by L. C. Chase
He remembered Maria Jochens well. He’d represented her in a wrongful dismal case a couple of years back. “Mrs. Jochens?” he said, still in shock.
“Please, you call me Maria,” she said and stood to face him.
The wind in his mind downgraded enough for coherency, but speech was still a beat or two behind.
They’d won.
“I— Maria . . .”
She smiled. “When I heard about this drive, saw what it was about and who was running it, I had to come. You helped me get my life back, Mr. Roberts. If it weren’t for you, I’d have lost everything. This is my turn to do something for you.”
Marc lunged forward and pulled her into a hug. She seemed startled for a second but quickly overcame it and hugged him back just as fiercely.
“Marc,” he mumbled into her hair, his throat tight with emotion. “Call me Marc.”
She nodded against him.
“Thank you, Maria,” he choked out as joy and elation exploded inside. Tears clouded his vision, threatening to spill down his cheeks, but he didn’t care. “I will never be able to thank you enough.”
“Just knowing I might be able to help your friend live is more than anyone could hope to ask,” she said.
They would still need to make sure Maria was also a tissue match, but the first big hurdle had been finding a blood match. And they’d done it.
Marc released her and half fell into a chair near the blood-draw station before his knees gave out and he landed on his ass. He stared up at his friends, all crowded into the mobile lab beside him, and let the tears flow freely. His friends. People who didn’t judge his worth based on success, position, or status, but who cared because they simply liked him.
“I couldn’t have done this without you.” Marc looked at the people surrounding him—Patrick, Brian, Grace, and Gillian, and Kate, who’d joined them without his notice. And of course, Maria. “Any of you.”
“We did it together,” Kate said, her voice quiet and smile watery. “That’s what friends do.”
He nodded, wiping his wet cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. For the first time in weeks the world around him seemed brighter, as if sunlight blinded him from the inside. They were halfway there.
Now he just needed to find Trevor.
Marc sighed, disconnecting the call without leaving a message, and dropped the phone on the cushion beside him. If the first half dozen messages he’d left hadn’t been returned, this one wasn’t going to be, either. He hadn’t been able to find a phone number or direct email address for Trevor, but he had managed to track down Trevor’s agent. Not that it had done one bit of good so far, and it’d already been a couple of days.
He leaned back on the couch and stared up at the only wall in the living room that wasn’t floor-to-ceiling glass. Hanging there now was a colorful centerpiece—Trevor’s original painting of The Lonely Hour. On Christmas morning, while Trevor had still been sleeping, Marc had come across the painting at the Boulder Art Gallery during his google-fu quest. He’d told Trevor how much that painting had struck him, but what he hadn’t shared was that he’d emailed the gallery directly, expressing his interest in purchasing the painting. Since its arrival, he’d spent countless hours sitting right here on the couch lost in it, imagining the two of them sitting there on that bench, arm in arm, Trevor beaming at him with those captivating blue eyes, smiling . . .
Marc tore his gaze away, grabbed his laptop, and settled it on his knees. He opened a browser and typed Trevor Morrison, artist into the search field and hit Enter. He wasn’t really sure what he hoped to find this time—he’d already searched what felt like a million different ways—but the sense that time was running out was growing stronger by the minute. He had to get ahold of Trevor. Whether or not there could ever be a future for them together, there could still be a future for Trevor.
Scrolling through the list of links to sites he’d visited so often he could recite them from memory, he almost missed a new one. He sat up straight and clicked on it, his pulse pounding like a bass drum in his ears. In the “upcoming events” section at the Flatirons Gallery of Fine Art was an announcement for Trevor’s newest and final exhibit, titled The Final Hour.
“Final?” A wave of dread scattered goose bumps over his skin. He skimmed the announcement, too keyed up to take the time to read it through properly. All that mattered was the date of the opening—this coming Friday night—and that Trevor would be in attendance. As would Marc.
