by Tom Collins
“I was—” I swallowed and shifted against the wall, “distressed only because, at first, I thought you were Liam and then when I found out there were two of you, I thought…I thought maybe he had something to do with it…”
“You thought he was fucking with you,” Brendan surmised. “That he’d set you up to be the butt of a joke, a public spectacle. Shit.” He looked away, pale and mortified. “Shit. That must have really hurt. I didn’t know. I swear, if I’d’ve known that you didn’t know about me I never would have done that.”
“He didn’t tell you he’d left me in the dark about you two?” I ventured.
“Naw,” he scoffed. “It wasn’t something he thought about, it just happened. He was just going with the flow and enjoying being unique and couldn’t see how it could go bad until that bridge was already burning under him.”
I huffed. “That’s Liam.”
“So we’re okay?” he pressed, shifting restlessly. He was honestly anxious for my forgiveness and I couldn’t understand.
This was whacked! Didn’t he get it? I shouldn’t have to explain it to him.
“Brendan…after I left Liam, how did you find him?”
His face went dark, like a shadow had crossed it. I saw that coldness, so like Liam’s terrible anger I gulped. “I found him spewing his boxties in the back lot,” he said flatly, “and looking like he’d been roughed up.”
I winced. “I was never not okay with you. What I’m trying to tell you is: you shouldn’t be okay with me for doing that to Liam. Am I wrong?”
He was sizing me up again. “Not wrong, just not quite right. I shouldn’t be okay with you unless Liam is okay with you.”
He opened the door. “I think you know the way,” he invited me. “Go on back.”
Jill had returned to the couch, but Erin was still there, arms crossed. He frowned at his cousin’s welcome, but stepped away, letting me pass. A stray, lustful thought appeared and vanished. There was no helping it, faced with two tall, lanky, dark-haired, green-eyed, stunningly handsome young men.
I felt their eyes on my back as I made my way down the hall to Liam’s door. Maybe it was me, but it seemed like there was more of Liam’s art covering the apartment walls than before.
I was so distracted and nervous that I wiped back my wet hair, swallowed, then, without thinking, opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. I shut the door behind me, losing myself for a moment in the fragrance of oil paint and Liam. The thunder had stopped, but I could hear the patter of rain on the window.
It was then that I’d realized I’d been bamboozled. Distracted by Brendan to where I’d forgotten that no one had been sent to warn Liam about me. I had one wild, crazy thought about ducking back out the door, then I caught sight of what was hanging on the walls and froze.
*Liam*
The soothing sound of my family laughing at the antics of Moe, Larry, Curley and Shemp reached me through the paper-thin walls of our cheaply constructed apartment building. Brendan, Erin and I had loved them since we were kids because we’d been likened to the Three Stooges as often as the Three Musketeers. Jillian Sykes—we delighted in pointing out to her that her last name means “shithead” in Tenctonese, the language of the Newcomers in Alien Nation—was the only girl I’d ever known who didn’t loathe the Stooges. That included our mother and sister. We’d both known she was perfect for us the first time we watched them with her and she’d laughed.
I’d been lying in bed, ignoring a morning wood that didn’t know when to quit, listening to the summer storm thundering outside my window, and planning what I would say to Oliver when I got over to his place in a little while. Always providing I could get him to open the door, of course. I’d felt much more confidant about my decision to confront Oliver in last night’s dark. In the soggy, grey light of morning I kept seeing his door slamming in my face while his neighbors glared from their doorways, casting invisible stones from within the safety of their Pyrex apartments.
It was my fault he’d been the victim of a hate crime, after all.
The thunder was gone by now, but the rain pounded on the window. What terrified me more than any other thought was that there was nothing I could say or do to make things right between us. How did you fix something when you didn’t know how you’d broken it? That was the number one priority, I decided. I couldn’t begin to mend the rift between us if I couldn’t get him to tell me what I’d done to cause it.
