by Tara Lain
An image on the pillar caught his attention. Peter glanced to be sure Wendell was still trying to negotiate the crowds heading up the stairs, and then looked at the poster someone had taped to the tile surface. His heart thumped hard and then paused to decide if it wanted to continue. The poster was for missing persons—mostly kids. Peter always looked at them. He tried not to but never succeeded. This time he wanted to puke. A new photo showed a teenage boy with short, precisely cut dark hair, glasses, and a serious expression standing at attention in a military uniform. Damn. They haven’t given up. His heart took up that rhythm. Haven’t given up. Haven’t given up. As he passed, he grabbed the paper, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash.
Wen climbed out of the subway and raised the broken umbrella. Somebody touched me—maybe. Who? Weirdly, it was easy to say who he wanted it to be. As if. Peter probably didn’t even remember him, much less stalk him. But maybe, just maybe, that had been Peter at the agency, and if it was, what did that mean? Not like he’d leaped out and said, “I’m here to paint.” More’s the pity on that. But if he didn’t want to paint for Wen, then why the hell would he come?
That question made Wen miss a step and almost tumble to the wet sidewalk. He grabbed the railing and took a breath. Why would I want to be caressed by that weird, half-crazy, likely drug-addled guy? What is it about my family lessons I haven’t learned? I’m an idiot. Just what I need—one more worthless fairy-tale human flying around waving his wand of disappointments.
Take a breath. Okay, need to shake the crappy mood and this whole line of thought before I get home. Eddie wasn’t at the taco stand, so Wen didn’t even have his smiling face to cheer him up. Walking by the alley separating the street with the subway from the street where he lived, he stared into the shadows. Nothing. Come on man, you’re whacked. Expecting the flying bandit?
He wiped a hand over his damp, too long hair. He so wanted to believe that one of his creative team’s ideas was going to woo Henderson back to the agency and he, White Knight Wendell Darling, was going to be anointed with the Order of the Giant Raise and live happily ever after. That would happen right after he became CEO of Aero Unicorn Airlines.
Better start quietly sending out resumes to other agencies. The problem was always that rumors got started, and people you didn’t want to hear heard. Still, he couldn’t afford to be out of work long. God knew, his father hadn’t left them much that his mother hadn’t spent saving tigers in India and buying art from unknown people she knew would be huge one day. Most of the so-called artists had died from drug overdoses, taking another piece of his mother’s fragile heart with them.
On the street leading to the apartment, footsteps echoed behind him through the patter of rain. Wen glanced back and saw a woman walking beside a guy, huddled under one umbrella. Harmless enough. Still, the prickles on his neck kept…prickling.
Chapter Four
Wen trotted up the walkway and keyed his way into the plain-as-dirt lobby of his building, checked the mail, and jogged up the stairs with the small pile of bills and direct mailers for pizza.
When he walked in, the smell of onions and garlic scented the apartment.
“Hey, Wen, get changed. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Thanks, dear.” He walked into John’s room, where he shared the closet, though he slept on the living room couch. Giving the kids their own space was the least fucking thing he could do in return for stealing their childhood. Of course, he hadn’t exactly done that by himself, and childhood had been a pretty rare commodity in their house—if you didn’t count his mother.
For a second, he sat on the old wooden chair and wiped a hand over his face.
John peeked in. “Did you have a bad day?”
Wen looked up. “No. No. We did some great creative.” Just not great enough.
“For peanut butter?”
“Yep.”
“Did you find the tagger?”
“Uh, we worked without him.”
“Oh.” He looked worried.
“Why don’t you give Michaela a hand, and I’ll be in to help in a minute.”
“’Kay.” He wandered away.
Shit! Having both the kids frightened scared him too. Sometimes adulting sucked.
