Bleu Balls

by Tara Lain

  “Yeah, more or less.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do most of the talking. Just be yourself.”

  “Darling, with me, that’s never a good idea.”

  She stopped walking. “Robin, do you want me to tell them you’re both sick?”

  “That would queer our chances of winning, right? You should pardon the pun.”

  “I could do my best to present on my own, but I’m not a painter, and I have no idea what you have in mind for that wall.” She pushed open the door to the lobby of the building, and he followed her inside the huge, cool expanse. The ceilings soared at least three stories up, with ultramodern chandeliers hanging at either end, and between them, like the most perfect canvas ever invented, was a big bare wall. She extended an arm. “That wall.”

  Colors flashed in his mind, and his right hand twitched. “Oh my.”

  She smiled. “I’d better get you while you’re lusting. Come on.”

  His art hard-on vanished by the elevator entrance. “I hate this shit.”

  “You want this commission. Breathe.” They stepped in, and the doors closed.

  “Maybe I’m sick too.” His stomach pitched like they were sailing a boat to the top floor.

  She ignored him and stared at the blinking numbers as the elevator rose. Good thing there weren’t any windows. Otherwise leaping would be an option.

  The door opened directly into a reception room. No fucking escape. Valerie walked straight to the receptionist’s desk, which sat out in the middle of a big open space with windows staring over all of Irvine on both sides. Freeways and boring buildings. Not much to see once you left the ocean. Of course, there was a thin strip of blue at the top of the view. What the fuck was he doing here? He needed to go home to Laguna and never leave it again.

  Valerie came up beside him. “We can sit. They’ll be a couple minutes.” He turned toward the leather bench. She put a hand on his arm. Her voice was low. “Uh, unless you want to maybe visit the restroom. A little less eyeliner?”

  The hell she said. His eyes narrowed. “I dress and act any way I choose. And if they don’t like it or you don’t like it, get some other boy.”

  Her fingers tightened on his arm. The woman had balls. “I’m sorry, but Bobby always tones it down a little for new clients. I just thought—”

  “If you thought I was Bobby, you’re in for a world of disappointment.”

  Her eyes met his. Balls of steel. “You came here, so I assumed you wanted the job.”

  He stared back, but she didn’t drop her gaze. He snatched his arm away. “Shit.” He glanced at the woman at the desk. “Excuse me, is the restroom nearby?”

  The young woman smiled and nodded toward the wall opposite the elevator lobby.

  He glared at Valerie and crossed to the bathroom. Inside he stalked up to the urinal, peed a few nerves out, and then approached the sink, trying not to look in the mirror. What he saw there might eat him. A quick wash and dry. He sighed and looked up.

  The face that stared back always made him shiver. His one concession to the meeting had been pulling his pitch-black mane back into a ponytail. Of course that just managed to show off his five earrings. His eyes, the ones offending Valerie, looked like chips of the Mediterranean in a black oval. He should get fucking black contacts so everything could be black. Those crappy blue eyes always offended him—or at least they had since he was seven. His skin shone as white as the porcelain sink—he made sure of that with an inch or so of powder. Even his lips were white. He liked to think of it as a death mask. Something from a horror show. But the fucking fact was, that face was too much like Bobby’s—too pretty—to be what he wanted it to be. He didn’t have the balls to debauch himself enough to really look like death. Fucking coward.

  He grabbed a paper towel, wet it, and dabbed at the black eyeliner, then wiped the powder from his lips. The natural pink of his skin, so much like Bobby’s, glistened like Little Bo fucking Peep. With a yank, he snatched the skull stud from his nose and pulled out his tongue stud, then inched up his shirt collar—make that Bobby’s shirt collar—so it covered the tat on his neck. That’s all the bitch would get. For Bobby. Only for Bobby. Enough.

  After tossing the towel, he swung back out into the lobby and found Valerie standing, looking anxious. “They’re ready for us.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m ready for them.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  The receptionist led the way down a hall toward some double doors. As they approached, the door opened and John Bean walked out with a man who was better dressed than John. Probably his agent. Robin nodded. “Hey, John.”

