Chapter 7
On Tuesdays, Nolan always took himself out to his favorite vegan restaurant for lunch. He laid claim to his usual table by the windows, open to let in the mild sunny weather, and craned his neck to check out the chalked list of specials. The three-bean casserole sounded good.
He'd eaten all of two bites when a Liam-shaped shadow fell across his table.
Nolan scowled at him. "You're early."
Liam made himself at home as if he were utterly blind to Nolan's death glare. "Tragic news, darling. I've had to cancel my appointment. Business calls. But I did want to deliver this first." He held out a parcel wrapped in plain brown paper.
"If it's some kind of porn, I'm not interested.
"Darling, you wound me. Now take the package, there's a good Nolan."
Nolan made no move to accept it, concentrating resolutely on his plate.
"In polite society, people open their gifts," Liam observed.
"But I'm not in polite society," Nolan pointed out. "I'm with you."
Liam smiled, completely unruffled. "Allow me then, darling." He undid the paper, taking it apart neatly at the taped seams rather than ripping into it, which was not what Nolan would have expected.
The gift turned out to be a book. Nolan was ready to restate his refusal to accept porn when he caught a glance of blue leather and gold engraving and the title, Leaves of Grass. He had no memory of snatching it away from Liam, lost in a daze of book lust. Just suddenly it was in his hands, which were shaking as he opened the cover and found the publication date. 1855. An honest-to-God first edition. It even smelled like history.
"I'll read you a little something, yeah?" Liam offered.
"No—"
But Liam had already taken the book and was flipping pages. "Ah yes, this bit." He began to read in a low, sonorous voice that did absolutely nothing to Nolan. Nothing! "Spontaneous me, Nature, the loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, the arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder, the hillside whitened with blossoms of the mountain ash—"
Nolan hissed at him, "You're causing a scene!" In no way did he secretly mean: If you keep doing that, I'm going to have to jump you.
"Am I?" The amused quirk of Liam's lips suggested that he understood precisely what Nolan had meant.
"I can't accept it," Nolan declared, even though it hurt him to say it. "There's never going to be anything personal between us."
"Be that as it may, it would still please me if you'd keep the book."
"I really—"
Liam set the volume on the table and rose to his feet. He leaned down to Nolan. For a moment Nolan really thought Liam was going to kiss him. He made no move to deflect it—but only because he didn't want to make a scene. Liam smiled amusedly as he leaned in to whisper into Nolan's ear, "Consider it a token of what might have been."
He did kiss Nolan then, chastely on the cheek, and left. Nolan eyed the book as he finished his casserole, and, really, what else was there to do but keep it? Against my will, he insisted to himself, as he carefully picked up the book and clutched it possessively the whole way back to the Eastman Spa.
Chapter 8
At massage school, Nolan had learned the key to managing a difficult client: state your boundaries firmly and clearly and make sure you enforce them. Apparently, this approach worked even on someone as incorrigible as Liam. After Nolan declared that there would be nothing personal between them, the gifts stopped. Liam was cordial and well-behaved and as appreciative of Nolan's massage skills as ever, but the word "darling" never once dropped from his lips.
Naturally, Nolan's bad mood had absolutely nothing to do with any of that. It was simply that he worked with the most disorganized, unprofessional people in the history of the spa industry. This was enough to send anyone around the bend.
"God fucking damn it!" he yelled when he went to the linen closet for clean towels only to find it empty yet again. "Am I the only one around here who knows how to run the fucking washing machine?"
Leo stopped to smirk. "Bad day?"
"Fuck off."
"He's a fickle bastard, isn't he? Pretty soon he won't even want you as his massage therapist. I should know."
"Shut up! Or I will dangle you out of the window by your greasy hair."
"Marco!" Leo went scampering off to tattle.
Nolan did the laundry, stamped off to massage room two for his next appointment, and stopped by the break room to grab coffee afterward. The pot sat on the burner, empty and charred and stinking up the place because whoever had finished the last cup couldn't be assed to turn it off.
