She shook her head, as he knew she would. Mason fell back on the bed with a sigh as she snuggled in the crook of his arm. “The spark is the most important thing, in between nothing and fire. No spark equals no fire. It’s all pretty simple really.”
Her fingers drifted aimlessly back and forth on his chest. He grabbed her hand and sighed into her hair, hugging her tighter. “Don’t give up your day job and become a philosopher whatever you do.” They both laughed.
Mason heard footsteps in the hall and looked toward his open door. Caleb suddenly appeared. “You know what? You were right. I’m sor—” Caleb’s gaze rushed over them, and he frowned. Mason slowly sat up, and Riesling guiltily sprang from his arms. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked from Caleb to Mason.
“I’ll let you two talk,” she whispered, climbing off of the bed.
“No, no…” Caleb waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I interrupted.” The artist exited as quickly as he had arrived.
Mason stared at the door and Riesling laid a hand on his shoulder. “Um, I’m not trying to pry, but I think you might be a little off the mark this time, Mason. Caleb just marched away from here in a jealous rage. Nobody ever gets jealous over someone they care nothing about. Trust me, I know.”
Caleb stopped short at the sight of Mr. Sinclair standing at his easel. The man nodded, obviously impressed by what he was looking at. “I see why you’re so famous.”
“Not anymore,” Caleb sighed in annoyance. He felt violated, but he had left the door open during the ill-timed trip to Mason’s room. Caleb had known Riesling was in the house, but he had not expected to find them so entangled. He rubbed his eyes to clear the image. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I’m here with a proposition for you. Close the door.”
Caleb did as requested. Turning with arms crossed, he lifted a brow expectantly. Mr. Sinclair gestured at his apartment. “Excellent sound system. Is that Vivaldi playing?”
“Corelli.”
“Yes, well, it’s clear you’re a man who’s used to the finer things in life.”
“Quite the contrary. I know poverty well.”
“Then, you should understand better than most why it’s vital I get my son back on the right track. I want you to retract your offer to fund half his gap year. There is a promising job opening at my company, and I’d like to get Mason to consider submitting a resume. He won’t listen to me, but you can talk to him and make him understand the value of this opportunity.”
“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?” Caleb asked.
Mr. Sinclair stepped closer. There was something intimidating about his slow, deliberate stroll. “Because you’re the cool artist from New York City. Look, I may have overestimated his attraction to you but I know that he looks up to you. This entry-level position will start him at eighty-thousand a year with benefits and stability that hitchhiking from continent to continent can’t possibly compete with.”
Caleb studied his nails, noting that there was paint under them as usual. “Mr. Sinclair, I have a contract with your son. I’ve promised him a substantial amount of money.”
“We both know he won’t litigate. In fact, my offer includes paying you for the remaining four months you’ll lose with him as a model.” Mr. Sinclair pulled a checkbook from his back pocket. “How much?”
“Why are you making this so hard on him? Haven’t you ever had a dream, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I did. I dreamed of having my own store and selling nineteen twenties sheet music and antique instruments. Do you know where I’d be if I had gone through with that plan? I certainly wouldn’t be high up in of one of the world’s leading companies.
“Mr. O’Hara, All it would take is one successful story to convince him to keep pursuing writing as opposed to doing the sensible thing. He’ll be doing something he loves, something that challenges and stimulates him. He has the potential to make just as much, if not more, working with a good agent. Dare I say, he might even make it in half the time, if he’s given a decent advance or produces a best-seller.”
“Which happens how often, Mr. O’Hara? Let’s take a step back for a moment and gain some perspective. Why are you here?”
Caleb wondered where the new line of questioning was going. He put his hands on his hips and answered defiantly, “To complete a collection. Art is my career and my passion, and I love what I do. I want Mason to find the same excitement instead of clinging to a job that he will hate for the rest of his days. There’s no hidden agenda, Mr. Sinclair.”
Desmond Sinclair held up a finger. “That’s a partial answer. You must’ve forgotten you told me to look you up, and I am very thorough, Mr. O’Hara. I did my homework on your entire fast rise to fame. I read the critique of your last major work, and, to put it mildly, it was not favorable.”
Caleb laughed bitterly. “So, you’re going to use that? What a cheap shot. My success or failure has nothing to do with Mason’s!”
“Your swift ascent and equally rapid plummet were the result of a career built on the whims of an audience who clamors one week for blood and the next for milk!” Mr. Sinclair fired back. “Is that the future you would give my son? If you cared about him at all, you would recognize that his sensitive nature cannot withstand the harsh world of reviewers and critics.”
“Why not? He’s doing a bang-up job of it here at home.”
Mr. Sinclair narrowed his eyes. “The difference is that here at home the critics love him.” Caleb stared at the floor, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He pictured Mason dealing with cutthroat New York literati, who had their picks and favorites, and realized that Mr. Sinclair’s point was a fair one.
Caleb pushed past him and stared at the canvas from which Mason’s portrait stared back. Caleb had more than enough sketches to use in place of a live model to complete the collection. There was no reason to keep Mason chaste and on his sofa suffering. Mr. Sinclair made his way to the easel and stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back.
