by Clare London
He wondered how long he’d napped. The couch was deep and comfortable but not made for two grown men to sleep on. But he felt too deliciously exhausted to move; his skin still tingled. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d come more than twice in a whole night, and he’d only been here a matter of hours. He shifted, experimenting with his limbs. His muscles were stiff and his skin felt tight from the enthusiastic lapping of Zeke’s tongue. There were a couple of sticky places in his hair that would need a good washing out. He grimaced, wishing he’d taken Zeke up on his offer to run the shower for them both. But at the time, Zeke had been kissing him and stroking his belly, and one thing had led to yet another.
Zeke stirred as well, yawning loudly. “Fucking bad place to sleep, man. Not going yet, are you?”
“I’ve got to,” replied Miles, with a strange softness to his tone that he barely recognized.
“Huh?”
“The fire chief’s coming by in the morning. I’ve got to find the insurance documents. There’s a mess of clearing up to do….” Hell, he thought, there were all sorts of reasons, and none of them sounded particularly persuasive at this very minute.
“Okay.” Zeke grunted and unfolded his arm from under his body. “Gotcha. Better pop out some of these twisted joints and find my bed.”
Miles rolled awkwardly from the couch, and groped around for his clothes. Pulling them on, they felt damp and rough against his skin as if they no longer fit. When he was dressed again and surreptitiously tugging at a sticky tangle at the back of his head, he heard Zeke sigh loudly. He turned to gaze at the other man, and the wide eyes stared back, deep with an unfathomable expression. Zeke’s face was still soft with sleepiness; their kissing had made his lips look softened and plump. Miles’ nerves thrilled at the memory of them on both his mouth and cock. Zeke’s long, lean limbs were stretched out against the soft cushions, but his hips were twisted a little, and one leg was slightly raised so that it covered his groin, coyly. Was he waiting to say something? Miles wanted to speak, as well—but what he wanted to say was too bold, and he couldn’t think what else might be appropriate. The tension sharpened around them both again.
Then Zeke grinned, and the animation rushed back to his face and body. It was as if his very skin sprang awake. “Sleep well, Miles. Let’s leave it at that, okay?”
“Okay… of course.” Miles felt his throat tightening. He watched the muscles of Zeke’s arms as he stretched them up above his head; he saw the glistening sweat in his armpit. Zeke caught his gaze and held it.
“Miles, you were amazing….” Zeke’s voice was almost a whisper. His lids dropped briefly, covering the full impact of his stare. “You want to come around tomorrow night?”
Did he? Dammit, yes, more than anything else in the whole world he could think of at that moment. He wanted to laugh; to shout aloud. But he didn’t. “Yes,” he said, slowly, as carefully as he could. “That’d be good.”
“Real good,” replied Zeke, his laugh getting caught up in another yawn. “So get lost, will you? I need more beauty sleep than you, you know.”
“THERE are only three weeks to go until the show,” said Tony, tentatively. “And he won’t let us see the final plans for the gallery. Mr. Winter will be furious.”
Malia tsked. “Don’t worry, Tony; it’ll be fine.” She sat back in her office chair and stretched out a foot, twirling the sandal on her toes. She felt strangely relaxed nowadays. Exhausted with all of the running around that Zeke Roswell demanded and smoothing down all the feathers he ruffled in his wake—but that was challenging too. The guys in the business were getting to know Roswell and his ways. and they were coming forward now, wanting to be involved in everything he did. There were magazines calling her daily; proposals arriving in large white envelopes on her desk with alarming regularity. There were some fairly generous offers of sponsorship money too. It had been a while since she’d been so excited by a promotional project.
Personally, she felt stimulated. She’d not needed her stabilizing concoction of pills for weeks now. She ate better; she slept better. She found she could think more clearly, could plan campaigns more effectively. She actually looked forward to each day at the corporation. More than that, she was starting to realize what a cute young man Tony actually was, even if he’d been rather a klutz in bed at first.
