Loverman

by B. D. Roca

  Holding open the front door for her, Charles said wryly, “Scarcely necessary, don’t you think?”

  Viva ignored that. As she came down the front steps, she glanced around the colourful range of parked cars. “Okay, your car or mine?

  Charles tried to ignore the knot in his gut. “For this little get-to-know-you? I’ll drive.”

  “Ever the gentleman.”

  If he was, it hadn’t exactly made him popular. A chill had suddenly radiated from Kemp that morning. What had that been about? Somehow, here in this beautiful, magical place, they’d been fucking with an intimacy that only seemed to increase every time they were together, leaving Charles with a growing hope that somehow, they were truly building something together. He’d walked into the kitchen this morning to find Kemp looking at him with every wall back up again.

  At this rate he’d develop whiplash. He opened the door of the Lexus for Kemp’s sister, the woman who, although she did not know it, he’d gone to dangerous extremes to protect. “I’m always a gentleman, Viva,” he drawled, and she gave him a provocative, curious stare.

  “Perhaps you are, Charles. Or at least grown-up you is.”

  And with that dubious assessment, they headed off, Viva texting their respective partners not to expect them at the lunch table later. As if, from Kemp’s attitude that morning, his lover would even give a damn at his absence.

  A few kilometres down the road and the silence in the SUV had become painful. It seemed Viva had no more social chitchat than he did. Neither of them had considered that possibility before they began this sad, absurd outing. She began to flip through the music on the Lexus’s system with the kind of brittle desperation that told him she was regretting inviting herself along. “Metallica?”

  “Well, naturally.” Her shock was almost amusing. “What were you expecting?”

  “Not that,” she said flatly. “Something a little smoother. More generic.”

  “Blunt as ever.” Charles sighed as James Hetfield’s distinctive growl poured through the speakers. Well, if Viva could be blunt, then so could he. “You do realise this is the first time we’ve been alone in… ever?”

  She said dryly, “No, I’m sure back in Palm Beach we were stuck in the kitchen at least twice by ourselves. Maybe even three times. You know, the morning school run. While you were waiting on your driver bringing the Bentley to the door.”

  Because of course there had been a driver—and a Bentley. Charles had hated it. The mocking gleam in Viva’s eyes told him she knew it, and he couldn’t help slanting her a smile. “Oh, I’m sure the housekeeper was there to sling the eggs and toast and run protection. So not exactly alone.”

  Viva laughed. Actually laughed, and muttered, “God, you’re right. So in more than a decade, this is probably the first time we’ve ever actually been forced to converse all by ourselves.”

  “No wonder we’re a little rusty at it.”

  “It’s amazing we can talk at all.”

  “True.” He felt the grin hit his face. A first, surely.

  She pointed to a sign. “There’s a cafe coming up. Let’s pull in and grab something to eat and see if we can do this conversation thing properly.”

  Charles nodded, although he still wasn’t sure about the wisdom of it.

  “I’m sorry for that comment about your music taste. About it being generic, that is,” Viva muttered five minutes later. She was peering into a latte like a fortune teller. “You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I listen to. Ask Red. Anyway, it sounded bitchy, and it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “It was, really, but that’s only fair. I’ve needled you often enough.” Charles sighed, shook his head. “Your video shoot at that warehouse… I’ll admit, I was… obnoxious. Incredibly rude. I knew I’d pushed my way in there, that it wasn’t my space, and it made me—” He forced himself to meet Viva’s cool glance. “I felt defensive. I didn’t behave well, and I apologise.”

  She raised her eyebrows a degree, absorbing his words. Studying him. She was silent, and that silence was its own weapon.

  In so many ways she was recognisably Maxine’s daughter and Kemp’s sister: lanky as a cat, with a charisma that required no fame. The only other customers, a family by the window, were shooting her curious glances, and the young guy behind the counter had struggled to maintain his bored cool. In the face of Viva’s continuing silence, Charles forced himself to drink some coffee, say steadily, “In any case, my music tastes aren’t generic. Do you really think Kemp would tolerate me if they were?”