“Are you a man of integrity, Mr. O’Hara?” he asked quietly. “Are you a man with strong moral principles? I’d like to see my son happily married someday, living in a nice house, driving a nice car. Safe, even boring, but a sure bet beats a risky dream every time.”
Caleb closed his eyes and saw Mason in bed with Riesling, and a dagger pierced his heart. Without the complication of a homoerotic relationship, Mason might grow to care for her and yearn for the house and family sedan. Everything about the life Mr. Sinclair wanted for his son was uncomplicated, and if Caleb was a man of integrity, he would push Mason in that direction and stop breaking his heart, even if it broke his own.
“Give me a month, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 10
Mason was listening to his favorite pop singer and the volume was loud, as his parents were out of the house. They had gone with Robert, Belinda and the wedding planner to scout venue locations for the reception, and he was happy to have the house mostly to himself. He refused to think about the man above him or Riesling’s assertion that Caleb had reacted jealously to them.
The ballad playing in the background—with its romantic undertones and sappy lyrics—had nothing to do with how he was feeling. At least that was what he told himself as he hummed the melody. The knock on the door startled him.
Caleb leaned against the doorjamb. “I have something for you.”
Mason closed and locked the door behind him. Caleb handed him a check. “What’s this?”
“Your payment from me. It’s the full amount. I don’t need you to pose for me anymore.”
Mason put the check on his writing desk with shaking hands. He kept his back to Caleb as he tried to steady himself. “Did I do something wrong? Is it Riesling?”
Caleb snorted softly. “No. I talked to Gregoire. He loved the first three images from the series, and he wants me to come to New York to finish the rest. By the way, he…uh…he hasn’t heard back from the agent who
expressed interest in working with you.”
Mason glanced over his shoulder. “You’re leaving?”
“That’s not important. The important part is I think you need to reconsider your travel plans. If you don’t have an agent, you don’t have a leg up. Why don’t you talk to your father and see what job opportunities might be open to you at his company?”
“When are you leaving?”
“Mason,” Caleb sighed.
“When?” He stared at the typewriter. Caleb’s arms slowly came around him from behind. Mason tried not to be affected, but Caleb’s touch sent electricity sparking through him. He closed his eyes. “Just tell me when.”
“In another month,” Caleb whispered against the back of his neck. He held him like a fragile vase. “You’ll understand it better when you’re older. I don’t want to leave but sometimes we must sacrifice what we want to get what we need. It’s best for me to leave—best for both of us.”
“You don’t know what’s best for me.”
Teardrops fell between the keys of the typewriter, and Mason regretted the show of emotion. He smoothed his face. Caleb squeezed him tighter with one arm and used his free hand to wipe away the tears, but more fell in their place. “Mason, don’t,” he whispered.
Caleb’s lips brushed the side of his neck, and Mason flinched, then turned to face him. “I’m fine,” he sniffed, dashing his tears. “I knew you’d leave at some point. I’m fine. Thank you for the payment.”
Caleb studied him. “She seems right for you.” A tiny smile hovered and disappeared before it could form fully. He sighed and looked at the floor. “I’m not right for you.”
Mason tried to resist the urge to cup his face, but he needed to touch him one last time. He lifted Caleb’s chin and looked him in the eyes, trying to memorize every detail—his gaze, his cheeks, his gorgeous mouth. “Goodbye, Caleb,” he said with finality.
Caleb turned away to leave, but when he opened the door, Mason heard his parents’ downstairs and groaned. Caleb looked at him in askance. “They’re home. If they see me in your room, what will happen?”
Mason shook his head and ushered him into his walk-in closet. “Stay in here until I tell you to come out.”
“Mason!” his mother called out cheerfully.
Mason quickly shut the closet door and hurried to turn down the volume on his stereo. He opened the door to his bedroom and leaned out as his parents materialized at the head of the stairs. “Yes?”
“I was just trying to see if you were still up. We did not expect to be out so late,” she laughed. “You missed a treat. You should have come with us.”
“I was writing.”
She smiled as she smoothed a ripple of his cardigan. “Well, get some rest.”
Mr. Sinclair nodded at his son and peered over his shoulder into the bedroom. Nothing was out of place, Mason was sure. He glanced back to double-check. “What’s that?” his father asked. Mr. Sinclair entered the room and picked up the check, and Mason sighed.
“Mr. O’Hara paid me in full for my modeling services. He will be leaving within the month.”
“Oh! So soon?” Mr. Sinclair sounded sad.
Mason ducked his head. “And he told me his agent was not able to secure representation for me. So, you get your wish. I’m staying home, and Caleb is leaving.” He turned away from his parents. “If you know of any job fairs—”
“No, don’t worry about that,” his father interjected with obvious pleasure. “I’ll have a look at the company job board and let you know in the morning what position I can help you secure. Prepare a cover letter for your resume.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather find work on my own,” Mason whispered.
Mr. Sinclair looked confused. “But, Mason—”
“I can do it on my own!”
“Alright, fine. I’m available if you need me.” His father exited the room, flustered, and Mason’s shoulders slumped. He felt the calming touch of his mother’s hand on his back and turned to face her.
