Middleman

by Jayne Rylon

  “Hey, I had to see a doctor about that blood work anyway.” I try to make light of the situation. Play it off. “Kills two birds with one stone. Gets me out of some boring meetings, too.”

  Shit. What time is it? I need to call my assistant. She probably has half the company on high alert by now since I’ve hardly ever shown up late in the ten years she’s been employed by me, and never without first calling the office with a valid and unavoidable reason for my tardiness.

  “Kaden, can I borrow your phone?” I ask. “I’ll have my assistant run it over as soon as she brings me a replacement at the hospital. I need to let her know what’s up and—”

  “Of course.” He shows me the passcode. “Except I’d rather you bring it back yourself when you have a chance. No hurry. I’d just like to see for myself that you’re all right. Deal?”

  I nod. I’m half-dreading another encounter with Kaden and half-relieved that I’ll have an excuse to circle back with him after the adrenaline and wild reactions of this morning have settled down.

  He leans in to whisper, “Feel free to check out my image gallery. There are some dick pics in there if you get bored in the waiting room.”

  Before I can set him straight, or even blush—because, come on, you know I’m going to look—he’s out of reach, letting the paramedics do their job.

  “Take good care of him, please,” Kaden says to the woman guiding the stretcher toward the waiting ambulance when I refuse his company for the thousandth time. I’m not going to waste his day after I’ve already caused so much drama and imposed on him. The man has rules to keep his sex life simple for a reason.

  I keep reminding myself this isn’t his thing. I’m not his thing.

  “You got it.” She winks at Kaden. No one is immune to his charm, damn it.

  Before I can stop him—or maybe because I don’t really want to—he jogs over again, leans in, and kisses my cheek. “See you later.”

  Then I’m being whisked toward the nearest x-ray machine, hoping there will be a bottle of pain pills with my name on it somewhere in the near future.

  My life is a hell of a lot more exciting this week than it was last week, I’ll say that.

  13

  Kaden

  Rogan’s pale, drawn face disappears when the paramedics slam the door to the ambulance between us. I consider ignoring him and following them to the hospital. Except… One, I didn’t ask where they were taking him. And two, he’ll probably be done by the time I ride my bike all over the city searching for him and then I’ll miss him when he swings by to return my phone.

  So I stomp up the stairs to my apartment. Guys are nothing but trouble. Not worth it.

  I glare in the general direction of my dick. Do you hear me, big guy?

  Then I remember last night.

  Okay, kind of worth it.

  The sick part of it all is that right now I could really use a solid fuck to blow off some steam. Watching Ronaldo threaten Rogan freaked me out bad enough. Then on top of that, my darkest secret about the man I used to be before I buried that part of me had been shouted into the open. Right in the face of the one guy I care enough about to worry over how that sensitive information delivered so insensitively would alter his opinion of me…

  Yeah.

  If I ever doubted I still have issues, I don’t now.

  Just hearing Cortez’s name out loud had shaken me. Watching Rogan’s eyes cloud with disapproval had nearly gutted me. It’s best to keep those parts of me safely locked up. Otherwise, look what happens. It’s never good.

  I drop into a chair at my kitchen table, trying to calm myself. I count to ten, in a futile attempt at slowing my racing heartbeat or steadying my shaking hands. I press them to the table, coaching myself to relax.

  Which is when I feel a crisp, folded paper beneath my palm.

  What the—?

  I open one eye and see a whole lot of zeros. On a check. Made out to me.

  That son of a bitch! I don’t want Rogan’s money. Especially not after we fucked. I didn’t show him a good time because I was after anything other than what we’d shared.

  I’m not Ronaldo.

  The paper strains in my grasp, wrinkling as it’s about to tear in half.

  Wait. I stop before it’s destroyed, then carefully place it back on the table. I smooth my fingers over it again and again as I think my plan through. When I can’t come up with a flaw in my reasoning, I make up my mind.

  I’m cashing this bad boy.