  Now she raised a brow. “My brother isn’t that superficial. And anyway, I think Kemp would tolerate almost anything from you.”

  She flushed then, a rare bloody blush of rose spreading under her skin, and Charles tensed.

  He’d actually caught her off guard. She hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to be that open, and dear god, she’d actually meant it. Something loosened in his chest, some tightness that he’d been fighting ever since that moment in the kitchen—but more, really, ever since he’d pushed his way back into Kemp’s life. It gave him the strength to say to this woman who he knew had always disliked him, “Maybe Kemp is a man of rare tastes. Most people can’t stand me, you know. They find me… difficult. Kemp seems to see past that.”

  “You’re not… that, though, are you?” Viva spoke slowly, eyes narrowed. “You’re a lot of things, but difficult? No. Prickly, yes. Maybe you just don’t like people seeing your bank balance before your talent.”

  He froze. “Dear god, you’re—”

  “Blunt?” She raked impatient, emerald-nailed fingers through her hair. “Yes, we’ve established that. Kemp’s the smooth one in the family. But you are talented, Charles. I should have told you that at your exhibition. It was brilliant. I was impressed.”

  Pathetic, how much her approval warmed him. “Thank you.”

  “I would have said so on the night, but I was a little too stunned by the sight of my brother’s naked arse up on the gallery walls.”

  Her tone had been dry as dust, but her eyes were amused again. Charles almost choked on his coffee.

  He flushed. It was fortunate the more recent, incendiary shots of Kemp naked would never see the light of day. Those images were just explosive, and truly, for just Kemp and himself.

  But Viva had called the gallery exhibition brilliant, and that meant so much. He smiled. “Yes, well, I can imagine it did have its awkward moments.” He glanced down at his coffee before draining it and saw she was doing the same. “Kemp told me you’re leaving for London next week, meetings to do with a film.”

  “There are always meetings going on to do with a film.” Her lip curled in a snarl. “So many I’ve lost count. But this project—well, it looks like it’s going ahead. So here’s hoping.”

  Charles nodded. “I think I might grab something to eat. You hungry? My shout. Order whatever you want, go wild. We’ll celebrate this film of yours.”

  Viva looked at him for a long moment. “Yes, I’d like that,” she said eventually. She glanced at the brightly chalked menu over the counter. “I’ll have their big all-day breakfast, and more coffee, please.” Charles nodded, and as he got up, she added, “And Charles, thank you. I’m glad we’ve done this. And I accept your apology. You’re right. You were a shit that day, but coming from you, that apology means something.”

  He stared at her, still uncertain of her mood. “I meant it.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “Which is why I accepted it. Also, you’re not the only one who can be prickly. I can be awkward. I keep people at bay. And that’s a pity, because we have so much in common.”

  Charles felt his face become a mask. “You mean Kemp?”

  Kemp and the fact that they both loved him, if in totally different ways.

  She drummed her nails on the table. “Not everything is about a certain rock star, Charles,” she drawled. “No, I meant we’ve both been labelled difficult, we’re both insanely talented and incredibly impatient that the wo
rld hasn’t fully caught on to that fact yet. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Charles felt that wary mask slip away and burst out laughing. It felt like the first time he’d ever truly laughed with Viva. No, it really actually was. Mouth wry, she lifted her coffee cup to him in a salute.

  “You look happy,” Kemp commented, when they got back to Three Cats midafternoon.

  Charles said nothing for a moment, just watched as Red gave Viva a hug and a glass of wine, saying, “Missed you, babe. Lunch was quiet without you.”

  “Missed you too,” she said huskily, looping an arm around him.

  He watched them go and stood alone in the hallway with Kemp. Music and laughter drifted in from the back rooms. “I had a good afternoon.”

  “That’s… good.” Kemp watched him carefully.

  Charles leant his hips back against a long, antique hall table and glanced away, raked his hair back with an unsteady hand.

  It would have meant something to have that formidable woman as his sister-in-law and friend. Not that she would ever be either, and it was kind of shocking that the thought had slipped into his head because the concept of Kemp as his lifetime partner was wildly unrealistic fantasy, but still, the feeling remained. That emptiness, the need for family—of any kind he could get—wrenched under his skin as it had always done. Yet one more thing he couldn’t tell Kemp.

