Room for Rent

by Nicole Stewart

  Mason averted his gaze. “What kind of women do you like?” he asked to break the tension.

  Caleb shrugged. “I’ve had all kinds. All it takes is a ‘Let me draw you,’ and the panties come off.” He chuckled. Mason smiled.

  “If I had a chance, I’d travel and write and make love to different women in every country,” he boasted.

  “In my experience, one set of tits is about the same as the next,” Caleb said with a laugh. “You want to know what I’d do? I’d find a muse who could make me think about them on and off the page, someone I could paint from memory. Half the time, I forget their names. But, then again, I’ve always been on my own. The thought of a serious relationship doesn’t really appeal.”

  Mason canted his head. “You don’t have family?”

  “I was in the foster system and eventually ended up in a group home. One day I left, and I never looked back.” Caleb dropped a hand on his knee. “No, don’t look at me like that. Don’t pity me. I’ve done well for myself.”

  Mason collected Caleb’s hand and lifted it, forearm to forearm. “Then, we’ll be brothers,” he murmured. “I will call you hyung for older brother.” Mason smiled at Caleb’s tanned, hairy fingers against his pale, slender ones. Caleb tried out the foreign word and butchered it. Mason snickered and shook his head. “It’s okay. Since I am younger than you, you would call me something different.”

  Grinning, Caleb stared at him, and Mason bit his lower lip. “How do you say… ‘I would like to spend more time with you’?” Caleb asked quietly.

  Mason hesitated, lost in the dense green forests of his eyes. He licked his lips and spoke the words in musical, fluid Korean, and Caleb’s stare intensified. Suddenly, Caleb pulled his hand free and turned down the heater. He shifted in the driver’s seat and tugged his pants, and Mason wondered if his fidgeting was because he realized how flirtatious the statement was that he had asked him to translate.

  Mason nervously looked out the window at the rain letting up. “I should probably get to the bus station while it’s clear.” Caleb laid a hand to his elbow to stop him before he opened the passenger door.

  “I can’t possibly say it the way you did, but I really would like to spend more time with you. Please don’t run off.”

  Mason dropped his eyes as the words sank in. Caleb wanted to spend more time with him. Unfortunately, that was not possible. Mason was already sneaking around to see him. “My parents would prefer I leave you to your space.”

  “Your parents aren’t here.” Caleb’s grip tightened.

  The temptation to stay in the warm, comfortable vehicle in the company of the man who made him laugh and allowed him to say whatever came to mind was almost too strong to resist. However, Mason forced himself to open the door. As he moved, the erotica book slid to the floor, exposing his obvious erection. He quickly climbed out of the car and put a hand in front of himself, clasping his wrist with the other.

  “Try to understand,” he said. “They have control over my future. Without my father at the helm, I’d fly off on a daydream about being a writer and end up destitute. I have no head for logic and reason.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh and wondered if Caleb had seen the evidence of his arousal. Mason was thankful for the cold rain cooling his flame.

  Caleb got out of the Jeep, and strolled around to the sidewalk. He put his hands on Mason’s shoulders, fingertips brushing the back of his neck. “I want to help. Bring me your manuscript, and I’ll tell you what I think about it.” Mason groaned inwardly as Caleb clasped him by the back of his neck and put their foreheads together. “I don’t want to upset your parents, but I don’t think it’s fair that they control you either.”

  Mason worried the wrong move would expose him. Caleb’s proximity made it impossible to ignore the butterflies taking flight inside of him. “I’ll find a way to bring it to you,” Mason murmured, looking away.

  “That’s the spirit! Rebel a little.” Caleb jerked him into a hug. Mason’s eyes flew wide, and he quickly pushed away, and Caleb stuck his hands in his pockets with an apologetic smile. “Just don’t get into any trouble. See you, brother.”

  Mason nodded. “Ye. See you later, hyung.”

