Loverman

by B. D. Roca

Charles knew exactly how to distract him, it seemed.

  Kemp took in a long, unsteady breath. It didn’t help. He needed an answer. Keyed, WTF did u do?

  I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Thank me later

  If Charles had plans for that Sunday night, he’d cancelled them without mention. He also threw up a wall that prevented any further discussion about those revelations, and in return, Kemp put aside any argument over Maxine and money. Getting through this dinner was going to be tough enough without that. It could wait.

  I’ll bring dessert, Viva texted.

  Kemp took it as the peace offering it was.

  Thanks V

  Don’t thank me. Red’s the one who cooks a great pavlova

  Kemp’s mouth quirked at that. Sunday evening came, and they drank wine on the huge sofas Charles so detested, and Kemp caught glimpses of the billionaire’s son he frequently—thank Christ—forgot Charles was. Charles was being charming, using the kind of easy small talk he imagined a diplomat’s son would; he chatted to Red about the great formal gardens he’d photographed on assignment, favourite botanical gardens in Singapore, Montreal, and Brazil, referenced television and film with such deep knowledge and interest that even Viva unwound into a second glass of wine and debated her non-guilty pleasure, Keanu Reeves, with him.

  It was surreal. At one point as they were sitting eating—Kemp had cooked the lemon chicken, the roast potatoes spiked with rosemary, thrown together a salad, skills he’d picked up in the broke, pre-fame days working as a bistro kitchen hand—and Viva leaned across the table and eyed Charles. “Okay,” she bit out. “The Matrix or John Wick?”

  A corner of Charles’ mouth kicked up in a lazy, reminiscent smile Kemp knew too well. “Point Break. Always.”

  Viva gave a reluctant shout of laughter and curled back into her chair, chin tilted a little as she considered him. Her stare was unreadable. She said, “Kemp’s actually cooked. Are you as amazed as I am?”

  “Kemp always amazes me.”

  “Hmm. I’ll bet it’s the first time he’s actually turned on the oven in here.”

  Charles shrugged. “Why cook if you can order in?”

  It was probably the only thing the two of them would auto-agree on. She gave a small half nod. Charles picked up a buttery, lemony stalk of asparagus in his fingers and bit into it, and Viva glanced away to study the photographs and drawings hung around the space. Red’s pavlova turned out to be as good as promised. Later, the food demolished, the dining table a ruin of serving dishes, of cheap glassware and china, cheeses melting on a platter, Kemp leant back and studied the group now arguing politics. He relaxed a degree. The Reeves Test aside, with this group’s shared history, politics was their safest bet.

  Viva was still wary. So was Charles. They were like two wild cats, circling each other for territory. That territory was the battlefield of their shared history. Kemp could read the rare unguarded flash of Viva’s eyes: exactly, exactly what did Charles know?

  She hated that vulnerability. She refused to demand an answer.

  On the other hand, the two of them weren’t verbally slicing and dicing each other. That was new.

  Across the table, Red tilted his glass of wine to Kemp in a silent salute. If Red knew the exact nature of the battle being waged, he wouldn’t toast him, he’d punch him. He was a steady guy that way. The kind of man who’d protect his partner to the last scrap of blood and sinew. Good. Kemp nodded back.

  Later he blamed the third glass of excellent New Zealand pinot for opening his mouth and saying, “Hey, short notice, week after this Murph and I, maybe Stark, are heading up to this place in the Hunter, great old house in a vineyard called Three Cats. It was going to be all no-fun isolation, working on the new music, and we’ll be there a week… but it would be good to have some sane company. You guys have got to make it up there for a couple of days. It’s about a two-and-a-half-hour drive from here. A real one-off opportunity.”

  Kemp caught the sudden, almost uncertain sideways glance his man cut him. He knew what it meant and leant over, slipped a hand around Charles’ nape, under his bright hair. His lips brushed Charles’ ear, and he whispered before he could stop himself, “You were always going to be there, Charles. Even without the others. You drive me fucking crazy, but I wouldn’t want to have that experience without you.”

  Charles turned, just a degree as if caught off balance. A smile hit his mouth, and he caught his fingers around Kemp’s, brought them to his lips in a brief kiss.

