True Colors

by Clare London

  “Was it because of the show?”

  Why the fuck does he care? Zeke stared into those dark pools of eyes. Something felt strained inside his chest. Why do I want him to? Why does he want to have anything to do with me at all?

  “Maybe,” he replied aloud. That was probably the truth. The show had been great, and he’d enjoyed sketching the plans and the elevations, and mocking up the presentation wall. The pens had felt good in his hands. It had meant an exposure to art again, and the glory and attraction of all the other paintings had seeped in under his defenses. Yeah, the show had given him an excitement that he hadn’t known for months; that he’d almost forgotten existed. And it had been a success, as well.

  “It was a success,” said Miles, in an uncanny echo of Zeke’s thoughts. “It was excellent work. I’ve come to ask you to take on another, in a few months’ time, if you think you can create the same excitement in such a short time frame—demonstrate that startling innovation again. It’s important that we keep up the interest, and build on the superb impact of that first show.”

  Zeke listened to the praise and knew he recognized the strange reaction inside him as pride. It just hadn’t been around for a while. There’d been a time he was proud of his work, hadn’t there? Dammit, it was never as good as he thought he could do, and he knew he’d never be as good as some… but it had been his life.

  “So you’re happy, Mr. Winter. With success.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Miles. He glanced around as if wondering when Zeke would ask him to sit down. Apart from the couch, there was only a bare kitchen stool in the room, and Zeke thought briefly about asking Miles to come and curl up beside him. Or maybe they’d just continue to snarl at each other across the room, forever and a day. “Yes, I am happy with it. I’ve always been honest with you about that.” Miles paused for a second and his voice gentled. “Will you show me the work you’re doing now?”

  Zeke was caught unawares. He couldn’t think of a caustic enough reply. Instinctively, he thrust the pad out toward Miles, and together they looked at the brief lines he’d sketched out. Beside him, Miles caught a sudden breath. He stared more closely, until Zeke was embarrassed and pulled the pad back toward him.

  “Like, it’s only rough templates. It never was my medium, really. It’s a little too like my brother’s style, though never so good. Dammit, I’ll probably trash the lot.”

  “Don’t!” cried Miles. Even as Zeke’s hand ripped the pages out of the pad and folded around them, starting to crumple the paper, Miles’ hand came down fiercely over his fist. “Leave it. It’s good, for God’s sake….”

  Zeke stared down at the slim, strong fingers on top of his. He compared the two skin tones, saw the living flesh against the stark white sketch paper. Both of them seemed frozen for that second. Zeke thought he could feel the gentle pulse of Miles’ palm on his.

  “Sorry,” said Miles, softly.

  Zeke cleared his throat loudly, and pulled his hand away. “You want a drink?”

  Miles looked puzzled. “I… not really. I just thought I might drop in for a few minutes and run over some of the plans for the next show.”

  “I’m… guess I’m busy.” Now he sounded ungracious. Zeke wondered if he’d ever get the tone right, if he’d always feel wrong-footed with Miles around.

  Miles shrugged. “But you can still keep sketching.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can talk. You can work at the same time. Or can’t you do that? With someone else around?”

  “Don’t know,” said Zeke, a little bemused. “Never tried. No one ever wanted to be with me when I painted or drew. I wasn’t much company then. So… I guess it’s okay. For a while.”

  He watched Miles settle himself on the stool. Cross his legs; uncross his legs. And wriggle a bit. There was no way the smart Mr. Winter was remotely comfortable on that piece of shitty plastic. Zeke sighed. It looked like he was going to be disturbed for a while longer tonight. He glanced at Miles’ gorgeous eyes and the determination in them, and as the other man crossed his arms, a ripple of muscle in them distracted him. For the first time, Zeke realized how little clothing he had on, compared to his visitor. His nipples felt tight and erect on his chest; his sweat shorts were shifting a little uncomfortably around his groin.

  Disturbed? Yeah, right.

  He went to put on a shirt, and to fetch the spare chair from his bedroom.