  He hurried to the bus stop as Caleb got back into his Jeep. Caleb did not leave until the bus arrived and Mason was safely on board. Mason watched through the window as Caleb pulled away from the library and took off for home. By his calculation, Caleb would arrive well before he did, raising no suspicions with his parents. Mason breathed a sigh of relief and settled into the seat.

  His heart still raced from the unexpected hug. Caleb’s words reverberated: Rebel a little. Mason decided he would go to next week’s watercolor class. He closed his eyes and drew details from a picture of Venice that Caleb had pointed out when they were in the library. As the bus bounced and jostled along its route, Mason fantasized about going to a place like that. He pictured the sunset on the Baltic Sea, and he made a fist, remembering Caleb’s hand in his.

  Chapter 4

  Caleb settled the last page on top of the stack and laced his fingers together as he stared at Mason’s manuscript. He had indulged him. He had read the book with no expectations of greatness, and with a plan to tell Mason to keep writing as a hobby.

  “He’s good, Gregoire,” Caleb spoke into his phone.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be working on your art?”

  “He’s charmingly idealistic—he typed the entire thing on a typewriter, for God’s sake—but his talent is undeniable. He tells me he has multiple stories he has been shopping around, but I know his work is being tossed into slush piles and forgotten. You know the right connections, Gregoire. Help me out.”

  “I’m trying to read between the lines here. Are you telling me you’ve found a muse?”

  “There’s no hidden meaning,” Caleb laughed. “The kid is talented and deserves a break. This has nothing to do with me.”

  “Alright, send me a sample of his writing,” Gregoire sighed.

  “Thank you, Gregoire. I’ll make this up to you.”

  “You had better. You’re running out of time, by the way. I recently picked up a new artist, and he’s already giving you a run for your money. Look up Vido Charles when you get the chance.”

  “Like I need the distraction,” Caleb mumbled.

  “Sounds like you’re already distracted. Get back to work.”

  Caleb ended the call and lost the heady excitement reading the manuscript had given him. He peered across the room at the unfinished seascape on the easel by his bed. Gregoire had a point. What his agent did not know was part of the distraction was simply keeping money coming. The Wednesday night watercolor classes would have to pick up soon, or Caleb would have to dip into his savings account. He had other things he needed to do with that money. He had to get out of this mess some other way.

  Sighing, Caleb grabbed his toolbox of art supplies and snatched a blank canvas from a stack against the wall. He shoved his smaller easel and canvas in his portfolio case and hurried downstairs. He ran into Mr. Sinclair on his way out the backdoor. “Ah! Just the person I wanted to see,” he stopped him, smiling.

  Mr. Sinclair pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his severe nose and found a smile. “Mr. O’Hara, what can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about your son’s writing. Have you read his work? He’s singular in his ability, and I have a friend in New York who can—”

  Mr. Sinclair held up a hand in protest. “I apologize for my son’s intrusive behavior. I’ve discouraged him from bothering you, as I understand you live a private life. Please, if he comes to you again, let me know.”

  “No, but it’s not a problem. I wanted to talk to you about his writing—”

  “My son is an impressionable young man, Mr. O’Hara. He doesn’t need you or anyone else filling his head with more stardust. I trust you’ll respect my wishes and please, stay away from him from now on.”

  Caleb stood with his mouth open as Mr. Sinclair cont
inued on his way. He exited out the backdoor, bristling at being spoken to like a subordinate.

  He knew the importance of keeping a level head, and he understood why the Sinclairs wanted their son to focus on a more profitable career. Caleb, however, was equally certain that Mason had a clear shot at success if he pursued his writing. He knew talent when he saw it.

  He followed the trail to his favorite painting spot. The path meandered through a copse of trees and led to a grassy knoll above the ocean. Setting up his easel, Caleb turned his attention to the rolling waves kissing the shore. The wind ruffled his hair and the brittle stalks of brown-green grass, but it was warm for an autumn day. Caleb worked for hours as his thoughts tumbled one over another, always circling back to Mason Sinclair.

  He wondered why he cared so much. “I want him to live up to his potential,” he muttered to himself. Caleb had taken a chance on his art when he was a young man, parentless and untethered. He would never have known what he could do had he not been forced to take care of himself.

