by Jan Irving
“ Yeah.” Nick kissed Miguel, smiling. It would be okay again. They would be okay. They understood each other. Hed push Obsidian aside again. His sexual allure. His… loneliness.
But when he pulled away from Miguel, his gaze collided with the cat-green eyes of a customer. Staring at him. Examining his face, his body.
Slouching in a booth across from Miguel s table, wearing a hat pulled low. Insolent eyes. Eyes that claimed what didnt belong to anyone but Miguel.
Nick s heartbeat picked up and he looked away, flushing. “Hey, Nick?”
“Sorry.” Nick shrugged, self-conscious for some reason. “I promise to give you my full attention tonight!” “ Dont go online,” Miguel urged. “I hear from my friends there are a lot of predators in chat rooms and youre pretty open about yourself. Innocent.”
“Im not exactly Little Red Riding Hood.” Nick gave his boyfriend an indulgent look. “But tonight… I stay safe.”
“Safe.” Miguel stabbed some waffle with his fork. “Interesting choice of words, dont you think?” Feeling eyes on him, Nick glanced again in the direction of the booth and he pulled out his pad, ready to take an order, forcing himself to face that probing gaze again.
But the stranger with the beautiful green eyes was gone.
KAIN MITCHELL lit another cigarette, ignoring the pile in an ashtray by
his laptop. Couldnt sleep. Couldnt block out the memories, the pain, the fear at what hed become. He rubbed his eyes, which were so sensitive now. Closed them and thought about Nick: the blond hair, the cool skin, the quick smile. Soothing. When was Kain going to bring him closer, under his hand?
He stirred, restless. The nights were for staring at the ceiling, seeing to his abominable need, and occasionally getting quick, nasty relief in an alley or crouched in a shadowy room.
The only thing that provided any light, any ease, were his conversations with Moonbeam.
He stared at the flashing cursor in thei—the chat room. Moonbeam hadnt shown for three nights and Kain was restless.
Unstimulated. Needy. He hated that it came down to that. Rubbing his eyes, he glanced at the book of Greek myths he d been rereading. No wonder Hades had dragged Persephone into his dark world, if this was how he felt.
“ Fine, that the way you want it?” Kain muttered, narrowing his eyes. Kain had been sifting through Nicks life. His employment records. His tuition payments. What he threw out in the fucking trash. Kains fingerprints were all over Nicks life, like his hand pressed against the cool glass looking into the Pancake House. Looking into Nicks life.
He picked up his phone and speed dialed Cassandra. “A fine arts student named Nick Anders.” “ Kain? I do have a personal life, you know.” Her normally smooth whiskey voice was burred with annoyance. “Its three-thirty in the goddamned morning! Uh, boss.”
But she had worked for him for years, taking a chance on a new guy who had barely unpacked his desk when he had a flash on how to fix the Problem of the Week in a manufacturing firm. Shed been an assistant to a VP, but shed helped him out and eventually wound up working for him—which had paid off.
“And youre already sleeping? Not very promising. Who is he? Maybe Ive had him before.”
Cassandra sighed and then, as if knowing better than to argue with him, asked,“Who is this student again?” Kain spelled out Nick s first and last name, imagining Cassandra shoving back her sleek blond hair and writing on the notepad she kept by the bed. He knew her habits. Hed even slept at her apartment a few nights after the accident, trusting her to keep him safe until he hired Finn and bought his house.
“And what did the unfortunate Mr. Anders do to piss you off?” “Something,” Kain said, frowning at the blinking cursor. “He works at the Pancake House on campus. Get him fired from his job.” “Kain, have a heart! Hes just some kid.”
“I know what he is.” Kain swallowed. “He interests me, Cass.” She couldn’t doubt him. Not like the others. Not like himself.
“Youre not yourself. Ive been worried about you. Youre barely interested in making the board meetings lately.” “ I doubt Ill ever be„myself again, not after….” He took a deep drag and confessed something hed only share with someone hed known a very long time.“Cass, he touches me.” And no one had. Not in months. Not since the fire.