The fuck with these nerves! Marc stood in front of the main doors leading into the Flatirons Gallery of Fine Art three days later, fidgeting with his tie, his cuff links, his hair . . . anything to put off actually going inside. Even the chilly night air, alive with dancing snow, couldn’t penetrate his nerves or push him through the doors.
Trevor had already rejected him once, but this was different. This wasn’t about asking Trevor to give them a chance to be together but about giving Trevor a chance to live, whether they would be together or not.
With a deep breath and long slow exhale, he shook out his arms and pulled the door open. Smooth jazz drifted from the main gallery, along with the low din of hushed voices. He scanned the crowd but didn’t see Trevor. Maybe he wasn’t there yet. Or maybe he was and had just stepped out for a moment.
God, he better be here.
Walking deeper into the gallery, Marc’s gaze caught on a large painting, probably six feet wide, at the far end of the expansive room. The painting had a wall to itself, and it caught his eye for two reasons. One because it wasn’t done in Trevor’s usual brilliant and bold-colored impressionistic style but channeled realism, and two, he recognized the model. It was him.
He found himself standing before the painting without realizing he’d even walked across the room, as though he’d been pulled by some unforeseen force. Right away he recognized the scene as the first night he and Trevor had spent together in the hotel room they’d shared. The first night they’d made love. Marc knew now that’s what it had been right from the very beginning. They’d never been just a hookup.
And he couldn’t move.
More emotions than he could identify, more than he could contain, flew through him, tugging and pulling at his flesh and bones, heart and mind. Trevor did this. Captured a moment that Marc could not find the right words to articulate. He could only stare in silence.
The painting depicted the darkened room, lit only by snow-enhanced streetlights. A band of glowing light settled over Marc’s naked body at rest on the bed. Cream-colored sheets were strategically draped over his waist, and his face was hidden in the shadows. Mostly. Anyone who knew him, who looked closely enough, would know it was him. He’d watched Trevor drawing in the dark that night, before he’d confessed things he hadn’t voiced in decades.
“Time,” Trevor had said when Marc had asked what he’d been drawing. Marc only now understood what he’d meant.
God, he needed to see Trevor.
Distantly, he registered someone standing beside him. He tried to ignore whoever it was, but the person wasn’t moving on, which only increased his awareness and discomfort. He chanced a quick glance and found an older Hispanic woman, a full head shorter than he was, at his side, watching him, studying him. Did she recognize him as the model? She shifted her gaze to the painting for a moment before returning it to him. She smiled, and he couldn’t help thinking it was a sad sort of smile, or maybe it was the sadness lurking in the depths of her dark-brown eyes, eyes that he had the strangest feeling usually sparkled.
She turned back to study the painting. “He made me promise this painting won’t be sold . . . after.”
That’s an odd thing to say . . . Then his heart stuttered and a dust storm blasted into his mouth. His throat was so dry he could barely force the words out. “After what?”
This time her smile was definitely sad, and her chin trembled ever so slightly. Even without a proper introduction he had no doubt who this woman was. He didn’t know how, but he couldn’t have been
more certain of anything in his life. “You’re his mother.”
She nodded. “He wants you to have this painting.” As her eyes began to water, her spine straightened more, and it told him everything he needed to know about this woman. She was strong and would face anything life threw at her head-on and with grace.
“He—” Words tangled up on the back of his tongue, and he had to take a deep, slow breath, shaking his head. It didn’t make any sense. “I don’t understand.”
“This is his last show. These are his final paintings.” She glanced around the gallery, but he wasn’t sure she was actually seeing the art in front of her. Her gaze was distant, introspective, and then it came to a halt on him.
Trepidation seeped into his chest. “I need to see him,” Marc pleaded.
“He stepped out onto the terrace for some fresh air.” She reached for him and gently took his elbow. “Come with me.”
