The Artist's Touch

by E. J. Russell

  Anger made it easier to resist.

  He set his jaw, wrestling Luke between the flannel sheets, and pulled the heavy quilts up to his chin.

  Eyes at half-mast, Luke peered up at him. “Why aren’t you in the bed? You should be in the bed.”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa or in the studio.” No. Not in the studio. What if it held another painting? His fist tightened on the quilts. What if it doesn’t?

  “You should be with me,” Luke mumbled.

  Stefan collected Luke’s clothes and folded them, setting them on the cane-bottomed chair next to the window. He was tempted—God, so tempted—to take this one last chance to slide his hands over Luke’s flesh, feel the stroke of his tongue, the thrust of his cock. He swallowed against a mouth gone suddenly dry. Where was that anger when he needed it? “Not anymore. You think I’m a criminal, remember, not to mention a dream-assassin.” He flipped on the solar lamp on the bedside table. “Good ni—”

  Luke’s hand clamped down on Stefan’s wrist, pressing tendon to bone. “You. Should. Be. With. Me.”

  Stefan’s head snapped around. Luke’s voice, no longer Scotch-fuddled, held a menacing note Stefan had never heard before. His teeth were bared in a grimace, eyebrows bunched together, and pupils blown wide.

  “Luke. Let go.”

  “I won’t share. I told you.”

  “Yeah, you did. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Won’t.”

  “No sharing. Got it.” Stefan pried Luke’s fingers off his wrist and stepped back. “Sleep it off now, okay?”

  Luke’s head dropped back on the pillow and his face relaxed, eyes drifting shut. “Won’t.”

  “Whatever. Try to make it to the bathroom if you need to vomit.”

  Stefan fled before desire overcame his sense of self-preservation.

  Luke squinted at Stefan’s retreating back. He’s so beautiful. I’d paint him every day if I could. If he’d let me.

  He nestled into the pillows, but when he turned his head, the room spun. He closed his eyes, but the sensation of movement didn’t stop. It intensified. Changed. He sank into it, because what was the point of fighting?

  Dark. Darker. Darkest.

  The road is rough leading to the house. I slow down. Won’t do to damage the paintings in the back of the car. They’re my future. Our future.

  I chuckle. The joke will be on him, because I finally painted his face, despite all his protestations. Not shining and open and proud as it should be, but when they see, when he stands next to me at the exhibition, everyone will know that it’s him. That he belongs to me.

  After tonight, there’ll be no going back.

  Because tonight is the last night we’ll meet at his family’s house. He told me so. He promised.

  I slow further as I round the bend leading to his house. Something’s wrong. Why are cars lined up two deep in the carriageway? Why are all the windows lit? Who are all these people in evening dress?

  I grip the wheel as the familiar black-and-red rage erupts, consuming me, strengthening me. Is this what he meant by the last time? Because he’s chosen this stultifying ordinary life over me?

  I gun the motor, past the gaping servants on the steps, turned out in their livery, and stop in my usual place in the back. I get out, not bothering to shut the door, and storm inside.

  He’s there, by the staircase, where we’ve stolen so many precious moments. I question. I demand. I accuse. But at a sound from the nearby kitchen, he shushes me, urges me to leave, to meet him under the tree.

  I go. But as I’m leaving, I see the knife on the table and take it. Because I won’t stand for this. I’ll make him understand that he can’t do this. Not to me. Not to us.

  I wait, fuming, staring at the windows, at the glittering crowd moving through the rooms. Even when I’m among them, they’re far from me, but never more so than now. Now, when I know he’s chosen them over me.

  Finally, he comes, hurrying across the wide lawn in his tuxedo, the uniform of the life he was born to and I was not. I thought it didn’t matter. He said it didn’t matter.

  He lied. And I believed him.

  Never again.

  He reaches me. Says, “I don’t have much time.”

  “No,” I say. “You don’t.”

  The knife comes up, almost of its own mind, the way my brushes do. A stroke, a slash, and I paint the canvas of him with red.

  His eyes behind his spectacles grow wide and he stumbles, sinking down against the tree.

  “Why did you make me do this?” I cry. “I warned you. Me or no one, I said, and you agreed.”