He stripped off his clothes, stretched to get rid of the kinks from sitting all day, then pulled on his sweats and T-shirt and went to help the kids. Fifteen minutes later, they all sat down to a Michaela creation of onions, garlic, tomatoes, broccoli, and olives cooked together and poured over pasta. She grated Parmesan on top and it made a tasty, cheap dinner.
Wen took a bite. Michaela sure did a lot with not very much. He made semiokay money, but living in New York broke the bank, and he paid extra to give Michaela singing lessons and for John to participate in a performing arts group.
Michaela chewed thoughtfully. “So you never found the tagger?”
“No, I actually did find him.”
John frowned. “You said—“
“I said we worked without him. I met him, but he doesn’t want to sell his art.”
“Too good for peanut butter, huh?” Michaela made a face.
“Maybe. I think he’s not motivated by money.” He shrugged. “That’s my guess, anyway.”
“What’s he like?” She rested her head in her palm.
“Wild. Amazing. He has bright red hair—like, lipstick red. The first time I saw him, this huge guy carried him into the subway on one arm, and he was pretending to fly.” He shook his head and took a bite.
John laughed. “Sounds like me. I mean, plus the hair.” John had loved to pretend he could fly since he was barely able to walk.
Wen nodded. “Yeah, I guess he is.”
“So you really liked him?”
Wen startled. “Oh no. I mean, I was only around him long enough for him to destroy the art I’d seen on the wall. He just painted the whole thing over with white. Him and his friends.”
“But you really need him for your campaign, right? To come up with something the peanut guy likes?”
“I don’t know, Michaela. The client might not be sophisticated enough to appreciate Peter’s work.” He pushed his plate away. The whole topic gave him indigestion.
“Peter?”
“That’s what someone called him.”
“What’s his last name?”
“No idea.”
“Are you going to lose your job if you don’t find him?” John’s eyes looked so wide they ate up his thin face.
What could he say? “It’s not about finding this guy. I mean, we don’t have much chance of pleasing the client anyway.” There, he didn’t answer, but maybe John wouldn’t notice.
“And if you don’t please him you lose your job?” Shit, he noticed.
“Not necessarily.”
John grabbed Wen’s arm. “Did you really try to talk this dude into painting stuff for you? Did you?”
“Well, yes. I mean, I didn’t get to talk to him one-on-one or anything, but I did try.”
“You gotta try harder!”
Wow, John was so upset. Wen put a hand over the smaller one that clutched his arm. “I would if I could, dear, but when I asked how to get in touch with him, he just said he lived in Neverland and left the subway, so obviously he didn’t want me to find him.”
John lowered his eyebrows. “Maybe he did.”
Wen shook his head. “Right. I’ll just head for the second star to the right and straight on till morning and sign him up.”
John scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but why don’t you just go to Neverland and ask for a guy named Peter?”
“What?” He glanced at Michaela. “I’ve got no idea what he’s saying.”
She quirked her mouth. “Just what he said. Go to Neverland and find the guy. Come on, Wen, you can persuade anyone of anything if you really decide to. You need to take another run at this dude.”
He stared back and forth between them. “What am I missing?”
John lo
oked totally exasperated. “You can go tonight. The place doesn’t really get started until midnight, and since it’s Friday, everyone will be there. You’ve got time.”
He sat back in his chair and tossed up his arms. “What place?”
Together they said, “Neverland!”
He held up a hand. “Okay, hang on. I’m gathering that Neverland is a place.”
Michaela shook her head. “Of course, what else would it be? It’s a club here in Brooklyn. All the kids talk about it and want to be old enough to go, but Neverland serves booze, so it’s a long time until I can go there.”
“A club?”
“What did you think we were talking about?” Michaela picked up Wen’s plate and stared at the leftover food with a frown.
“It’s a story—never mind. I’ll read it to you some time. So you think he meant the club?”
“Sure.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s only nine.”
“So get ready and go.” John grabbed his arm and pulled.
“Okay.” He laughed. What if Peter really had intended to be found?
