But even as he crossed the room, returning to Shy’s side, he realized he was selling himself short. Art was more than that. Each artist saw his subject differently, looked beyond the outward appearance, in order to bring out so much more, adding a little piece of himself in the process.
“You ready for bed?” He wasn’t surprised when Shy shook his head. He didn’t look sleepy. He clutched his teacup, held it close to his lips, as if drawing comfort from the warmth.
“Okay.” Wyatt wasn’t about to argue. “Want to watch TV?” That sparked no interest, either. Wyatt rubbed his fingers together, imitating Lukas’s own habit, thinking, until an idea struck him.
When Wyatt had first moved in, he’d discovered that Masterson had a pretty sweet sound system, with speakers built into the walls throughout the house. Wyatt liked to channel music into the master bedroom at night. It helped him to sleep. Perhaps that could provide a soothing backdrop for them now. Approaching the tuner, he powered it on. The station was already set to a soothing jazz station. He adjusted the volume, wanting to keep it in the background. Maybe he could entice Shy into conversation. Or perhaps the music would lull Shy into sleepiness. At the very least, it might afford him a touch of serenity.
When he turned back to Shy, he found him standing, to his surprise, in front of one of the built-in bookcases recessed into the wall, scanning the spines. Shy touched one volume gently, almost reverently. He pulled it from the shelf, glanced at the cover, then opened it, his fingers caressing the pages with care.
Now Wyatt was curious. What book had put that look into Shy’s eyes? He took a step toward him. Shy looked up, almost apprehensively.
“I’m sorry. I should have asked….”
“No, no, you don’t have to, it’s fine,” Wyatt hastened to assure him. “Read anything you like.” He took another step in Shy’s direction, wondering if he’d move back, but Shy never stirred. That was encouraging. “What’s that you’ve got?”
Shy closed the volume and held it up for Wyatt’s inspection. Wyatt couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the cover. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was a favorite of his. “I love that book,” Wyatt commented, producing an echoing smile from Shy.
“Me too,” Shy confided. He opened his mouth, then closed it quickly, as if he’d thought better of whatever he’d been about to say.
“What?” Wyatt asked. “What were you going to say?”
“N-nothing.” Shy bit his lip, then blurted out, “I just wondered if you would mind reading it aloud. It’s just that you have this really great voice….” A blush rose in his cheeks.
Wyatt was more than flattered, he was shocked. Shy thought he had a great voice? Really? He was even more surprised he’d found the nerve to say so. How could he resist such an invitation? Of course he couldn’t.
“Sure. I can use the practice.” He wasn’t even sure what that meant, but he added a wink for good measure, and Shy seemed satisfied. He padded back to the couch, still clutching the oversized pants by the waist.
“Hey, I have an idea. Maybe we should get ready for bed, in case we get tired reading? Those pants look… uncomfortable.” He was trying to be diplomatic, and he didn’t want to remind Shy of the circumstances under which he’d acquired them.
Shy considered the suggestion for a moment, cocking his head to one side, before he nodded. “Sure. That makes sense.” He laid the book on the table and cast Wyatt an expectant look.
Emboldened, Wyatt crooked a finger at Shy, gave him an encouraging smile. “Follow me.” Shy trailed him without question, up the stairs and down the hall where the bedrooms lay. “You can sleep here.” Wyatt indicated the guest bedroom, which was next to the room he occupied. The single bed was made, and the room was neat and orderly, as opposed to the chaos that Wyatt had made of the master bedroom. He always excused himself by saying that a creative mind was a messy one. If so, then his creativity level must be off the charts.
“I have extra sleep pants.” Wyatt rummaged about in the dresser Masterson let him use. Luckily he had two clean pairs left. He’d have to do laundry the next day, though. Assuming he could find the time. What with running to the hospital and who knew what after that.
One pair was a sort of burnished gold with a satiny sheen, while the other pair was red plaid. “Which color do you prefer?” he asked, turning toward Shy, one in each hand. What he saw took his breath away.