  Across the table, Viva watched them. She was being astonishingly calm given their shared history. How long would that calm would last if their mother decided on a full family reunion while she was in town?

  Christ. There wasn’t enough wine in the world to cover that eventuality.

  Almost a fortnight later, Charles parked the black Lexus on the wide, curving driveway in front of a Victorian sandstone house glowing ochre in the dying afternoon light. He’d just completed a London shoot, flown back from Heathrow, arrived that afternoon at Sydney airport, collected the Lexus from long-term parking, and headed straight here. The drive, to Pokolbin in the Hunter Valley region, had taken hours. It felt strange to no longer be in transit. He felt a little dislocated.

  The engine now silent, Charles got out. Gravel crunched good and solid beneath his boots. He took in a deep breath of air scented by the lemon gums ranged about the house.

  Nearby, a towering crepe myrtle flowered starbursts of deep pink; lavender and roses softened the lines of a deep, shading verandah. An assortment of vehicles had already collected in front of this, the vineyard’s main building. He’d been told Three Cats had once been a fully working concern with its own label, but currently the house itself was only used as a weekend getaway.

  Being offered the use of the place to work on the new music had been an amazing gift; the vineyard’s owner, the boyfriend of Dylan, Kemp’s old schoolfriend, was nothing if not generous. Kemp had mentioned the couple might drop in on Sunday. Charles hoped so. Dylan’s upbeat calm had made him one of Charles’ favourite people, and if he and his partner turned up it could only help, give him one friendly face amongst the many who usually viewed him with suspicion. Damn. He had to look at this weekend as a good thing, not an ordeal to get through.

  Amongst the vehicles, he recognised Kemp’s semi-restored sports car. A distant thread of music, a run of notes, suddenly broke the country silence. It felt like a greeting—or a warning. Charles tried to breathe past the sudden thud of his heart.

  The phone in his hand buzzed with a fresh text, and he glanced at the screen.

  Stephen Halliday has notified that he will be away from the property for the next fortnight. Do you wish for surveillance patterns to be altered?

  This was what happened when you informed your security chief you had no interest in phone check-ins barring an emergency. You were barraged by texts instead. His own fault. The attack on Stephen had led to him being far more involved with day-to-day matters than he had been.

  Charles rubbed at his forehead. His Sydney house seemed a million miles, not a few hours’ drive, away. So did the necessity of worrying about its security if his house-sitter was no longer in residence, and Charles himself hadn’t lived in it for many months.

  His thumbs raced over the screen. Level back surveillance until he returns, barring cleaning and maintenance workers

  He slid the phone into the pocket of his grey cargo pants and glanced up at the wild barking of a dog. A small terrier—Stark’s dog, Moon—ran across the lawn, jumped up at Charles’ legs, and after a back rub, shot off to the side of the house.

  Barking. A scattering of birds flew up into a blue, cloud-streaked sky.

  Charles looked back to the house to see Kemp appear in the open doorway and stroll down the wide stone sweep of the front steps as if he owned the place. Typical. He was grinning.

  Charles tried to school his expression. “This place is magic,” he said, because it was utterly true and utte
rly neutral.

  “Yep, sure is,” Kemp drawled.

  He dragged Charles into his arms and kissed him with a blatant hunger.

  It had been almost two weeks. Kemp’s mouth on his again was dizzying. Kemp’s wiry muscularity, wonderful. The man was dressed like a vagrant, as usual, in a washed-out Henley and ripped jeans. Charles wanted to slide his fingers into those rips, stroke the pale skin they revealed.

  Kemp grinding the bulk of his erection against Charles’ own was even better. Kemp grunted as if he’d read his mind, tightened his whipcord arms about him, and devoured Charles’ mouth.

  Was this what confiding that nasty, dirty little secret of his early adolescence had brought him? He’d told Kemp that ugly truth to try and explain why he’d been that obnoxious, snobbish boy to Viva, to Kemp, trying to get them both to steer clear. Certainly, he could never tell Kemp about that video he’d used to blackmail Maxine out of their lives. Instead, he’d fobbed him off with some talk of his father’s will and clauses.