My bedroom door opened, drawing me out of my reverie. The light from a small desk lamp and the rainy shadows filtering through the box fan fell on Oliver as he stepped, dripping, into my sanctum. He hesitated, blinking in the dark and looked for a second as if he would reconsider. I was too amazed at his sudden appearance to say anything. I watched him go still, like a rabbit in headlights, then reach toward the doorknob before noticing the near life-sized painting of him hanging on the wall.
I wanted to jump up and rush to him. I wanted to hold him and tell him how much I’d missed him and how desperately I loved him, but I was too stunned to move. His appearance was like a visual non sequitur.
He looked thin and tired, dark circles under his eyes. An ugly, chartreuse bruise mottled his jaw; I wanted to kiss it away. On his left leg was one of those Ace bandages designed to fit the knee and support the healing tendons. It was the sort with the hole for the kneecap and I had the most powerful urge to lick that bared circle of flesh until his legs shook. I itched to do it, but I didn’t have the nerve to let him know I was here.
My throat closed up as my too vivid imagination supplied me with the details of how much worse he would have looked a week ago.
He took a couple of stagger-limping steps forward, mouth agape and eyes wide with amazement as he gazed at the near life-sized oil of him in bed. I took in the rest of him, visually soaking myself in him the way the rain had drenched his clothes. He wore his favorite shirt, the old, super-soft Red Cross t-shirt he’d worn on our first date and Chinos shorts. I thought of the shirt as his superhero costume, had even drawn him wearing it in the form of tights on one of his bagged breakfasts. His dark tan nipples, hard from the cooling effect of the fan, were visible through the almost transparent material. His khaki, knee-length shorts clung to his hips and the front of his thighs, outlining the shape of his package.
My boner twitched inside my cutoff scrubs, panting for him, as he turned in place to take in all the fresh canvases. The rain coming down on his back had pressed his shorts into his crack, making his juicy-sweet ass seem to pop out at the viewer in invitation. I wondered if he had any idea what a show he was putting on. No doubt, it would be R-rated in a theater.
I couldn’t resist rubbing myself through my shorts a little, interested for the first time in a week in the idea of getting off. My physical libido had been fine, but thinking of it was like trying to cook while you’re nauseous. Oliver’s imitation of a Lazy Suzan brought him around to face me. I shifted my hand away from my groin as he looked at the painting over my head. He still hated it. It was written all over his face.
*Oliver*
Only one small desk light was on, but I could see pictures of—well, me—on at least three walls. The most amazing was the one Liam had sketched of me in bed, blown up huge, all black and white and—I hadn’t words to describe it.
Sweet Christ. I’d had absolute faith in Liam’s artistic talent, and I’d thought I knew how good he was, but this…this was incredible. I eyed it with astonishment and more than a little despair. Anyone with this talent deserved someone far better than me.
There were other paintings. In one, I had wings, in another brownish skin and fantastic tattoos, yet it was still me. I could tell because it had the same expression I’d seen on my face in the bathroom mirror. The “I’ve got to get washed up and go to work!” look I’d flashed more than once at Liam when he tried to fondle my naked ass while I was lathering up with shaving cream or brushing my teeth. When did he do all these? Somewhere in between our dates, maybe? I’d always susp
ected he saw me as a muse and artist’s model. I’d worried that might be all I was, his latest inspiration, but now—now I’d take anything I could get.
Right, Oliver, model naked for him in an attempt to lure him back into your bed. Talk about a loss of integrity.
My eyes came around, finding the one painting I’d hoped Liam had given up on. The Barbarian. It was finished, and like a sculpture that had finally emerged from the marble, was now alive. The black dragon was far more monstrous than in the original sketch. It looked cunning and demonic, seductively elegant; the sort of beast to toy with its food before slowly tearing it apart.
And then there was the barbarian, his movement and gestures active and desperate. His torn clothing spoke of terrible trials, his body language of hardships and determination. Of strength rather than brutality. It was so captivating I had to tear my eyes from it.