“Are you alright?” she asked quietly in Korean. Her dark eyes glowed with concern. Mason nodded.
“I’m not a child anymore, Mother. You don’t have to console me for every scraped elbow and skinned knee. I rely on you and father too much. I have to take care of myself or I’ll remain here, miserable and will end up resenting both of you, the very people I love.” He sniffed as fresh tears threatened.
She nodded. “Everything will work out as it should, and broken hearts, like skinned knees and scraped elbows, all heal.”
She slipped out of his bedroom. Mason waited for the sound of the TV powering on down the hall. He knew his parents would be asleep soon. When he was certain they were, he could let Caleb out and begin the work of taking care of himself. It was time to grow up and move on with his life.
Caleb listened to Mason talk to his parents. He squeezed his eyes shut with regret as he heard Mason ask his father about job opportunities. Caleb had not taken Mr. Sinclair’s bribe but had paid Mason with his own money.
He had done as the patriarch asked. He had misled Mason into believing staying was his only option, while praying he would balk at the idea. In the end, it had been far too easy to convince Mason to do what his father wanted him to do. Maybe it was what Mason wanted all along. It was easier, certainly. His parents would be right there to hold his hand every step of the way.
“He’s such a child,” Caleb whispered bitterly. His lie left an aftertaste he wanted to get rid of. Gregoire had made clear there was an agent waiting patiently for Mason to send more writing samples. That however, would put them in the same city, and Caleb could not bear the thought of running into Mason in New York where the line between what was allowed and what was not would be less easily defined. Also, an insecure part of him worried that Mason would be lured away by the bright lights and fast living, eventually finding someone more exhilarating, someone else who would take him to the clubs and keep things fun.
Caleb had achieved his dreams at such a young age that the rest of life seemed to stretch before him with nothing to do but get older and become irrelevant. Mason would grow bored with him the same way critics had gotten bored with his art. That was an eventuality he could not handle. Better to leave while the memories burned blue with passion than cooled to dead ash.
But what if he could offer Mason the life he truly wanted? Caleb allowed himself to daydream. In a perfect world, Mason would run away with him to some place better than New York. They would travel the world first, though. Caleb would make beautiful art to keep money coming in so they would not have to depend on Mason’s parents. There was nothing keeping them from doing that, except Mason’s family.
In a perfect world. Caleb sighed. It could be imperfect and they could still make it happen, but Mason would have to be willing to take the leap.
The closet door quietly opened and Mason stood over him. “They’re asleep,” Mason muttered. He quickly turned away but turned back. “Can I ask you something? Was it all in my head? Did I imagine you cared or did you trick me into believing it?”
Caleb slowly rose, rubbing his hands on his jeans. His heart swelled to painful proportions in his chest. Mason stepped into the closet and closed the door behind him. Caleb bowed his head. “I care.”
“Then, why have we spent the past two months apart? Why did you keep away from me?” Mason asked.
“Don’t you understand?” Caleb whispered fiercely. “All we ever got were stolen moments that never felt like enough. But if we would have tried for something more, we would have discovered the thrill was in the idea and not the substance. I don’t want to disillusion you but what we had was beautiful because it existed in a bubble. Can whatever this is last out in the real world?” A part of him screamed Yes.
Mason embraced him. “Am I insane to want you for just one more night?”
Caleb breathed in his scent as he blindly sought his mouth. “Yes, absolutely crazy,” he groaned as he kissed him to keep from saying the crazy th
ings he wanted to say. He could not tell Mason he was drowning in emotion for him or that he feared he would never be the same after this. He was older and wiser and knew the difference between a fling and something more permanent. This had all the markings of the latter, if given the slightest chance.
But it was not sustainable done in the dark, behind closed doors, in the closet. Caleb almost asked Mason to make it something more. Judging by the conversation he had overheard with Mason and his parents, the writer was not quite ready to flee the nest yet. But one more night….
Mason’s warm lips tasted like tears. Caleb kissed away the salty residue, and Mason dragged his mouth feverishly down his neck to his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “We’ll get caught,” Caleb said breathlessly. Mason paid no heed. Caleb clutched the back of his head when his lips closed over a beaded nipple. Mason’s glorious tongue sent volts of electric pleasure shooting through him.
Wary thoughts flitted through his head as Caleb shrugged out of his shirt and unfastened his pants and as Mason dropped to his knees and wrestled his erection free. If they were caught, it would be disaster. If they were not caught, it would be bliss. If this was the last time they would be together, however, Caleb needed something for the cold nights that were sure to come when he left this place.
Mason wrapped his lips around Caleb’s stiff manhood with an eager hum that sent vibrations through him, and the decision was made. Caleb swore quietly and kicked away his jeans, his hips canting forward to dive deeper into Mason’s hungry mouth. He clenched a fistful of Mason’s hair and jerked his head back to stare down at him.
“One month,” Caleb whispered. A month of stolen moments. A month to convince him to run away with him to a future that, though imperfect could be theirs. Mason spread his hands on Caleb’s thighs and nodded. Caleb closed his eyes and fell deeper into submission. “We meet like this for the rest of the month, and then we’ll see what’s what.”
Room for Rent Page 11
