by Tara Lain
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
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Copyright
Bleu Balls
By Tara Lain
A Balls to the Wall Romance
Double trouble. The McMillan twins, Robin and Bobby, are renowned for their talents—both as fine artists and for thrilling the various men who catch their eyes. As different in style and personality as their DNA is identical, they’re nonetheless best friends who divide and conquer, with Robin doing the serious painting and Bobby adding the sunny salesmanship.
But when their most important client decides Bobby must wield the paintbrush, the brothers revert to childhood tactics and switch places. Then along comes Micah, a handsome doctor who’s attracted to Bobby but invites Robin out to try to please his homophobic brother, and Paolo, the pain-in-the-butt client who thinks he’s wooing Bobby when he’s actually after Robin. Paolo harbors his own hidden pain that weirdly intersects with Robin’s, but pride and privacy conspire to produce what will either be a masterpiece—or end up as Dogs Playing Poker.
To all the readers who read Snow Balls and came back to me and
said, “What about the twins? Do they get a story?”
I’m thrilled to say they do, and thank you for nudging them to tell it.
Chapter One
“SWEET JESUS, you two are amazing!”
Robin McMillan stared up at the older guy his brother had lured from the bar of their favorite club into the back room for a three-way. Lured might be overstating. The man practically polished the floor with his tongue, he was so anxious to take Bobby up on his horny invitation. After all, Bobby and Robin McMillan—aka Double Trouble—were pretty well known around Laguna for showing lucky men who caught their fancy a uniquely good time. Bobby usually did the seducing, and Robin went along to protect his twin and because it was way better than his hand.
But now this handsome silver-haired dude hammered his nicely proportioned and tightly condomed cock into Bobby’s ass, and Bobby just hung over the arm of the couch and let him do it. Not a sound. Bobby usually made enough noise for two cats and a couple of highway-patrol sirens. He also usually provided the “sweet nothings” small talk with the guys he picked up. He sure as fuck knew better than to let Robin do it.
Robin raised a foot onto the seat of the chair next to him to get a better angle on their ménage partner’s butt. Robin might be bad at sweet-talking, but he was good at fucking.
“Oh yes, Jesus, just like that. Oh God. Oh God.” The man shivered each time Robin’s dick connected with his gland, and he drove farther into Bobby’s waiting behind. Still no sound from Bobby. Wonder what’s wrong?
Robin reached and touched his twin’s back. Uh-oh. Clammy and sweating. Is Bobby sick? With double vigor, Robin pounded until the guy quit trying to fuck with any finesse. He just popped little rabbit screws to massage his own cock while Robin assailed his prostate.
“Oh God! Oh God! Don’t stop. Jesus. Jesus.”
“Come for me.” Robin used his silky command voice.
That seemed to do the trick. The guy threw his head back and howled as Robin slid perfectly over the spot once more, then backed off to let him enjoy the high. Robin didn’t bother to come. Bobby could always find them another hookup. Right now he needed to get this done and check on Bobby.
The man—Robin never caught his name—collapsed over Bobby’s back. Robin gave him a two count, then pulled him back to standing and held the man against his chest. Robin wasn’t the huggy type, but he wanted to keep the guy from landing on Bobby. His brother pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt, but he kind of stumbled when he did it.
Finally, their mutual play toy managed to open his eyes and raise his head. “Sweet Jesus, that was one for the record books. I’ve never done a three-way before. My God, thank you.” He looked into Robin’s face. “Did you come? I was so out there I didn’t notice.”
Robin nodded as he pulled up his black jeans and tucked himself in, still half-hard. “No worries. But I think my brother’s tired. I need to get him home.”
“Oh sure. Sorry.” The man looked toward Bobby, who managed to quirk his sweet smile, but no way his heart was in it. Damn. Normally he’d be gushing and cooing.
Their new friend pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt, and when he’d gotten the whole business thing together, he grabbed his suit coat from the back of the chair where he’d thrown it. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a card. “You two are truly unforgettable. This is a tough time for me, and you just made me forget my worries in a big way. If I can ever do anything for you, just call me, okay?”
Robin took the card and tucked it in his pocket. He needed to get Bobby home without insulting their friend. Not that he cared much about being rude, but Bobby would hate it. “We will.”
“Seriously. Everyone in my business knows I’m gay, so you don’t have to protect my reputation or anything.”
Bobby waggled a finger and pulled out some dimples. “Ah, but do they know you consort with Double Trouble?”
The man smiled, which crinkled some nice lines around his eyes. “Bobby, you’re the best kind of trouble. Now get some rest.”
Bobby leaned over and kissed the man’s cheek. “Thank you. I’m a little tired.”
“Couldn’t have proved it by me, Beautiful. You boys take care of yourselves.”
Robin stepped up to his brother and threw an arm around his shoulders.
The man shook his head. “My God, it’s hard to see at a casual glance since you dress really differently, but you two are so alike it’s scary.”
