True Colors

by Clare London

  “It’s never bothered you before, honey, whoever you evicted. I just wondered why this was different. Did he have a lot of stuff there?”

  Miles stared at her, confused. “What does that matter? The guy told me he had nothing of his own, just a couple of paintings, and his clothes. I don’t see why he should have been lying.”

  “Sweetie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you….”

  Miles bit back another sharp reply. He was very irritable tonight, it seemed. “No problem. There was a break-in, you know? Last night at the gallery. Though God knows, it must be obvious there’s nothing worth taking there. It happened while I was out with Red, and Roswell was… God knows where.”

  “And I was shooting the pantyhose commercial. Remember I told you about that? What a shambles it was….” Remy laughed, breaking into his musing, swinging her hair softly over his chest so that a thin strand caught in his mouth. He spat it out, quickly.

  “Do you know the Roswells, Remy? You move in those circles more than I do. Did you know Zeke’s brother, Jacky Roswell? He was an artist too.”

  She sighed, her breath warm against his shoulder. Her face was buried against his skin so he couldn’t see her expression. “A little. At parties, you know? He sure liked to party.”

  “What happened to Jacky exactly? I know he died….”

  “I don’t know, honey. I didn’t want to know. I guess it was something unpleasant. Come and kiss me, Miles….”

  But Miles only heard half of her whispered endearments. His thoughts were elsewhere. “I guess Red will know, if I ask him. And I daresay he knows about Zeke Roswell as well. I never saw much of Jacky’s work, but Zeke’s… his paintings were amazing. I have two. I wish I’d bought more. I used to wish I could meet the man who could express such barely repressed emotion on a plain canvas.”

  “And now you have, and he’s a pig. Okay, Miles?” Her voice was soft like liquid silk. She pushed him gently back onto the deep cushions, and he let her. She was teasing the zipper of his pants, and he tried to concentrate on encouraging an erection. “Why do you keep your art collection so secret? Why won’t you show me around sometime?”

  Miles laughed, but he knew it must have been the wrong response for some reason because she frowned back at him. “Remy, it’s no secret. I mean, that’s where we met, isn’t it? When I showed some of the collection a few months ago, at that gallery on the other side of town. You came with that stockbroker—”

  “And left with you.” Her musical voice was seductive. “I remember, honey.”

  “It’s just a personal thing,” continued Miles. Before then, he’d rarely shown his collection publicly, and never again since. It had always felt… awkward. “I’d rather wait until I have this new gallery refurbished, and then I’ll reconsider displaying some of them. They can be shown to their proper advantage, there. Anyway, you’ve shown little interest in art before, eh?”

  “I’m sure that Red De Vere’s seen them, Miles.” There was an unpleasant edge to her voice now. Was that what this was all about? “You spend more time with him than me. You go to clubs with him. Shows. He entertains you at his racing stables….”

  “Remy, for God’s sake, let’s not start that up again. Red is my dearest friend, and I’ve known him for many years more than I’ve known you.”

  But Remy was drifting into a well-worn path. Miles felt his attention waning, his arousal losing heart. Her silky voice was turning caustic to his ears.

  “You think I’m stupid, Miles. That I won’t appreciate your precious artworks. Like I don’t understand all this tedious business stuff….”

  Miles’ objective mind struggled with the truth, and he didn’t dare reply. Remy was internationally famous, and as distinctive as a fabulous portrait on legs—but she’d never shown any sign of being an intellectual. He looked up into the softly brimming eyes, and marveled at how she could make even a pout look gorgeous. She did seem to like him so much….

  “Enough of business, then. Take me to bed, instead.”

  “Maybe not,” she murmured. “Maybe we should do it right here.”

  Miles groaned as her hand slid down the loosened front of his pants, and grasped him tightly. She peeled open the fabric and slipped his awakening cock out of his boxers. He knew he’d not get a chance to undress any further at the moment. She liked to play the wanton hussy whenever she thought she’d upset him. And he rarely had the heart to stop her.

  “He’s not a pig, Remy.”