  Rogan commissioned a painting. So I’m going to paint the man a fucking picture.

  I doubt it’s going to be what he expected. It’s sure as fuck not going to be what we’d originally agreed on. But that’s how life goes. It never turns out like we thought it might at the start.

  Getting lost in my work will help sear off some of the anxiety eating me alive. It’s the one outlet I have left to rely on, since I’m guessing sex isn’t going to appeal anytime soon. At least not sex with strangers.

  Without that crutch to lean on, or some idea of what to do next…

  I paint.

  14

  Rogan

  Out of habit, I lift my right hand to knock on Kaden’s door before I realize that’s going to be hard to do in a big, dumb cast. It might also make me pass out on his doorstep. I’ve endured enough indignities in front of the man to toss that one on the pile. I blow out a sigh then use the knuckles of my left hand to rap on the solid wood instead.

  I wait a while then repeat. Louder, despite how odd it feels. Six to eight weeks of this might drive me nuts. If I didn’t already hate Ronaldo, I would for this. A third set of knocks, harder this time because just thinking about that bastard makes my blood boil.

  Nothing.

  I guess Kaden isn’t home. Or doesn’t care for my company after all.

  Ordinarily, I’d call him. Since his phone—and its extensive library of X-rated pictures—is in my pocket, I doubt that’s going to do much good.

  More knocking.

  More waiting.

  Shit. I give up. Probably for the best. I’ve had a hell of a day. I’m grouchy—emotionally raw and unstable. My arm is throbbing. Worst of all, I’m riled up from browsing through Kaden’s sensual selfies. He could hold a world-class exhibition featuring a slew of the artistic shots he’s masterfully captured of himself. I’d be tempted to buy every single photograph myself, though.

  Hello, creeper.

  I can’t seem to help it. The attraction between us is irresistible.

  If he’s not planning to numb my suffering with ecstasy by joining me in another round of steamy sex, then I’m better off going back to the hotel, taking some of the pain medication the emergency room doctor prescribed, and crashing facedown on a bed for at least twelve hours.

  So why do I feel like curling up on this uncomfortable landing and hanging around until Kaden gets home instead?

  Because he’s fun to be with.

  Because he made me feel safe last night.

  Because he’s a talented and motivated leader in his chosen field.

  Because he stood up to my ex for me. Twice.

  Because he’s a phenomenal lover.

  Okay, fine. Mostly it’s because I want answers about the things Ronaldo said and the questions that have been swirling around my mind since then. I didn’t handle the situation well, I admit it. Cut me a break, though. I was shocked, alarmed, and in a considerable amount of pain. Faced with someone I shouldn’t have trusted and someone I desperately wanted to, who turned out to be not quite what I’d originally assumed.

  My bad.

  One I’d like to fix.

  I’m here. I might as well inspect the rest of this building. Make sure there’s nothing else to add to my memo about improvements. If Kaden happens to return while I’m poking around…well, then it was meant to be, right?

  I amble along the rear of the structure, eyeballing the distance between Kaden’s portion, which ends right after the staircase, and the outside cor
ner. The rest of the space must be huge. I wonder if he could use it. Expand his gallery?

  It might be a win-win situation. The property would easily double in value if it was completely renovated, and he could probably benefit from more room. A makeover could also draw additional customers for him. I’ll make some more phone calls about the situation tomorrow. Investing in his studio could be very lucrative.

  Or messy.

  Never hurts to have data, though.

  When I round the building to evaluate the frontage, I realize there’s a glow coming from Kaden’s side. Hang on. Was he in there? Dodging me?

  Could he have changed his mind about seeing me again? Worse, does he have another guy tied to his bed? My stomach churns.

  Shit. I should leave his phone and flee the scene.

  I march over to the front door of the gallery, prepared to slide his cell through the mail slot, when I realize the lights aren’t coming from the upper portion of the windows. They’re brighter at ground level, off to the side. In his workspace.

  He’s painting.

  Of course he is.