“ Oh, shit. I hate it when you use that husky voice,” Cass murmured and Kain knew that if hed been another kind of man, shed have allowed herself to love him, maybe. But she was smart enough to remain a good friend.
He smiled now, sensing victory. Nick. I won’t give you a choice. “ We fund interns at the university sometimes so hire him to work in the library at Telemachus House. That way he wont really be out of work.”
“Oh, sure, youre doing him a favor,” she agreed wryly. “Are you sure he can find the library? Your house is a fucking scary ruin.” NICK paced, arms crossed, chewing on the end of a paintbrush. He had a pan with some almond oil simmering in the kitchen and the scent relaxed him even as it stimulated his senses. To paint, he needed two things: to be alert and to feel.
If his work lacked passion, then it was flat canvas coated with blobs of oil paint, but if he could nail it, channel it, bring it up and make it live, then he made something that moved people.
And at this point, it helped a little to pay the rent, as well as give him the grades he needed for his degree.
Finding a touchstone of passion lately wasnt a problem; hed filled canvas after canvas. His time offline had been fruitful.
Obsidian…. The name teased him and he frowned. He scrubbed his jaw, thinking that even when he chose to avoid his connection to his mystery man, Obsidian lit him up. His imagination… his fantasies.
And more than that, he could sense how lonely Obsidian was. As alone as Nick felt? He was reluctant to share the crimsons, the bulbous shapes, and the frankly sexual works with Miguel. They were new growth in Nicks art that his boyfriend hadnt been a part of, by choice.
Now he leaned his head against the window and looked from the dusty attic to the rainy asphalt below. Fall leaves blew in spirals, going nowhere. He saw a figure on the street below, and for a moment it looked like the man was looking up at Nicks window, but then he continued walking and Nick shook off the impression.
He could return to his single bed now, to the room next to Miguels, be a good boy and lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if somewhere Obsidian was doing the same thing. If he was thinking of Nick.
Abruptly he returned to his computer, his heart rate picking up, his hands a little shaky and his throat dry.
He sat there, staring at the blank screen, chewing his lip. Obsidian was the forbidden. Bad for him, he just knew it, but Nick felt so isolated and he felt a match for his loneliness in Obsidian. He turned on his computer. Obsidian: Where the fuck have you been?
Moonbeam: ...
Obsidian: Nick? Don’t you fucking sign off!
Moonbeam: Don’t call me that. You shouldn’t call me that! Here, I’m Moonbeam. I told you this has to be fantasy.
Obsidian: Fine, although one day I will know why you are so insistent. Here in cyberspace, Moonbeam belongs to me.
Moonbeam: ...
Obsidian: Moonbeam?
Moonbeam: You missed me; that’s why you’re so pissy. I… missed you too. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Obsidian: You’re an interesting distraction. If you were in my house right now, this second, do you want to know what I’d do to you?
Moonbeam: No, please.
Obsidian: Liar.
Moonbeam: What would you do? Tell me!
Obsidian: I’d handcuff you to the towel rail in my bathroom. I’ve got this big fucking palace of a spa, kind of seventies retro since it hasn’t been redone, but as large as some living rooms today, as long as you like yellow and orange... I’d kiss a path down your spine and your head would fall back, silver-blond hair gleaming dully like metal in the light from the hallway…. By the time I reached your backbone, just above your full ass, your legs would be
spread. I’d open your cheeks and put my tongue inside you.
Moonbeam: Jesus!
Obsidian: I want to eat your ass.
Moonbeam: Obsidian, stop!
Obsidian: But you’re excited, admit it. I excited you. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you? Moonbeam: You’re angry with me. But I have a life, I have a boyfriend, and this thing with you…. I need to kick you like a bad habit. I keep trying...
Obsidian: This is me doing you.
Moonbeam: Yes, I know it is. I should go.
Obsidian: Don’t.
Moonbeam: This is wrong. I’m a loyal boyfriend. Obsidian: It’s not wrong. I touch you, he doesn’t, and from what you’ve told me, it’s his choice. Do you even share the same bed? I’ve… imagined you together and I’m sure you’re “affectionate” or whatever you want to call it, but he might as well be your best friend.