  “What?” Her head raised itself out of his lap, and the eyes were large and frustrated. There was a tiny thread of saliva on her lower lip, from where she’d begun to lick gently at him.

  “Roswell. Zeke Roswell. Not a pig. He was actually very articulate and is obviously highly creative. The gallery had been a fantastic place before it closed; the old publicity pictures are on file. The interior design was amateur in many ways, but inspired in intention. He had a real feel for the presentation of art. He just has a problem with social skills, as if he forgets he has to connect with the rest of the world. There’s a massive chip on his shoulder. He must have been hell to deal with in business matters.”

  “Probably still is, honey,” came her mumbled response. “He’s an artist. They’re all a little unhinged.”

  Something in Remy’s voice struck Miles as still too sharp. But her mouth was very skilled, and he’d forgotten how sweet she smelled. And he did need some comfort. He relaxed a little. “He’s very passionate in the way he acts….”

  “Don’t talk about that damned artist anymore, Miles,” Remy complained. Her hand slid gently around the back of his waist, teasing out his shirt from the waistband, and gripping him harder. He felt the familiar scrape of acrylic nails on his bare skin. It made him shiver. Her tongue licked and caressed him, and she whispered promises against his groin. “Let it go. It’s just one more deal, whoever it is. I can help you relax. I know what you like….”

  As his hips thrust gently out toward Remy’s ministering touch, Miles remembered—to his chagrin—the challenging words of Red De Vere.

  Let someone close; let someone know what you’re really like. It’s not weakness to join in.

  Miles wondered why he couldn’t believe that.

  ZEKE pushed a chair to one side on the dust sheet and wriggled his way past the decorating tables to the front of the showroom. Everywhere he went in the gallery there was the smell of fresh paint from the walls and the tart aroma of newly waxed floorboards. But he knew he had no right to complain about disruption, even with the noise of the builders, and the trucks, and the clatter of various designers and craftsmen. No, he just kept hidden up in his rooms, like the exile he was, and he had no claim in particular over what his new landlord chose to do to the property. Instead, he waited each day until the workmen were leaving, and then he snuck back down to see what progress they’d made.

  And despite what he wanted to believe, the gallery looked fucking good.

  It was much brighter downstairs now. They’d removed an internal wall and set up Perspex screens in its place. The lighting was far more subtle and imaginative than he’d ever been able to afford. He noticed that they’d left in place the massive presentation board that spanned the whole length of the room. That had been one of his innovations when he set the gallery up. Daresay they just didn’t have the time to dismantle it today. He was sure there’d be some other, more impressive display installed in its place soon.

  Zeke couldn’t help himself: he imagined his paintings in the room as it was now; he imagined what he would place where. He felt a frisson of long-forgotten excitement. In that moment, he despised his lively mind for the traitor it was.

  The front door swung open, and there was a burst of traffic noise from outside. When the door closed again, Miles Winter had stepped inside. Zeke didn’t know why he felt a shiver; the day wasn’t cold. Didn’t know what the fuck the guy was doing here, anyway.

  “They’ve done a full day’s work, okay?” he snapped. Hi
s voice sounded even sharper than he’d intended. “The decorators. I assume you’ve come to check up on your investment.”

  Miles walked forward into the room. The clamor from the street was muted behind him, though Zeke could see the activity through the glass window. People rushing past on their way home; delivery vans cutting sharply around the corner; cabs shuddering away from the curb, full of office workers seeking an early drink or two.

  “I’m not checking up,” said Miles, calmly. “I just wanted to see how the place was looking, with all the workmen gone.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “No,” said Miles, rather quickly. “I’d appreciate your opinion. What do you think of it?”

  Zeke stared at him, like he’d strayed into the Twilight Zone. Guess the guy had never lived through bankruptcy; guess he’d never signed over his inheritance for the sake of somewhere to sleep; guess he’d never seen someone move into his place, and turn it all upside down. Or he’d never expect to give his opinion on it.