  He hadn’t expected them to reach this moment. To reach a place where Kemp’s open lust became something else that Charles could not recognise. Something warmer. Something that gave him hope, made him want to lower his own defences.

  Finally, Kemp drew back enough to rub his stubble-rough cheek against Charles’ and mutter against his ear, “Want to fuck you so bad.” His hand slid down to Charles’ arse, slid under the waistband of his cargos and briefs to grip the muscle of one cheek. His fingers bit.

  At the vicious pleasure, Charles pressed his face against Kemp’s throat. He was burning up. His teeth grazed the stubbled skin. “Any chance—”

  Kemp grunted in answer and shoved Charles’ against the SUV with a thud as if he did, truly, want to fuck him there and then up against the Lexus. In that instant, Charles would have been up for it. In that moment, Kemp could have pushed him inside the vehicle and done whatever he wanted. Charles would have denied him nothing. Palm running over Charles’ arse, Kemp said huskily, “Not for hours, babe. Got a call, the other arrivals will be here in ten, and we’re actually being productive. Not that I give a shit right at this moment.” Kemp drew back just enough, grey eyes fixed on Charles’ mouth, and said roughly, “Hell, screw it, work can wait. We can just clear off and fuck, catch up with the rest of the household in time for dinner.”

  Charles was hard at the sheer insane blatancy of it. The other part of him hated being so obvious, so desperate, especially with the others about to arrive.

  He craved Kemp like a drug. No need for everyone inside the house to know it.

  What had he been thinking?

  Somehow he shook his head, denying them both now, eyes cool and face hot and cock rock hard. “No. I can wait.”

  “I don’t know that I can.” Kemp studied him with raw hunger but said, “You don’t want the others to know we celebrated our reunion by fucking our brains out?”

  Charles almost choked. “Something like that.”

  Kemp shook his head. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d care. Some of the clubs you’ve taken me to, I felt like a wide-eyed country hick. You’ve been the one up for anything. Besides, this mob have just about seen it all.”

  Which was exactly the kind of reminder Charles didn’t need. At the sudden chill in Charles’ face, Kemp’s expression grew wry, and he ran a hand up Charles’ throat, tightened it briefly, pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Not from me lately, though, loverman. Since you’ve been on the scene, my style’s kind of changed. Well… except for rimming and fucking hot blonds on balconies, that is.”

  Charles flushed bloodily at the reminder, but the tension in him eased. As for the endearment, it meant nothing. Kemp had the ability to be casually affectionate in a way that meant nothing, could charm anyone from crowds of thousands to complete strangers, and Charles, aware of his own awkward formality, had always envied that ability. He’d never really got past the shyness and social awkwardness that had plagued him as a child, too aware of the gulf that separated him from others. He’d simply managed to replace it with aloofness that many took for ice.

  It wasn’t. He suspected that Kemp had often seen past it for exactly what it was. That was part of what had drawn him to the man. To be seen and not judged was a rare treasure.

  “Later,” he managed coolly.

  A corner of Kemp’s wide mouth lifted, and he gave a half nod. “Later, then. I’ll be in your arse so deep, we’ll fuck night into day.”

  Charles felt his softening erection harden, and Kemp chuckled, ran his palm over his dick through his cargos.

  “At least say you missed me,” Kemp drawled.

  He leaned back against the Lexus and eyed Kemp with a cool provocation. “I missed you. Of course.”

  Kemp snorted. “Yeah, right. You missed my cock.”

  Charles felt his hauteur slip a degree. Kemp had actually sounded… not hurt exactly, no—Charles knew he could not hurt him—but disappointed? God only knew, and before he could think it through any further, they both heard the rumbling of a vehicle on the narrow, winding drive that led through the acres of vines and glanced over towards the sound.

  In the distance, through the poplar trees lining the track, a white SUV was approaching.

  Viva and Red.

  Well, that let them both off the hook. Kemp’s face was inscrutable. Skin tight and hot, a dull ache in his chest, Charles went to the back of the Lexus to get his overnight bag out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Friday evening turned out to be the kind of lyrical, lazy evening with great food, wine, and company Kemp had dreamt about in the wasteland days of the last tours, when hotel life had worn thin and the endless strangers had lost the charm of their novelty.