Shy had given up all attempts at holding the pants up and simply let them fall and stepped from them. Apparently he’d removed the T-shirt as well. All that remained was pure Shy… and Wyatt thought he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.
Shy had a slender build, but he was certainly not feminine in any way. Wyatt could see the definition of his muscles in his arms and chest, which tapered to a slender waist and flat hips. A pale gold treasure trail began just below his navel, and led south to where his soft cock lay partially hidden in a nest of blond curls. His legs were covered in a fine dusting of pale hair that matched his chest. There was something about his calf muscles that Wyatt found exceedingly sexy.
Shy pointed to the plaid pair, and Wyatt handed them to him, trying not to drool on himself or the pants. Shy seemed not in the least self-conscious, although he did turn his back to Wyatt before sliding his legs inside. Wyatt had to hold back his sharp intake of breath at the sight. Not the beauty of all that gorgeous naked Shy… but horror at the marks that marred that otherwise perfect back.
Dear God… what had Grant done to him? It looked as though Shy had been… had been…. He could barely force the word whipped into his mind, but that’s surely what it looked like. Grant had beaten him or whipped him…. Wyatt thrust his fist into his mouth to choke back his words of protest. Good thing for Grant he was in the hospital, or Wyatt would have gladly put him there all over again.
A part of Wyatt’s mind protested that this must be consensual. That Shy must like to be treated this way on some level. But another, saner part said no. How could he consent to something like this? How long had this been going on? How old was Shy… and that’s where the crux of the matter lay. Had Shy even been old enough to give informed consent? Had he realized what he was getting himself into? Wyatt had an overwhelming desire to know the truth, but he knew that was something that couldn’t be dealt with right now. Not tonight. He wasn’t even sure when might be the right time.
His eyes flickered up and down Shy’s body again, and he saw something he’d missed before. Marks on his ass. Not from a whip. If he wasn’t mistaken, those looked like the impression of someone’s teeth. Grant had… bitten Shy? That sick fuck!
Someday he’d make sure that asshole paid for what he’d done. No matter how long it took. But he couldn’t think about it now. If he dwelled on it any longer, his brain would short-circuit.
By the time Shy turned back toward him, Wyatt had managed to regain control of himself and was now dressed in the satin sleep pants. Shy looked pointedly around the room, at the laundry tossed haphazardly about. Before he quite figured out how it happened, Wyatt found himself helping Shy to gather it up, and they pushed everything inside the hamper it was meant to go into. Wyatt didn’t object. It was obvious to him Shy couldn’t handle the messiness, so he let him have his way.
Afterward they returned downstairs without comment. Wyatt took one end of the couch, and Shy the other, each burrowed comfortably into the corner. Wyatt opened the book and began to read, attempting to breathe life into the ageless story of a little girl named Alice and her journey through a strange place known as Wonderland. Some things just never grew old.
Shy listened without comment. He’d taken one of the sofa pillows and hugged it to himself, an expression of contentment taking over his features. Wyatt glanced up at him now and then as he read, making sure he was still listening and that all seemed to be well. About half an hour into his reading, he saw Shy had fallen asleep. He stopped reading, waiting to see if the cessation of sound would wake him. Shy’s head had fallen back against the
couch, his lips were slightly parted, and Wyatt could hear his measured breathing. His face was even more beautiful in repose, reflecting none of the stress of his life. Wyatt’s heart ached for him.
He laid the book aside and carefully started to pick Shy up, intending to carry him to bed. But suddenly Shy roused himself, gazing at Wyatt through sleepy-lidded eyes. So instead, Wyatt helped him to his feet and up the stairs to the spare bedroom. He turned down the blanket and top sheet. Shy crawled inside and rolled onto his side, as if he’d never been awake after all.
Wyatt smiled at the sight. “Good night, honey,” he murmured softly, knowing Shy was beyond hearing. He left the door ajar, not sure how Shy felt about that, and kept a light burning in the bathroom, in case Shy woke and needed to use it. He felt silly for not having thought to show him where it was, but he couldn’t do anything about that now. As he climbed into his own bed in the master suite, he wished he had the nerve to ask Shy to sleep with him. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. If ever.