Trevor pulled the collar of his jacket up higher to fend off the cold. He should have put on a hat too, but he’d needed to get out of the gallery right that minute. He’d been getting an incredible response to the portrait of Marc, which was what he’d wanted, but the memories flooding his mind were becoming too heavy. Regrets of what could have been, if not for time, made it hard to keep his public face on. No one else would follow because it was too cold, and he needed a few minutes alone to recharge.
“Trevor,” his mom called quietly from behind him. He closed his eyes and took a breath. He wasn’t ready to go back just yet, but it was opening night and he couldn’t hide from his patrons for long.
“I’ll be there in just another minute,” he said, his breath billowing out into the crisp night and twining through the fat snowflakes that fell steadily from the heavens.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
He sighed. He really didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, which was why he’d come out here in the first place. But not even acknowledging who she’d brought with her would be beyond rude.
Hands shoved into his pockets, he turned and froze midway. Standing beside his mother, looking as heart-stopping and gorgeous as the first time he’d ever laid eyes on him, was the man he hadn’t expected to see ever again. His heart swelled in his chest, the night sky grew brighter, and his whole body suddenly felt lighter. In that moment, he fully understood the phrase “the angels sang.”
“Marc.”
His mom let go of Marc’s elbow and walked toward him. She cupped the side of his cheek and placed her other hand on his chest. “He’s a handsome man. Let him bring you some joy.”
“Mom,” he said, warning and pleading infusing his whispered voice. He shot a quick glance at Marc, and when he looked back at his mom, her eyes were shining with banked hope. That Marc was here, that she’d met him, wasn’t going to change anything. “You know why I can’t.”
“I swear, I don’t know where you got all this stubbornness from.” She huffed and then ran her hands down her blouse, smoothing it. “He seems desperate to speak to you, so listen to him, mijo. For me?”
When he nodded his acquiescence, she turned to Marc, placed a hand on his arm, and said something too quiet for Trevor to hear. Marc tipped his head in response, but his gaze never left Trevor. With a quick glance and smile over her shoulder, his mom slipped through the door and left Trevor alone with Marc on the snowy terrace.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say, what he could say. He’d told Marc why he couldn’t start anything, and it was true now more than ever. He’d just come off a week in the hospital due to a complication with his condition. It wasn’t major, as far as complications went, but it could have been, and before too long there would be more—and they would be serious. He’d made his decision.
But looking at Marc now . . . Why did the man have to come here? He was just going to make everything harder. Exactly what Trevor didn’t want and had hoped to avoid.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Marc said, his voice low and hoarse, and Trevor’s chest tightened.
He closed his eyes. “Don’t.” He hadn’t realized just how much he’d been missing Marc until now. How the hell was he going to go through with his plans now? He knew seeing Marc again would kill him in ways his kidneys never could.
“Trevor.” Warm breath gusted over his cold cheek, and he snapped his eyes open. Marc stood directly in front of him, and he’d never heard the man move. “Why did you leave me like that?”
Trevor swallowed. “I had to.” His gaze locked on to Marc’s captivating green stare. So intense, so full of hope and desire and everything he’d ever wanted. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been strong enough to not be selfish.”
“How on earth would staying have been selfish?”
“Because I’m dying, Marc.” Trevor implored him to understand. Anything between them was doomed. “That’s the height of selfishness, and cruel to boot, to start something knowing I’m just going to yank it away. I never want to hurt you.”
“But you won’t.” Marc inched closer, reaching out and running a hand up and down Trevor’s arm. His skin tingled in its wake.
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can.” Marc’s other hand settled on Trevor’s hip, and heat radiated out from the place of contact—downward into his groin, upward into his belly and chest. “I told you I would get tested, and I did.”
Trevor’s jaw dropped ever so slightly, his eyes wide as saucers. After all these years of praying, after all the disappointments . . . Could it really be . . .?
The hand on his arm slid up to rest on the back of his neck, a thumb caressing his jaw, and all the while those green eyes held him captive.
