Refraction

by BA Tortuga

  “Oh, when he was a little boy and he couldn’t sketch the things in his head, he could be very frustrated. I have seen a few amazing temper tantrums.”

  “Marge, honey! Don’t make me look bad in front of Calvin. I want to impress.”

  “What kid didn’t throw tantrums? Shit, I can throw one now. You should ask my agent about the little diva in me.” He grinned at Tucker. “Just so you’re warned.”

  Calvin threw that out there to be cute, but he wanted to know more about Tucker. “When did he start painting?” he asked Marge, as if the man wasn’t sitting right next to him.

  “I think he was born painting. Look.”

  Tucker groaned. “Marge. No.”

  She stood and brought over a fancy book, dozens of drawings and paintings glued in. “This first one, he was two. He was finger painting while his mom worked.” The painting was just a jumble of color until she tapped at the photograph of the huge still life that was half-painted. Then he could see it. Little Tucker was trying to paint the same thing.

  He gasped. “Look at that. Oh my God.” He scooted over on the window seat and let her in between them. “That’s crazy.”

  Tucker shook his head, blushed. “It’s just scribbles.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marge turned the page, showing another. “You see, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I totally do.” They were just scribbles kind of like he just got his picture taken. He got where Tucker was coming from.

  “So when did these things—the still life stuff and these little portraits—I mean, I kind of have to ask… when did this turn into the stuff he’s… you’re doing now? Seems like a pretty big leap, you know? Tucker?”

  Maybe that was too personal? Maybe it was none of his business. But how could he not want to know?

  “It just happened. I was doing comic books, and it just got darker as I got older. I got tired of illustrating storyboards.”

  Calvin glanced at Marge but couldn’t quite read her expression. “What’s your inspiration? Where do they come from?”

  “Dreams. Everywhere, I guess. Ideas are everywhere.”

  Marge patted Tucker’s hand. “We don’t have a problem with output, do we?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Calvin nodded, hearing that was about as far he could push in that direction for now. Fair enough. He wasn’t sure if it was just that Tucker couldn’t articulate it, or if he didn’t want to, but either way, he didn’t want to make Tucker uncomfortable. “There had to be what, at least a hundred pieces in the red series. I think the highest number I saw was eighty-something? I loved that series.”

  “One day you’ll have to come to Texas, see the house. My studio there. I’d love to show you around.” Tucker looked eager, like he wasn’t just making a random offer.

  “I’m there.”

  He watched Tucker, the little forward tilt of his shoulders and the way that smile made those blue eyes even brighter, and tried to imagine a world in which two people who’d known each other for three days were saying things like “One day….”

  There just was no such place. Except, apparently, right here.

  He looked at Marge. “Does he just have this effect on people? Like, everybody?”

  “No. No, just certain people who can see how amazing he is.”

  “Y’all!” Tucker’s face was beet red. “Marge says that opening was a success yesterday.”

  “I don’t know what you’re blushing about. She was complimenting me, I believe.” Calvin leaned around Marge and stole a quick kiss from Tucker. “That was going to be my next question. So what does that mean? He made some cash? The exhibit will stick around a bit?”

  “He made some amazing cash. The gallery owner is incredibly pleased and wants to do another show next year. The paintings will stay up a few more weeks, barring a few that the buyers requested immediately.”

  “That’s great news. Aren’t you pleased? And the ‘amazing cash’ will come in handy, since you’re floating that studio for a few weeks. Congrats.”

  “I am. It’s a great space. I can see the people walking, I can work, and I can visit with you some.”

  He’d take some. Some was better than none. If he kept as busy as he’d been, “some” would be about the best he could do too.

  “Marge, you must need some help with dinner.” He stood up. “Tell me what I can do.”

  “Come and pour the wine, hmm? I’ll bring out the cheese and olives. Tuck, will you cook the shrimp for me? It’s all ready for you.”

  He wasn’t really in a hurry to sit with a lot of food he couldn’t eat, but Tucker had done about enough not-eating around him. And actually a couple of shrimp and a little wine wasn’t going to bloat him much.