It was sometime during the night that Wyatt became aware of another presence in the room. Startled, he snapped his eyes open, prepared for anything… except for the sight that met his wary gaze. There, on the other side of the bed, lay Shy. So close to the edge that with little effort, he’d roll off and hit the floor.
What did this even mean?
Wyatt wanted to reach out and touch him, but some vestige of common sense held him back, so he contented himself with soaking in the sight of Shy in his bed, and drifted back to sleep, thoughts of Shy dancing in his brain.
SHY HAD awakened into the darkness of a strange room. For a few moments, he couldn’t remember where he was. This wasn’t home, and it certainly wasn’t the bed he shared with Randy. Although shared was a misnomer. Randy’s bed was huge. An expensive king size, with intricate wood carving on the headboard and footboard.
When he and Doreen had first moved in with Randy, Shy had his own room, his own bed. But everything changed when Shy turned fifteen. When his body changed. His voice deepened. And Randy had begun to look at him in a different way.
Randy had always had charge of Shy’s life, from the moment he moved in. This was just another facet of that. Doreen left and Shy moved into Randy’s room. Randy wanted him there, wanted to keep an eye on him, as he called it. Shy did just as he was told and no more. Which included not masturbating whenever the feeling took him, but only with Randy’s permission.
But Randy also liked having his space. He told Shy he didn’t want to be touched when he slept. At first it was hard for Shy not to touch him once he fell asleep and rolled over. But after being beaten by Randy for touching him without permission, Shy had trained himself not to touch, to remain on the periphery of the bed, as far from Randy as possible. Together and yet not together.
Now he remembered where he was. Wyatt’s house. And Wyatt was right next door, in the bedroom he’d helped him clean up.
Shy slipped from the bed. The floor felt chilly to his bare feet as he padded from the room, instinctively heading for Wyatt. He didn’t know why, and he was too sleepy to analyze his reasons. He just knew that’s where he needed to be.
He quietly slipped beneath the blanket, keeping himself on the edge, as usual. He didn’t want to make Wyatt mad at him. He watched him sleep for a few minutes. Wyatt hadn’t stirred once, not even when Shy’s weight hit the mattress.
With a sigh of contentment, Shy rolled over and closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
THE FIRST tendrils of morning light crept into Wyatt’s awareness as he drifted to consciousness. He reached sleepily across the bed. Visions of Shy floated through his head, memories of him lying there beside him. So close and yet so far.
How badly Wyatt wanted to touch him. Wanted to pull Shy into the warmth of his aching embrace, to wrap himself about him like a living security blanket and keep him safe from harm. But his fingers closed only on emptiness, a coolness where he’d hoped Shy would be.
He cracked open one eye to confirm what he already knew—the other half of the bed was unoccupied. A feeling of panic welled inside of him, overriding the voice in his head, the one that managed to sound just like Lukas. He hadn’t forgotten his mentor’s admonition. He remembered Lukas’s words very well—he just didn’t know how long he could abide by them.
He threw back the covers and leapt to the floor, not bothering with his usual morning routine. Normally he took advantage of Masterson’s king-size bed to stretch himself every which way but loose, to luxuriate in the feel of the soft, expensive sheets against his skin. Today he had other things on his mind.
Well, just one thing. Shy and his whereabouts.
Don’t panic. He has to be here. Somewhere. Where else could he logically be? But Wyatt’s heart refused to be reasoned with. It thumped erratically as he fled the bedroom and sprinted through the hall and down the stairs, skipping at least half in his haste.
The living room was spotlessly empty, the remnants of last night’s drunken discussion with Lukas nowhere in evidence. The glass-topped coffee table gleamed in pristine innocence. Shaking his head in disbelief, Wyatt hurried into the kitchen. The unmistakable aroma of coffee hit his nostrils as he skidded across the floor, that and more. Something that oozed cinnamon and fresh-baked goodness. What the hell?
And there he stood. He was hunched over the counter, his nose buried in a book, his weight canted to one side so that Wyatt’s sleep pants appeared in imminent danger of sliding down his legs at any moment. Not that Wyatt would complain if they did.