  “Shit, Robin, what are you doing here?”

  Valerie glanced toward the still-open door to the conference room. “Mr. McMillan is a finalist as well, Mr. Bean.”

  John grinned over his white goatee. “Yeah, but Robin never talks to people. Only paintbrushes. Where’s Bobby?”

  Robin shrugged. “Barfing, last time I checked.”

  “Well, good luck, son. I was worried, but I feel better now.” He laughed and ambled down the hall with his agent trailing.

  Robin frowned. “The bastard.”

  Valerie nodded toward the door and widened her eyes. She walked in and he followed.

  The two men and one woman sitting at the conference table probably heard what they’d said in the hall. First clue? The older man and the woman were trying not to bust a gut. The other man looked like he’d swallowed something sour, which was a pure, fucking shame, because that was one of the sweetest damned faces Robin had ever seen. Of course, he should talk.

  The older guy at the head of the table, who seemed to be in charge, said, “Thank you for coming. I’m Hyer Anson. Please, take a seat.”

  Robin pulled out a chair and glanced across at the disapproving man. Oh yeah, so conservative and uptight he must shove lemons up his ass, but Jesus, what a picture. Perfection.

  Anson passed cards to him and Valerie. Valerie pushed her card back. Robin ignored them. His fingers itched to paint that face. The man’s hair was almost black. Not Asian ink, but close, and just as perfectly stick straight as a Chinese movie star. His face defined unique. Some amazing mix of Greek architecture and Scandinavian winter with this dash of the totally unexpected, like maybe a tiny bit of Asian had seeped into the mix. Fair and dewy as a rose petal, but with this hint of the East stirred in. If you didn’t count the expression. Lighten up, asshole.

  “Mr. McMillan?”

  “What?” He looked up and found all eyes on him except for the beautiful man. “Sorry. Easily distracted.”

  Anson glanced toward pretty puss and then nodded toward the African American woman sitting next to him. “This is Georgia Wyatt, one of our largest tenants. Her sportswear line is an important brand around the world.”

  Robin nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen your stuff in Laguna. It’s great.”

  She smiled, flashing even white teeth. “Thank you. I’ve seen your stuff, and I think it’s pretty great too.”

  “Thanks.” He looked over at the other man, who was pointedly staring at a spot on the table. What was up his ass?

  Anson said, “This is Paolo Lind. His architectural firm designed this building and is its largest tenant.”

  Robin stared right at the man. “Cool.”

  Lind nodded but said nothing. He glanced up, met Robin’s gaze for an electric instant, and then shifted away. Ridiculous that a man so gorgeous should be such an asshole.

  Anson said, “So, Ms. Etheridge, show us what you brought.”

  Valerie stood her tablet on the table and began scrolling through photos of their projects. “As you’ll see, the McMillan brothers have the scope and grandeur to handle a project of this size but still maintain a contemporary, even leading-edge look. No kitsch that murals tend to fall into because the artist doesn’t know what to do in that large a work.”

  She was doing a good job. Robin tried to listen, but his gaze kept drifting to the architectural masterpie
ce across the table.

  She pulled out a portfolio of drawings and sketches to give them a sense of the immediacy of their work. “You can see the boldness of line and form.”

  The architect stared at Robin’s portfolio with a slight crease between his dark, arched brows. Suddenly he looked up. “Excuse me, but we’ve already seen their work for others. Do you have a design to show us or not?”

  Valerie paused for a fraction of a second too long, but then she dove in. “Mr. Lind, to do a design for a project of this size would require many, many hours of time—all on speculation. My clients are sought-after artists.”

  Lind pushed the portfolio across the wide, slick table. “So are all the people we’re considering for this project. Obviously, your clients must not value the commission.”

  Well, shit. Robin grabbed the portfolio. At the back were some sketches, and he ripped one from the plastic sleeve that held it. He turned it over and pulled three markers from his pocket—he didn’t leave home without them. Bold lines flowed across the paper as he drew. He glanced up at Lind, who stared at Robin’s moving hand. “So tell me. Do you design a lot of buildings on spec, darling?” Lind scowled at him. Robin looked back at the drawing and took his thumb, wet it, and smudged some of the lines. “Yeah, no, right? Because all you have to sell is your design talent. Just like me. This building we’re sitting in is a really good design. Not the best I’ve ever seen, but really good for Orange County. You need a mural that reflects that design, and you’re a good enough architect to know with one glance that I’m that guy.”