  Chapter 5

  MILES let himself into the darkened gallery at around ten in the evening, carrying a portfolio of drawings and spreadsheets with him regarding the next show. He’d come straight over from a late meeting on the other side of town, but he’d slipped off his jacket while he was still in the cab. He always felt overdressed when he was with Zeke Roswell. He wasn’t sure what Red would have made of that admission, and he was damned sure he wasn’t going to ask.

  It was a couple of days after his unexpected visit to Zeke, when he’d offered to sit and chat with him while he drew. And that had ended up as a surprisingly pleasant time. They’d talked about some of Miles’ initial ideas and some of Zeke’s visions for the actual layout of the gallery. Then there was general conversation about the team, and some light-hearted sparring about which of the marketing and sponsorship deals Miles would sign up for the new show. Miles had fetched them both a beer from the kitchen, and Zeke had found a couple of packets of nuts and crackers for snacks.

  Then when that conversation had come to a natural halt, Miles continued to sit there in the studio on the spare chair. Zeke had rather self-consciously picked up his sketch pad again and started to draw. He’d looked up at Miles a couple of times, almost suspiciously, but Miles made sure he was caught either examining his beer or skimming through some of the notes he’d taken about the show. He didn’t show any obvious interference, and so Zeke had slowly relaxed, turning his concentration to his ideas and his work. The studio had been quiet for an hour or so more. Zeke was sketching. Miles, however, was thinking, and reading, and watching Zeke as surreptitiously as he could.

  It was an attractive sight. Zeke wore the casual sweat shorts that Miles had seen before—the ones with the loose waistband that now dipped alarmingly at one side, exposing a stretch of paler hip. There was the smallest smudge of something dark above his hip bone. Miles realized it was a tattoo, and his mouth suddenly went dry for some unimaginable reason. Zeke’s legs and feet were bare, and the shirt he’d pulled on earlier was too tight across his chest as he wriggled about on the couch. After a while, a couple of the buttons popped open. One large, pink-brown nipple was exposed, nestling on Zeke’s tanned skin. Miles’ gaze fixed on it, fascinated. His eyes traveled over the full stretch of Zeke’s shoulders and chest, the taut muscles of his stomach. Zeke’s hair was loose, with the ends of it twisted and dragged forward over one shoulder. Every time he sat up, he pushed the hair off his forehead with an impatient hand. Then, when he leaned back over his pad, the curls fell forward again. Miles watched the movement with astonished delight. Every time.

  Finally, Zeke yawned and put away his drawings for the night. It was a plain dismissal, and Miles didn’t outstay his welcome. But when he suggested calling again to discuss the revised plans, Zeke had calmly agreed.

  So here he was, returning for another visit. Miles closed the gallery door behind him, shutting out the weary, jarring nighttime sounds of the street. Almost immediately, he was conscious of someone in the gallery with him—and just as quickly, his instincts told him it wasn’t Zeke.

  He turned slowly, his heart beating quickly. The room was dark, with only the streetlight to illuminate it. There was a shadow at the back wall, beside the door that led up to Zeke’s apartment. It started to move toward him, and then flowed out of the darkness of the room and became a man. It stopped moving.

  “Who are you?” asked Miles.

  The stranger looked back at him calmly. He was slightly shorter than Miles and slim to the point of thinness. He wore jeans and a light, body-hugging sweater. His hair wa
s brown, swept across his forehead, and tucked behind an ear. His eyes were wary; they glinted in the dim light. “I was going to ask the same of you, but now I see you’re Miles Winter. I guess you have every right to visit your own gallery, whenever you like.” He stepped farther forward, and offered his hand. “I’m Carter Davison. I’m a friend of Zeke’s. I’ve been visiting him, and now I’m on my way home. I live on the other side of town.”

  Miles took the hand—cool, dry, assertive—and shook it. “Pleased to meet you. I think I saw you at the opening.”

  Carter nodded. His eyes were focused sharply on Miles, apparently appraising the other man. He didn’t seem to be intimidated by him in any way. Miles liked that. He grew tired of the wariness and nervousness he saw in most people’s eyes when they were introduced to him. “Zeke invited me. It was an excellent show, Mr. Winter. I’m not just repeating what the papers and magazines said, as I rarely read them. It’s my honest opinion.”

