Found at the Bookstore

by Christi Snow

  Warm, vile-smelling, thick liquid spewed across Stig’s back and down his collar. He froze, and for a moment he was pretty sure that he was going to become one of those people who sympathy vomit as he held Ryder to keep him from falling.

  Ryder collapsed in his arms, and his stomach stopped heaving. Stig gently lowered him back into the seat and slowly stood, peeling off his destroyed leather jacket at the same time. The yuck dripped off it.

  “Aw, man, that sucks.”

  Stig hadn’t realized the taxi had arrived in the middle of all that. The overweight, middle-aged taxi driver stood next to the cab, his lip curling at the stench rising off Stig. “I’m assuming you’re my hire, but you can’t get into my taxi like that. I just got last night’s vomit out of my seats.”

  “Lovely. Yes, I’m your hire, but I don’t need you to take me. I need you to take this.” He gestured toward the wheelchair. He let the coat drop to the ground and opened Ryder’s wallet. Yep, he’d found an ID with an address. “We’re headed to 1456 Michelin Drive, apartment number twenty-six, but just follow me, and I’ll get the chair from you in the parking lot.”

  “Sounds good.” The cab driver picked up the wheelchair, closed it like someone who did the move everyday and went around to the side of his minivan where the door slid open. “You gonna grab that?” the driver asked with a nod toward the soiled jacket on the ground.

  Stig shook his head. He’d paid several thousand dollars for the leather jacket, but as far as he was concerned, it was trash now. “No, you’re welcome to it if you want it.”

  “Appreciate it. The missus has some solution that gets anything out.” He reached inside his minivan and pulled out a trash bag. He gingerly picked up the ruined jacket and deposited it into the plastic bag.

  That worked for Stig. He nodded at the trash bag. “I don’t suppose you have another one of those...just in case he gets sick again.”

  “Even better. I have actual barf bags.” The driver reached into the van and pulled out a couple of plain white bags and handed them to Stig. “They don’t always help, but you wouldn’t believe how many people barf in taxis.”

  Stig curled his lip. “I can imagine. I appreciate it.”

  Ryder’s apartment was only ten minutes away. He’d had stayed quiet the entire time although he’d shifted a couple of times and winced in pain, so Stig was pretty sure the guy was still awake.

  When he parked and turned off the car, Ryder opened his glazed eyes and looked around. Relief flooded his face. Good, that meant he recognized home.

  “Hang tight. Let me go get your wheelchair, and then we’ll get you inside and settled.”

  “’K.”

  It took a bit of awkward maneuvering, but finally after paying fifteen hundred dollars to the taxi driver—totally worth the cost—he had Ryder parked in front of his apartment door.

  Stig looked at the doorknob in confusion. He’d expected a key lock, but instead this looked like a card reader from a hotel room door. Ryder’s eyes were closed again, so Stig thumbed through the cards in Ryder’s wallet until he found one that might be the key. He slid it in and heard a distinctive click.

  Hmm, that was interesting. Was the card access because of Ryder’s brain injury? Every time Stig had been around Ryder, he’d appeared perfectly normal besides the obvious wheelchair, but the more he dealt with him today, he could see that simply wasn’t the case.

  He pushed Ryder’s wheelchair into the living room of the small apartment and almost stumbled to a halt. While the apartment was small, the décor was top-of-the-line from the dark, mahogany-stained bamboo wood floors to the red leather couches.

  He looked around the apartment, stunned at the expertly executed use of color and light. The walls were painted stark-white to highlight piece after piece of gorgeous, fabulous art.

  Ryder roused and began to roll away, headed down the hall. So blown away by the quality of the artwork on the walls, Stig had forgotten about Ryder.

  Rushing after Ryder Stig tugged off his soiled clothes as he walked, not wanting to dirty up anything in the house with the grime. Across from the bedroom Ryder entered was a bathroom doorway. Stig diverted there and threw his clothes into the bathtub. He’d take care of them after he got Ryder situated.