“It won’t be fine,” groaned Tony, interrupting her warm thoughts. “There are pictures arriving this afternoon for framing and hanging, both from Zeke and from Mr. Winter, and I don’t know which ones are supposed to be used and which are to be sent back….”
“You’ll find out, Tony. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. Didn’t he pull it off last time at the last minute?”
Tony stared at her, curiously. “You’re quite a fan now, aren’t you, Malia? Of Zeke Roswell?”
She shrugged carelessly, but suspected the enthusiasm in her eyes betrayed her. “Yeah, so I thought he was a spoiled kid, a dangerous distraction. What else was I to think? But you know what it’s been like since the very first day he started: wham, bam, watch the man! It seems he knows his stuff. He knows what works, he knows what looks good. He bounces off people, and rides roughshod over them—and then I can see the charm leaking out from underneath, and suddenly they love him, they think he can move mountains, they want to have his babies….”
She stopped, seeing Tony’s amazed stare. “Okay, that’s a little extreme, I guess. But he’s opened up, Tony. He’s dropped that world-weary crap and is really into the business. I guess I can see what he must have been like before he fell from society’s grace.” She shrugged again, unable to express it satisfactorily. “Dammit, he’s fun to work for.”
IT was late afternoon that same day and several people still milled about in the gallery. The ceiling hangings were draped with thin, translucent wire, and two mock stages had been built at the opposite corners of the room. The presentation board was covered with a dust sheet, and there were strange pen markings over the Perspex wall that no one understood but Zeke Roswell. There was an air of anticipation in the room, but no obvious signs of how it would look at its approaching debut.
Tony let the tension flow through him, breathing deeply like his meditation teacher had showed him. It had been like this ever since the Winter Corporation first employed Zeke Roswell. Tony had followed the bold, abrasive Roswell into what had appeared to be a ridiculous venture, clutching his draft resignation letter to his heart. Then after the first few weeks, he found himself offering suggestions, and sharing ideas with Zeke. He’d been so caught up in the plans that his letter was filed away temporarily.
After the grand opening and the first show, he’d been exhausted and thrilled and excited beyond his comprehension. He’d also found himself in Malia’s bed, having the time of his sheltered life, and had been invited back there again too. When the announcement came that there’d be another show, and the process started all over again, he remembered the alleged resignation letter. But he couldn’t seem to put his hand on it.
He thought that when he did, he might tear it up anyway.
Several paintings were stacked up against the walls, packaged and labeled, awaiting delivery to the framers. Tony had brought in a couple of the younger assistants to help out, and he had Malia waiting back at the office to hear that it had all gone smoothly. He just needed Zeke’s final word to check the numbers and the specifications.
“Why the fuck is this here?” asked Zeke, loudly. Tony winced. His boss was standing before one particular painting, his body rigid with emotion and his expression like thunder. Tony’s heart sank. When he answered, it came out in a squeak.
“Mr. Winter… he sent it along.”
“Well you can just send it back, pretty damned quick.”
There was a rush of street noise as the gallery door opened, then closed again behind Miles Winter. Zeke’s head snapped up and he glared at the new arrival.
Tony looked between them both, nervously. Everyone knew how they argued all the time—they
were so damned different. Mr. Winter was so cool and such a perfectionist, but then Zeke Roswell just went his own brash, volatile way. God knows how the business partnership had lasted this long. They probably hated each other. It was just luck they’d never come to actual blows. Tony had pushed the memories of the last show to the back of his mind, full as they were of tension and pressure. They now resurfaced rather abruptly at the back of his throat, threatening nausea. Malia was going to kill him if they dropped behind schedule again.
“I want that in the exhibition,” said Miles. His voice was calm, but his eyes were fixed on Zeke, flashing a warning. “It’s one of yours—”
“I know it’s fucking one of mine,” Zeke interrupted, loudly.
Miles ignored his outburst. “I want you to show your work, along with the others.”