"What the fuck is wrong with people?" Nolan dumped the pot into the sink. He had no intention of cleaning it, so he guessed he'd have to settle for tea.
Marco would spring for only the cheapest tea bags, the penny-pinching bastard, and Nolan had given up on bringing in his own. His grubby-handed colleagues just made off with it no matter how many labels he taped to the box declaring, "Nolan's property!!!" He made a face as he took a sip from his mug. How did this shit manage to be weak and bitter at the same time? Nolan resigned himself to the need for sugar and lifted the lid on the sugar bowl only to find it empty.
"Just fucking great."
He ransacked the cabinets. While they had every brand of artificial sweetener known to man, there was not a bit of honest-to-God sugar to be found anywhere.
"I hate everyone in the world," he declared to the empty air.
Anna had come in without his noticing. "You're cheerful today."
"Don't start with me."
"This foul mood of yours doesn't have anything to do with the sudden absence of love tokens, does it?"
"Fuck off."
Anna snorted. "Oh, yeah. You don't like him at all."
Chapter 9
Fortunately for everyone involved, Nolan had a rare, precious Saturday off that weekend; he hoped to return to work less homicidal than he'd left it.
He woke up that morning to a sky that was a deep, brilliant blue and utterly cloudless. The air was warm and clear in a way that seldom happened in New York. A park day. He packed a lunch, and brought along a blanket and Robert Frost, and got to Central Park early enough to snag his favorite spot in the grass near the pond. He stretched out on his blanket and opened his book and lazed in the sun. He planned to do nothing more strenuous than blinking for the rest of the afternoon.
The park soon grew crowded, pasty Manhattanites lured outside by the picture-perfect weather descending in droves. Nolan liked his spot specifically because it was out of the way of foot traffic. When a passerby strayed close enough to blot out his sun, he scowled at the page he was reading and waited for them to move on. When the shadow stubbornly refused to budge, he looked up.
And found Liam grinning down at him.
"How did you—" Nolan glared. "You can be fucking creepy, you know that?"
Liam plunked down onto the patch of grass next to Nolan. "I prefer to think of it as single-mindedly devoted."
"We talked about this."
"Mm." Liam sounded as unconcerned as a human being possibly could. He flipped open the sketchpad he'd brought along and bent his head and became absorbed in his work. The only sound coming from him was the soft scratch-scratch of his pencil over the page.
Nolan went back to reading, determined to ignore him. Now and then, though, he'd feel a prickle along his skin and look up to find Liam watching him, his glance flicking from the page to Nolan and back again.
"What? You're drawing me?"
"Can't resist the scenery, darling."
Nolan pushed himself up on his elbow, craning his neck to get a look. Liam shook his head and pulled the sketchpad closer. "Not until it's finished."
"Is this what you do now instead of forgery?" Nolan asked as he settled back down. "Use your skills in unsuccessful attempts at seduction?"
"Ah, so you've had enough curiosity to turn to the Internet, have you?" He grinned slyly. "And whether it's successful or not
remains to be seen."
"You don't deny it then? That you were an art forger?"
"To Interpol, the FBI and Scotland Yard? Yes, I deny it completely and utterly."
Nolan shook his head. "I can't believe you."
Liam shrugged. "Everyone gets up to things when they're young, Nolan."
"Not international crime!"
"It's possible I may have had a more colorful youth than some," Liam admitted. "Now hush. I've got work to do."
It became clear that Liam was just going to draw, not tease or flirt or make a nuisance of himself. Nolan went back to his book. He would never, ever have admitted it to anyone, but it was actually kind of pleasant. Liam's presence felt companionable as Nolan drowsed in the sun, his mind swimming luxuriously through the stanzas of Frost. He didn't even really mind it when Liam snatched half his sandwich and one of his apples, although he made a point of complaining just for form's sake.
"There. That has it, I think," Liam declared at last.
Nolan blinked at him dazedly; it was possible he'd drifted off for a minute or two. Liam levered himself up to his feet. "It's been a pleasure, darling."
Nolan looked up, a crease between his eyes. He hadn't expected Liam would just—but whatever. Nolan didn't care what Liam did.