Robin managed a half smile. “Trust me, only our DNA.”
Bobby waggled his fingers as the two of them maneuvered out the door of the club’s back room, where they’d set up their impromptu liaison. Robin dodged the guys in the hall and maneuvered Bobby toward the back door that led most directly to the parking lot. He looked at his twin. Shiny, and not in a good way. “You okay?”
“Feel really bad. It came on suddenly.”
“I figured if you skipped an orgasm, you must be under the weather. Let’s get you home, pump some vitamin C into you, and put you to bed.” He crossed the busy lot, still guiding Bobby around his shoulders.
“Yeah. Just need some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” Bobby leaned heavily on him.
“If you say so.”
“Robin, this could be it. The one. The commission that makes it all work.”
Shit, Bobby could make sunshine out of pee. Robin got in his side, started the car, and they rode quietly for a few minutes. Bobby lay with his head against the seatback, eyes closed, mascaraed lashes fan
ning his cheeks. “Robin?”
“Ummm?”
“I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“What?”
“No more hookups and one-nighters. I want a real boyfriend.”
“I know, dear.” Robin sighed. Bobby said this whenever he got melancholy. Fortunately, horny trumped melancholy every time.
“You don’t believe me?”
Robin stopped at the Main Beach light. “I do, but you were the one who hooked us up with what’s-his-name back there, not me.”
“His name’s Harold.”
Robin’s hands froze on the wheel, and he shuddered.
Bobby rolled his head back and forth on the seat. “No, no. I’m wrong. His name’s Howard, not Harold. Howard. I remember because he’s an architect. You know, like Howard Roark?” They’d read Ayn Rand’s book under the covers together when they were twelve, swooning over the hero and confirming their family’s horrified suspicions that the boys played for the wrong team. Their parents had tried to love them anyway, thanks to the wise counseling of their mother’s brother. Robin swallowed hard.
Good old Uncle Harold was so good, nobody in the family ever believed anything bad about him. Stumble on the lawn? Must have been a gopher hole. Slur his words? Just tired. How many times had Robin been sent to Uncle Harold’s as a little kid only to spend the weekend dragging him out of bars, holding his head over the toilet, and covering him while he fought off imaginary insects? Nobody in the family knew or admitted Harold was a drunk—except Robin. Anytime Harold asked for Bobby to come visit, Robin stepped in and took his place. No way he’d let Bobby go there. That was Robin’s job.
Bobby wiped a hand over his face. “Yummy Howard Roark. I want to be Dominique Francon.”
Robin turned left from Pacific Coast Highway and up the hill toward their apartment. “There’re just too many temptations for your little pink body to resist.”
Bobby’s voice sounded oddly serious. “But I want to resist. I need to grow up. I don’t want to be an aging twink.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“And soon I’ll be twenty-five.”
Robin glanced at Bobby. “We’ll be twenty-five. Would you leave me abandoned in the world with my dick hanging out all alone?”
“You should settle down too.”
“I’m not the type.”
“You were willing to give up the others if JJ said yes.”
That still hurt. “Who knows if I would have remained faithful? Besides, there’s only one JJ.”
Bobby nodded. “The queen who looks like a quarterback.”
Robin had never stood a real chance with JJ, especially after he’d gotten one look at Ryan Star. JJ was too kind and good—more like Bobby. He’d never have gone for Robin long. Too depressing to think about. Yeah, so he thought about it all the time.
He turned the Prius into the carport behind their hillside Laguna apartment and climbed out to help Bobby. He took care of Bobby without even thinking. Always had, no matter what.
Bobby looked up at him with those big blue eyes that matched his personality so well—and so totally didn’t match Robin’s. “Please take me seriously.”
“Look, if you want a steady boyfriend, I’ll go out and hit one over the head for you with my club and drag him back to our lair.”
Bobby leaned his head on Robin’s shoulder as they walked into their place. “Too exhausting tonight. Do it tomorrow after the interview. Have to sleep. So important.”
Robin half dragged Bobby to his bedroom, plied him with a heaping teaspoon of powdered vitamin C in water, stripped him, tucked him in, and turned off his lights. He wandered toward their living room, flopped on the couch, and rested his head in his hands.
It looked like he took care of Bobby. Had since they were small children. Their parents always said that Robin was the oldest by five minutes so he was responsible. But if anything happened to Bobby, Robin wanted to throw up. It was like the light went out of the world. The time Bobby’d fallen out of that damned tree because he tried to follow Robin up it, Robin ran to their bedroom, crawled under his covers, and trembled for hours. He’ll be better in the morning.
Robin collapsed on his side and pretended he was dead.
“NOOOO. COME ON, dammit. Get out of bed. There’s no fucking way I’m doing this.” Robin ripped the comforter off Bobby, glared at the slim, bare backside that looked remarkably like his own, then yanked on Bobby’s limp arm.
“Mmmmfft.” Bobby obviously had enough strength to pull his arm back—hard. “Too sick. Leave me alone.”
