by Jan Irving
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Mask
Copyright © 2009 by Jan Irving
Cover Art by Anne Cain [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61581-047-5 Printed in the United States of America First Edition
August, 2009
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-048-2
Mask is dedicated with much appreciation to Carolyn Topol, Mickie B. Ashling, Laurie, Kim, Aschicca, Armandyouidiot, Camjakefan, Nish, Decembergurl, Habemus, Kata, Kitty, Missus Grace, Trintiff, Gabrielle and Lyn.
Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love. —Rainer Maria Rilke
Obsidian: Let me guess, you got your nickname from a woman?
Moonbeam: How did you...? Obsidian: I know a lot about you, Moonbeam. You should be more careful what you share about yourself on the ‘Net. You’re quite naive. But it’s a useful quality to someone like me.
Moonbeam: Am not.
Obsidian: Are too.
Moonbeam: Prove it?
Obsidian: My favorite words. :smirk: You’re nineteen—I saw you tell Steve a week ago when he wanted to know if you’re going to dress up and cavort on Halloween—and you nicely avoided his fishing for a hook up, by the way. Very kind, aren’t you? An interesting weakness. You said you were too old and he suggested certain venues where it’s fun to wear a mask—year round. You are an art student. You enjoy working with oils, but you dislike water colors because they are… watery. So less control. And you like that, ingénue. You like control.
Moonbeam: So do you...
Obsidian: Of course. So you have to be a blond with your nickname...
Moonbeam: Yes, all right, I am blond.
Obsidian: A cute blond. The curser blinked and Nick felt perspiration prickle his hairline. It was always like this in the chat room since the aloof and mysterious Obsidian had taken an interest in him, cutting him from the herd of other users.
He didnt know why he had let it happen, because Obsidian was… threatening.
And exciting.
Moonbeam: You said I reveal too much about myself, so maybe I’ll leave that one. Obsidian: Don’t be fucking coy. I know you are cute. Moonbeam: :sigh: I am cute.
Obsidian: I knew it. Your eyes are blue to go with that “moonbeam” hair?
Moonbeam: :squirms: Why this focus on what I look like? Obsidian: Appearances are extremely important. Don’t tell me you slob around in wrinkled cotton. :pained: Moonbeam: I suppose you’re some high-powered businessman who wears designer labels. I am just an ordinary guy. A poor, starving artist.
Obsidian: ...
Moonbeam: Obsidian? Obsidian: Still here, Moonbeam. Tsk. We were talking about YOU. You also have a boyfriend. I’m not sure if he can’t satisfy you sexually or you just haven’t let him fuck you yet because I get a strong vibe that you are a virgin, aren’t you?
Moonbeam: What? What the fuc-? You DON’T know me. YOU DO NOT. Obsidian: Stop shouting! Excitable, aren’t you? It’s 2:22 A.M. If you were MINE, you wouldn’t be in some fucking chat room; you’d be lying on a bed, coated with sweat, worn out with my arm lying over your body, pressing you to the bed. MY bed.
Nick heard the key in the lock. Moonbeam: Right, because you’re some kind of legendary lover. You’re so infuriating sometimes! I have to go.
Obsidian: Don’t.
Moonbeam: Good night.
Moonbeam: Has left the room.
Obsidian: Has left the room.
KAIN reached for a pack of cigarettes, lit one. At least he could still do this, and it wasnt like he could kill himself by smoking anymore. He got up and paced the halls of the big pile of a house hed purchased on impulse. Mostly dust and wood floors, not decorated as his downtown penthouse had been. Maybe he should get that designer out here.
He shook his head, taking in faded wallpaper and the water stains on the ceiling. Shed probably run from this job. His house was hopeless and he knew it, but it suited him now. He picked up his Blackberry and hit a familiar number.
“Blond tonight. Not too tall. Blue eyes. And no talking. You know the drill,” he directed his connection.
“We have someone new, Mr. Mitchell,” Ernies voice purred. “Young and he loves to be of service.”