I took a step and a mixed pile of books, David Bowie CDs and a pizza box went tumbling. The floor was a minefield of clutter; laundry, painting supplies, soda cans. Liam couldn’t possibly be comfortable in this mess, I found myself thinking, and reached down to gather up the spill.
“You try to put those in order,” Liam’s voice said out of the dark, “and I’ll kick your ass.”
I jumped, startled, even as he clicked on a light by the bed. I realized that he’d been lying there, right under the barbarian picture this whole time.
Duh, Oliver! Where did you think he was? Under the laundry?
He was several days unshaven, hair mussed, eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep. There was paint splatter over his fingers and he looked pale and thin, like he hadn’t been eating. My guess was that he’d been doing nothing but painting in his off hours.
Damned if I didn’t want to march right out to the kitchen and fix him some tuna salad over brown rice. Didn’t his roommates know that he had to be brought food when he was working? He’d never bother to feed himself, unless it was delivered junk food, which was no good for keeping up his health or energy.
Had no one been taking care of him? I raked my eyes over his long body, looking for other signs of neglect and ready to berate the three stooges out there if I found any. He was wearing what looked to be a pair of the scrub pants I sometimes wore as pajama bottoms. They’d been cut off at the thigh, threads dangling, and were now riding up between his legs.
The material wasn’t that thick and without any underwear everything was outlined, including his morning hard-on. Hell, his tight, furry balls were practically dangling out.
I felt my throat tighten up. Damn.
*Liam*
Oliver was gawking at the warrior and black dragon painting when he took another limping step and knocked over a precariously stacked pile of crap. I saw the split second of irritation as the state of my room challenged his need for order. He started to lean down to clean up the mess. I was scared he might lose his balance and hurt himself.
“You try to put those in order and I’ll kick your ass,” I said to save him from his own neatness impulse.
He jumped and flinched, touching his bad leg. I sighed at myself. I messed everything up, no matter how good my intentions were. He squinted toward me and I turned on the lamp next to my bed. He stared at me for the longest time and I realized what he must be seeing. I had to look like some poor homeless dude, unshaven, hair a mess and what little I wore ratty-looking. I didn’t like him seeing me this way. I’d become much more conscious of my appearance since meeting Oliver.
I hadn’t walked around like a slob before, but I never worried about things like what my shampoo smelled like or if my body wash would “moisturize my skin for a full twenty-four hours.” Not until he started rubbing his soft cheeks against my inner thighs. A ghost of that sensation crawled up the insides of my legs, and my stomach and groin muscles contracted in response.
As he looked me over, I saw concern in his eyes, maybe even a little irritation, which he directed at the bedroom door. I wondered what that was about, but didn’t ask.
“You look like the star of Castaway, the sequel,” he murmured, his brown eyes catching light. He was giving me that hot look that made my guts turn to water.
“And you look like a drowned rat,” I countered, licking dry lips.
“It’s raining outside.”
“So I can hear. You know, they’ve got these new fangled contraptions called umbrellas—also known as a bumbershoot, incidentally. They’re supposed to keep you dry when it rains. That’s what they tell me, anyway. You might want to try one.”
“Maybe I will. Oh, and I hear they’ve also got these cool inventions called razors.” There was his dry humor that I so loved. “They remove facial hair.”
I managed a faint smile. “What will they think of next?”
A natural pause in the bantering and in that heartbeat Oliver remembered that we weren’t a happy couple any more and turtled on me.
Reprieve over, I thought, pushing up off the bed.
“Give me a moment,” I asked.
I needed an empty bladder if I was going to pry him out of his shell. If I couldn’t get him to talk to me there would be no hope of reconciliation. I darted out to the bathroom. A long and satisfying pee, a splash of cold water over my face to get me focused, a quick scrubbing of the teeth and gargle with mouthwash in hopes of something more, and I was ready to face the lion lurking in my den.