  But he could and did brush the tangled hair back from Kemp’s face, risking the rejection that this morning had warned him to expect.

  Instead, Kemp slid his arms around him, dragged him into his hold, and crashed his mouth down on his in the kind of devouring, aching kiss they rarely shared in public—or at least not in a hallway anyone could walk into. And Charles dissolved into it, and sheer desperation and hunger and yes, anger, had him shoving Kemp back against the wall in a crazy moment of reminding him that he had a couple of inches and a hell of a lot more muscle bulk on the man, kissing Kemp back so hard that their teeth clashed and the metallic taste of blood hit Charles’ tongue.

  “What’s brought this on?” Charles bit out, aroused and bewildered and too aware of the pleasure-pain of his cock, trapped against his zipper.

  Kemp laughed, fisted Charles’ hair, and branded a kiss against the bared base of his throat.

  “You. Christ, you trying so hard with Viva,” Kemp murmured against his skin. His chuckle thrummed there. “Even though watching the two of you together is like watching two cats in a barrel.”

  Charles drew in a deep, shaky breath. “You truly are the strangest man, Kemp.”

  “I just like my people to get along, Charles. And it means something that you’re both trying so fucking hard. Especially since—”

  “Since what?”

  Kemp shook his head. His eyes were evasive. “Since nothing. It can wait. Christ, yes.” Kemp’s gaze dropped to his lips. “Yes, it can wait, fuck, just give me your mouth again—”

  Torn between anger and lust and sheer relief, Charles shoved Kemp up against the wall again and did exactly as his lover asked, and even in the midst of that copper-edged kiss, he realised that the self-control that he’d always bound himself with so tightly was finally beginning to fray beyond all measure.

  Once that would have terrified him. Now it felt like freedom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  That last evening at Three Cats was filled with the kind of cheesiness that Kemp often rolled his eyes at. After a sprawling feast of a dinner, Murphy brought out his guitar and played requests, as if the place had turned into a karaoke den. Didn’t stop Kemp from joining in. It was fun, even if real karaoke clubs curdled his blood. Halfway through the evening, a text hit Kemp’s phone. This one he bothered to read. It was from Dylan Mulroy, and Dylan’s boyfriend owned the vineyard.

  Warning, mate. Ben and I will be driving up tonight once the restaurant’s closed, get there around 2. We’ll try to be quiet. Kick any fuckers out of our room ;)

  The place was like a railway station. Never a dull moment. Kemp was glad Dylan had persuaded Ben to give the restaurant business a rest for a day or so.

  He tried to block out Murphy’s cracked rendition of “Blunderbuss,” keyed in, No fuckers in your room. We’re not that uncouth. Be good to see u & meet our host

  A split second later, Dylan sent: FUCK!!! Should have said b4, Ben said you’re welcome to anything in the freezer

  Hmm. That led to an entertaining ten-minute break between songs discovering that you could, kind of sort of, defrost tiramisu in the microwave. Delicious.

  Eventually Belle peeled Murphy away because she had a nine-to-five job and Monday morning was around the corner. Murphy grousing, the two loaded up her Honda and headed on the long drive back to Sydney.

  After that the evening wound down. TV blaring, Stark had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, mouth open and Moon curled in behind his legs. Viva and Red had been cuddling all evening. No surprise they’d shot off to their room. Charles shot Kemp a challenging stare.

  Five minutes later Charles was dragging the curtains over stable’s windows. Kemp hit Silent on his phone.

  He doubted they’d even hear Dylan and Ben arrive, not at the main house. Grabbing the stables had been genius, but right now, Kemp had more interesting things to think about, like the man standing across the room from him, slowly stripping free of his clothes. Kemp shut down his phone, leaned back against one scrubbed brick wall, and watched the show.

  “Long evening,” he remarked.

  Charles grinned. It was a rare sight, that open, wide grin, and Kemp drank it in even when he knew, awareness scratching like fiend at the back of his mind, that a discussion awaited them back in Sydney, one about his toxic fucking mother, money, and ownership.