  “It’s fine,” he said, and he was surprised that was all he had to say. He reached a hand out to lean against the wall, relaxing one hip toward it. “So you’re dabbling in art now, as well as ninety-seven point seven percent of the top Dow Jones stocks?”

  Miles pursed his lips. “I wasn’t aware that particular statistic was common knowledge. Or let’s say, of interest to you.”

  “Yeah,” said Zeke. He was surprised to find himself blushing. Damned if he’d let Winter know he’d been checking up on him. “I have made my opinion very clear on this whole arrangement, haven’t I?”

  Miles raised his eyebrows. “From the very first meeting. But I’m not dabbling at all. This is a perfect location. It makes sense to keep it as a gallery.”

  Zeke winced. Seemed they agreed on something, anyway. “And your sense is, of course, of prime importance, isn’t it, Mr. Winter? Do you ever fuck up anything?”

  Miles bit his lip. “No, Mr. Roswell, not when I’ve decided to succeed. Not when I decide to make my mark.”

  They glared at each other again. Miles seemed a little dazed. Maybe he’d had a hard day at the office, or whatever they called it. Zeke didn’t move but Miles shifted on his feet a couple of times, as if he were unsteady. His eyes ran over Zeke, obviously taking in his clothes. Zeke was damned if he cared. He could wear what he liked in his own place, right? Or at least, half his own place. He’d come downstairs after a nap, so he hadn’t dressed properly. His sweat shorts dipped low under his navel, just where the trail of hairs on his belly ran down under the elastic. His feet were bare, which was how he liked to be at home. He’d pulled on an old T-shirt that had shrunk one time in the wash but was a favorite of his. It was bright orange and sleeveless, and its sides just about covered the skin from armpit to midriff. Miles’ gaze lingered for a while on that band of skin, where it plumped very slightly over the waistband of Zeke’s shorts.

  Zeke felt unsettled. He didn’t bother admiring Miles’ beautifully cut suit; he barely acknowledged the frighteningly bright whiteness of his shirt, or the vivid turquoise of his silk tie. Well, not so’s he’d admit. It wasn’t critical, was it, whether a guy could wear clothes well or not? Instead, he stared straight into Miles Winter’s eyes, and knew that was what power really looked like. He knew it’d be the same throughout the tall, wiry body: Miles would be fit, well-muscled, and totally controlled. His mouth would always speak sense; his eyes would always look straight ahead. His shoulders would stretch easily, and his body would turn quickly, wherever his attention demanded. His hands would be sure and strong.

  Zeke didn’t know why the thought of Miles Winter’s hands caused an uncomfortable stir in the pit of his stomach. He wondered what made the cool businessman lose control. Or rather, he wondered who made him lose control.

  Miles’ voice broke into his reverie. “Do you have a current job?”

  “Huh?”

  “I came to see you as well, Mr. Roswell. I’ll need an artistic director for the gallery. Someone to promote it, to launch it in time for the next season. I need it to be firmly placed in everyone’s conscious mind within a year, in order to start recouping the corporation’s investment. It should be handled by someone who understands a gallery—who understands the industry.” He repeated himself, as if he thought Zeke wasn’t listening. “Who understands the arts. And artists.”

  Zeke badly wanted to resist saying “huh?” again, but he was struggling through the shock to find anything more coherent.

  Miles’ mouth twisted in half a smile, though the flickering in his eyes was surprisingly nervous. “I’d have expected more conversation from you, Mr. Roswell. Even more argument.”

  “You want to drop the smart comments and tell me what you’re talking about?” growled Zeke. He pushed away from the wall and straightened up. The lowering sun from outside caught his eyes as he moved and he threw up his hand to shield them. The shaft of pale sunlight ran down his arm and across his hair, lying loose on his shoulders. He hadn’t got around to a haircut recently and he’d not bothered tying it back today.

  Miles Winter was staring at it. The look on his face was one of astonishment.

  “Hey?” Zeke snapped. “You got an answer?”