Moonbeam: Can we talk about something else? Obsidian: Don’t leave.
Moonbeam: I can’t stay long. I have to get my transcripts together. Obsidian: Why?
Moonbeam: I, uh, lost my job.
Obsidian: Does the boyfriend know?
Moonbeam: No, I didn’t tell him, didn’t want to worry him. Turns out I got a call from the dean’s office and they found another gig for me since the waiting job fell through. The Pancake House where I wait tables is on campus. I think this new job probably would suit me better, but—
Obsidian: Pays the same? Moonbeam: Way better! But… I liked the people I worked with, you know? And there was a lot of time to just space out, think about a piece I’m working on. Plus my manager was really good to me and I was helping her organize her collection of gothic novels. She has arthritis, so—
Obsidian: Good news then. Moonbeam: Except I have to commute to some creepy house just outside the city. And I’ll miss Marilyn; she was very accommodating if I was trashed from working late on my paintings. She even lets me hang them in the Pancake House sometimes to try to make a little extra money.
Obsidian: I’m sure you’ll make out all right. She’s just someone you worked for, after all.
Moonbeam: I guess I’ll have to, but she’s a friend and I’ll miss her.
Obsidian: But you’ll have more money.
Moonbeam: That’s not all that matters to me! I liked my little rut of a job, can’t you see that?
Obsidian: Sounds like rut is a good way to characterize it. Maybe doing something unexpected will stimulate you. Moonbeam: How do you mean?
Obsidian: Your muse, of course. You better get your rest if you have a big day tomorrow.
Moonbeam: You’re letting me go so early? And... How did you know I start tomorrow? Obsidian: Apparently, I’m psychic as well as indulgent. You will come back because you can’t stay away and we both know it, don’t we, Moonbeam?
Moonbeam: :sigh: You didn’t answer my question, you evasive bastard. And yes, master, I will return. Obsidian: Good.
Moonbeam: I read your tone as purring.
Obsidian: You artists are so imaginative!
Moonbeam: Uh-huh.
Obsidian: I want you to use that imagination.
Moonbeam: Ummm?
Obsidian: Indulge me.
Moonbeam: Depends.
Obsidian: Close your eyes and imagine my lips against your backbone. My tongue— Moonbeam: God!
Obsidian: Sweet dreams, Nick.
Obsidian: Has left the room.
Moonbeam: :Squirms:
Moonbeam: Has left the room.
NICK climbed out of the Lexus, staring at Telemachus House, the place hed been assigned to work—what he could see of it. Ivy and jasmine draped over the portico, covering the windows with tenacious green tendrils. It looked like the vegetation had the house in a death grip, slowly crushing the life from graceful columns and wedding cake architecture.
He shivered, reaching back in the car for his transcripts, muttering his annoyance over this necessity. He didnt want to work all the way out here, miles from the university. As hed told Obsidian, he liked his little rut of a job because his mind could range free while he was on autopilot, and now—
Something told him he would be marked by being in this house. Gripped like the pallid timbers and Corinthian facade.
A heartbeat after he closed the passenger door, pebbles struck his shoes. The Lexus pulling away!
“Hey, what the fuck? How do I get home!” Nick yelled, slamming a hand against the retreating trunk of the car. But the driver only continued down the road at a serene pace, ignoring Nick.
“Dandy!” Nick put his hands on his hips and stood there, a little shaken. He chewed his lip, but then turned reluctantly to face the house. The light hitting the windows at an oblique angle made them shine like secretive eyes, watching him.
Nick shook his head at his own imagination and took a deep breath, again wishing he was back at Charlies Pancake House. His rut of a job. His rut of a life.
But he was here now and he had to stay and meet with the mysterious Mr. Mitchell, his new boss. He needed this job. Without it, he couldnt afford his share of the rent or to keep taking classes. This was life or death for him.
He trudged over sodden piles of damp leaves to the double front door which sported curled white paint, like the scales of some abandoned creature. There wasnt a bell that he could find at first glance, only a quaint door knocker in the shape of a ladys closed fist.