“Just be sure to tell him to follow instructions.” Kain ended the call.
THE room for his “date” was set up. A bed, lube, condoms… and handcuffs.
“Put them on and face the wall,” Kain ordered from the shadows. “ I can barely see anything. Its fucking dark in here!” Weak laughter. The young man looked over one bare shoulder, obviously trying to make out his client.
Kain ignored the curiosity. He needed this, a body under his control, purchased for his very specific needs. Still burning with mingled resentment and stimulation, Kain sheathed himself and mounted his date from behind as soon as the trick was on the mattress. The metal of the handcuffs gleamed softly in the light from the hallway, clinking gently. Only stars lit the room.
His hired date let out a groan as he was penetrated by Kains thick cock.
Kain wrapped a hand around his throat, feeling the pulse, the frailty of life.
He let out a long growl of relief. Against blond hair he whispered, “Moonbeam.”
“SO IS your secret admirer on?”
“ Hes just….” Nick shrugged, tucking some of his silver-blond hair behind one ear, uncomfortable. He spent a lot of time on his own since Miguel spent nights at a Laundromat, but theyd worked that out, deciding that it was… best. Or maybe hed let Miguel go because he knew it was easier for him. He shifted his feet, feeling the ground between them a little off. He missed him. Missed how they used to be.
Nick knew he was a romantic. He was the one who liked to cook a meal, light some candles, buy the best wine he could afford and spoil his boyfriend. Even though he was lost in his art half the time, talking, touching, making contact, was important to him.
But for the past year whenever he reached out to Miguel, there was nothing solid. Just a feeling of things unsaid. “ Yeah.” Miguel lifted Nicks hand, entwining their fingers. His lips parted, the ones Nick had once drawn over and over in a sketchbook, along with his heavily lashed sherry eyes and the springy black hair hed inherited from his Chilean-American mother.“Seems like you spend a lot of time with this guy online lately. Should I be jealous?”
“ Hes not real,” Nick said pragmatically, reminding himself of that again. And reminding himself that the mysterious Obsidian served a purpose. “So spending time with him is really killing time.” He got up from the worn wood of his desk chair and went to settle on Miguels lap, curling his arms around his boyfriends sturdy neck. He didnt treat him as delicate or untouchable. He knew that was important from their counseling sessions. Miguel had had a
bad relationship with his first boyfriend, who could be violent, and still shied away from Nick because of it. “Just the requisite fantasy, which helps my art, Mr. Darcy in the chat room. Is that all right?”
Miguel scratched his eyebrow. “Im not sure I like it, you having a fantasy man who is not me.”
“He could be you,” Nick couldnt keep from saying. He bit his lip a second later, knowing what was coming.
“Nicky, weve been through this before; its not like I dont want to! I just… I cant.” Nick felt immediate guilt. It was just sex, for Christ s sake! He needed to get over it. Everything else between them was comfortable, so why couldnt he just leave it alone like Miguel asked?“I know. Im sorry. Really.”
“If you know, why do you bring it up all the fucking time?” Miguel glared. Nick swallowed. “Because weve been together a long time. Because I get scared, I guess,” Nick confessed, “that you and I….” Miguel had been his first crush. The first guy hed kissed. “I barely see you.”
He didn t want to admit it, that it hurt sometimes that Miguel spent more time with his musician friends than with his loyal boyfriend. But Miguel was talented and ambitious. They were both just starting out, taking classes, hoping for a break. He understood that. He needed to express himself so fucking badly. Some nights his muse woke him up and he was dabbing oils while half-asleep, rubbing his eyes, sipping cold coffee.
Miguel was the same, often leaving the shower with shampoo bubbles clinging to his half-washed hair so he could scribble some musical notes on a free piece of paper.
“He inspires my art. You know what thats like.” Nick knew that Miguel would understand. That was within the boundaries of their unconventional arrangement, which had deteriorated into one of buddies, of being in a comfortable rut. But Nick didnt know how to change it. The more he tried, the more Miguel pulled away, leaving him alone.
