by Sean Michael
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Drawn: A Hammer Novel
TOP SHELF
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright Ó 2011 by Sean Michael
Cover illustration by S. Squires
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-61040-277-4
www.torquerepress.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: July 2011
Printed in the USA
Chapter One
"Giles? What are you doing? Where are you going? Giles?"
He threw the canvas, watched it sail across the gallery floor. Then he ran, hitting the door so hard it shattered, glass going everywhere.
He didn't even look back at his sister and manager, Marisa's screeching filling the air. "Giles!"
No. No more. Not right now.
None of the canvases looked right. None of the pieces hung right. The light was wrong. The mood was wrong. He couldn't do this anymore.
He turned the corner and running harder, sandaled feet slapping the pavement. If he ran hard enough, fast enough, he would silence the thoughts screaming in his head.
Giles turned another corner and careened right into what felt like a wall. Only it moved, turned, and six and a half feet of muscle stared down at him, hands grabbing his arms to steady him.
"Sorry. Sorry." Big. Whoa.
"Are you all right?" Mr. Big had a great voice. It kind of lodged right in his balls.
"Yeah." He shook his head. "You?"
"I'm fine. It takes more than a slender man like you to knock the wind out of me." One big hand cupped his head, fingers stroking on his scalp.
He blinked up, the touch surprising, stunning, completely inappropriate. "I. I. Thank you? I mean, I'm sorry. I mean..." He was very confused.
Mr. Big jerked his head toward the right. "There's a pub there. Why don't you come in with me? Have a seat for a few minutes."
"With you? But..." He shook his head to clear it. "Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?"
A low chuckled filled his senses. "After sitting together for a while, we won't be strangers anymore. I'm just worried. You seem... confused."
"No. No, just--" He heard his name, his sister's voice. "A beer would be good."
"Great." Mr. Big smiled and a large hand landed on his back, guiding him over to the Tin Whistle.
"I'm Giles. Giles DeSante." It was dark inside, quiet, not busy.
"That's a lovely name, Giles. I'm Harrison Ornell."
Harrison led him to a table by the fireplace in the back.
"Are you a Harry, then?"
The man tilted his head and then shook it, very firmly. "No, I am not."
"No? Good to know." He watched Marisa storm by and relaxed a bit. He would go back, apologize, pay for the door. But not now. Now he wanted to look at the pretty man with the huge, dark eyes. "I knew a few Harrys, didn't like most of them."
"I don't remember knowing any, honestly."
He took a napkin from the table, a pencil from his pocket, and started sketching.
"You're an artist?"
"Mostly." He drew the room, Harrison, the bartender, so he could remember.
"Wow, that's pretty cool."
The bartender came over before he could respond. "Hey, guys, what'll it be?"
"I'd like a Guinness, please." Giles searched his pockets for his wallet. He had it somewhere, didn't he?
"Nice choice. I'll have the same, and we'd like a plate of skins, please. This'll be on my tab."
"Oh, you don't have to. I have money. I have a wallet, too. Somewhere." He frowned, stood, searching.
"Did it knock out of your pocket when you ran into me?"
"Oh, God. I hope not. My address, my... I have to go. I have to find it." He turned and bolted out, heading into the street. Oh, God. Oh, God.
"Giles." Marisa grabbed his arm, spun him around. "Jesus. I thought... I found your wallet. Are you okay?"
"Is everything okay here?" God, Harrison must have followed him.
"I'm... I'm sorry. Give me my wallet, huh?"
"No way, bro. You'll just run. You have a showing. You can't just go."
"Give me my wallet."
"Excuse me." Harrison's voice was quiet, but wow, commanding. "The wallet belongs to Giles, yes?"
"Yes, but I need him to come back to work." Marisa shook him a little. "You can be a crazy artist in four hours."
Harrison crossed his arms and looked at Giles. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
Giles felt his cheeks heat, embarrassment and shame flooding him. "I. I'm sorry." He was. So sorry.
He grabbed the wallet from Marisa's hand and ran as hard as he could, leaving everything behind him.
***
Harrison watched Giles disappear around a corner and turned his attention back to the woman with him. He raised an eyebrow.
"My apologies, sir. My brother, he's very sensitive. I hope he didn't bother you."
As tall and willowy and dark-haired as her brother, their similarity stopped there. She seemed calmer, firmer, less agitated.
"He didn't. You said something about a showing?" He wanted to know more about Giles, wanted to know what lay behind the nerves and the flight. The man was a brilliant artist; he could easily tell that from the drawing on the napkin.
"Yes. His newest installation opens tonight, assuming I can get the gallery door replaced and soothe the owner's nerves. Uh. Boxing Place Gallery, four blocks down." She dug through her purse, coming up with a postcard with an amazing, colorful canvas featured on the front.
"Is this one of his?" Harrison took the postcard, admiring it. He'd been right -- Giles was brilliant.
"It is. He's got quite a following. You're welcome to come to the opening tonight. I can't guarantee he'll make an appearance, but he's supposed to."
"I'll be there. Good luck with the door and the nerves."