  “Thanks. I can see that,” said Miles, and he could. He instinctively liked this Carter Davison. “Call me Miles.”

  “Miles, then.” Carter smiled, and Miles was pleasantly startled by the way it transformed the other man’s face. He hadn’t thought that Carter Davison was at all melancholy until he smiled—and yet the contrast was suddenly so marked. “Zeke has talked a lot about the job here, Miles; about the show. He enjoyed preparing it—enjoyed seeing art from a different perspective. It’s given him an opportunity to develop new skills, in my opinion, particularly in negotiation and in managing people. Not that those skills didn’t need some work.”

  Miles smiled in tacit agreement, and Carter’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “He talks about you as well, Miles.”

  “Me?” Miles was surprised.

  “Yes,” nodded Carter. “Often. About your commitment to your work; about some of the plans you’ve shared with him. I hope they weren’t confidential.”

  “No.” Miles shook his head. He felt an absurd shiver through his body, and wondered if he should have kept his jacket on. “In fact, I was coming to see Zeke myself about some new ideas on the ceiling lighting and the platform blocks.”

  Carter’s eyebrow lifted. “You work this late on all your projects?”

  “I know; it’s a little irregular.” Miles bristled; he felt there was something the other man wasn’t sharing with him. Dammit, it was like being put through some kind of interview. “We’re planning another show, you may know. I’ve… found it advantageous to talk to Zeke without others around. He doesn’t mind discussing it while he works, and I can always sit and watch him draw.”

  “Watch him draw?” Carter’s expression twisted with sudden, anguished shock. “I didn’t think… he’s not drawn or painted for so long.”

  Miles thought he’d stepped across a line somewhere, and he didn’t know what to say. The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then Carter seemed to recover himself.

  “But I think you’re out of luck tonight, I’m afraid, because Zeke’s… busy.”

  “With sketching?”

  “Uh….” Carter seemed a little uncomfortable. “Maybe. Perhaps you’d better call another time.”

  Miles shook his head. “I must confirm a couple of these plans with him tonight. The supplier is coming to the office tomorrow morning. I’m sure he’ll spare me a couple of minutes at least.” He wondered what this man was trying to do. Was he trying to protect Zeke somehow? Or did he disapprove of Miles calling on his friend like this? Dammit, it was his gallery, wasn’t it? Miles moved into defensive mode, knowing there were few who’d even attempt to challenge him on that.

  Carter must have seen the quiet but total determination in Miles’ expression. He pursed his lips and stepped slightly to the side, tacitly allowing Miles to continue through. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miles. I hope we get a chance for a longer conversation next time. I’ll let myself out.”

  MILES didn’t know what made him start on up the stairs without calling or knocking.

  When he reached the top, he looked across the landing, searching for Zeke. The door to the studio was wide open and he could see inside. There was a table set up in there now, and a couple of display stands, though there were no pictures or plans in view. The overhead light was off, and the only light in the room was from a thick church candle, anchored on a china plate and balanced rather precariously on the edge of the table. There were two coffee mugs there as well, and another empty plate.

  Miles took a tentative step forward and peered further in. Over by the window, he saw Zeke with his back to him, one arm braced against the wall, facing out toward the city view. His body was silhouetted against the darkening sky outside by the single, flickering flame of the candle. His hair was tied back this evening, a short but vivid trail of dark curls against a white T-shirt that was too short, as usual; it rode up around his midriff. He wore those damned sweat shorts, though probably another pair, but the same style. Miles stared at the gap of fresh skin between shirt and shorts; followed the lines of muscles down the back of Zeke’s thighs; gazed at the slight glimmer of sweat in the hollow behind his knees, as it caught what little light there was.

  His heartbeat stuttered and re-settled to its regular rhythm.

  Almost immediately afterward, he noticed the other pair of legs. Another person stood in front of Zeke, largely hidden by him. The four limbs were closely pressed together and there was the shadow of fingertips at Zeke’s waist. Miles realized the other person must be extremely close, because he couldn’t see a separate face, couldn’t see easily which arm might be which.