  His lips move, but I can’t hear. I should resist. What could he possibly say to justify his betrayal? But . . . but . . . this is the end. The last time I’ll hear his voice. I drop to one knee and lean closer, not touching.

  “I chose y—”

  My chest seizes as the light dies in his beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry. But I told you. I warned you.”

  Then I see it. Beyond his outflung hand, as if he’s pointing it out to me.

  His overcoat. His valise.

  I chose you.

  Oh-god-what-have-I-done?

  Edward!

  After he banked the fire for the night, Stefan paced the threadbare rug, still restless and unsettled by everything from Luke’s sympathy and drunken passes, to his own inconvenient yearning—undeniable despite his residual anger.

  Once upon a time, Luke had been the most important person in Stefan’s life—the person he’d have trusted with his life. But Luke had proven how idiotic Stefan had been to make that leap of faith when he’d disappeared.

  In the past, even just yesterday, he’d have found it so simple to give in to Luke’s blandishments, the implicit promise of closeness. But Stefan had changed. He’d learned to live without Luke. He’d had to.

  And now, Luke was the fricking art police, however he tried to deny it. Sure, he’d promised to reserve judgment, but what did that really mean? Could Stefan trust him enough to take him to the studio? Tonight, for a minute or two before the scotch kicked in, a genuine heat had shone in Luke’s eyes, a heat that Stefan still craved, no matter how stupid that made him. What if whatever awaited them on Stefan’s easel branded him guilty and doused that heat for good? Stefan shuddered. Not worth it.

  Hell, he should never have let him in the door tonight, not after Luke had proved he hadn’t changed by running off again without waiting for an explanation. Not that Stefan had one, but still. He blamed his weakness on too many years of loneliness and the lure of Luke’s cooking.

  Sure. Keep telling yourself that.

  He stalked to the hall closet for spare bedding, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell. Crap. No extra pillow. He’d have to steal one from the bedroom, not that Luke would notice anything less than a freaking mariachi band given his alcohol-induced coma.

  He grabbed a flashlight off the shelf and padded down the short hallway. One of the cabin’s many idiosyncrasies, a trick of its ventilation, concentrated the acrid smell of wood smoke outside the bedroom door and he coughed.

  Then from inside the room, Luke cried out, a wordless protest that sent alarm chasing up Stefan’s spine. He hesitated, but a tortured moan from inside the bedroom goosed him into action.

  He pushed the door. It didn’t move.

  He shoved again, and it shoved back, like the room was full of water, pressing against the door.

  Ah, shit. Not this crap. Not now.

  Stefan braced his feet and forced it, inch by resisting inch. Halfway in, it gave way, and he staggered inside. He dropped his flashlight, and it rolled in an arc across the floor. Between the flashlight’s flattened cone of amber light and the flickering glow of the solar lamp, the room pulsed orange like the heart of a flame.

  Luke lay naked, spread-eagle on the bed amid the shredded remains of his T-shirt and boxers. Standing by the door, Stefan’s breath condensed in a chill deeper than October, but a sheen of sweat shone on Luke’s chest. His
legs thrashed in the tangle of quilt and sheet, his hands gripped the edge of the mattress, and his back bowed as if an implacable force was pulling him toward the ceiling.

  “Luke!” Stefan’s shout was muffled, hidden behind a crackling roar inside his head. His trip across the room was like swimming through syrup, and the closer he got to the bed, the hotter the air. He reached for the iron bedstead to pull himself the last few feet.

  Then snatched his hand away. Shit! The rail felt hot enough to burn, but when he uncurled his palm, it was pale and callused, not reddened and blistered. Frowning, he touched the bed knob with a tentative finger.

  Cold? How—

  Luke moaned again, straining against invisible bonds, and Stefan dismissed hot and cold as irrelevant. He scrambled onto the bed and threw himself across Luke, wrapped his arms tight around the taut body.

  “Luke, it’s me. Wake up.”

  Luke’s eyes flew open, and Stefan almost leaped off the bed. What the fuck? Instead of the familiar hazel, they were obsidian. Foreign. Luke whipped his head back and forth on the pillow, and Stefan grabbed his jaw, forced him to meet his gaze.