"Thank you." She held out one hand. "I'm Marisa DeSante, by the way. Giles is my younger brother by about... oh... twelve minutes."
"Twins! No wonder you look so alike." He shook her hand. "I'm Harrison Ornell, a new friend of Giles'."
"Harrison. Pleased." She chuckled, smiled. "He's not always flighty, I swear."
"If all his work is like this, I can see why people might put up with it." He waved the postcard around.
Her smile was real. "People put up with it because he's brilliant and an amazing soul. Artists are allowed to be self-destructive and crazy. If you'll excuse me, I have to go."
"It was nice to meet you." He nodded at her and watched her go.
Sure, artists were allowed to be self-destructive and crazy, but that didn't mean they had to be. That didn't mean all that couldn't be channeled into something far better. Something with more moaning and less hysterical running.
Harrison could have plans.
He pocketed the postcard and headed home. He had a gallery opening to prepare for.
Chapter Two
"Giles, you have to come out."
"No. There are too many people." He didn't want to. He couldn't. Not tonight. His feet hurt. He'd run for nearly two hours, in his sandals. His feet were a mess.
Marisa sighed. "Just for fifteen minutes? You don't ha
ve to mingle."
"You promise, Mar?"
"My word of honor. Fifteen minutes. You can stand quietly. You can go barefoot."
"Okay. Okay. Fifteen minutes."
His sister kissed his forehead. "Thank you, love. Come on." She took his hand and led him to the edge of the crowd. There were a lot of people out there, looking at his pictures on the walls.
He stood carefully, accepting the glass of champagne pressed into his hand. The room was bright, loud, filled with laughing and clinking glasses. A large man caught his attention. The guy was in one corner, looking at one of his favorite paintings. Oh. It was the man from this afternoon. That embarrassment and shame hit him again, and he turned to run, but Marisa was right there, holding his arm.
Harrison turned, and the man caught sight of him, smiled.
"Oh."
Marisa chuckled softly. "He likes your stuff, Giles."
"He probably thinks I'm crazy."
"You are crazy."
Harrison made a beeline toward him, dark eyes warm, smile wide. "Giles."
"Hey. Hey, did you enjoy your Guinness?" The urge to run came again.
"It wasn't the same on my own. I'm glad you're here tonight, though. I was hoping to see you again." There didn't seem to be anywhere else to look with those eyes focused on him.
"Are you having fun?"
"I'm enjoying the paintings, yes." Harrison's smile seemed to go up in wattage. "Are you?"
"Enjoying the paintings?"
Harrison chuckled. "No, are you having fun?"
"No. I hate these things. I have nine more minutes before I go." Marisa nudged him hard in the ribs, and he grunted. "I'm glad to see you, though." Except for the whole being ashamed thing.
Harrison glanced at his watch. "Well, then. Perhaps we can have that beer together in ten minutes?"
Giles tilted his head. "Really?"
"Yes, really."
"I have my wallet, but..." He thought about his poor, blistered feet, but nodded anyway. He could heal later. "Okay."
The smile Harrison gave him made him feel like the only person in the room, made him buzz inside. "Good."
"Giles? Giles, would you like to meet Karen? She's a reporter from LA..." The gallery owner touched his arm, and he jerked back.
"I don't like strangers to grab me."
Harrison's arm came around him, landing in the small of his back like it had earlier, outside the bar. The man's big body shielded him from everything on the right. "He's a little jumpy tonight. Maybe another time."
"I'd be happy to speak to her, Nathan." Marisa came around his other side, doing her thing, chattering and smiling.
"She's good," Harrison murmured. "Keeps people happy."
"She's my sister." They made a fortune together.
"Yes, your twin. She introduced herself earlier." Harrison glanced at his watch. "We'll be able to fly the coop in just a few more minutes."
"If... you'd like to take her out, I have to let you know she's married."
"Giles. I'm interested in your ass, not hers."
His eyes went wide. "Oh." That made him smile.
Harrison smiled back at him, giving him full attention, and again the rest of the room seemed to fade away for a moment.
"Quiet..." He swayed, blinking a bit. Oh. It was like everything else had disappeared. Oh, this was probably mad. Crazed. Insane.
Harrison's hand on his back steadied him and the man took a half step toward him, close enough to send warmth all along his side.
"I. I have to." He should run. This was... fascinating. Dangerous.
"Come with me. I do believe your nine minutes are up." Harrison shifted again, encouraging him to walk back to the office he and Marisa'd come out of.
He nodded, stepping carefully, his breath coming quickly. He wasn't scared -- more excited, unnerved. Hyperaware of his response to Harrison.
Harrison frowned as they went into the gallery's little office. "What happened to your shoes?"
"They're back here. Marisa said if I came out, I could leave them off."
"Do you not like shoes?"
"I love them, but..." He lifted one bloodied, blistered foot. "I ran. I do that."
"Oh, Giles." Harrison grunted. "You can't go out like that. Let me take you home and doctor up your feet."
"Oh, don't cancel on me. I promise not to let them slow me down."
"Do they have a first aid kit here?"
"I don't know; do they have to?"
