by Clare London
Zeke didn’t answer directly. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Carter? Need my family around me.”
“Sure. Of course. I enjoyed the last one tremendously. Miles is very impressed with you, Zeke. He thinks a lot of you.”
“He said that, did he?”
Carter tried to read Zeke’s expression. It was edgy; it was ambivalent. Just stress, worrying about the forthcoming show? “Not in so many words, perhaps. I saw it in his face and his attitude. Zeke, what’s happening with you these days? I’ve barely seen you for the last couple of weeks, and I assumed that was because you were so busy with the gallery. Don’t get me wrong; that’s fine. I’m not hassling you, but if there’s something wrong, and I can help….”
“Nothing’s wrong, Carter,” sighed Zeke. “What did you think of him—of Miles Winter?”
Carter felt the emotional undercurrents, and he chose his words carefully. “I liked him. He seemed honest. He was frank with me. A man who won’t stand for nonsense. A man who expects to get what he wants.”
“Yeah, he does. He expects success.”
“Yes, I presumed so. He certainly inspires it. Look at you, Zeke. Look at what you’ve achieved.”
Zeke made a snorting noise but Carter ignored it. Instead, he drew a breath, and deliberately broached the most provocative subject he knew. “You’re drawing again, I think.”
Amazingly, Zeke didn’t explode—or snarl. Or call for another drink. “Sure,” he sighed. “You think right. You usually do. Something stirred in me, Carter, and I just thought I’d give it a go. No painting, just the pencils. But not at all—”
“Like Jacky.” Carter nodded. “Of course not.” He understood.
Zeke sat back on his seat, his eyes on the bar, not his companion. “I don’t know what got me going again. Heartburn, maybe. Insomnia. Temporary insanity.” His accompanying laugh was false.
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Zeke,” said Carter, softly. “You have a talent and you want to use it. No one would criticize you for that.”
Zeke looked at Carter, but his eyes seemed to focus on a spot just north of Carter’s head. “I’m not much of a bet, am I Carter? I had a family, I lost it. I painted stuff, gave it up. I owned a gallery, fucked that up too.”
Carter wondered what this was all about.
“Like I say,” persisted Zeke. “There’s been jack shit success in my life so far. I’m… I don’t want anything to spoil the show for Miles. He deserves the best. He deserves the success that means so much to him. He is honest, Carter. He’s trusted me, and he’s supported me….”
“And now you’re scared you’ll let him down. Is that it?” Carter saw the flicker of shock in Zeke’s eyes, and he cursed his own blindness. Zeke and Miles Winter were together in some way. He could see it in Zeke’s face; in his body language, as he hugged himself close against the table. In his over-bright eyes; in his halting words. They were drawn to each other, and perhaps already more than that. When had this all happened? How had he missed such an important thing in Zeke’s life? Things were moving on for them all, it seemed.
“You can be just as successful, Zeke,” he said, slowly. “Listen to me. Be yourself. Give your own commitment. That’s success in itself, however it all turns out. You’re as caring and sincere as anyone else. Your gifts are as good as anyone else’s, your company and friendship as rich. Dammit, probably more so.” His voice had risen in passion. He knew what he said was the truth, but he was afraid that it sounded trite; that it sounded patronizing. That Zeke wouldn’t listen.
“As good as anyone else?” came Zeke’s hesitant, wry comment.
Carter’s heart ached to see how much the younger man wanted to believe him. How much he hid that with his cynicism and apparent carelessness. “Would I lie to you?”
“No,” replied Zeke, and his sudden grin appeared. “Though when you told me I looked good in that orange shirt you may have stretched the truth a little.”
Carter laughed, then. “Dammit, Zeke, Miles will see what you’re worth, as well. He must already! He trusts you, he’s relying on you. You won’t let him down. Of course you won’t.”
“I’m wrong for him though, aren’t I?” said Zeke, sharply, as if Carter would know what he was really trying to say, but obviously didn’t have the balls to express aloud. “I’m bad for him. Unreliable. Not part of his structured life. Best I keep my distance, eh?”