“ Oh.” Miguel shrugged since Nick had plenty of experience sketching male models in school and he had never been jealous of them—until recently. “Well then, I guess hes no threat.”
“He cant give me what I need,” Nick said honestly. “Because hes just a fantasy so he can never touch me.”
Miguel studied him, lips tightening. “Neither can I, remember?” Obsidian: Moonbeam? Stop fucking lurking.
Moonbeam: What if I am?
Obsidian: Moody. Maybe you should take some evening primrose.
Moonbeam: Is there some reason you are riding me tonight?
Obsidian: Maybe I only wish I was. Are you still there? I was waiting for you for… some time. Moonbeam: ...
Obsidian: I may have been a tad abrasive. I’m… sorry. Moonbeam: You think?
Obsidian: So tell me more about the boyfriend. Is he tall, dark and handsome? Does he make your heart beat faster and your cock hard?
Moonbeam: As if I’ll share more about him with you. Obsidian: I know you help support him. Must be hard since you barely scrape by.
Moonbeam: How do you know that? I’ve never talked about that with you.
Obsidian: I may have had you investigated.
Moonbeam:
Obsidian: I was curious. It was not stalking. Not the way I define it anyway.
Moonbeam:
Obsidian: I obtained a picture. You are cute. I like to look at you. Moonbeam: I’m leaving now!
Obsidian: Don’t. Don’t do that. Nick—! Moonbeam.
Moonbeam: You admit you— Fuck; I don’t even have words...! I just met you online two weeks ago. Okay, we’ve talked every night, and it’s been good for my art, but—
Obsidian: Talked for hours. You’ve told me things you’ve never told anyone, haven’t you? Not even the boyfriend. And don’t tell me the climaxes I’ve given you have been just for your art.
Moonbeam: How do you know I—? That doesn’t give you the right. And can we get off the topic of my boyfriend, please?
Obsidian: You could have been anyone. I needed to know. I wanted to own your face.
Moonbeam: “Own my face?” Obsidian! I’m me. I am not comfortable with a fake persona so I’m just… me. Obsidian: You drew me and I admit it made me feel a little vulnerable. I’m not accustomed to that. And… I wanted to see what you looked like.
Moonbeam: That is both creepy and—
Obsidian: What?
Moonbeam: Oddly touching.
Obsidian: Don’t go. Don’t be pissed. You should be flattered. I think of you every night I wrap a hand around my cock. I spill with your name on my lips.
Moonbeam: Shit! Will you behave? Now, I want an even playing field. You tell me about you. Or I leave.
Obsidian: ...
Moonbeam: I fucking knew it! Fine, continue playing the dark mystery man, but I’m leaving. Obsidian: I was… am thirty-five years old.
Moonbeam: Was? Strange choice of word.
Obsidian: Do you want to hear this or not, you little pest? I have dark brown hair. Green eyes. I’m taller than you— Over six feet.
Moonbeam: Why have you been spending all this time with me? I’m alone a lot at night, working on my paintings, but you...?
Obsidian: ...
Moonbeam: Obsidian? Talk to me.
Obsidian: I have some time on my hands. Just lately. And I live at night.
Moonbeam: To stalk someone?
Obsidian: Very funny. I don’t need to do that. I can— I did—
Moonbeam: What?
Obsidian: Nothing. What are you working on? Moonbeam: The seascape. I think that I’ve overcome the problem I had with perspective. And I like that it’s set in winter since the clouds are heavy with rain, but drifting fast. It’s really wonderful to try to capture that. You know, there were many great landscape artists in the last century who just painted clouds, changing weather patterns. I imagine that sometimes. Everything just stopping long enough so you can paint clouds every day. It was another world.
Obsidian: You were frustrated.
Moonbeam: You told me to go jerk off and then look at it again. :amused: Obsidian: It worked, didn’t it?
Moonbeam: Sex is not the answer to everything. Obsidian: Says someone not getting what they need. Moonbeam: About that...!