A low rumble sounded. "I'm doctoring those feet, Giles. Here, at my place, at your place, wherever, but you can't go out with those feet like that. Not in the streets." Harrison sounded very sure about that.
"But..." He looked at Harrison. "I don't know how to respond to that. I don't... How does someone respond to that?"
"By telling me where you'd like to have your feet looked after."
"I. I. I want to go talk to you."
"I want to talk to you, too. Come back to my place. That way we can talk, and you can indulge me by letting me take care of your feet."
"Where is your place?"
"In the 'burbs. About fifteen minutes away."
"Okay. The studio's close, but... I don't let people in there. Nothing personal, I just can't let anyone in."
"I can drive you to my place. I have a fireplace and a very comfy couch."
"I want to." His heart was racing. This was important. Special. Good.
"Come on, then." Harrison's arm was back around him, hand settling on his waist, and they headed for the back door.
He walked out into the darkness without even telling a soul where he was going. It was amazing. Freeing. Wild. Perfect.
Harrison's car was a black Lexus, the windows tinted, the seats black leather.
"Nice wheels." He approved. "I love the smell of leather. Are you a gangster?" He'd always thought that would be a lusciously fun job.
Harrison laughed as the engine roared to life. "Not quite. I inherited money, and I run a foundation."
Damn. "That sounds very boring."
"It can be. It can also be very fulfilling -- giving kids what they need in life to succeed? It's a great feeling."
He nodded, but he didn't really get it. He didn't get a lot of what normal people did, but he'd decided that was okay. His world was just a little different.
"What about you -- you paint full time?"
"Yes. It's all I do." It was what he was, a painter.
"Yeah? That's intense. Of course, so are your paintings." The luxury car purred through the streets.
"Thank you. It's weird to me, to see them up somewhere not the studio, but they have to find homes." Otherwise the studio would be full.
"They looked good. Your sister's your manager?"
He nodded, smiled. Marisa was good to him. "Yes. She works hard for us. Makes the money."
"She takes care of the details, I bet. Lets you concentrate on the painting."
He nodded, but it wasn't exactly true. He only painted. That was it. He would do it even without her. Marisa made it work for them.
"Did you want a coffee or something? There's a drive-through place up ahead -- last one before my place."
"No. No, I'm good."
"Cool." They turned off the main road into a nice-looking neighborhood, the houses getting bigger the farther they went. Soon the houses were huge, unique, perfect. Giles laughed to himself. No way did men like him fit into manicured homes like these, but Marisa would love to hear about them; he would have to tell her all about it.
They pulled up onto a big circular drive, Harrison parking the car in the garage. There was tons of yard, grounds really, with trees and flowers and a little fountain with several naked young men standing together, high hedges obscuring the view of the street.
"Wow." He headed to the fountain, fascinated, completely ignoring his feet.
Harrison chuckled and followed him over. "Nice, isn't it?"
"It is. Can I touch it?"
"Sure. Hell, clim
b in and get your feet wet. You'd look perfect cavorting with the boys there."
He slipped into the water, moaning at the coolness on his feet, smiling as the water wicked up his trousers. Harrison laughed, and a moment later the man climbed in next to Giles, barefoot, pants rolled up to his knees. He blinked up at Harrison, then cracked up, applauded. Harrison bowed and slid a hand over one of the stone boys' rumps. Then over his. The man's eyes bored into him, the smile sure, sexy.
"Did my sister tell you I was queer, or did you figure I was, since I was an artist?"
"Your sister didn't say, and it has nothing to do with what you do for a living. I knew when you nearly ran me over in the street." The hand on his ass squeezed, then slid slowly up along his spine.
"Mmm. How?" His body arched.
"I just knew. Call it gaydar or whatever, I can tell. Can't you?" Harrison's hand was up to his shoulders now.
"I don't pay attention, much." He was paying attention to that touch, though.
"No?" Harrison's hand slid up farther, and then cupped the back of his skull, tilting his head slightly. That's when Harrison kissed him. Giles opened up, the kiss sudden and deep enough that his toes curled, his poor feet screaming with the motion. Harrison's tongue invaded his mouth, sweeping through it.
Oh. Oh, God.
He'd been kissed hundreds of times, but this was... special. It stole his breath, and Harrison didn't seem inclined to end this kiss. It went on, made him feel weak, even as his hands wrapped around Harrison's shoulders, holding on.
When the kiss was over, Harrison swept his feet out from under him and, holding him close against the broad chest, carried him out of the fountain and toward the big house.
"Oh." He wasn't a small man, but Harrison carried him like he was.
"I don't want you doing any more damage to your feet. You need them for the next time you want to run."
"I have to run a lot."
"How come?" Harrison leaned, punched a series of numbers into the pad next to the door. It clicked and opened.
"It's the only way to make things quiet."
"In your head?" The door closed behind them, and Harrison elbowed on a light. They were in a large foyer, plants and windows everywhere.
"I... I'm not crazy."
"I didn't say you were. I just assumed you meant making things quiet figuratively rather than literally." Harrison kept walking, going down a hall a short way before turning into another room. The lights went on, revealing a stunning bathroom.