  “Oh, is this sangria? Did you make it yourself?” He gave the carafe a little swirl, watching the fruit float around in the bottom. Sangria he would totally do. Alcohol calories didn’t count, right?

  “I did. I love the way the oranges taste the next day.”

  He watched Tucker disappear into the kitchen and poured wine for each of them. “Marge… he told you he’s giving up his hotel room, right?”

  She glanced over at him, one eyebrow lifting. “Is he?”

  “Mm-hmm. He’s putting a bed in his studio.” He watched her, trying to figure out if he was off base worrying. It was possible she just thought Tucker was moving in with him; he hadn’t been that clear. Oops. “Just thought you might want to know.”

  “He’s a grown man, but… I can see where he might want a place away from work. Not that he doesn’t live where he works in Texas.”

  Okay, well. That wasn’t helpful. He was probably making something out of nothing. “He is a grown man, that’s for sure.” He winked at her, set the carafe down, and reached for his glass.

  “Naughty!” She chuckled, though, and started putting out little bowls with nibbles. “He’s into you, more than I’ve seen him be. Know I will be put out if you’re mean to him. He’s a gentle soul, no matter what his paintings say.”

  More than she’d seen Tucker be, because the man didn’t have any exes. He wondered if she knew the whole of that picture. Although, come to think of it, would he rate the term “ex” at this point? Probably not.

  “Sister, I dressed in my best college prep school conservative to have dinner with his grandmother’s best friend. Trust me, I’d like to see more of him. He’s way more intriguing than what he paints.”

  “Yesterday’s ensemble suited you better, but I appreciate the costuming on my behalf.” Marge smiled at him, utterly unflappable. “I was the first person Tuck came out to. I’ve been there for the first crush, the first broken heart. I’m pleased he brought you to meet me.”

  But… wait. Tucker’s folks were still alive, right? Still in their son’s life? And he knew the grandparents had been. How was Marge the one who had been there for all those things? Especially when Tucker was so Texas and she was so… not.

  Calvin knew Tucker didn’t discuss his work with his parents, but he hadn’t really shed much light on the rest of their relationship. Apparently he had some demons that had nothing to do with his art.

  “His mom and dad don’t… he said they don’t support his work.” Maybe she’d know what he was asking; maybe she’d even have an answer.

  “Alice has her head so far up her ass she only knows what she’s painting today. She didn’t want to be a mother. She still doesn’t, although it’s easier for her now that he’s grown. Donnie can’t figure out how he ended up with Tucker and not a carbon copy of him.” She rolled her eyes. “I love them, and they love Tuck. They just both feel like he’s not theirs.”

  “That’s okay, Marge. I’m yours and Granny’s.” Tucker came in, popped a shrimp in her mouth. “That good?”

  “You could do worse.” Calvin barely had parents. It was about who you decided was your family, right? “So you cook?”

  “I follow directions like a champ.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Tucker blink
ed down at him, those pretty eyes wide for a half second, before Tucker grinned, shook his head. “Are the shrimp right, Marge?”

  “Perfect, Tuck. Thank you.” Marge’s glance was all too knowing, but he wasn’t going to apologize.

  Never let it be said he didn’t know how to create a distraction. And if Marge could handle Tucker’s paintings, she wasn’t too delicate for a little sexy banter.

  “The shrimp smell great, tiger,” he called after Tucker as the man ducked back into the kitchen. He took a sip of the sangria. It was strong and sweet, just perfect, but it hit his empty stomach a little hard, and he had to set the glass down.

  “Have a couple of olives before you collapse, kiddo. Or cheese.”

  He smiled at Marge, not sure if he was glad she was perceptive or not. “I’m fine. Your sangria is lovely.” No dairy. Were olives okay? Maybe he could try one. He reached over and took one off a cute little olive tray and bit it in half. “Yummy. But I’m holding out for the shrimp.”

  “They are delicious, garlicky and lovely. I hope you enjoy them.”

  “I will.”