Carter knew exactly what he meant. “He wants you, Zeke. That’s all it takes to start with. Dammit, I can’t say I know how to live a good and satisfying relationship; I can’t say mine was much better than stormy. But I know what it means to want someone, and how strong that can be. How exciting and how rewarding—for you both.” He put his hand on Zeke’s arm. “You can trust Miles Winter, Zeke, I’m sure you can. You must.”
“Must, eh?” Zeke smiled, though he looked rueful. “That’s very big brother of you.”
Carter frowned. “Don’t piss me off, Zeke. I won’t rise to that attitude of yours.” He gentled his tone. “You care a lot for him, don’t you? For Miles. I’m very pleased for you. Why won’t you let him know that? Why won’t you accept it, and enjoy it?”
“So what would Jacky think?” Zeke’s voice was harsh.
Carter felt the stab of emotion that he always did, whenever someone mentioned Jacky’s name. “Jacky?” Part of the feeling was nostalgia; part of it was an aching mixture of agony and long-lost, bittersweet joy. “He’d be pleased too, I’m sure.” He peered at the young man on the seat beside him. Zeke seemed to have withdrawn into himself, and a chill teased at the back of Carter’s neck. “Is that what you’re worried about? What you’re scared of? That it somehow detracts from your relationship with Jacky, undermines your love for your brother? Zeke, that’s nonsense.”
“I can’t help how the fuck I feel,” Zeke growled, flushing. “I thought you felt the same way. We both suffered the same pain; we both lost the same loved one. We both let him down in the end.”
“But you don’t have to sacrifice your life for him.” Carter was both puzzled and shocked. He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. Jacky’s death had been the worst thing to have happened to him, and to Zeke too. But he’d never thought Zeke would carry that grief through all of his life; that he’d put everything else on hold forever. He expected that of himself, of course. But not Zeke.
“Is that what this is all about?” he repeated, trying to calm his voice. “Guilt? God…. You couldn’t have helped him, Zeke. You couldn’t have saved him. It was a terrible accident, and you lost something precious, but it’s gone now. You can’t get it back, whatever you do; however you behave.”
“I loved him,” Zeke said, very low, very softly. “Hated him, too, sometimes.”
Carter took a deep breath. “So did I. But I’d never have wished his death. Just… it happened. We didn’t make it happen. We had no control over it, or of course we’d have tried to stop it. But now we have to move on.” Zeke looked up, his eyes showing real surprise, and something about his expression jolted Carter. “Zeke, you don’t think you have to look out for me as well, do you?”
Zeke’s eyes narrowed. He looked abashed and startled, as if he’d been caught out. “Hell, no. Think you manage okay on your own, Carter. Of course you do. For God’s sake, I’m no kind of guardian, am I? No kind of role model.”
Carter ignored the words and went instead for the painful, exposed truth in Zeke’s expression. “I didn’t manage. You know that. If I hadn’t had you as a friend—as good as a brother—I don’t know how I would have kept going. You know that, don’t you? We helped each other, supported each other. Still do.”
“Apart from the fashion advice,” growled Zeke, trying awkwardly for a joke. His eyes shone a little.
“But we’re separate guys, aren’t we?” persisted Carter. “You must make your own way now, Zeke. You’ve got such potential, so much to offer. You can be something different from him, something better than him. He’
s held you back enough, alive and dead. I want you to move on, now. Jacky would too. I knew him well enough to know that.”
“And you?” said Zeke, very quietly. “You going to do the same? You talk a good talk, Carter. Going to walk it too?”
“This isn’t about me, Zeke. Not today. This is about you and Miles.” Carter sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. Damn, if he’d known today was going to end up like this…. “Caring for someone else doesn’t mean you stop caring for me.”
“Or him?”
Carter held Zeke’s arm more tightly, and pulled him in for a hug. He didn’t care what the hell the rest of the bar thought, if anyone were interested in their soul searching. What mattered was Zeke. “Yes,” he whispered into the auburn curls. “Or Jacky.”