It only took Wen ten minutes to get to the stop in Brooklyn where the club was located. He stepped out into one of those Brooklyn neighborhoods you didn’t mind visiting but you wouldn’t want to live in—high rents, high crime, high noise and dirt. After a quick look around to get his bearings, he set out for the next street, where he should find the club.
Fighting the tingles on his neck, he turned the corner and—wham! A big, rectangular warehouse building with zero architectural interest and peeling paint featured a huge sign that proclaimed Neverland. The people gathered outside definitely fell into the category of fairy-tale beings. They might not let him in the club just because he wasn’t weird enough. Jesus, Mother would have fit right in.
A line stretched from the door, where a bouncer was checking IDs and a cashier was collecting cover charges. Man, I do not want to be doing this. Too much like his life—or at least his former life, chasing down his mom in every weird-ass club and bar.
But he did want to find Peter. If Peter really told Wen to find him at Neverland, then maybe, just maybe he hadn’t closed the door completely. Maybe he was open to persuasion. Of course, it was possible Wen was right all along and Peter simply meant Wen would find him beyond the stars fighting a crocodile, not at a Brooklyn club.
The bouncer waved a big bunch of strange people inside. They were all wearing black shirts that said I’m Lost on the front. Truer words were never spoken.
The group of girls in front of Wen batted their eyes at the bouncer. The giant dude frowned and started looking at their wallets. Suddenly he glanced up and stared at Wen. “You, buddy, go on in.”
“Me?” Wen looked around.
“Yeah, you. Go on inside.”
“Thanks.” He must look old enough to not need his ID checked. That almost never happened. He stepped up to the thin cashier, who collected his twenty bucks, and then Wen walked through the doors of Neverland.
Holy shit!
Whoever named this club defined the clientele. Bodies in paint, feathers, glitter, and nothing else crowded the dance floor under strobing lights that appeared to bring on seizures in most of the patrons. Wen’s ears vibrated to an overamped voice with heavy reverb, singing about pills that made you larger and smaller, and the sound ricocheted off the concrete walls so it was hard to tell where it came from. Along one side of the floor stretched a long bar, outlined with LED lights, with bartenders throwing bottles in the air as they filled shots for the anxious buyers.
Bartenders usually knew everything, so maybe he could bribe someone into telling him how to find Peter the artist.
Wen took a deep breath, walked down the two steps that led to the dance floor, and plunged into the overheated mass of extremely strange humanity. He made it about five steps when a platinum blonde, reed-thin female wearing a silver bodysuit leaped in front of him and started dancing. With a jog, he stepped to the side to get around her, but she adjusted and blocked his way with her bouncing body.
Wen shook his head. “Uh, sorry, but I need to get to the bar.”
“Sure, baby, I understand. When you need a drink, you need a drink.” She blinked false lashes at him and slid an arm through his. “I’ll have a beer.”
“Uh, no, I’m not drinking. I’m looking for someone.”
“You just found her.” She grinned and flashed red lipstick on her teeth.
Shit. “I’m actually looking for an artist. It’s for a business thing. I mean, I want to hire him.”
She stepped back but didn’t let go of his arm. “Oh, so you like boys. Okay, we can do that too.”
“No. I mean, yes, I do like boys, I mean men, but that’s not what I’m doing. I really want an artist. I need to find him.” With every step, he bumped into more sweaty, smelly bodies.
“What artist?” Her penciled brows dropped over her lashes so far they touched.
“His name’s Peter. That’s all I know.”
The brows shot up. “Peter. You’re looking for Peter?” Her voice rose, and several dancers near them stopped and stared with interest.
Wen glanced around at the gathering crowd. “Yes. Do you know him?”
The girl crossed her arms and glanced at the people around them. “This guy likes men and he’s looking for Peter.”
A big guy wearing a feathered shawl said, “Peter’s no hooker, man. If you want that kind of action—” He struck a pose. “—you should consider me.”