  Truthfully, he could go for a nice, juicy steak. And after his shoot tomorrow, if he got home at a reasonable hour, he just might ask Tucker to take him out for one. Or a few bites of one at least. Something about that cowboy made him hungry.

  He popped the other half of the olive in his mouth and savored the salty flavor. “So I had a pretty good handle on what most of what I saw the other night was about, but you didn’t talk much about the little gray one. Hope?”

  “That one’s at all of his shows. It’s not for sale. He painted it… ten years ago? Fifteen? A long time.”

  At every show. So it was what? A good luck charm? Some kind of talisman? There were a lot of demons in that gallery, after all. “Hm. I don’t guess either of you wants to tell me what it means?”

  “I haven’t asked, to be honest. Every artist has something, don’t they? That’s a tiny thing for him to need.” Marge chuckled softly. “I guess I just never wondered. Sometimes I think he’s still a little boy in my head, and this is his touchstone.”

  “He is still a boy in some ways.” Calvin shook his head. He’d known the man for a couple of days. He really had no basis for an observation like that, even if he believed it. “I mean, it just seems like that, I don’t know.”

  “I’m not that innocent, y’all. Shrimp is done. What else do you need? The bread basket and the veggies?”

  “Don’t you love it when people talk about you behind your back, only it’s kind of right in front of your face?” He chuckled and leaned up to kiss Tucker’s fuzzy chin. He was digging the thick stubble; he wasn’t as sure about the emerging beard. “We were talking about that tiny little gray piece, Hope. I wanted to know what it means to you.”

  “I love how the light is pushing through the corner, how it’s a spark.”

  Would that be Tucker’s answer if they weren’t here? Would Tucker say the same thing if they were in bed together, naked in the dark?

  Well, he would just have to find out, wouldn’t he? He’d play along for now, but he wasn’t going to let Tucker get too comfortable with that response. “Mmm. Yes, the spark. Of course.”

  Tucker pinked, then winked at him. “Do you have a busy week coming up? I’d like to show you the studio space.”

  “I’ll know tomorrow. I’ve got the 2(X)IST shoot, and that will run at least a day, could bleed over into Tuesday. And Michael will let me know what’s coming up next.” He shrugged. “I’ve never really asked for my calendar in advance, but… maybe I should for a while, huh?” Maybe he should? Hell yes, he should. How else was he going to make plans with the cowboy? “I want to see it. And you should come along on one of my shoots sometime.” That was possible, right? He’d ask Michael.

  “Oh, I’d like that. I’ve never watched a photo shoot. What’s a 2(X)IST?”

  He gave Tucker his best flirty smile. “It’s hot underwear, baby. What else?”

  Tucker’s eyes went blisteringly heated, the throb of naked desire making him flush.

  “Boys, be good. No longing glances in my dining room.”

  “Sorry.” Jesus Christ, he wasn’t sorry at all. Still, it seemed like a good idea to look anywhere but at Tucker at the moment. “Um. You wanted bread? I’ll go get it.”

  He scooted past Tucker and into the kitchen. There was a basket of different little bread, so he grabbed it.

  “Marge says she wants the oil and the shallow bowl with spices and garlic.” Tucker came in, wrapped one hand around his hip, and pulled him in close. “Kiss me, honey. Please.”

  That required no thought at all. He went up on his toes, and his lips found Tucker’s like there was nowhere else they belonged. That “please” sent a bolt of lightning up his spine every time. It was offered over so freely, without any artifice.

  Tucker sighed for him, tongue sliding in to taste him, to lap at him, and he answered with his own.

  He was a little surprised to discover that the rational part of his brain still had any hold over him at all, but it did, and it reminded him about the basket of bread in his fingers and the nice lady in the living room. Calvin put a hand on Tucker’s chest and stepped back, breaking contact gently. “You’re… going to have to hold that thought.”

  Breathless already. None of this made any fucking sense.

  “I know. I just wanted to taste, to say thank you for coming to meet her. Hell, I just wanted you.”

  “Every second.” Sending Tucker home alone tonight wasn’t going to sit well with either of them, was it? “She’s sweet. She loves you so much. I’m glad you invited me. Or she invited me.” He laughed, not quite able to escape the pull of Tucker’s eyes.