The silence that fell was louder than a shout. Tony looked at Zeke Roswell and was reminded of those cartoons where the steam comes out of the guy’s ears, just before he completely blows up.
“Zeke… Mr. Winter. The framer closes at seven tonight, the very latest. The van’s waiting….”
Miles didn’t turn to look at him, but his voice was low and calm. It brooked no argument. “Take the paintings, Tony. All of them.”
“Not this one,” snapped Zeke, gripping the edge of the package they were arguing about.
Tony held his breath. If they started actually fighting over it….
Miles cleared his throat, his eyes still on Zeke. “Take the rest, then. Tell the framers to begin with Zeke’s selections. He’ll confirm the rest tomorrow.”
Tony swallowed hard and nodded. After all, Mr. Winter signed off on the salary checks, didn’t he? He and his dumbstruck assistants grasped their precious bundles and wriggled past the other two men, exiting the gallery. It was all done with rather indecent haste and no one dared meet either of their gazes. They all had a strong sense of self-preservation.
The door swung quietly closed behind the staff and Zeke and Miles were left alone inside. Tony risked one last glance back through the window at them. Only a couple of feet apart.
It looked like miles.
ZEKE knew that self-preservation was something he’d left behind him a long time ago. He was incredibly upset. The fury bubbled below his skin, threatening to explode out and decimate anything within reach. It took all his efforts to hold himself in until the other guys had left.
He balanced the wrapped painting back up against the wall. He was the first to speak, his heart hammering, and the words echoing harshly inside his head. “Why? Why the fuck do you want my painting? It doesn’t fit with the theme.”
Miles looked determined, though his face was paler than usual. “I think you can make it fit.”
“I think I don’t damned well want to. And excuse me, but I think I made that clear enough to you before.”
“It’s a fine painting, Zeke. Your work has always been good; it is good. I want you to share the praise and the publicity. You’re drawing again; you may paint again….”
Zeke felt the rush of anger like a thick red liquid, soaking his senses. “Don’t you dare tell me what my work is! Or what I will or won’t be doing. Don’t you dare come in here with that ‘owner of the whole fucking place’ act, and patronize me.”
Miles’ face was even whiter, his dark eyes a stark contrast, though his voice was still steady. “You know I’m not patronizing you, so I don’t know why you act so childishly. I can only think it’s because you’re scared.”
“I’m what?” Zeke gasped, incredulous.
“Scared to show your work. Scared to draw the attention again, the criticism, good and bad. Scared there’ll be an expectation of you that you don’t want to meet. Scared they’ll compare you again with your brother—”
Enraged, Zeke swung a punch at him. It was a poor shot, and he didn’t get his whole weight behind the blow, but he connected to Miles’ jaw. For one shocking moment, his grunt and the sound of knuckles on flesh were the only sounds in the high, empty room.
As Zeke pulled back his arm, Miles grabbed it. His jaw was scarlet from where Zeke had hit him, but he hadn’t flinched away. He spoke breathlessly, through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”
Zeke struggled to pull his arm away from Miles’ grip, feeling like some stupid schoolboy on the playground. He should have known how strong the guy was, should have known he wouldn’t be easily intimidated. He felt like a complete ass; he felt a strange, angry betrayal. When he spoke, his voice was a loud, jagged sound, cutting through the tension. “Stay out of my life, Miles Winter. I knew it was a fucking mistake to work for you. You think I’m a possession. You think you bought me, not just my home and everything I fucking cared about. I’m just one of your ‘staff’; you do what you like with me and mine….”
Miles’ eyes glinted. “Listen to yourself, Zeke. That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’ll just humiliate both of us.”
Zeke wrenched himself free and turned away to lean up against the wall. He was panting, and he could feel his chest tightening painfully. “Why that one, Miles?” It was almost a snarl. “Why 4:DRMS?”
“I….” Miles flushed.
“You don’t know anything about this exhibition. The theme, the colors….” Zeke ignored Miles’ wince.