Shy glanced up. He blinked at Wyatt, pushing back a lock of blond hair that fell across his face, drawn from his literary reverie by Wyatt’s dramatic entrance. Wyatt noticed what looked like flour on Shy’s forehead. He had to resist the urge to dampen his thumb and wipe it away.
“Is something wrong?”
“Um, no.” Wyatt attempted a casual air but knew he failed at it. Miserably. He was breathing hard and no doubt his face was red, and his normally messy hair probably looked even more unruly than usual, possessing that fresh-out-of-bed look that simply begged for a comb. “Um, what’s that I smell?” When in doubt, change the subject.
“Cinnamon rolls. I hope you don’t mind?” A fleeting shadow crossed Shy’s face. His eyes were pinned upon Wyatt, his brow furrowed in unease, and for just a moment Wyatt found himself unable to speak, caught in that deer-in-the-headlights gaze.
Wyatt quickly pulled his head out of his ass. “That sounds wonderful,” he reassured Shy. “Smells great. A lot better than anything I could do.” He laughed in a self-deprecating manner. He glanced around the kitchen, a twinge of guilt hitting him at the realization that everything gleamed, there were no dirty dishes in the sink, and nothing out of place. Not even close to the condition he’d left it in.
I’d have gotten to it. Eventually.
Who was he kidding? He was a hard-core slob, and he knew it.
“You didn’t have to clean.”
Shy shrugged. “It’s what I do.” His eyes met Wyatt’s in an unflinching gaze. Wyatt hated how he measured his self-worth by such ridiculous standards. But this was no time to lecture him.
“Well, thanks, much appreciated.” He forced himself to break their locked stare and pulled out a mug from the cabinet. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped at the hot brew, hoping it would infuse him with wisdom along with much-needed caffeine.
Before he could draw upon his vast store of morning wisdom, Shy spoke up, hesitantly. “Is that your artwork in that room back there?” He indicated the rear of the house with a wave of one thumb.
“Um, what? Oh yeah. My art. Yeah, that’s mine. I paint. Back there.” Wyatt winced. Could he sound any more stupid? But Shy didn’t seem to notice. He closed his book just as a quick beep, beep, beep resounded through the kitchen. Startled, Wyatt slopped hot coffee over himself before he realized it was just the timer on the microwave.
Shy straightened up and slid his hand into a
n oversized plaid mitt. He pulled a baking sheet laden with rolls from the oven and set it on top of the kitchen table, removed the mitt and laid it alongside, then went to the refrigerator and brought out a small bowl.
“I think you’re really good, Wyatt.” Taking a knife from the drawer, he began to swipe white frosting across the tops of the rolls. The confection melted on contact, and Wyatt’s mouth watered. “I hope you don’t mind that I was looking at your work.” Shy glanced up, knife poised in midair. “I wasn’t prying or anything, honest. I just thought I’d straighten up in there.”
“Of course I don’t mind. I’m happy you like it. It’s what I do. It’s what I go to school for.” Quit babbling already….
A wistful expression laid claim to Shy’s face, one of pure longing, but as quickly as it had appeared it was gone, and he couldn’t swear it had been there to begin with.
Of course Wyatt didn’t mind. He couldn’t have been more thrilled at the idea that Shy admired his work. It fed his artist’s ego and soothed his soul to find that Shy was interested in something he did. Perhaps, by extension, it meant he possessed an interest in the artist as well. At least Wyatt could hope that was the case.
Shy opened the dishwasher and brought out two small plates. He placed two rolls on one dish, a single one on the other, and set them on the kitchen table before going back into the refrigerator and emerging this time with a pitcher of orange juice. He poured two small glasses and set those by the rolls before giving Wyatt an expectant look.
Hastily collecting himself, Wyatt carried his coffee to the table and took a seat. “Wow, I didn’t realize there was any juice in there.”
“There wasn’t. I made it.”
Wyatt stared at Shy, openmouthed. Shy pinked a little and slid into his own seat without comment.
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