Heart thudding in his ears, Nick reached for it, feeling a bit like Jane Eyre as he struck the door and the sound echoed ominously.
“MMMMMM, very Jane Eyre,” Nick muttered to himself, surrounded by
the scattered chocolate truffles he d been feasting on while lying on his luxurious silk-draped bed. “So I guess all I need is a white nightgown, according to Marilyn.”
He typed in his password —a rolling stone crushes toes—before logging into the chat room. “Come on, Obsidian,” he whispered, desperately needing to connect. “I need to talk about him. My mystery boss.”
Moonbeam: So what do you think?
Obsidian: I think it sounds like the plot from Northanger Abbey. So your new employer is an eccentric? Moonbeam: Very!
Obsidian: What did you think of him?
Moonbeam: :sigh: I didn’t actually get a good look at him, for one thing.
THE explosive sound of the bolt giving sounded overly loud to Nick. He squeaked, covered his mouth, looking around to see if anyone had seen his embarrassing moment of fright. Shit! Obviously the atmosphere of the house and overgrown garden was working him.
You artists are so imaginative; he could hear Obsidian mocking him.
Yeah, yeah, he snarked back.
Cheeks flushed, pulse thudding in his throat, he paused, waiting to see who had opened the door.
And waited. Frowning, he rubbed a hand through his hair, thinking of all the work he had to do for class. Somehow he also had to meet with his new employer and then find his way back into town. Plus, it was cold out here, the damp chill of fall cutting through his thin jacket.
Finally, when no one appeared, he twisted the knob and entered a dimly lit hallway.
“Hello?” Who had unlocked the door? Nick felt a chilly feather stroke down his spine. “ Second floor, Mr. Anders. Third door on your left,” a soft, disembodied voice ordered crisply. “And Im glad to see you brought your portfolio; although you will be working primarily with my book collection, I want to see your work.”
“ Um, yeah, all prepared. Hello?” Nick looked around until he spotted the intercom and surveillance camera. He let out a slightly shaky sigh. Okay, so Mr. Mitchell wasnt some kind of psychic, even if his house gave off the vibe of being possessed.
Despite what hed heard when hed dropped by the mans workplace, the whispers and uneasy speculation brought on by Mr. Mitchell very seldom being seen by his staff, he was obviously merely an eccentric.
“Happy soon-to-be Halloween, Nick,” Nick chided himself before heading toward the stairs. Soft music was playing as he climbed worn wooden stai
rs past bare walls dressed in yellowed William Morris wallpaper, the hall lit by a sconce with a flickering bulb. He could make out the brighter rectangles where artwork had hung. The water-splotched ceiling above had a few tendrils of ivy poking through the roof.
The house smelled damp, like a giant sleeping creature that lived deep under the earth. A cool finger of a draft poked through Nicks clothes and brushed the back of his neck.
“Nice,” Nick muttered, shaking his head. His boss had to be an eccentric for wanting to live here!
He shivered in his thin coat, catching the rising crescendo of violins and cellos. The music was classical, somber in tone. The third door on the left opened into a library, walled with black walnut bookcases with Doric molding. Nick frowned on seeing them since the cases were only a quarter full. If there were so few books, why had he been hired to work here?
The room was lit by a single candle on a massive mahogany desk. Nick hesitated, heart pounding. “ Mr. Mitchell?” he breathed, strangely loath to break the mood of the music. He felt like an interloper here, as if the man and his house were both waking up, watching him.
Movement caught Nick s attention, a hand replacing a golden snifter of alcohol on a wooden table. Someone was seated in a leather club chair, facing a fire reduced to yellow and orange embers, his back to Nick.
“Sit down on the chair in front of the desk,” he was ordered. “ Uh.” Nick scratched his eyebrow. He wouldnt be able to see his future employer if he did that. He shrugged. Whatever. He wasnt sure he wanted the job even though he needed it.
“ Did you bring the requested transcripts as well as your portfolio?” “Yes.”
“Leave them on the desk.”
“Hopefully you can read them without straining your eyes,” Nick cracked, referring to the candlelight.
