by Anne Brooke
When he saw us, he came to an abrupt halt and stared around, as if he’d never met any of us before.
The moment his gaze fell upon my would-be picture, he frowned. A low growl sounded in his throat like the beginning of a threatening storm. My father really wasn’t keen on other people or their work in his special domain.
“What have you been doing?” he snapped, striding up to the easel.
I was hoping my picture might melt into nothing under the heat of his expression but, sadly, it didn’t.
My mother took a breath in order to find suitable phrases to calm my father down once more—she was used to it after all. However, it was Johnny who actually spoke.
“We’ve been admiring your paintings, having some pretty hot ménage sex and giving Liam the chance to paint,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather forecast or the sad state of British politics. “We thought that would probably be enough for a first visit.”
Yes, indeed, it probably would, I thought. My father pursed his lips and I was sure that, behind me, my mother snorted, though she quickly turned it into a cough.
“Liam’s painting again?” was my father’s response, as he stared closer at the picture in question. I hoped this particular shock might counteract the rest of Johnny’s explanation, though I was sure my mother would repeat it all to him in glorious Technicolor later.
As my father continued to peer at my sex-fuelled efforts with paint, I closed my eyes and tried to appear invisible. No chance of that with the Delaneys about.
“Open your eyes,” Mark said. “As I told you, no friend of the Delaneys tries to hide.”
I obeyed him and felt Johnny’s comforting hand on my elbow. Several thoughts passed through my head and, for the first time in a long time, I gave them proper house room.
Maybe Mark was right. Heck, he usually was.
Then, not being entirely sure where I’d found the courage, but happy it was finally there, I straightened my shoulders and walked the few steps to stand next to my father.
Silence.
I ought to say something sensible before my brain imploded, but couldn’t work out what that might be.
“Did you paint this?” my father asked at last, turning toward me and fixing me with that particular stare of his, which usually put me in my place.
To my surprise, I found myself smiling at him. “Yes, I did. I painted it whilst being rimmed by Mark and licked into heaven by Johnny. I do my best art under the influence of pleasure. Don’t you?”
This time, my mother did laugh and murmured something about her “dreadful men folk” I didn’t quite catch. My father ignored her, which was probably the wisest choice.
Instead, he raised his eyebrows and turned back to the painting. “In that case,” he said, “I’m glad you’ve finally found your painting method. Because I have to say, even though it’s rough and you’ll need to touch it up considerably, this is the best thing I’ve ever seen you produce. Well done, son.”
Then he hugged me, properly, and I hugged him back. I had to think hard of my upcoming work schedule at the gallery in order to make sure I didn’t shed a manly tear or two.
I might not have quite succeeded, though, as Johnny handed me a tissue, and I pretended to blow my nose. At the same time, my mother asked Mark to help her turn off the heater and put it back in its accustomed place, all of which gave me a chance to pull myself together. Thank God.
“All right,” my father said, unfurling himself from my grasp and allowing both of us time to recover our manly Britishness. “The party’s over and I’ve done my social interaction for the night. Lovely to meet the new men in your life, Liam, but now it’s time for you to go and for me to paint.”
He held out his hand for the twins to shake, which they did most solemnly, and a few moments later, the four of us—minus my father who already had that painterly glint in his eye—were outside the studio and making our way back to the living room.
“Loved the painting, my dear,” my mother was saying. “A mixture between Jackson Pollock and surrealism, and a miniature to boot. Who knew? I hope you’ll do more like that, though, presumably, if you carry on having sex while you paint, you might want to put down sheets. I’ll have to get cleaners in, by the looks of it. Don’t worry as, of course, your father’s unlikely to notice.”
For fear of what else my mother might say, I gave her a hug, too. Mothers and one’s own sex life weren’t ever meant to mix.
“Thanks for everything,” I said. I gazed at those delightful Delaneys to include them in my gratitude, too. “Maybe painting isn’t as bad as I’d been imagining it was, after all.”
And it wasn’t either. I might even paint another picture, and as soon as possible, too, if the twins were there to help me in their own special way. Funny how my outlook on a lot of things had utterly changed from the moment when Mark and Johnny had so suddenly come into my life.
“Of course it isn’t, darling,” said my mother, never being one to be easily persuaded to stop a conversation. “Have you time for a coffee?”
I shook my head and, letting her go, gave the Delaneys the sexiest Irish smile I could produce. “Thanks, Mum, but actually I’d like to go home. Because, when it comes to it, it’s where I belong.”
And the twins, my twins, those delicious and dangerous Delaneys, really couldn’t help but agree.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Dangerous Delaneys and Me
Copyright © 2016 by Anne Brooke
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Anne Brooke at [email protected].
Second edition
May 2016
With thanks to Amber Quill Press, where this book was previously published.
About Anne Brooke
Anne has been writing contemporary fiction and fantasy for over twenty years. She is the bestselling author of gay thrillers Maloney’s Law and The Bones of Summer, both available at Amazon. Her websites can be found at www.annebrooke.com, www.gayreads.co.uk, www.gathandria.com (for fantasy fiction) and www.biblicalfiction.co.uk.
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Anne Brooke