"Yeah. Whatever," Nolan said out loud to demonstrate this.
The corner of Liam's mouth quirked up, ever so slightly, as if he were trying not to laugh at Nolan. This was perhaps the most maddening thing that had ever happened in Nolan's life. Before he could become really irate about it, Liam bent down and whispered in his ear, "You are lovely in every way."
The drawing found its way into Nolan's hands, and Liam traipsed away across the grass. Nolan imagined the sketch would be either lewd, a slutty version of himself straight out of Liam's fantasies, or else it would be prim, uptight. Does that stick ever come out of your ass? one of Nolan's former boyfriends had once asked. But the drawing was neither of those things. Nolan stared at it agape.
He looked—just like himself, as he'd been that afternoon, calm and content and a little sleepy, with just the slightest hint of a smile. Not that it was what Nolan could call an objective likeness. There was something in the character of the lines, a fondness that said the artist was anything but a disinterested observer.
Three different thoughts flashed through Nolan's head at the same time: Liam is way too talented to have ever wasted his time as a forger and Is that really how he sees me? And Fucking-fuck-fuck, I'm in so much trouble.
Chapter 10
Nolan braced himself for Liam's next visit, repeating the same mantra in his head a good three million times: Don't freak out. He can't read your mind. Which was good, because if Liam could, he'd know that Nolan had laid the drawing next to the Whitman first edition on his desk. He'd know that Nolan had sat there for hours, tinkering with his thesis, or pretending to, and whenever he'd look over at the drawing, a little thrill of pleasure had gone through him.
"Liam," Nolan greeted him coolly when he arrived for his appointment.
"Darling," Liam answered with a smile, not the least put off by Nolan's tone.
Once the massage got underway, Nolan tried to remind himself: Just a collection of muscle and bone and sinew. But God, what a collection it was, and Nolan was only human, whatever Leo and others might have to say to the contrary. Why does Liam have to be so fucking gorgeous Nolan thought bitterly as he moved his hands over biceps so staggeringly beautiful they could have made a grown man weep. A grown man who wasn't Nolan, naturally.
When it came time to turn over, Liam smiled up at Nolan, heavy-lidded and sated and fucking sweet. "As if a phantom caress'd me, I thought I was not alone walking here by the shore," he said, softly, his voice a little rough, the way he'd sound if Nolan woke up beside him.
"You seriously need to stop that." Nolan's jaw clenched so hard the words had to fight their way out.
"But the one I thought was with me as now I walk by the shore, the one I loved that caress'd me—"
Everyone had a weakness. Nolan had just been putting his hands all over Liam's body, and he'd looked at that drawing, at the fondness in it until the image floated behind his eyes, and now Whitman! Something had to give. Something had to happen. Nolan was perhaps more surprised than anyone that this turned out to be him bending down to press a kiss to Liam's chest.
"Nolan." Liam lifted a hand, but stopped himself from touching, as if he thought Nolan might startle. "Please."
If Liam had been demanding, maybe that would have broken the spell, but please? How was Nolan supposed to resist that? He nudged the sheet down past Liam's thighs. He couldn't even bother being embarrassed when he blurted out, "Fuck, you're gorgeous." Bodies were Nolan's profession, after all, and only someone with no aesthetic sensibility at all would have been able to look at Liam, naked and eager and perfect, and not have gone slack-jawed with appreciation.
Nolan trailed his fingers along Liam's side. Liam's chest dipped sharply at the light touch. Suddenly it didn't matter that this was the worst idea ever. Nolan curled his hand, slick with oil, around Liam's cock and started to stroke.
"Darling," Liam breathed out, and then grabbed at Nolan frantically, arm hooking around his waist, drawing him closer.
He buried his face against Nolan's crotch, rubbing his cheek across the front of Nolan's pants.
"Oh, God." Nolan's hand hitched for a moment, and then he started up again, his grip tighter.
"Mm," Liam moaned, and the vibration sent tremors up Nolan's back.