  Mason had lived a more privileged life, but if his parents continued to hold him back, he would never learn to soar. He seemed to realize it, too. Mason’s unhappiness was palpable and that was why Caleb cared. The kid had called him brother, taking on Caleb’s problems as his own. It had been a touching moment.

  It seemed only right for Caleb to call Gregoire and give Mason a reason to smile the next time he spoke with him. The problem was though, he could not do that. He was not permitted to talk to Mason Sinclair. Caleb sighed and stared at the ocean.

  Mr. Sinclair’s order to stay away from his son only made Caleb want to be around him all the more. Besides, this should not have been an issue, as they were two consenting adults after all. Caleb threw down his paintbrush and stretched. “You’re getting into dangerous territory,” he told himself. He wondered if Mason realized the sparks flying between them were much more than brotherly love. He was troubled by this.

  What did it mean that he was attracted to a beautiful man with thick black hair and a smile that could ignite Jupiter? It made him feel out of touch with his own reality. The real Caleb O’Hara was no quiet schoolteacher painting tranquil scenes by the ocean and going to bed alone every night. His reality was loud, raw, and filled with available women.

  Caleb collected his things and trekked back to the house, inwardly lamenting some of the things he had had to give up now that he was broke. This was not New York. Mason Sinclair was not one of the interchangeable play things to be bedded and discarded as the mood struck. Caleb intended to stop by his room to tell him that his writing was worth pursuing, but after that he would leave well enough alone.

  Mason lay on his bed, crooked an arm behind his head and smiled. An angst-ridden singer wailed about his umpteenth overdose through his headphones. He groaned and laughed at himself. Had that really been him in the car with Caleb, boldly alluding to women he had been with, staring at the pages of an erotic publication? He could hardly believe it.

  Mason had briefly imagined himself the sexy writer girls dreamed about instead of the dull financial analyst. With Caleb, he could be spontaneous and daring. Better still, the sophisticated artist wanted to hang out with him again. Never mind that it was against the rules, Mason decided to find a way to see him.

  Riesling’s question echoed in his head. Did Caleb make him want to do dangerous things? Mason’s smile faded. “There’s nothing dangerous about it,” he whispered. Riesling wouldn’t understand the need for freedom of expression. With her, it was all about decorum, wearing the right mask on the right stage. He did not have to put on an act with Caleb.

  The door of his bedroom swung open, and Mason sat up and tugged the earbuds from his ears. His father stood in the doorway with arms crossed and an expression full of outrage. Mason turned off the music on his phone and looked at him with trepidation, waiting for the hammer to drop. The only time Desmond Sinclair came to his bedroom was to lecture him.

  “I sent off the resume to Mr. Peters,” Mason replied preemptively.

  Mr. Sinclair closed the door behind him, and he took a seat at Mason’s writing desk. His hands clasped before him, as if he needed heavenly strength to keep himself from detonating. Mason saw the tell-tale twitch of the muscle at the corner of his father’s eye. What had he done now? There was no way his parents could have found out about…

  “Have you been spending time with Mr. O’Hara?”

  Mason met his father’s gaze and lied through his teeth. “No.”

  “Why is he telling me about your writing? Have you been harassing him to send your work to someone in New York?” Mr. Sinclair’s decibel level rose with each word.

  “Of course not,” Mason scoffed.

  “I’ve done everything in my power to provide you and your brother with a good life, including going nearly bankrupt to make sure you attended the best schools. At first this little hobby of yours was charming.” Mr. Sinclair gestured dismissively at his typewriter. “But in comes this counterculture bohemian who dresses like a bum and doesn’t seem to know what an honest days’ work looks like, and it dawns on me: that’s your future if I let you continue on your current track.”

  “Dad, I finished my courses and gained a Masters on a fast-track. I am sending off resumes. I have done everything you asked me to do.” Mason swallowed thickly as the rancor rose within him. His glossy eyes flew to his father’s hard face. “What more do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to grow up!” Mr. Sinclair swept the typewriter from the desk, sending it to the floor with a deafening crash.

