Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology

by Nikki Sloane, Elle Kennedy, KL Kreig, Leslie McAdam, Lynda Aicher, Mara White, Marni Mann, Rebecca Shea, Saffron Kent, Sierra Simone, Veronica Larsen, Xio Axelrod

  The vintage jacket he wore was velvet, a deep burgundy that looked incredible against his complexion. Beneath it lay what looked like a simple black t-shirt, and he’d finished the outfit with a pair of jeans. They were well-worn, and Mal knew that the fading and small tears in the denim resulted from frequent use and not overpriced fashion.

  The woman next to him, a lovely concoction of brown curls, russet skin, dimples, and curves, whispered into the man’s ear. His answering smile lit the whole of Mal’s universe.

  Mal felt lightheaded.

  It was ridiculous.

  A hand on his elbow brought Mal’s attention back to the women at his side, but his thoughts were scattered in the general direction of the man across the room.

  “Come, let me show you Pell’s collection.” Brianne dropped her hand from his arm and smiled, a note of pleading in her eyes.

  Mal didn’t need her to tell him she was done playing hostess to Lydia.

  “Please, lead the way.” He turned to find Lydia already engaged in another conversation. “I’ll touch base with you later. Enjoy yourself.”

  She offered him a brief nod and went back to her new companion without missing a beat.

  Mal took a quick glance across the room, but the object of his interest was gone. The disappointment was a living thing, but Mal knew—well, hoped—he was still there somewhere. The universe couldn’t be so cruel as to reveal a creature like that to Mal and then snatch him away before Mal could engage and assess his chances.

  When they were out of earshot of Lydia, Brianne slipped her arm through Mal’s and leaned in close. “I’m sorry if I was rude to your friend, but she hasn’t been my biggest fan since I opened this place.”

  Mal tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they strolled. He fought to keep his focus on her when what he really wanted was to find the young man he’d seen.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Ms. Hahn is on the board of the committee that wants to tear this block of Race Street down to build a new mega-museum.”

  That didn’t surprise Mal. Lydia was of the ilk that believed in preservation only as far as it went toward securing prestige. And nothing bestowed prestige in the city like a big, shiny new building with your name on it.

  “Well, I for one am glad you and the community are resisting,” Mal assured her. He took in several offerings as they passed. “I love how vibrant and eclectic the area has become. It’s a point of interest for residents and a destination for tourists. I call that a win.”

  Brianne’s face brightened, and she brought her other hand up to squeeze Mal’s bicep, leaning into him a little more.

  “Yes! Thank you. I love what we’ve created here, and I’m so glad you can see the value in it.”

  “I do,” he agreed, enjoying her passion.

  “Unfortunately, the preservation effort is down to its last appeal. If we don’t win this one, it won’t matter how many tourist dollars and magazine write-ups we garner. The non-resident property owners in this district only care about the spike in property values that a project like that would likely cause. They’ll sell, leaving people like me no choice but to sell.”

  They stopped in a back corner of the gallery and Brianne didn’t need to tell Mal that they’d reached Lindt’s section. After staring at his own Pellam Lindt masterpiece for more hours than he cared to admit, he recognized the same energy and genius in the pieces on display.

  Letting go of Brianne, he stepped forward to get a better look.

  “Remarkable, isn’t it? His vision?” Brianne’s voice held more than a hint of reverence.

  “Quite.”

  It was Lindt’s use of color that captivated Mal the most. Unlike the painting that hung in his office, this work was more muted in tone. It still conveyed a longing that betrayed an unspoken desire. This time, not for carnal pleasure, but for something else. Peace, perhaps. Maybe even love.

  “He’s here somewhere, the artist.” Mal turned to look at Brianne, and she smiled. “Would you like to meet the man behind the canvas?”

  The image of the man Mal had seen minutes before burned behind his eyes. How likely would it be that the unearthly creature he’d spotted amidst the crowd and his enigmatic artist were the same?