Liam mouthed Nolan's cock through his pants, wet and filthy, intent on sucking Nolan off through the fabric. Nolan hadn't come in his pants since he was fourteen years old, but this was Liam, so anything was possible. Nolan felt too fucking good to care. He jerked Liam's cock harder, enjoying the heat and heft of it as it slipped in his grip.
Liam moaned and bit Nolan's thigh through his pants and pressed the heel of his hand to Nolan's dick. Nolan was too busy coming at first to realize that Liam was coming too, spilling across his own chest and Nolan's fingers.
"Nolan," Liam said blissfully, panting against Nolan's thigh, smiling softly.
For a moment, Nolan smiled back, endorphins swimming around his brain, making him act like an idiot. Then the unpleasant sensation of damp, sticky fabric clinging to skin began to filter in, and words took shape in his head: I just got paid to have sex with a client. He took a giant step back from the table.
"Nolan," Liam said firmly. Clearly, he meant: Don't be like this.
"That can't ever happen again," Nolan insisted shrilly.
Liam pushed himself up onto one elbow. "I'm rather certain it can."
"No. Nolan shook his head determinedly. "That was unprofessional and inappropriate, and I didn't even ask you. It was practically—"
"You know it wasn't." Liam gave him a chiding look.
Nolan took a long breath and let it out. "Never again. Everything between us has to be purely professional. Those are my terms. Or we don't do this anymore. You'll have to find another massage therapist."
Liam gave Nolan a long, assessing look. "Fine," he said at last. "If that's the only way you'll continue to see me."
"Fine." Nolan left him to get dressed and went to the locker room to change his own clothes.
Once Liam had gone, Nolan bundled up the sheets and hurried off to the laundry room to do the wash of shame. Naturally, Leo, who normally found any excuse to get out of laundry duty, turned up while Nolan was dumping more Tide into the machine than was strictly necessary.
Leo cocked his head like a bloodhound. "Why do look so sneaky?"
"Why do you look like a dimwitted weasel?"
"Marco!" Leo went huffing out of the room.
Chapter 12
Discipline. That was what Nolan needed, the cure for a temporary bout of Liam-induced insanity. After work, he headed home and changed clothes and went for a long run. Took a cold shower afterward. Sat down to a pristinely healthy dinner of brown ric
e and steamed vegetables. He didn't pick up the first edition Whitman and cradle it possessively the way he might have done on another evening at home. He didn't glance at the drawing even once, no matter how much he might have liked to.
At the Eastman Spa the next day, Anna did a double take. "God, Nolan, you look—" He scowled, and she put on a smile that was so obviously fake it was an insult to her intelligence and his. "Fine! You look just fine."
He stomped back to the break room and hurled I-dare-you-to-talk-to-me glares at everyone gathered there. It worked, because no one fucked with him for the rest of the day, although occasionally he would stumble onto shifty-eyed groups of his co-workers who'd go silent at the sight of him as if he'd interrupted their intervention planning.
Liam was perfectly self-possessed when he turned up for his next appointment, which was fucking annoying. Nolan clamped on an expression of professional objectivity and gritted his teeth and concentrated on just getting through the hour.
Fifteen minutes in, he felt a prickle of sweat breaking out along his hairline. The scent of warm skin and oil was making him feel dazed. Why did Liam have to smell so fucking good? He dragged his hands along the latissimus dorsi, and imagined tracing the same path with his tongue, until Liam was writhing and breathy and not the least bit self-possessed. Nolan could do that. He really could. The realization made him stutter to a stop.
"Nolan?" Liam said uncertainly, lifting his head.
"Turn over," Nolan ordered.
"What—"
"Turn. Over."
Liam shifted position, eyebrow raised, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. Nolan must have looked as crazy-desperate as he felt, because Liam quickly lost the smirk. His eyes went dark and glittering. "Nolan."
That was it, the final blow to whatever flimsy self-control Nolan had left. He snatched the sheet away and threw it onto the floor. Stared greedily before putting his mouth on Liam's body, on the flat of his belly and the tops of his thighs and the beautiful hollow of his hip.
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