CARTER stood with Zeke for a while on the street corner outside Marty’s, ready to see his friend set off back to his apartment. He’d enjoyed the evening out, despite Zeke’s misery and—he had to admit—his own disturbed emotions. He knew Zeke provoked him sometimes, and they didn’t always agree. But they’d always been honest with each other. Zeke had learned to take him as he was. Had his honesty been what Zeke wanted? Was Zeke’s what he, Carter, needed?
They’d stayed in the bar for another hour or so, during which the chat had eased up and the jokes been more forthcoming. Carter had persuaded Zeke into discussing the exhibition. They laughed at the memories of the last show, and then at some of the phrases used about Zeke in the publicity articles for this upcoming event. Zeke had been there before, of course—he admitted he recognized the fulsome praise and the overblown descriptions of him and his talent in the press. But they both knew how quickly those papers could be wrapped around tomorrow’s garbage.
Yes, it seemed Zeke knew a lot more now than he had a couple of years back. It made Carter feel both reassured and nervous. He turned around to say goodbye and found Zeke staring at a man on the other side of the street. The man was watching them. He didn’t look like a stalker and he wasn’t hiding. In fact, he looked like he’d been on the way over but had hesitated, waiting respectfully for them to finish their conversation. The man’s eyes flickered between the two of them, and settled on Carter.
Carter felt unsettled. “Who is it, Zeke? Someone for you?”
“You met him once, Carter, at the first show. It’s Red De Vere—Miles’s friend, Mr. Rich Playboy. And I think it’s you he wants to see.”
“Me?”
The traffic stopped, and Red was now striding purposefully over toward them.
Zeke pressed Carter’s arm once. “Be good, huh?” Then before Carter could reply, Zeke had gone, dodging a group of office workers on their way home and cutting through the line of cars and cabs to get across. He was grinning all the way, not bothering to hide that from Carter.
Red De Vere paused in front of Carter, smiling slightly. “Mr. Davison? Sorry to butt in. I called around at your apartment with a note, but the guy in the downstairs room said you’d be here at the bar. It wasn’t far…. I thought I might catch you before you moved on elsewhere.”
Called around with a note? Carter was puzzled. What on earth did he want to send me a note for?
“I wanted to meet you,” continued Red, obviously seeing the surprise on Carter’s face. For the first time he looked uncomfortable. “Dammit, I thought it’d be too easy for you to turn me down on the phone. I wanted to explain what I think we need to discuss. Wanted to see you face to face, I guess.”
Carter stared at him. De Vere was as tall as him, though fuller in figure. A stunning man, Carter noted. Striking, classically handsome features; light blond hair cut short over his ears, but longer over the forehead and into the nape of his neck. Wide shoulders. He carried himself very confidently. Yes…. Carter noted again, albeit rather unnecessarily, Red De Vere was a gorgeous-looking man, dressed to perfection in dark linen pants and shirt, under a well-cut raincoat and finished off with soft leather boots. Footwear like that must have cost a fortune; the clothes even more so. Carter wondered, bemused, why he was considering the economics of another man’s clothes. It wasn’t as if he had much interest in fashion. He felt a little disorientated.
Heads turned as the crowd ebbed and flowed around them on the sidewalk. The admiration was all for Red, of course. Carter looked back at the man’s face, and saw amusement sparking in the large, pale blue eyes. It masked the flicker of uncertainty that had been blossoming there.
“Will you have a drink with me? Since Mr. Roswell has now left?”
“Here?” asked Carter, bluntly.
Red shrugged. It was an elegant, attractive gesture, and Carter suspected that he knew that well enough. “Beer tastes the same wherever, I find. I’d sure appreciate your company.”
“Is this to do with Zeke? Is that why you want to see me?”
Red bit at a full, soft lip. “Partly. You have a most direct way about you, Mr. Davison. I must admit I have a quaint distaste for discussin’ my personal business on the sidewalk….”
Carter nodded. Fair enough. He appreciated honesty in return, didn’t he? “I’m sorry, Mr. De Vere. I must seem very rude. You just caught me by surprise. Let’s go back inside and have a drink. Unless you’d rather reconsider the venue?”