  “Yes, very much,” he finally replied, barely able to disguise his interest as anything other than what it was.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Pell couldn’t hide his relief when Brianne appeared at his side. He’d been caught in conversation with one of the other exhibiting artists, a man so full of his own self-importance Pell had barely gotten a word in. Worst, his best friend had abandoned him to that fate, claiming she’d spotted some famous athlete or another. Pell didn’t believe her for a second.

  Traitor.

  “Hello, Lucas.” Brianne accepted the other man’s lukewarm, half-hug and then turned her attention to Pell. “My love, I’m so sorry to tear your away, but there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Pell gave Lucas what he hoped was a look of contrition. “Sorry, duty calls.”

  “It always does, doesn’t it?” Lucas sighed loudly. “Oh well, don’t let me keep you. Go peddle your wares.”

  Brianne guided Pell away, leaving Lucas to admire his own work.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Pell whispered, grateful.

  “My pleasure.” Brianne grinned, wrapping an arm around Pell’s waist. She was taller than him, and he nestled against her side. “It wasn’t a lie, though. There is someone I need you to meet.”

  “A potential buyer?”

  “Yes and no,” she teased. “It’s the man who bought Closer and placed those other three on hold.”

  Pell’s pulse quickened. The elusive Mr. Zaha, at last. No small part of him hoped it was the man he’d spotted earlier. He turned wide eyes to Brianne, only to find her grinning at him.

  “What?”

  “I think you’re as intrigued by him as I am.”

  “I’m curious, that’s all, “Pell insisted. “I haven’t even met the man.”

  “I know,” Brianne said, patting his cheek. “But he is well worth meeting. Trust me.”

  They turned the corner, and Pell stumbled to a stop. Standing in front of Du Ma Vie, a favorite of his pastels, was the gorgeous specimen he’d spotted earlier.

  His back was to them, but it was definitely one and the same.

  Pell ached to hear the voice those remarkable lips could produce. He was about to tell Brianne to give him a few minutes to gather himself, before she took him to meet his benefactor, when she released him and stepped forward to address the man himself.

  “Malcolm Zaha, this is Pellam Lindt.”

  Mr. Zaha turned around, and Pell nearly gasped aloud.

  Dear God, he was gorgeous.

  Up close, he was almost too much to take in, and Pell stepped back before he could catch himself.

  Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than Pell’s entire wardrobe, Malcolm Zaha was half-a-foot taller than Pell’s five-foot-seven, and nearly twice as broad. He was a wall of a man but somehow compact, like a nuclear bomb contained inside a lithium battery. Pell had no doubt of Zaha’s power.

  The man’s whiskey-colored eyes assessed him from head to toe as if he were savoring the view, and Pell felt that look in every molecule of his being.

  After a moment, Mr. Zaha extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Pellam. I’m Malcolm.”

  Finding it hard to breathe, let alone look into Malcolm’s hypnotic eyes, Pell took the hand. It engulfed his fingers in a grip that was both gentle and firm. Malcolm’s skin was softer than Pell had expected because nothing about Malcolm Zaha seemed soft.

  Except for the smile he gave Pellam at their first contact.

  Pell cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Malcolm’s gaze. “It’s nice to meet you too . . . Malcolm.”

  He watched as the man’s pupils dilated, which ans
wered the question Pell had been too nervous to ask himself when he’d spied Malcolm across a crowded room. Malcolm Zaha was attracted to men, or at least to him.

  As if to confirm his conclusion, Malcolm brushed his thumb across the back of Pell’s hand.

  He drew in a quick breath and shuddered when Malcolm tightened his grip ever-so-slightly before letting him go.

  “I’ll leave you two to chat.” Brianne slipped away, leaving them alone in the quiet corner.

  Pell had forgotten she was there.

  Malcolm turned back to the pastel. “What inspired this one?”

  His voice was rich and buttery, crafted to pour into an unwitting ear and command any soul to do his bidding. Of this, Pell had zero doubt because he wanted to obey a command he hadn’t been given.