“No, seriously. I mean, thanks and all, but I’m not looking for sex. I really want him for his art.”
The big guy said, “I can paint your dick with my tongue.”
The girl giggled. “I can draw you a bath.”
A tiny guy with green hair said, “My middle name’s Arthur, but you can call me Art.”
“I’ve got sculpted abs.” The big guy pulled up his shirt to reveal he was telling the truth.
A dude behind him grabbed Wen’s shoulder. “My name’s Michael, and my boyfriend’s Angelo.”
Dammit! Wen backed up and held out his hands. “I get it. But sorry, I’m not leaving until someone tells me where I can find Peter.”
Suddenly the mic squealed so loudly people covered their ears, and then the band pounded into a wailing, screeching number with a totally new and unique sound. Wen looked toward the stage. Different musicians than when he came in clustered around the microphones. Black T-shirts. A great-looking Hispanic guy on guitar, a dude of many races singing lead, a huge Asian sumo wrestler type on keyboards, a superhandsome black guy playing drums, and on tambourine, staring into space like she might see a totally different world than anyone else—Parasol Girl! Sweet Jesus, he’d found them. Well, most of them. He pointed toward the stage and yelled to no one in particular. “Who are they?”
The big guy in feathers looked at him like he came from a different planet. “Hey, man, if you don’t know that, why are you here? Those are the Lost Boys.”
Wen pushed forward through the crowd, getting thrust back a few times, but slithered closer and closer to the stage until he stood only a couple of people away from the apron. His brain reeled from the smell of perfume and sweat and the all-encompassing blare of music so loud it vibrated through the concrete floor and up Wen’s legs to his balls. All around him, girls screamed and guys writhed, with women, men, and by themselves, lost in the miasma of the music.
The band lived up to its name. The music slithered and wriggled and drifted the listener into space until all connection to life and reality loosened. Wen’s body began to move, and his lids felt heavy. Just want to dance and forget. Why does every minute of every day need to be about all the shit I have to do? Want to forget, just for a minute. Music flowed through his veins like so much electronic plasma.
The tempo changed. Slower. Headier. Wen raised his arms above his head and rocked from side to side, just a reed in the flow of the song.
Hands slid around his chest and dan
ced in front of him like a cobra escaped from its basket. Some piece of his brain wondered who the hands belonged to—the big guy in the feathers?—but warm pressure against his back felt good, comforting, exciting. The hands stopped dancing and wrapped around him tightly, and a weight between his shoulders felt like someone’s head rested there. Oh man. Warm to hot. A body pressed full-length against his back, the python arms tightened, and Wen’s dick sprang to life like a flower someone just watered after a very long drought.
His hips moved and brain wandered, flowed—
No, stop. Oh damn. I have to turn around. I have to stop this. I have to—
His pure hatred of those words—have to—seared through him and made his stomach tighten.
Wen clenched his jaw.
Stop it! You’re not your mother.
He grasped the hands that held him and turned, frowning. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
And there he stood, face-to-face with fairy eyes, an elf nose, and a siren’s lips curved in a sweet and sassy smile.
“Hello, Wendell Darling. Are you looking for me?”
Chapter Five
Sweet crap. Wen tried to drag himself from the depths of green fire in those eyes. Frowning harder, he attempted to look severe. “Yes, I’m looking for you. I told you the other night I was. I have an important proposition for you.”
Peter draped his arms on Wen’s shoulders and moved closer. “Proposition me.”
Wen stepped back. “Come on. I’m serious. I really need your help, and I’m willing to pay for it.”
Peter popped a hand on his hip. “I’m not that kind of guy.” He fluttered his lashes.
Wen threw his hands up in frustration. “I’m asking you to paint, damn it, not fuck.”
“What a pity.” Peter grinned, and the shine of that smile gave Wen a shiver. “Come on, Wendell Darling, lighten up. You’re in Neverland.”
“How did you know I’d come?”