“Robert McMillan, you had enough energy to fuck an architect. You can’t be too sick.”
“Am.”
“Fucking shit!” Robin threw his arms over his head, then crumpled forward into a hunch. “Can’t do this. Can’t. It’s not our deal. I paint. You market. Can’t. Nooooo.” He shook his head and made the moaning sounds coming from his mouth as pitiful as possible.
Bobby rolled to face Robin, pulling the covers back over himself. He slapped a hand against his mouth and burped, then panted. Okay, he looked awful. Even his platinum spikes had wilted to dead stalks of straw. “I’ll barf on the prospective clients. I was throwing up half the night. You can’t be worse than that.”
“Wanna bet? I hate clients, prospective or otherwise. You know that.”
“If we get this commission, it could make the whole year work. We wouldn’t have to scrape for the rent.”
Robin flopped in the chair beside his brother’s bed. “If we got it, which we won’t if I go, it would overlap with the Sawdust. That’s where we make most of our money.”
Bobby’s usually pink skin looked greenish. “Yes, and where I do most of the selling, which I’ll do again this year while you paint. You’re better than me anyway.”
“Not true.”
“You know it is. You got all the tortured-soul talent while I got the sunny salesmanship.” He burped.
Robin raked the midnight curtain of hair from his face. “Which is why you have to go today, Bobby. I just can’t, please.”
“If I could go, I’d never ask you. You know that.”
Shit. Yes, he did know that. “You know how to hurt me.”
“Of course. We have identical DNA, darling.” He pulled the comforter tighter. “If we get it, you don’t have to take a single cooking job all year.”
Robin wrapped his hands behind his head and sank onto his knees. “If I never have to cook another meal, it’ll be fine with me.”
“But you’re so good at it.” Bobby belched unbecomingly. Not something he’d ever do if he could help it. “Please, don’t mention food.”
“Gladly.” Weirdly, the main thing his grandmother had bequeathed to him was an amazing proficiency in the kitchen. All those years helping her pull shit from the oven, feeling punished because he wasn’t “man” enough to go outside with the boys. Bobby hadn’t cared. He’d been happy petting the kitties and made friends despite already being “different” at five and six. Robin hated every fucking asshole who’d tormented him. Plus Bobby never had to spend a weekend with Uncle Harold. Yeah, Robin had made sure of that.
“Get this commission and we can both pick and choose what we do for the rest of the year.” Bobby slapped a hand to his mouth. “Oh God, gonna barf again.” He leaped from the bed and ran naked into the bathroom.
Robin grabbed the wool afghan from the back of the chair, walked into Bobby’s narrow en suite, and wrapped the afghan around the shoulders of his twin, who was painting the toilet in vomit. Robin leaned against the sink. “We can’t pick and choose when we’ll be breaking our backs on a scaffold for months.”
Bobby popped an arm against the cabinet and rested his head on it. “Robin, either do it or don’t. I haven’t got the strength to argue with you.”
Robin sighed. When Bobby ran out of patience with him, it was over. His brother had boundless energy and a true heart of gold, and only on rare occasions did Robin stretch him to breaking.
This appeared to be one of those times. If he refused to go do the thing he hated most in life—and that was saying something since he hated a lot of things—it wasn’t just his own future he was messing with. It was his brother’s too. He might not give a shit about 99.9 percent of the humans on the planet, but Bobby he loved. “I’ll go, but I’ll fuck it up and you don’t get to say shit about it, got it?”
Bobby dropped his head in the bowl and barfed.
Chapter Two
“UH, MR. McMillan, how good to see you.” Valerie Etheridge, their agent, closed her car door, beeped her lock, and stared at him like she’d seen a snake.
“Sorry, Bobby’s too sick to stand. You’re stuck with me.” He looked up at the modern high-rise building across the street from the parking lot where they stood, then back at the attractive, well-dressed fortyish woman. “So what’s the shot, darling?”
“Shot? Oh, the presentation is to the building owner and two of his largest tenants, somebody from an architectural firm and a sportswear company. They’ve already seen the contenders and have narrowed it down to three, I understand. You’re one of them.”
“Who else?”
“John Bean, I heard via the grapevine. The other is from out of state, but I don’t know who.”
Robin pulled at the fucking suit jacket Bobby had made him wear with his jeans. Well, not made him, since he was barfing at the time, but told him to wear. “Bean’s good.”
“For this kind of grand ‘art in public places’ project, you’re much better.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Okay, let’s get it over with.” He clicked the lock on the Prius he and Bobby shared. Since they lived and worked in Laguna, they walked most places and didn’t need two cars.
Valerie’s Manolos clicked on the concrete as they hurried across the street to the building entrance. He glanced down. “Nice shoes.”
“Thanks.”
Maybe he should wear them. His feet felt like lead weights. “What do you think they’ll ask?”
“Probably your vision for the mural, something like that. Uh, you do have one, right?”