  Pell stepped forward to stand beside Malcolm. He clasped his hands behind his back to prevent himself from reaching out and running his hands over Malcolm’s dark, velvety hair.

  It was cut short, close to Malcolm’s scalp but with enough length that Pell could make out gleaming waves. His skin was flawless too. Everything about the man screamed perfection.

  “I’m not sure if I can explain it in a way that someone else would understand.”

  “Try.”

  Pell glanced over at Malcolm, but he was engrossed in the painting, studying the canvas closely as if he could divine its secrets. And maybe he could.

  Clearing his throat, Pell returned his attention to the piece. It was another favorite, though it had been done at a moment when he thought he’d found love. A moment that had died unfulfilled.

  He’d bathed the very top of the canvas in midnight blue, dark as a night sky, and then capped some peaks in light gray. The blue bled down into lighter gradients until it gave way altogether to oranges and pinks. By the time he reached the bottom of the canvas, he’d dipped into creams and golds.

  Funny, he couldn’t even remember his ex-girlfriend Molly’s voice now, only the feeling he’d captured in this painting, the feeling of being cherished by someone. If just for a moment.

  How was he to explain all of that to a man like Malcolm Zaha?

  “It’s called Toothpaste Kisses. It’s about capturing that feeling you have the first time you wake up next to your lover. I’d originally titled it Cherish because, when I painted it, I felt cherished.”

  Malcolm nodded. “There’s a sense of peace in your strokes here. Very different from the one I bought, a different energy entirely. I believe, rather than oils, emotions might be your true medium. You paint with your whole heart on display.”

  And . . . wow. Pell didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “My painting, your Closer,” Malcolm continued. “I’ll just say it spoke to me in a language I hadn’t learned yet. There are so many layers to that piece. It’s brilliant.”

  “Well . . . Thank you for saying that.” Pell struggled to convey his thoughts, overwhelmed by Malcolm’s presence and insights. “The aftermath of what inspired Closer wasn’t a good time for me, but I managed to somehow survive the . . . the madness that had overtaken me. I suppose I could have titled it Eros, but I was in my song-title phase. This one is a song title too.”

  It was strange. These were the first words they’d ever exchanged but, with each one, Pell found it easier and easier to open up. The tightness that had been in his chest since the doors to the exhibit opened had all but disappeared. Even the nervous energy he’d felt when Brianne introduced them had subsided and been replaced with a soothing warmth.

  Malcolm turned his head, and Pell found himself once again caught by that penetrating gaze.

  “It’s beautiful.” Malcolm licked his bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth before he bit down on the plump flesh.

  Pell’s throat went dry.

  “Both paintings are incredible, really, but Closer – which is hanging in my office, by the way—is the work of a genius.”

  Pell felt the heat rising to his cheeks. How could he survive this man? Having Malcolm Zaha’s full attention was like standing in front of a roaring fire.

  Malcolm’s gaze shifted to the next framed work. “And this one?”

  It was one of Pell’s earliest pieces. He hadn’t wanted to display it, but it was one of Brianne’s favorites, and she had insisted.

  Concentric circles of white, ivory, and soft yellows cradled a small, red heart at the center of the canvas, the paint so thick in places it was almost three-dimensional. The heart itself was as close to photorealism as Pell had ever come in his work. Brick red, crimson, vermillion, and black made it appear to pulse with life.

  “Is this from the same period as my piece?”

  Pell smiled. “How could you tell?”

  Malcolm met his eyes. “I sense the same drive here, and the same fear.”

  “Fear?”

  “What you referred to as madness, I suppose. The artist was afraid he’d drown in his own needs.”

  Pell drew a quick breath. “How . . .? How did you . . .?”

  “I know true desire when I see it.”

  One corner of Malcolm’s full mouth lifted. He blinked slowly before his eyes mapped every inch of Pell’s face. There was a question there. If pressed, Pell could only describe Malcolm’s expression as one of invitation.

  The silence stretched between them until Pell thought he might spontaneously combust. This was too intimate a moment for two men who had only known each other for five minutes.