  He kept drawing, slashing lines and swirling in flashes of golden yellow, but the main theme was blue, baby. With a sneer, he slid the abstract, wild, free creation across the table and stood up. “You can keep this, because no matter who else you hire, they can’t begin to do what my brother and I can do. But you’ll fuck up your building because, for whatever reason, after an acquaintance of thirty seconds, you don’t like me. Maybe you don’t like gay guys in eyeliner. Maybe you’re just an asshole. Hell, you want reasons to dislike me? You should get to know me. I can give you a boatload of reasons, but not liking my earrings is a pretty dumbass basis on which to choose an artist, and you, of all people, should know that.” He leaned over, signed the drawing with a flourish, flicked his fingers, and made the paper jump. “Good luck with your building.”

  He crossed the conference room and walked out just as the sportswear chick yelled, “You tell ’em, cutie.”

  ROBIN TIPTOED across the living room of the apartment. He didn’t want to wake Bobby. Yeah, right. Didn’t want to tell him that he’d fucked up their big chance. He pushed open the door to his own room. Sanctuary. His king-sized bed dominated the back wall, with about a hundred cushions of every pattern and color. Funny. In all his sexual exploits, nobody ever got to that bed. Off-limits. One of his own paintings, an abstract in softer shades of green, gray, and blue than he usually chose, hung above the bed. He and Bobby had picked the apartment because of the view and because it was advertised as having “twin master suites.” The irony wasn’t lost on them.

  He stalked into his closet and pulled off Bobby’s suit coat, trying not to damage it. But shit, he wanted that fucker gone. The jeans came next, and then the dress shirt, and he hung the whole thing on a good hanger. Some older, softer black jeans that fit like second skin and an old paint-spattered T-shirt felt a lot more normal—to the extent that he was ever normal.

  Hungry. He should make some soup for Bobby. He should make some penicillin for Bobby. Fucking hell. But he had zero energy, so he flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “Robin?”

  Crap. He propped up on his elbows and looked at the pale and wan creature standing in his bedroom door wearing a pink chenille bathrobe. Robin sighed. “I was trying not to wake you.”

  “What happened?”

  “I—” Shit, he didn’t want to tell him while he was sick. “I thought Valerie did a good job.”

  Bobby staggered over and sat on the edge of the bed, propping his head in his hand and resting it on his knee. “Good. She really is brighter than you give her credit for.”

  Valerie? Yes. Robin? No.

  “Who was there?”

  “Uh, the building owner and two of his tenants.”

  “So what did you show?”

  “Hey, let’s get you back to bed and I’ll make you some soup. Okay?”

  He sighed. “Yeah, thanks. I feel like crap warmed over.”

  “Come on.” He got up and put one arm around Bobby. They had the exact same body type—small, slim, willowy. Robin managed a tiny bit more muscle, but it only accounted for an extra pound or two. Bobby must’ve felt awful, because he was leaning on Robin as they walked. “So when will we know? When are they making a decision?”

  “Uh, I didn’t ask?”

  Bobby’s smooth forehead wrinkled under the platinum bangs. “Well, I’m sure Valerie must have. She’s very professional.”

  “She’ll probably call.” Just not in this life. Robin edged Bobby back to the bed. “How are you feeling, darling? Maybe we should think of taking you to the doctor.”

  He shook his head. “Not much to do for a virus but wait it out. Try to sleep.”

  Robin put his hand on Bobby’s forehead. Clammy. “I think we should be sure there’s nothing bacterial going on.”

  “That would be convenient. At least they could cure it.” He toppled over to the side. “So tell me more about the meeting.”

  Change the subject. He stood up. “I’m calling Dr. Brown.”

  “Okay.”