  “Talk to me.”

  Luke jolted as if he’d caught himself at the edge of falling. He drew a sharp breath, released it on a groan, let go of the mattress, and grabbed Stefan. Stefan returned the embrace and felt a momentary disorientation, like gravity had shifted from down to up. Seriously. What. The. Fuck?

  Luke shouted, hoarse and wordless. He clutched Stefan harder, and Stefan pushed his questions aside. Later. I’ll worry about it later. For now, nothing mattered except Luke.

  “Shhh.” Stefan pressed his cheek against Luke’s damp forehead. “It’s over. I’ve got you.”

  Luke went boneless and shivered in air that once again felt like Oregon October and not high noon on the streets of hell. He blinked at Stefan, and his eyes faded from ink to coffee to hazel. Thank God for that. At least something was approaching normal. Stefan cradled Luke’s stubbled jaw in his palm.

  Luke flicked his lower lip with his tongue. “Stef?” The uncertain note in his voice squeezed Stefan’s heart.

  Spooky demon eyes be damned. Atmospheric phenomena be damned. And old, pointless anger be double-freaking-damned. He kissed Luke once, gentle, meant to soothe, to comfort. He drew back and met Luke’s gaze. “You okay?”

  “Am I— Did you just—” Luke touched his lips, fingers trembling.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Kind of an impulse.”

  “Thank God for impulses.” Luke tangled his hands in Stefan’s hair and dragged his head down to a kiss nowhere close to gentle, soothing, or comforting. Luke’s lips demanded, his tongue invaded, and Stefan didn’t surrender so much as join the assault, the last of his caution reduced to ash by the heat of Luke’s mouth.

  Stefan’s nerves thrummed, his body vibrating like a bass string when Luke yanked up his shirt. Luke’s hand, fever-hot against his skin, swept from his waist to the top of his rib cage. No point in pretending Stefan wasn’t eager for this. The evidence was right there, his cock hard and straining in his sweatpants, rubbing against Luke’s thigh.

  There was something . . . something he should remember. Some reason this was a bad idea. But it faded like the dying light of the solar lamp.

  Luke registered several important facts because he was one hell of an investigator, wasn’t he? Stefan’s body was stretched on top of his. Luke was naked—how the hell had that happened? Stefan wasn’t, but his erection was pressed against Luke’s dick, long and hard under the meager cushion of his sweatpants.

  Hell yes. He flipped them so Stefan was under him, but that felt . . . wrong. He rolled back partway, until they were on their sides, face-to-face. Equal.

  He flexed his hips, so their dicks rubbed together, the sensation making him gasp and earning a broken chuckle from Stefan.

  “Oh,” Stefan murmured. “A bump in the night.”

  The tiger’s-eye on its cord escaped from Stefan’s shirt, and Luke clasped it in his fist, pulling Stefan in for another kiss.

  When Stefan’s fingers wrapped around Luke’s naked cock, heat shot through him, from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair. His hips bucked once, twice against the cage of Stefan’s fist, and he came with a shout, shuddering and panting against Stefan’s shoulder as if his orgasm had been building forever, as if he hadn’t come in decades.

  Stefan stroked his chest and arms until his tremors eased, mouth warm against Luke’s throat. God, had Stefan come? The front of his sweatpants was soaked but that could’ve been Luke’s fault. “Next time,” he gasped, “I’ll do better by you. Swear.”

  “Uh-huh.” Stefan still sounded uncertain, like he didn’t believe in next time, but his hands moved on Luke’s back, pulling him close. He chuckled. “Since when can you come over your shoulder? Your back is wetter than your belly.”

  “Ricochet?”

  “Off my sweatpants? I don’t think so. I—”

  Stefan launched himself off the bed, holding one hand away from his body. He grabbed the flashlight off the floor and even in the weak light from the fading bulb, Stefan’s palm glistened red.

  “You’re bleeding.” Stefan rolled him onto his stomach. “Above your right hip. I thought your injury had healed.”

  Luke touched his lower back and hissed at the bright spike of pain. “Shit. That was two years ago, and it was the other hip.”