  Miles bit his lip again and his eyes focused back on Zeke’s face. Once again, they were cool and steady. “I’m offering you the job. And it’s acceptable for you to call me Miles, as most of my executives do at the office.”

  Zeke stared, still angry. “Look. There’s no one else here, Miles.”

  The other man frowned. “I… no, I can see that. My eyesight’s fine, thank you. What do you mean?”

  “Assuming this isn’t some kind of twisted joke, there’s still no one here to see you flaunt your benevolence. Your charity toward the impoverished artist, whose livelihood and home you’ve recently acquired. Sort of an empty gesture, ain’t it?”

  “It’s—dammit!”

  Zeke was startled at the sudden expletive. Surely the uptight Miles Winter wasn’t that kind of guy. Was he?

  “What’s up with you, Roswell? It’s not a gesture. Not a joke. It’s a genuine offer.”

  Zeke was still wary. “Why me? What do you know about me? Except that I’m a failed artist, failed businessman, failed just about everything….”

  “You’re an artist,” snapped Miles. “You can’t fail at that, Roswell. You are or you aren’t. It’s what you do with it that matters. And I saw what you did with the gallery when… when it was yours. It was fine, it was impressive. I want that vision for it again. I want that style, that creativity. For example, take the presentation wall. That was your idea, wasn’t it?”

  Zeke stared at the clear-cut features of Miles’ face; the strong mouth spouting such surprising words. Words that seemed to be mismatching somewhere between Zeke’s ears and his brain. “Yeah. I… I wanted that long, deep view, to draw the eye all the way from the front of the building, back to the smaller works. It catches the sun; it runs through a range of shading at different times of the day. Though it used to get a bit dark later on.”

  “Not anymore, not with the Perspex facing it. That’s an improvement on the solid wall that was there before. It’ll open the whole thing out, now, giving you the illusion of more space. And the ceiling hangings?”

  Zeke had forgotten about them. He’d once thought he would exploit the height of the gallery ceiling by suspending some of his works. Then the supplier of the twine had let him down, and he’d abandoned the effect, but the fittings were still there. He was amazed that Miles had noticed. “I—yeah… thought it’d be an unusual effect. All I ever wanted to do was to get people to see as many paintings as I could force on them, you know? To make them see….”

  “That’s what I want,” said Miles. “That kind of thought. Those kind of ideas.” His voice was firm though his eyes still looked confused. “Of course, you may be painting again. You may not have the time to take on a job as well.”

  Zeke’s mouth opened and then shut agai
n. He swallowed. “I won’t be painting again this side of Armageddon, okay? I’ve got so much time, I’m thinking of selling it to your own brokers.”

  Miles looked like he was struggling to follow the harsh humor. “You have a God-given talent; you must know it. People are envious of that. Even I might be envious of that. You ought to use it.”

  “What the fuck do you know about it, Miles?” Zeke replied, even though there was less force in his hostility now. “There’s a hell of a lot of things people tell me I ought to do. So join the club. Is painting—or not painting—a condition of the job?”

  Miles’ eyes widened. He looked like he might laugh, but whether from amusement or frustration, who knew? “No. Only that you make something of it, that you commit to it. That’s what I do with my own work. It’s the only way to succeed.”

  “And you like success, don’t you, Miles?”

  “I do,” he replied. Zeke heard the passion in the man’s voice and realized that these words were coming from Miles’ heart. “That’s the one area I can’t yet judge in you: whether you have that appetite as well. I want this gallery to be an oasis in the middle of the city, a gathering place for those who want to see things of beauty and of challenge. And I want its reputation to be known throughout the state, perhaps beyond. For high standards and appreciation of good pieces. For an innovative approach.” Miles paused, staring back at Zeke. “Can you do that, Mr. Roswell? Can you make that work?”

  Zeke was more than a little stunned, and he couldn’t fail to see that Miles was amused at that reaction. Dammit, this man wanted him, Zeke Roswell, as part of his team. What the hell was all that about? Madness, that’s what. Miles Winter was obviously a guy who lived in his own personal reality, and expected others to meet him there, rather than reach out to them.