  But he hadn’t gotten this far, survived Maxine’s glory years and the Palm Beach years and that horror and every other fucking thing before fame and fortune came along, ready and ripe, without being able to compartmentalise, and he was compartmentalising right now like a goddamn Olympic champion.

  “Endless,” Charles agreed, on a low husky breath. That grin again. “Especially when you began on the Janis Joplin best-of.”

  “My interpretation of ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ was out of this world.”

  “It was only bettered by your styling of ‘Son of a Preacher Man.’”

  “What can I say?” Kemp strolled across the room, slid the last button on his shirt free, and dropped it to the floor. Charles’ gaze slid over his chest, down the sliver of dark hair that arrowed into his hip-hugging jeans. “Janis and Dusty got me through many a rough night.”

  Which wasn’t far from the truth. A memory flashed: he and Viva in the pre-Durant days, huddled in the living room of the shitty flat Maxine was renting back then, Maxine out clubbing in the a.m. with fuck-who-knew, Dusty Springfield playing on YouTube while Viva told him how she was going to make incredible movies one day. And Kemp had listened and worked his way around the catalogues of all the great classic singers and spun his own dreams. Who the hell had Charles had to tell his dreams to? Share his heroes with? No family, no siblings, no friends he could trust. The loneliness of it cut Kemp up deep inside. It gutted him.

  If he let himself think about it too deeply, he’d let himself realise that it always had.

  He slid a palm up over Charles’ bare chest. “This weekend’s been good, yeah? Glad you came?”

  Charles drew closer, long fingers tangling in Kemp’s hair even as his mouth brushed Kemp’s. “Yes, I am.”

  “Good to hear it.”

  Kemp turned his head, just a fraction, enough to permit their mouths to truly connect, and it was on.

  He walked backwards to the bed and landed there, sprawled, Charles lying over him and their mouths searching, tongues saying everything it seemed that clumsy words never could, and Charles was sliding his palms silkily up Kemp’s arms, deliberately stretching them upwards, until at his urging Kemp’s hands connected with the brass bars of the bed above his head and his fingers wound tightly around the cool
metal.

  “Like this?” he muttered. He was amused and turned on all at once. Charles’ face inches away, he arched a brow. “And I thought you liked my hands on you, Chaz.”

  “I do. Almost as much as your mouth.”

  Kemp laughed. “Contrary bastard, aren’t you? So what’s next in this game of upside down? Gonna gag me?”

  In answer Charles kissed him again, a kiss full of heat and hunger and sheer aching want, and Kemp’s fingers shifted, slick with sweat now, but did not loosen their grip on the metal. Instead, he arched up against Charles and wound one of his legs around Charles’ thighs and sank into whatever it was Charles was giving tonight. His brain was shutting down, senses taking over, but warning lights flashed.

  They were going to fuck, and that bomb of his mother’s voicemail had not been defused. Maxine said she’d sold him. She’d fucking sold him to Charles—

  Something had happened. Something ugly. That voicemail hadn’t come out of nowhere.

  And yet Kemp was still doing this and getting hard into it and not calling a halt, and his one remaining brain cell screamed he should.

  It was one thing to leave the whole humiliating Maxine and money and a guy with millions buying her off discussion for their return to Sydney, tomorrow and the real world.

  It was another to not call a halt to what they were doing. Screwing right now was just plain stupid, but then when had he ever used his bloody brain in connection with this man? Charles had pushed back into his life, and Kemp had known it was wrong to get involved again with the guy. He’d broken an oath he’d made to himself, way back. He’d known anything Durant should have been left in the past. He owed that to Viva out of sheer loyalty and the need to protect her from that terrible history. He’d failed so badly to protect her from old man Durant. She’d paid a terrible price for his failure. But he’d had no resistance, not to Charles, not to that fated connection they’d always had.

  It was like they’d recognised each other from the first, as kids, and it didn’t matter that recognition had been innocent then, and it didn’t matter that their particular brand of recognition became something much darker, laced with sex later, it just was.