  Stefan helped Luke off the bed with a steady hand under his elbow and led him to the tiny bathroom. In the flickering light of the oil lantern on the vanity, Luke washed his own chest and belly while Stefan sponged his back. Luke flinched when water hit the wound.

  “Sorry,” Stefan murmured, resting his hand on Luke’s hip to hold him still. Firm but gentle—not desperate and feverish like their lovemaking. Not furtive like the hidden touches in darkened parlors and empty hallways, and the stolen moments under the servants’ stairs.

  What?

  Luke pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until spots of light burst behind his eyelids. He opened them wide, then squinted to try to bring them into focus, but it didn’t work. Between the shadows and the blurriness, his own eyes seemed black in the mirror and Stefan’s appeared brown, not blue.

  Stefan was peering at Luke’s back now, his eyebrows bunched over his nose. “It looks like you got jabbed with something sharp but rough. Not a blade. More like a—”

  “Splintered tree stump,” Luke blurted.

  “You fell? When?” Stefan glanced up and met Luke’s reflected gaze. He blinked and drew a sudden breath. “Christ, Luke. Your eyes.”

  The grip on Luke’s hip tightened but it couldn’t hold him, couldn’t ground him.

  I drive. For hours. Because time means nothing. My work means nothing. My life means nothing. Nothing without him.

  I find a spot next to a river, under a tree that’s the twin of where he— Where I— Oh God.

  I pull the paintings out of the back. Fling them into a pile on the bank. These were for him. For us. Now they’re his funeral pyre.

  I use the solvent from the car. Douse the canvases. Light them with a cigarette and the flames begin to leap, dancing for him. High, higher. All the way to the trees.

  But then a tree catches fire. And the next, and the next, until Edward’s pyre threatens to become my own.

  My car won’t start. I run, try to race the flames, but I can’t. There’s a ravine and I fall.

  God, the pain! My back, my leg. Can’t breathe. Fire rushing toward me, over me, until—

  Luke jerked at the icy splash on his face. His throat ached, and water dripped off his eyelashes and chin, trickling down his chest. No ravine. No fire. No crippling guilt. Only the receding pain and—thank God—Stefan, gazing at him somberly, holding an empty glass.

  “Um . . .” Luke licked a drop of water off his upper lip. “I’m wet.”

  “Sorry.” Stefan set down the glass and cupped Luke’s face, blotting the water off with a towel. Then he took Luke’s elb
ow and led him to the edge of the bathtub. “Here. Put these on.” He helped Luke into a faded pair of sweats and eased a sweatshirt over the bandages on his back. His own clothes were still wet and clammy and smelled of sex. Maybe not the best time for that. “Won’t be a minute.”

  He hurried into the bedroom and changed into something dry and only marginally threadbare. When he returned to the bathroom, Luke was hunched on the closed toilet, his hands dangling between his knees.

  Stefan squatted on the floor in front of him, wrapping his fingers around Luke’s bare ankle. “Luke. It’s okay.”

  “Is it? What just happened, Stef? The details are fading now, but I could swear I was burning up. I could feel the flames, choked on the smoke. Hell, my throat is still raw.”

  “Well, that could be from the screaming.”

  Luke scrunched his face, peeking at Stefan out of one eye. “Screaming?”

  “Afraid so.”

  He buried his head in his hands. “God, I am certifiable.”

  “Hey hey hey.” Stefan stroked Luke’s hair. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

  Luke jerked his head up. “How can you say that? I mean I’ve had bad dreams before, especially after overindulging, but never like that. Never this visceral. Never when I thought I was . . . I was . . .” Luke’s eyes were wide and if this weren’t Luke, Stefan would say he was terrified.

  Stefan cradled Luke’s face in his hands. “You were what, love?”

  “Dying,” Luke whispered.

  Stefan’s gut clenched for an instant, then the damned writhing began, low and nauseating. No. Not Luke. I won’t let it happen.

  “Come here.” He stood, holding out his arms, and Luke came into them, so they were chest to chest, hip to hip, Stefan’s cheek pressed against Luke’s damp hair, Luke’s collarbone nestled beneath his. Interlocked. No—whole. Whole in the way they’d been before. Whole in the way Stefan hadn’t been since the day Luke walked out.