  Half the time when I’m studying financial reports, I lose track of what’s going on around me. Engrossed in facts and figures, I’ve unintentionally ignored plenty of important people, phone calls, and repeated knocks on my office door.

  I respect Kaden’s passion for his work. It might look like obsession to some people. Even that I can completely identify with.

  I knock again, this time on the front door. Still no answer. So I try the knob. It feels weird to grab it with the wrong damn hand.

  While the door is locked, rattling the handle bends the entire thing. If I were the brutish type, I’m fairly certain I could kick it in without much trouble.

  The motion jostles the bells at the entrance to the shop. I shake my head. That’s definitely going on the To-Fix list.

  Kaden must be attuned to listening for those soft peals. He calls, “Closed! Come back tomorrow.”

  Feeling somewhat foolish, I shout into the evening, “It’s me, Rogan. I have your phone.”

  A couple on the sidewalk turn their heads to stare but keep walking down the street. I barely have time to wonder if they’re used to seeing men clawing their way into Kaden’s territory when he emerges from his studio, wiping paint on his pants.

  No wonder they’re so…colorful.

  “Hey.” He smiles as he flips the puny lock and holds the door open for me. “What was the verdict?”

  I grimace and lift my encased arm. The cast is relatively short. It engulfs my palm and thumb then extends about six inches beyond my wrist. Enough to be annoying. Impossible to hide. “Eh. Fractured in a couple of places. Nothing time won’t heal.”

  Unlike some other parts of me, which might be permanently scarred after the past week.

  “Shit, Rogan, that sucks. I’m sorry.” Kaden squeezes me in a quick hug that makes everything seem less awful. I wish he’d do it again. Hold me longer.

  “No reason for you to apologize.” I can’t even look him in the eye. I’m mortified that he witnessed things go down between Ronaldo and me. Again. “I should be the one to do that. I didn’t mean to involve you or put you in danger. Please, be careful. I’m afraid he might bug you.”

  “I kind of hope he tries.” Kaden crosses his arms.

  “Don’t do anything to get yourself in trouble if he does. I know this makes me look lame. That I didn’t kick his ass on sight or whatever, but he’s sneaky and underhanded. It wouldn’t be wise to give him ammunition for a lawsuit. He has nothing. We have things we’ve worked hard for. Everything to lose.” I grit my teeth knowing that’s not how other people will interpret my passivism.

  “We’ll see. So why’d you pick boring white? They have pretty much every color these days, don’t they? I’d have gone for something bright. Neon stripes, maybe.”

  I don’t doubt that. He’s definitely not a plain sort of guy.

  He’s trying to make me smile. Unfortunately, it only makes me more self-conscious. “Hoping no one will notice if I also have a few suits special tailored to fit over it.”

  “Why bother?” Kaden tips his head as he studies me. A painter has to be a keen people watcher. He perceives too much for my comfort. “It’s only for a little while, right?”

  “Six weeks minimum,” I hiss. “I rushed directly to my office and locked myself inside this afternoon, catching up as best I could. Tomorrow…people other than my too-professional-to-ask-for-details assistant are going to see the damn thing and wonder what happened. So I either have to make up something good and lie, which I fucking hate doing, or admit that my ex-boyfriend roughed me up while I stood there like an idiot and didn’t fight back so that he couldn’t sue me for it later.”

  “Is that why you keep hiding your arm behind your back?” Kaden wonders. Damn him and his astute observations. “You think people—including me—are going to think less of you for being hurt by a psychopath? Rogan, I’m willing to bet that anyone who knows you and Ronaldo won’t be shocked by his behavior. Hell, they’ll probably send you congratulations now that he’s out of the picture. If they don’t…fuck them.”

  “I wish it were that simple.” It isn’t. I guess because I’m disappointed in myself for winding up in this situation. It would be easier to dismiss critics if I weren’t the loudest of the bunch.