“I’m type A positive,” Marc whispered, and Trevor’s heart fell.
“Marc—”
“But.” Marc stepped closer, pushing the cold from the small space between their bodies. A snowflake landed on Marc’s long lashes, clinging for a second before falling and disappearing into a tiny droplet on his winter-reddened cheek. “With the help of some friends, we found your blood match. Not only that but she wants to donate a kidney to you.”
“I—” Trevor snapped his mouth shut. What did Marc just say? He heard the words, but processing them felt like trying to push a dull, rusty lawnmower through a hay field. Seven years he’d been waiting to hear those words. Seven years of hope and optimism slowly being chipped away. Seven years, and a man he met only a month ago, by completely random circumstance, found the one thing that could save his life.
“I don’t know if there can be an us,” Marc continued. “I hope to heaven and back that there will be. I would move mountains for you, Trevor. But whatever may or may not come of us, most of all, I want to know you’re out there living and laughing and lo-loving, painting the world in joy. Just so long as you’re alive.”
Trevor’s eyes stung as his chest swelled and his heart pounded a joyful beat. He brought a hand up to cup Marc’s cheek, and Marc leaned into his touch, his eyes closing for only a brief second, as if even that was too long to lose sight of Trevor, and then Marc kissed his palm.
Trevor wanted nothing more than to fall into Marc’s arms, give in to his selfish desires, but . . . “That doesn’t guarantee we’ll be a tissue match.”
“I know. They have a sample waiting—”
“Even if the donor and I are tissue matches—”
“Maria.”
“What?”
“Her name is Maria. I represented her in a case a few years ago.”
Trevor shook his head and repeated, “Even if Maria and I are tissue matches, that doesn’t mean my body will accept her kidney. Mine could reject it, and then I’ll be right back where I was—probably worse—and without another chance.”
“Ninety-seven percent of kidney transplants are working in a month.”
“So you’ve done some research,” Trevor said, impressed and touched that Marc had taken so much initiative. “What about the seventeen per
cent that fail by three years? Even if the transplant goes well, I’m still going to be on antirejection drugs for the rest of my life. I’m—”
“Stop,” Marc barked, his tone brooking no argument. He held his hand up, opening the space between them, and Trevor shivered from a chill that dove in to fill it. “All I’m hearing is excuses. ‘If this goes wrong, if that turns bad.’ How about, what if this works? How about the man I met in a snowstorm who told me to make time for the important things? Who told me to live and follow my dreams? What is your dream, Trevor? What will make you live?”
He looked away. “I can’t hope for my dreams anymore.”
“Yes, you can.” Marc closed the gap between their bodies again, his warmth like a furnace blast through Trevor’s thick jacket.
Trevor met Marc’s intense, imploring gaze. Maybe he could.
“Life is uncertain and unfair, but it’s also beautiful and meant to be lived as fully as we can,” Marc said, his deep voice soft. “If the transplant is successful, you’ll have years ahead of you. Isn’t that enough?”
Trevor searched those deep-green eyes and realized something his gut already knew: lover or friend, this man would be there for him no matter what. “If.”
“If.” The smile that lit Marc’s face may as well have been the sun itself, the way it blinded Trevor. He pulled Marc tight against his body, so close not even a hair could squeeze between them. Their mouths met in an explosion of heat and passion that felt like pure love and set his every nerve, every sense on fire. Any second now that bolt of lightning would strike them.
Eventually he needed oxygen more than he needed to kiss Marc forever, but he only broke away enough to breathe. Their foreheads rested against each other, noses touching side to side, as they shared the crisp air.
“So let’s focus on right now,” Marc rasped. “Come home with me?”
Trevor closed his eyes. How many times had he thought about this man since they’d parted? How many times had he wished things could be different? Just maybe . . . his prayers had been answered. But still . . . He leaned back, staring hard into Marc’s earnest gaze. “How about we see how the transplant goes first, then maybe we can start with dating?”