Obsidian: Yeah, yeah. Your boyfriend is a saint. I take back all the true things you can’t handle. Moonbeam: ...
Obsidian: Don’t be pissy.
Moonbeam: I did mention “infuriating,” right? Obsidian: I make your heart rate pick up. Admit it.
Moonbeam: Obsidian, I’m poking back. Tell me one true thing about you from the past few days that you would normally not share.
Obsidian: That’s unwise.
Moonbeam: Be unwise.
Obsidian: I hired a hustler who looks like you.
Moonbeam: You what!
Obsidian: You asked.
Moonbeam: I have a boyfriend!
Obsidian: So tell me when you jerked off for your “art,” you didn’t imagine my hand on you, gripping your cock, my voice in your ear, urging you on. Come for me, boy, so fucking beautiful, shoot all over my hand!
Moonbeam: No! Obsidian: Little liar. We are engaged in real flirtation, Moonbeam. What do you think this is? It’s not fucking Victorian pen pals. I’m closer to you. I touch you; put my hands all over you whenever we meet.
Moonbeam: No, this is just fantasy. It has to be fantasy! Obsidian: Fantasy is a powerful thing. It’s where dreams and goals bud. Moonbeam: I’m signing off!
Obsidian: You’ll be back... Right? Probably.
Moonbeam: Has left the room.
Obsidian: That went well.
Obsidian: Has left the room.
OBSIDIAN pressed his hand against the glass of the Pancake House window, looking in.
Nick was working tonight, serving customers, sharing his smile freely. His hair really was the color of his nickname, Moonbeam. Soft silver shafts in his eyes, dimples, beautiful pale skin that would feel like silk against the back of Obsidians hand. Skin that would bruise so easily.
He shifted back and forth down the aisle between tables, t
alking to customers, sharing his conversation so easily, sharing himself so that Obsidian wished he could lock his Moonbeam away where only he could touch, see, enjoy that smile, that fresh skin, like Hades stealing away Persephone.
He thought of his home, of the vines strangling it, of the quiet so the dull tick of the grandfather clock kept him awake for hours. It was on an endless night like that one, when he could hear nothing but his own heartbeat, when no one wanted to know him, that he had met Moonbeam in a chat room.
Radiance. He wanted him under his roof, locked in a room with a big silver key. Watched by Obsidian alone, only for Obsidians pleasure, so he could spill his desire on him, taste him, his come, maybe steal a droplet of blood. Hed be so careful—
Obsidian watched, hands on the cool glass, on the outside, until a drop of rain spattered his cheek, falling from the awning that circled the storefront. Wiping the wetness from his skin, he was reminded.
He couldnt touch Nick. He couldnt risk hurting him. Aching, he almost turned away.
OBSIDIAN was so focused on Nick, watching him, that he was oblivious to a man sitting on a shaded park bench across the street, watching him. His observer folded his newspaper when Obsidian hesitated, then finally headed into the restaurant.
“Feeling a little lonely, are we?” the stranger whispered, satisfied. This would fit very well with the larger game in play.
“YOUVE been distracted lately.” Miguel reached for the syrup when
Nick placed a plate of waffles in front of him in Charlies Pancake House where he worked part-time. “ Just working on a piece.” Nick shrugged, rubbing his hands on his apron. Oh shit, the things hed exchanged with Obsidian! He knew it wasnt real, but he felt a little guilty. How much of what belonged rightfully to Miguel alone had he given away? Worse, wanted to give away.
Touch me. Nick ground his teeth, reining in his feeling. He was using Obsidian, his virile genie in a bottle. He had to stopper him up again and live his life.
“I thought you finished that,” Miguel continued, seemingly oblivious to Nicks confusion.
Nick blinked. “You knew I was having trouble?” Miguel stroked Nick s arm, making a silent apology for his harsh words previously. “Of course. Arent you just like me? Whenever I cant master something on the cello it puts me in a pissy mood until I get it. Even knowing better, knowing Im tired or played out, I keep going. But not to play, not to create, would be like living death. Youre the same; thats why we belong together.”