  “Argh!” Mason’s heart froze, and his eyes widened in horror.

  His father stared at the typewriter with the same mix of shock and alarm on his face. However, the look quickly passed, and he continued to target the device as the root of all his problems. He ruthlessly kicked it aside, and Mason felt the blow to the bottom of his soul. A single tear spilled, but he dropped his head to hide his pain.

  “Now,” Mr. Sinclair smoothed his hair, adjusted his glasses and exhaled calmly. “If my sacrifice for your future means anything to you, you’ll use your head. It could take decades to make a name for yourself as a writer. In a year’s time, you could be rising in ranks at a prosperous firm as an analyst. You’re old enough to understand which is the better choice, surely.

  “And if I catch you going up to the attic, so help me, I will put him out of this house. I’ve worked too hard on building you up to let one person ruin you.”

  The door closed and Mason slid to the floor beside his battered typewriter. A ribbon spool spun away, and the roller hung haphazardly, broken on one side. Type-bars were crooked from the force of the fall. It could be repaired, but it would take money. Mason cradled it in his arms as a sense of anguish overwhelmed him.

  When he looked up, Caleb was standing in the hallway with a black portfolio case over his shoulder and a toolbox in his hand. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

  Mason sniffed and rose to his feet, putting the broken typewriter back on the desk where it belonged. He crossed the room to close the door, but he paused on the threshold and looked Caleb in the eyes. “You thought you were helping, but I explained this to you. Please don’t help me anymore.” Mason slammed the door shut on Caleb.

  Mason would not see Caleb again. He would adhere to his parents’ wishes. Anything less led to heartache. He could not bring himself to look at the broken typewriter again. He heard a soft thud against his door, and he glanced over his shoulder. He waited for Caleb’s footsteps to recede down the hall before he opened the door again. Caleb had left behind a painting of the ocean.

  Mason took it into his bedroom and stared at the mesmerizing use of color. Strokes of cerulean, aquamarine, hints of scarlet and umber dominated. He sighed, wishing Caleb had also painted a boat for him to sail away on.

  Caleb’s thick eyebrows clashed as he marched through the vintage thrift shop. Mason’s devastation chased him from aisle to aisle. He passed racks of mothball
scented clothes and furniture from bygone eras. With dogged persistence, he hunted for a replacement typewriter. How could that tyrant Sinclair destroy something his son held so dear?

  Caleb struggled not to judge, given how little he knew of what had occurred before he came into the house, but the thought of Mason’s father intentionally breaking the typewriter pierced him to the core. His eyes widened when he spotted a pale green Remington sitting on a secondhand desk, and surrounded by dusty books. He made a beeline for it.

  He clutched the warranty and receipt in one hand as he pushed open the shop door. He wished he had Mason’s number to call him and arrange for him to get it without his parents finding out. On second thoughts, Caleb did not care if it pissed off the Sinclairs when they saw it. They deserved to be shaken up.

  The Jeep roared to life, and he made his way back to the cozy two-story house. His previous good mood deserted him when he spotted Riesling’s car in the driveway. Caleb parked in his usual spot under a tall tree in the backyard. He squinted at the cliff’s edge where Mason stood in the twilight with the waifish blonde who always wore ultra-feminine dresses and red lipstick. Caleb rolled his eyes and climbed out of the Jeep.

  It did not help that Mr. Sinclair was the first person he encountered. The man was standing in the hallway with a newspaper in hand, and Caleb glared in his direction. He could not casually stroll past him to put the box by Mason’s bedroom door. This had to be addressed now. “Mr. Sinclair,” he cleared his throat. “May I have a word with you, please?”

  Desmond Sinclair nibbled on an arm of his glasses and looked him up and down. “Yes?”

  “Sir, I know you might find me completely out of line but I must say this. When I told you that Mason needed an agent for his brilliant writing, I had no idea you would use that as an excuse to destroy something you know was very precious to him.”