Red’s eyebrows rose very slightly. He looked across at the entrance to Marty’s, appraising the dull windows and the thick paneled wooden door, and probably smelling the slight aroma of stale beer on the breeze. He looked back at Carter.
Carter smiled, slowly. “Not your usual setting?”
But Red didn’t look either insulted or annoyed. He smiled back, his eyes searching Carter’s. Despite himself, Carter felt something stir in his gut—something that piqued his curiosity.
“Marty’s will be fine,” Red said. “Lead the way.” His smile was easy and charming, though maybe a little cautious. “And you can buy the first round.”
Chapter 9
RED nursed the ice-cold beer that had brought tears of surprise to his eyes when he first drank from it. It was refreshingly good. He sat fairly comfortably in a booth at the back of the bar, with Carter Davison a foot away, sitting beside him. He’d offered for Carter to call him Red, but he’d not been offered the friendly gesture in return.
“So what did you want to talk to me about, Red?”
Red felt the reins of control slipping out from fingers that he’d always thought were pretty strong. His fingers; his control. Carter Davison was that unusual person, someone who didn’t immediately fawn over Red De Vere. He appeared unfazed by Red’s money, his sophistication, and—most especially—his facile wit.
“I need to talk to you about somethin’. To ask for confirmation about things that you know, and I don’t. Because….” His fingers ran slowly down his beer bottle, wiping the condensation onto the tabletop. “Because you knew Jacky Roswell.”
Carter’s eyes flashed suddenly, and his hands tightened on the table as if he braced himself to rise.
“Hold on,” said Red, softly. “Hear me out. I know you were his lover.”
“And he was mine,” said Carter, his voice a thread of strain.
“Yes,” said Red. “And he was yours. I understand that.”
Carter looked at him, a little more closely than before. “I don’t discuss that with anyone.”
“And who am I, to change that, eh?” Red persisted. “Just a guy with shockingly good looks, affected mannerisms, and more money than I know what to do with. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Carter looked startled, his eyes narrowing. “I can’t imagine how many times you’ve been told that; enough that you’re immune to the insult, I suspect. But I’ll tell you now, I make my own decisions.”
Red felt a frisson of pleasure run through him. “Thank you. Please believe I don’t mean to offend or distress you. I’m just after information.”
“You won’t,” Carter replied. “Offend or distress me, that is.” But his hand shook slightly as he reached again for his beer. “What is it to you, anyw
ay? Did you know Jacky?”
“A little. I own racetracks that he used to visit. I knew of his lifestyle.” Carter appeared to have relaxed back onto his seat, so Red pressed on. “And while I understand that you two were lovers, I know that he was also seein’ another person at the time of his death.” The gorgeous green eyes of the man opposite snapped up to meet his. Red was surprised at how disturbed he was, seeing the pain in them.
But Carter’s voice was still calm. “So did I, Red. I always knew who he was with. So what?”
Red sighed. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance of another drink with this brusque, self-contained man. He decided to make his first one last as long as he could. “I want some information about it—about that person—and I know no one else to ask.”
Carter seemed to weigh the situation, just like he had when they first met on the sidewalk. Red watched the way his mouth pursed; the way he laid his hands gently on the table, fingers long and outstretched. “Does it concern Zeke?”
“It concerns Miles Winter. You know that they…?”
Carter nodded, curtly.
“And therefore it concerns Zeke as well,” finished Red, determined to regain some advantage.
“I won’t have Zeke hurt,” Carter stated.
“I don’t want either you or Zeke hurt, Mr. Davison,” said Red, slowly. “I don’t want to stir up painful memories for you.”
“I don’t matter.”
“But of course you do, for God’s sake,” retorted Red. They glared at each other for a moment.
Carter’s eyes eventually dropped away. He nudged his empty bottle and drummed his fingers against it. “Talk then, Red.”
Red bit back the exclamation of surprise that rose to his lips. “Thank you, Mr. Davison. I appreciate that.”
Carter leaned back in his seat as if he was preparing for a long session, and he suddenly smiled. Red—like many before him—was astonished at the beauty and warmth of that smile. “Call me Carter,” his companion said. “And the next round is on you.”