  Right now, Ryder was so out of it, Stig counted on him not noticing he’d stripped down to his very small briefs. Partial nudity had to be preferable to puke. Stig doubted Ryder was one of those straight guys who had issues with homophobia since Tommy was gay, and the brothers were close.

  He shrugged. Well, he’d find out soon enough.

  When he entered the bedroom, Ryder was trying unsuccessfully to lever himself from the wheelchair to the bed. Stig rushed over to help and was struck again by that tantalizing, outdoorsy scent. It overrode the sour smell that had invaded Stig’s senses.

  Ryder collapsed on the pillows of the unmade bed, his eyes already shut.

  “I know you’re in pain, so you don’t care right now, but you will later. I’m going to pull off your boots and jeans, okay?” Stig asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Ryder gave a half-hearted attempt to help, but Stig just batted his hands away. “I got it. Believe me, I know how to get a guy out of his clothes just fine.”

  Ryder snorted out a surprising half-laugh. Stig glanced up.

  Ryder smirked at him. “I can’t believe you just said that. You know I’m straight, right?”

  “Of course. Hey, you seem more with it. Do you know who I am?”

  “Stig, Mac’s friend.”

  “Good. I didn’t want you to be freaked out about a stranger in your house.”

  As Stig unbuttoned and tugged off Ryder’s jeans, his eyes had closed again.

  Good, then Ry wouldn’t notice how Stig’s gaze lingered over that tantalizing, substantial bulge barely confined by his boxers. He’d never been a fan of boxers. He may just have to revise his stance on that issue.

  “Hard to be...intimidated by guy in...his underwear,” Ryder mumbled, his voice strained with pain and a bit muffled with the oncoming sleep.

  Stig glanced up at Ryder’s face, expecting to find he’d been caught, checking Ry out, but his eyes were still closed, his face screwed up in a grimace of pain.

  “Hey, Ry, do you have any medicine you can take that will help?” Stig asked quietly.

  “Yeah...kitchen. Above sink. Red.”

  Stig made his way into the kitchen, found the pills with the red top and read the instruction. Take one every six to eight hours as needed. Only one? Wow, they must be pretty potent. He found a glass and filled it with water. Then he quietly slipped back into Ryder’s room.

  If Ryder’s face hadn’t reflected his stark pain, he would have let Ryder be since it looked like he’d fallen asleep. But even in sleep, he looked too miserable.

  Stig gently grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, Ry, I have some medicine for you.”

  Slowly, Ryder’s eyes fluttered open. “Wha...what?” He struggled to sit up.

  Stig sat on the edge of the bed and propped him up from behind and held the glass and pill in front him. “This should help.”

  “Thank fuck.” Ryder’s hands were shaking as he took the items.

  Stig wanted to hold the guy tighter, protect him somehow. How he thought he could do anything to help, he had no idea? But he took the cup from Ryder and set it on the nightstand. When it appeared that Ryder wasn’t in a hurry to kick him out of bed, he didn’t move.

  It probably wasn’t normal, but for Stig, the best thing about having a boyfriend was having someone to snuggle with when he felt like crap. Something about that human connection always made him feel better. As Ryder clung to him, it seemed like he might be the same way. There was nothing sexual about it. Just simply solace from human touch.

  Stig leaned back against the headboard and threaded his fingers through Ryder’s thick, soft blond hair, lightly massaging his head. It could have been his imagination, but it seemed like Ryder’s muscles relaxed a bit. But
that could also be the medicine hitting his system, too.

  Chapter Two

  Stig

  It was fully dark when Stig awoke with an asleep Ryder plastered to his chest, his face sweating against Stig’s bare chest. Unfortunately, Stig’s bladder insisted he get up, although he didn’t want to leave this little interlude. He gently slid from beneath Ryder.