  Hitting the kitchen was a good distraction, and Kemp and Stark threw together a mountain of food. Even Viva hustled in the kitchen, a place she usually detested, unwrapping the various packages of delicious breads, cheeses, and dried fruits that she and Red had brought. Charles chilled out with Murphy and Red and chatted while vintage Massive Attack played in the background.

  The platters of food were devoured, and later, the stir-fry Kemp improvised and fed to the crowd at the big table in the lush, red-walled dining room was a success. “Jesus, Kemp, why have we been eating crap all week? I didn’t know you could cook,” Murphy muttered around a mouthful of mushrooms and noodles.

  Viva arched a brow. “None of us did. Apparently Kemp is becoming wildly domesticated.”

  “Hey!” Kemp warned.

  Her clever eyes cut over to Charles, amusement and challenge mixed. “You’re having an interesting effect on my brother. Is this what you wanted?”

  “Excellent food and great company?” Charles replied smoothly. “Of course. This is exactly the evening I wanted.”

  “That we all wanted, I think.” She looked thoughtful.

  Later, after showering in the colourful en suite bathroom in the brick stables converted to guest accommodation, Kemp towelled his skin roughly damp-dry. He scowled at his reflection in the old, speckled vanity mirror. Viva and Red, Stark and Murphy had rooms in the main house, and while they were probably more luxurious—Murphy’s girlfriend would be arriving tomorrow, and she’d appreciate that—Kemp was glad he’d claimed this space. It was slightly less fancy, sure, but it had funky exposed brick walls, a red velvet couch, and this tiny en suite bathroom with a claw-foot tub. Plus, now, something extra.

  The main attraction was sitting barefoot, cross-legged on the big antique brass bed, laptop open in front of him when Kemp came out of the bathroom.

  He paused in the doorway. “Was tonight exactly the evening you wanted?”

  Charles’ eyes lifted from the towel low about his hips to his face. “Yes, it was.”

  “This is a good opportunity, you know. To get to really know the guys in the band.”

  Charles nodded. He ran his fingers over the Mac’s keyboard. “I do know them. I’ve met them before, Kemp.” His level, educated voice was e
asy, mocking. “Remember?”

  “Yeah.” Kemp recognised the defences Charles was throwing up. “But this is different. Quieter, none of the usual three-ring circus going on. Plus, you know… I want you and Viva to learn to get along.”

  Charles looked back to the laptop and began to type. He paused. “That may never happen, Kemp. You may as well accept it. Viva doesn’t trust or like me, and after the way I originally behaved, I understand that. The simple truce we’ve achieved is best for all of us. We have that.”

  No, no point in arguing the issue right now. Not when they hadn’t seen each other in almost a fortnight and the goddamn craving in Kemp’s bones for skin against skin was clawing at every nerve ending. He felt the knot of his brows and glanced around the room for the one item Charles was never separated from. Sure enough, Charles’ camera bag was sitting on the coffee table by the sofa. He went over and picked it up, swung it by the strap.

  As he’d expected, Charles’ wide gaze shot to him. “Kemp—”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t break it.” Kemp strolled over to him, a slink in every barefoot step. He held the bag out, suspended from his fingers. “I want you to do your thing, Chaz. Snap a few shots. Immortalise me.”

  Charles looked amused, an eyebrow lifting. “Immortalise you?”

  Kemp gave him a lascivious wink. “Those shots of me from your show are still going to be around when I’m a hundred. Thank Christ.” He laughed. “I like the idea of being able to look back at them and think, hey, I was passable once. That’s immortality.”

  Charles’ eyes darkened. “You’re more than passable.”

  Kemp shook his head, gaze sliding over Charles’ face, the bared, leanly muscular broad golden shoulders and chest, Charles wearing nothing more now than the fresh khaki chinos he’d changed into after the drive and a hot shower before dinner. “You’re the gorgeous one, Chaz. You look like a bloody billboard model. I’ll bet you’ve dealt with a lot of people telling you that you’re on the wrong side of the camera.”