Chapter Twelve
*Oliver*
Liam came back with droplets caught in that almost beard of his and flopped back down on the bed, a lean silhouette, pale skin accented with a beautiful pelt of chest hair. I couldn’t help staring, as enraptured with him now as I’d been that first night in the pub.
It was the weirdest thing. Brendan might be Liam’s mirror image, but both my psyche and my body knew the difference. Did it ever. My pulse was racing and my cock was getting thick. I wanted to knock him flat on the messy bed, kiss him breathless, create hickeys about his navel, then, rip off those raggedy shorts and beg forgiveness in a very different way.
I would hear that wonderful moan of his, press my fingers into his warm, hairy thighs, smell his fragrance and seduce him into bucking and thrusting his cock down my throat.
But that would not be fair to him. Or right.
I found a bare patch of floor that wasn’t too near the bed and settled down, careful of my stiff knee and tender ribs.
He eyed me quizzically. “How are you?” he asked then. “I’ve been so worried.”
“Physically I’m fine. Healed enough that if you and your roomies want to beat me up, you’re welcome to.”
He flinched and shook his head. “Sandy said they took the watch,” his voice went hard.
I shrugged and tried not to show how much it hurt to remember that. “I’m used to having things taken away from me.”
He seemed troubled by that. “I’ve been…painting more pictures of you.”
“So I see.” Shit. Had he painted all these this week? My eyes flickered round, fixing, as always on the troubling barbarian picture.
Liam pointed up over his head at it. “You don’t like that one, do you?”
“No. It…shows a side of me that I hate. I mean…I know it was meant in fun, a sexual fantasy and all…but I also know…think I know, that your paintings are more than that. You saw my impulsive side, Liam, and gave it a form that was way too accurate.”
“You don’t like impulsiveness,” he said with resignation. “I get that—”
“No,” I stopped him. I didn’t want us going down that wrong road again. I’d come here to make sure we didn’t do that. “I don’t like my impulsiveness. Yours…yours I love because it embodies the very best impulses. The impulse to be honest, to tell someone you love them, to buy them flowers or make them laugh. To feed a stuck-up, funsucker blueberry crumble.”
“To say nasty things to someone who doesn’t deserve it,” he reminded me.
“I deserved it.” I sucked in a breath, “I more than deserved it, and everything you s
aid was true. Except about your art. A lot of people can be trained to do my job, but your talent is unique and I’d never belittle it. Please believe that. But for the rest, what you said about me and my…complexes, that was all true.”
“Oliver—”
“Sandy says,” I interrupted quickly. I had to get this out. “That I didn’t have the best male role model. Which is a joke between us. My father was a selfish asshole who’d take anything from my room he wanted, anything from Sandy, too, her jewelry and keepsakes. Pawn ’em and recklessly spend the money. Before Sandy moved in he was in the habit of taking the grocery money, even if it meant that I was reduced to eating stale cornflakes for a week.”
“Oliver—My God—”
“One year I worked all winter so I could have a bike for riding around with my friends. I hid the money so he wouldn’t find it, and I can’t tell you how elated I was when Sandy drove me to the cycle shop. I picked out a silver and blue bike, and do you know, I hadn’t that bike a week before my father stole it and sold it so he could fly to Vegas with his friends.”
Liam gawked.
“That was the last straw,” I added. “What made Sandy decide to pack her bags and, God bless her, get us both out of there. Thing is, Liam, the last thing I want is to be anything like my father. But he’s there in me. When I give in to my impulses, I can be just like him. Selfish, thoughtless, inconsiderate, callous…like a barbarian. Taking what I want, how I want, without a single thought to what it does to anyone else.”
I drew in a breath and lowered my head into my hand. I felt as if I’d lost a quart of blood. “Please, don’t tell any of this to your brother,” I asked and blushed at the whining tone of my voice. “I know you share everything, but it’s hard enough for me knowing that you know.”