  With a wash of cold shock, he also realized how stupid he was, for the pair of them were obviously kissing. Zeke’s head dipped against the girl’s, and her other hand gripped softly behind his neck, tangling into his hair, tugging him further against her. Miles saw the muscles of Zeke’s shoulders tensing as he pressed her body up against the wall more tightly, pushing his chest against her, his mouth so obviously working on hers.

  Miles heard a soft gasp; a moan swallowed by another eager mouth.

  Zeke’s free arm was hugged in front of his body, the hand hidden from view. The girl’s legs were parted against his hips. Miles imagined him flipping open the button of her jeans; he had visions of Zeke sliding his long, supple fingers down into her clothes; of touching her curls; of stroking parts that were hot and sweaty, and sensitive to every finger’s touch….

  His shock became even colder as he watched the hand on Zeke’s waist slip down to his ass, and squeeze him confidently through the sweat fabric. Miles saw the muscles of Zeke’s shoulders shiver with pleasure, and his back arch under the touch. But there was something about the darkly tanned skin of the companion’s bare arm, seen clearly for the first time—something that jarred. There were strong tendons stretching to grasp at Zeke’s body, and soft hairs glinting in the evening glow.

  It was a masculine hand; a young man’s hand. Miles had assumed it was a girl, but it was male.

  He knew he had to leave. He had invaded Zeke’s privacy. Carter had tried to tell him Zeke was busy; he just hadn’t realized with what. He felt sick, and wondered briefly why a genuine error should make him feel so unstable.

  He wasn’t aware of making any noise as he turned to go back downstairs, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the figures straighten up and turn in his direction.

  “Miles?” It was Zeke’s voice. Miles cursed every God he’d ever read about and paused, his hand on the doorframe.

  “Hold up, Miles. We’re just finished here, you know? Marco’s just going. Aren’t you, man?”

  Miles stood, transfixed, staring at somewhere between the stairwell and the floor, as he heard the disgruntled mumbles from Zeke’s companion, and Zeke’s own careless laugh. “Not now, Marc baby. Yeah, I know. But first it was Carter calling, and now it’s my boss. I don’t have the time tonight. I’ll call you. Come on, man….”

  Some rustling clothes; Miles heard a zipper being wrenched up. There was
a jolt to his elbow, and a young, dark-haired man pushed past him, none too gently. Miles had the brief impression of a scowling, Mediterranean-cast face, and a body that obviously worked out; then Marco was gone, lumbering down the stairs in a rather unattractive sulk.

  “Christ, don’t you ever knock?” growled Zeke. He came to stand next to Miles with a wry smile on his face. His cheeks were flushed; his lips plump and moist. “Guess that was useful for me, though. He’s a little too clingy for my liking.”

  “I interrupted you… both. I’m sorry. I thought with Carter gone, you were free.”

  “You met Carter?” Zeke looked at Miles with interest. “Good. I told him some stuff about you. Probably best he sees you for real, or I may be blackening your name needlessly, eh?” He laughed, easily enough.

  Miles leaned a little away from him. He hated him, briefly, suddenly, and had never known such a reaction in himself. How could Zeke be so cool after such embarrassment? How could he just abandon the sensual anticipation of that make-out session, and dismiss his lover so swiftly? How could he chat so calmly to Miles about other people entirely; how could he laugh as if nothing had happened there? Miles wished he could wipe his own embarrassment from his mind—the strange, churning feelings inside his stomach that he was sure were showing on his face. He’d never known such discomfort.

  Nor had he ever felt such desire. A desire that wracked his gut, demanding that he be where that young man had been, just moments before: wrapped around Zeke Roswell, with Zeke’s tongue in his mouth, and Zeke’s hand down the front of his pants.

  “Miles, you okay?” Zeke looked puzzled. His eyes appeared unnaturally bright, but that might just have been the distorting light of the candle. “You want to sit down or something? What did you want me for? Kind of late for work now, you know. I’m not drawing tonight. I just had a talk with Carter, let him know I’m not out of a job yet, and I haven’t stolen the corporation silver.”