  Kaden takes my elbow in his palm, squeezing gently. He uses his grip to lead me toward his workspace. His touch comforts me even though he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s inspecting the cast. “I have an idea.”

  “We cut it off and I promise to take it easy instead. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You could end up with a hand that points ninety-degrees to your right instead of straight ahead, making it impossible for you to jerk off properly ever again?” Kaden’s wrinkled brow and bugged out gaze is full of nope. “That would be a fate worse than death.”

  He’s right.

  So I don’t argue.

  “What if I dress it up for you? Give people something else to talk about?” Kaden grabs a leather pouch off of an ancient built-in piled with interesting stuff then keeps walking me into his lair. “I read an article in Artists Today magazine recently about this couple. The guy is some ex-covert-ops soldier who lost his leg while rescuing his wife from some gnarly sex trafficking ring. They started a company decorating prosthetic limbs with tattoo-style artwork so that their owners feel more comfortable wearing them. Show some personality. They turn their clients’ artificial limbs into something beautiful instead of a constant reminder of tragedy. Make them something to gawk at for all the right reasons, you know?”

  A wonderful concept. Genius, really. I wonder if they need venture capital to grow their operations. Another mental note for my time in the office. Being with Kaden inspires me, breeds new ideas, and reinvigorates me. It was never like this with Ronaldo.

  So maybe I should trust him.

  What could it hurt? I intend to cover the cast anyway. If I don’t like what Kaden does, or it’s inappropriate for work, no one will know what exactly it looks like under my bulky clothes. An ill-fitting suit will probably draw more attention than having the thing out in the open anyway. This could be a much better solution. Hide in plain sight.

  I stick my arm out at him.

  He grins. “This is going to be fun.”

  Kaden ushers me around a shoji screen to the place where the magic happens. It’s strewn with paint, brushes, canvases, half-finished artwork, and an easel with a sheet draped haphazardly over his work in progress. I’d break my other arm to peek under it and spy on whatever had had him so entranced a few minutes ago.

  I’d love to see him working here. I’m about to get my chance.

  So I don’t resist when he points me toward a yellow, plastic bucket chair with rusted legs and presses my shoulders until I sink into it. Then he drags over a stool and sits beside me at a ninety-degree angle, his knees pressed against my thigh.

&nbs
p; So close. Too close. Not close enough.

  The chemical bite of his supplies blends with his natural scent. It’s so uniquely him that it reminds me of how I kept getting whiffs of it in the ambulance and in the ER. They made me feel less alone, even though I knew that was ridiculous. I’m tempted to accidently-on-purpose rub up against him until some of it transfers to my skin again.

  Oblivious to my perving out over him, he cradles my injured arm across his lap, holding my hand lightly with one of his while the other runs over the cast. Without looking up he says quietly, “I’m really am sorry he hurt you. Again. I wish you had woken me up this morning. For a bunch of reasons.”

  “That makes two of us.” I relax for the first time since this morning. Hearing that he doesn’t regret what we shared loosens something I didn’t realize was wrapped around my heart. Each time I’d remembered the night before it seemed like more than a simple fuck to me. Would he say the same if I found the nerve to ask?

  Quiet, I watch him do his thing.

  It reminds me of our time at the beach house. Before everything went to shit…or started getting unshitty…however you want to think about that.

  Today, I’m free to admit his intense scrutiny turns me on without shame.

  He extracts a fancy brush-tipped marker from the leather holder trapped between his knees, then gets busy applying pigment on top of the ivory cast. Beige where my hand and wrist would be, shadows around the edges where the plaster extends past my flesh.

  I can’t understand how he does it. Lines and dots and squiggles are converted into something that looks real enough to fool my eye even though I saw him do it. It’s like watching a magic show from behind the curtain and still not having a clue about how the tricks are executed.

  Kaden puts a marker between his teeth and yanks, holding the cap there as he alternates between various nearly indistinguishable shades of peach, white, gray, and red. A hyper-realistic illusion emerges from the place where at first there were only splashes of color.