath; his racing heartbeat. Mirroring his own.

  “So you agree?” Why didn’t Miles answer? “You can keep them, or sell them to Red. I promise when they’re yours, I won’t interfere.”

  “I wouldn’t sell them,” said Miles, gently. “Why would I? If they were mine, I’d treasure them. Just like you trust me to.”

  “Shit, Miles… you are too much.” Zeke struggled to find the right words.

  Miles glanced at him. “But would you let me keep a stake in the gallery? You can have my people work for you, my company’s sponsorship.”

  Zeke laughed, a short, happy sound, breaking the tension in the room. “Dammit, I kind of hoped for that already. I’m not that much of a businessman, as you know. I’d need help. Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

  Miles smiled at him, all the warmth of it reflected in his eyes. “That’s a ‘yes’,” he said.

  Zeke felt his chest tighten and his heartbeat skip a tango—if it’d known how to do one. Miles’ voice sounded as if it came from another world. He snaked his hand around Miles’ waist and leaned in, anticipating a new kiss, his lips opening wider.

  “‘Yes’ to a lot of things,” murmured Miles.

  Zeke slid his tongue in. He liked the taste of “yes” in Miles’ mouth; he liked the taste of surprise and delight, and even the passive lust of weariness. Scary, though, right? His gallery back again… his life back in his hands. It’d be better this time. Maybe even okay. But he needed rest. They both did. They needed to sit down and assimilate all that had happened.

  Or lie down. Assimilation’s always damned good lying down.

  Miles might well have been thinking the same. His hands were busy at Zeke’s hips and ass, and Zeke resigned himself to some more making out on that damned couch, because he really didn’t think that either of them would wait to move elsewhere.

  Miles whispered into his ear. “Will you stay?”