  Bobby must be sick if he wasn’t fighting. “Come on, let’s get you back under the covers.” He pulled the comforter over his shivering brother, then grabbed his cell and left the room to make the call.

  Dr. Brown’s receptionist said to bring the sick boy over, so he bundled Bobby into some sweats—pink, of course—and breathed a sigh that his brother seemed too out of it to ask any more questions about the interview. But when Bobby got curious again, what in hell was he going to say?

  Chapter Three

  BOBBY SHIVERED and squirmed on the examining table. It felt like a year he’d been sitting there freezing. So cold. Robin had brought the afghan, and he pulled it tighter around himself.

  He hadn’t worn a watch. It was a wonder he’d worn clothes. Well, had worn clothes. Past tense. Now he sat there shivering in a couple of paper gowns that barely covered the necessities—and very nice necessities they were, if he did say so.

  The door opened and a nurse stuck her head in. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. McMillan. But we’re working you in, you understand.”

  He nodded and jammed his teeth together to keep them from chattering. She’d already taken his temperature and blood pressure and weighed him. Now he was just waiting for whatever came next—which might be critical care, the way he felt. “I’ve never had to undress for the flu before.” His teeth clicked.

  “We’ve had some cases lately with a lot of body aches and swollen glands. Dr. Brown will want to check those.”

  Bobby nodded.

  “Poor dear. You do look like you feel awful. Dr. Brown will be right in.” Her head popped out and the door closed.

  Good old Dr. Brown had been his and Robin’s doctor for two years. The guy was probably in his seventies, but they both liked that nothing really fazed him. Bobby had even come in when his butthole got irritated after one particularly wild weekend, and Dr. B. had just given him some liquid lavender to drop into a carrier oil. He’d been better in a couple of days and back up to his old tricks. In fact, they both used the lavender mixture now before they had sex. Sex. Jeez, even that didn’t sound good to him, and that never happened.

  He flopped over on his side with his legs still hanging off the table and closed his eyes. Death warmed over. Drifting felt good. He needed to get better and call Valerie. Had to know if they got the commission. But not right now.

  He sighed.

  “Did y
ou die while waiting for me?”

  The voice didn’t sound like Dr. B.’s up-from-the-projects drawl at all. Slowly Bobby opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He sat up fast, got light-headed, and fell back onto the table, closing his eyes against the suddenly blinding light.

  “Oh dear.” Two strong hands gripped his feet and slid them up where a table extension magically appeared.

  “Sorry. Sat up too fast.” Bobby flopped an arm over his eyes.

  “Just lie still.” Deep, warm, and distinctly cultured, like ivy grew all over his voice.

  Bobby breathed, then slowly lifted his arm and opened his eyes. “Uh, you’re not Dr. Brown.”

  “Ah, but I am.” The man—who couldn’t be more than twentysomething and clearly modeled for Jay-Z in his spare time—grinned, and craterous dimples appeared in what were otherwise lean cheeks. “I’m simply not the Dr. Brown you were expecting.”

  Bobby let out a long sigh and sat up. “You sure aren’t.” His gaze clung to that startling face, all shiny skin, short-clipped black hair, and most startling of all, light hazel eyes.

  “I’m Micah Brown. The Dr. Brown you were expecting is my father, and he’s cutting back his practice time and letting me take over some of his workload. Hope you don’t mind.” He pulled the afghan down and placed his stethoscope against Bobby’s back. “Breathe.”

  Bobby inhaled, coughed, then tried to smile, though every move hurt his head. “Sorry. Just assure me you actually have a license and don’t just play a doctor on TV.”

  Brown laughed, a deep rumbly sound Bobby wanted to hear through that stethoscope. “Breathe.”

  Bobby inhaled and exhaled, trying desperately not to cough.

  “Yep, I’ve got a degree or two and even belong to the AMA.” He hooked the device around his neck and started feeling Bobby’s upper chest with cool, gentle fingers.

  Oh my. Earlier, sex hadn’t even interested Bobby. Now? Well, he might make an exception in the case of Dr. Micah Brown. Dear God, the doc was so close, Bobby could lick him. Of course, that might not be covered by his PPO.