“I know what I feel,” said Miles, abruptly.
Zeke paused in his anger. Suddenly he was afraid to meet Miles’ gaze.
“I’ve seen some of the other paintings you’re including, and there’s something….” Miles also paused, maybe embarrassed at trying to express a non-expert opinion. “Well, they brought that particular painting of yours to mind.”
Zeke drew a deep breath. His knuckles were sore but he deliberately resisted soothing them. “I never understood why you bought the damned thing in the first place.”
Miles cleared his throat. “I know. I get that.”
Zeke looked up, startled again. What this man did to him….
“It’s probably the most controversial painting in my collection, Zeke, but I… it’s one of the items I like best. May I look at it again?”
Zeke stared at him, bemused, still angry. “Do whatever you fucking want.”
Miles walked over to the painting. He looked calm, but Zeke saw his hand was shaking; his steps were a little unsteady. Miles ripped off the packaging and they both stood looking at the uncovered painting.
It’s not for you, Miles. Is it? Zeke tried to examine it objectively, as Miles might: an abstract study of violent, unstructured movement; vibrant slashes of paint; thick, sweeping brushstrokes spiraling into a central whorl. Zeke bit back a moan. Emotions and memories clawed at him, and pain threatened underneath the fury.
“It’s awkward, yes.” Miles’ voice was almost toneless, as if he were trying to keep his emotion in check. “Hostile, antagonistic, turbulent even. But very powerful. Two contrasting spirits, meeting in a middle ground. Making the connection regardless. That’s how I interpreted it.”
“How you felt it,” whispered Zeke.
It wasn’t a question, but Miles nodded beside him.
“I painted that one because of Jacky,” Zeke said, quietly. His anger had gone, as fast as it arrived. He felt drained. “Just before he died, though of course I didn’t know that was going to happen. It was how he made me feel. Just like you said. It was all turmoil. That’s how we always were. Dammit, we’d been so close when we first started the gallery, then excited at the way it was going. But we were back to fighting again, as usual. It was a particularly hard time, then… a roller coaster of a time. Carter was miserable, so was I. All I could do was paint it out of me.”
“I didn’t know.”
“How the hell could you?” said Zeke, wearily. His breathing still pained him, but he was calm again. He kept his eyes fixed on the painting. He had to. The pain was real, but the memories were just that, weren’t they? Memories.
“You could have told me,” persisted Miles, his voice low but urgent. “I
want to know. I want to listen to you. You talk a hell of a lot, but you keep so many things secret. You don’t really open up. Not about yourself.”
“You just want to know what the theme of the show is,” said Zeke, wryly. Too close, Miles. “That’s what you mean. Like Malia noses around every day; like Tony’s running a book on guessing what it’s going to be.”
Miles shook his head. He looked more puzzled than angry. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You twist the conversation around when it gets personal. Make jokes.” He sighed. “I’d like to know the theme, true.”
“You’ll find out.”
“On opening night?” It was Miles’ turn for a wry smile.
Zeke shrugged. “And anyway, why are you encouraging a mere employee to show in your own gallery? You sure this special attention isn’t just because you’re fucking me?”
For a second, he thought he’d gone too far.
Miles’ hands clenched into fists, his eyes darkening again. “You can be such a shit, Roswell. I would never do that.”
“I know,” said Zeke, quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like it did. Sort of.” He grinned, willing Miles to follow. “And anyway, we’re not actually doing all that yet, are we?”
Miles gaped at him. Then he started to laugh. “We’re certainly doing something,” he said.
“Sure are,” replied Zeke. Miles’ eyelids looked heavy, as if he were dreaming. It was damned hot. “Just fooling around, maybe?” He thought of the hours spent kissing Miles’ mouth; licking Miles’ sweaty, salty skin; nibbling the tasty buds of those generous brown nipples.
“We’re fooling around indeed,” Miles said. His voice had sunk to a sensual, throaty tone.