  “I’d love to see more.”

  “More?”

  Malcolm pulled his full lips into his mouth as if he were literally biting back words.

  “More of your work.”

  “Oh!” Pell knew his face was bright red. He cursed his skin for showing his every emotion. “My studio is actually in the back if you . . . If . . .”

  Malcolm’s smile was predatory. “Show me.”

  * * *

  Mal couldn’t seem to help himself. He hadn’t meant to exert such control over his interaction with Pellam, but the man had responded so beautifully. It was a relief to know that the intense attraction he felt toward the young artist wasn’t entirely one-sided.

  Pellam had practically vibrated as they stood side-by-side discussing his work. It was all Mal could do not to back the kid up against the nearest flat surface and claim his pretty, cotton-candy-pink mouth. Fuck.

  They walked to the back of the exhibit room, and Pellam opened a door that led into the administrative area of the gallery. As Pellam led him further down the darkened hall, Mal noted several small offices and a storage room. The smell of paint and sawdust drifted in the air, and Mal took a deep breath. It was somehow soothing.

  “It’s just through here.”

  Pellam brushed up against a plank of wood propped against the wall. He didn’t notice the thing tilting toward him.

  Mal stopped the plank from crashing over Pellam’s head, grabbing the young man by the waist and using his other arm to push the offending object back into a less precarious position.

  Pellam gasped. His body was stiff in Mal’s embrace, and Mal quickly let him go. He tried not to think about how good it felt to have Pellam’s lean frame flush against his bulkier one. Didn’t want to dwell on how much fun it would be to play with that dynamic.

  Pellam straightened and turned to look at Mal.

  “Mon Dieu,” he breathed, revealing an accent Mal hadn’t detected before. “Thank you, I didn’t even know it was falling. Are you all right?”

  His gaze quickly darted over Mal’s body, checking him for injury. Delicate fingers brushed small bits of dust from Mal’s lapels.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Mal waved off the concern. “I’m fine, but it might be better if this hallway were clear of that sort of debris. If an inspector were to come through here, he would undoubtedly deem it a fire hazard.”

  Pellam’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Not that I intend to report it,” Mal felt comp
elled to add. “Just an observation.”

  “Right,” Pellam said, finally smiling. “You’re right, of course. I’ll talk to Brianne about clearing it.”

  Pellam turned and continued, stopping when they reached the final door. It was splattered with paint and what looked like oil stains. Larger by far than the doors they’d passed, Mal had no doubt the room beyond it had once served as a garage or carriage house. Pellam needed both hands to slide the door open.

  “She’s letting me use this space temporarily until I can find something else,” he said, struggling a little with the ancient hinges.

  Mal thought about assisting but refrained. He needed to give Pellam some space, both for his own sanity and to maintain any sense of propriety. His pull toward the man unnerved him, but not enough to walk away just yet.

  Having his hands on Pellam Lindt, for even that brief second, had stoked the flame Mal had lit for him long before he knew what Pellam looked like or how he felt against his body. Now that he knew, Mal found it difficult not to make a move. But he held a position of power, and Mal refused to take advantage. If anything happened between them, Mal would make sure the attraction he’d sensed from the young artist was genuine and the desire to act upon it mutual.

  At the flick of the switch next to the door, light flooded the room. Mal had been right in his initial assessment. The area had served as a garage at some point, but it had been converted into a workspace. The back wall consisted of a broad, rolling door made up of wood and glass panels. The panels were dingy, but Mal imagined the room would flood with sunlight during the day. He had no trouble picturing Pellam in the space, covered in paint and lost in his own world.

  He wanted to bear witness to that, to Pellam’s creative spells. He wanted to know the man, and not just Biblically.

  “Here we are.” Pellam stepped aside and let Mal walk past him.

  There was so much to see, Mal scarcely knew where to look. Colorful canvases leaned against the right wall, six or seven deep in places. Others, in various stages of completion, sat on easels.

  “Is this all your work?”

  “Most of it, yeah.”