  “Come on. We’ll have supper and visit, and then… can I bring you to the hotel, or do you have to get ready to work?”

  “I need to go home tonight.” But he didn’t want to. “I can’t be all puffy-eyed in the morning. I have to sleep. And the car is coming for me at seven.”

  “I get it. You’ll tell me when I can see you again, and I’ll see you.” God, it felt good, how much Tucker wanted him. “I’ll just have to work until I see you again.”

  “Could be Wednesday….” He knew that was apologetic, even though Tucker didn’t seem to need that from him. “But I’ll text.”

  “Good deal. Come on. Bread. Oil. Weird little garlic plate.”

  “Plate’s over there.” Calvin scooped up the oil in his free hand. He’d let himself have a couple of the shrimp, a little bit of wine, and see if he could get some of Tucker’s other embarrassing childhood antics out of Marge.

  Chapter Nine

  WINDOWS. CANVASES. Boxes. A bed.

  Tucker looked around the space again and pulled the huge tall table from across the room to the center of the studio. Then he climbed up on top of it to start moving the lights.

  Oh.

  Oh, from up here he could see down at the people at a totally different angle. Where was his camera? Oh, right. At home. Phone. Where was his… pocket. Pictures. They looked like birds down there. Wild flocks of ravenous crows.

  He snapped one photo after another, teetering on the edge of the table. Dammit. Okay. He wanted to paint near the windows, but if he moved the table over by the windows he could lean and watch from up tall and…. He needed music.

  He hopped down, grabbed his iPad, and searched for the hotspot, the driving beat filling the air. Oh. Yay.

  Tucker wandered to the little fridge and peeked in. Dr Pepper, cheese, milk, and two jars of olives. He grabbed a can, knowing without question that the cabinet would have a box of Lucky Charms for him and the good coffee.

  Thank God for Marge, electricity, and internet.

  Right. Lights.

  He climbed back on the table, making sure not to look out the windows, and set the lights up so he could work.

  He’d bet Calvin was looking fine under some lights right now. The thought made him smile. He’d drawn Calvin for hours
last night, eyes and smile, the curve of Calvin’s shoulder, the tight little ass. Calvin’s hands, which fascinated him.

  God, those hands. So much about Calvin was aesthetically perfect, but Calvin’s hands were better because they were the slightest bit crooked, the knuckles strong, heavy. They were the promise of Calvin, which made no sense, but Tucker didn’t care. He loved what he loved.

  Who he loved.

  Wait. What was he doing?

  “You mean besides standing on the table, imagining your lover’s fingers, weirdo?” His voice echoed up here, and he didn’t like that. That felt—scary—unnerving.

  Right.

  Down.

  More music. Move the table and start unpacking the stuff.

  That would be like Christmas. He’d told Marge, “Make an order.”

  He loved not knowing exactly what would be in the boxes.

  “Is there a knife in here?” He knew there’d be a palette knife in the boxes, but that wouldn’t…. What was he supposed to do with the boxes? He didn’t want the boxes taking up space. Was there a dumpster? Surely there was a dumpster, except he hadn’t seen a dumpster.

  He was going to have to call Marge.

  Also, he needed to know if there was a place close by to get bagels.

  After he found a knife and unpacked the boxes so he could work.

  CALVIN’S THUMBS hovered over his phone. He just wanted to say hi—couldn’t he just say hi? But Tucker hadn’t texted him, and Calvin knew Tucker was painting today. He really shouldn’t interrupt.

  Which was exactly how Tucker was probably feeling, right? That Calvin was working and he shouldn’t interrupt? Maybe Tucker was eyeballing his phone too. Or maybe Tucker just needed a day off from him. He could be a whole lot of company. Sometimes Calvin wished he could get a day off from himself too.

  Jesus. He really shouldn’t be given breaks—all he ever did with them was pee and worry.

  He would just say hi. Hello, not expecting a response, just wanted you to know I was thinking about you, tiger. He could do that, sure. Because he was.