  Ryder mumbled unhappily, but he didn’t wake up. Once Stig stood, he looked down at Ryder. He lay partially on his stomach. He still had on the T-shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the day, but it had rucked up his chest, revealing the tease of muscular lats on his sides that had Stig drooling. He’d like to explore Ryder more. With his tongue.

  Stig took a step back as if removing himself from the tempting sphere of the straight boy would fix this insane low-level arousal and lust. He’d never had this issue before with a straight guy. Straight guys were off-limits, and the few who were open for a bit of experimentation weren’t worth the drama and angst. He wasn’t one of those guys who got his kicks by trying to tempt a hot, straight guy. He shook his head and went in search of his clothes and the phone that was still in a pocket. He also needed to see what he could do to salvage the soiled clothes.

  Then after he was sure Ryder was okay, he’d go out and get laid.

  ***

  Once Stig was showered and smelling way too much like Ryder’s tantalizing scent, he was stuck with nothing to do for at least another hour while his clothes finished in the dryer. So he began to snoop.

  First order of business was checking out the intriguing art. The main medium was photography and the artist had a fantastic eye and unusual technique in capturing landscapes featuring really unique perspectives and lighting. Those alone were gallery-worthy.

  But then the artist had taken the art one step further. Beside each canvas featuring a full-color photograph was another piece using that same photograph. But in that second canvas, all the color and shadows had been removed from the original photo to leave a stark black and white outline, and then it had been printed and painted over. If the original photo hadn’t been featured beside it, then Stig would have never recognized that’s what the artist had done.

  While the photos signaled an incredibly talented photographer, the painted versions were fantastic and showed an incredible versatility and talent. The artist had used both watercolors and some other thick medium that Stig couldn’t quite place. He peered closer. The texture and thickness made it look like oil paints, but he didn’t think that’s what the artist had used. What an intriguing mystery.

  The walls were covered with the pieces, but not a single one had a signature on it. Stig desperately wanted to feature this artist in one of his galleries. This was the kind of avant-garde style that had made Minton galleries famous worldwide.

  All the pieces were fantastic, but Stig kept coming back to one in the hall across from Ryder’s bedroom. The photograph was of what appeared to be an empty footbridge with some sort of festival in the background. In the photograph version, the eye was drawn to the colorful tents and faces among the crowds of the festival. But in the painted version, those figures had been left stark, washed-out in black and white, and the eye was drawn to the lone figure on the bridge. In the first photo, the person was easy to overlook. He was in a wheelchair, and his dark clothes and stature lower to the ground meant he blended right in to the architecture of the bridge. In the painting, stark realization hit the viewer at just how alone that person was...with the crowds of people only feet away.

  Emotion clogged Stig’s throat. He used to have this kind of emotional reaction to art often, but it had been years. He’d become somewhat immune to the emotions art could evoke because he dealt in it every day. But this piece was different. This piece spoke to him. It literally hurt him, but that was probably because he could relate so well to it. He went to parties on a weekly basis and so often felt like the person in this photo...apart, alone, sad.

  He wondered if Ryder would sell it to him. Did the artist have other pieces like it? A lot of the pieces touched on the theme of loneliness, but none of them were quite as powerful as this one.

  He rubbed at his face. Or it could be that he was just really tired.

  Mac’s engagement today had taken more of a toll on him than expected, although he knew beforehand that Mac had planned to ask Tommy. The two were perfect for one another and he was happy for them. But at one point in time, he’d thought he’d be the one with Mac, making their wedding plans. Not that Mac was the love of his life, but he’d been the closest Stig had ever come to wanting to settle down. Was he destined to spend his whole life alone?

  He was already thirty-eight years old. Shouldn’t he have found The One by now?

  He shook his head. Normally, he didn’t let himself dwell in thoughts like this. He’d usually go to Eclipse and purge them, but he had other responsibilities tonight.

  His musings were way too deep for this late at night. He checked on Ryder one more time. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully right now. Did he dare leave him alone? How dangerous was it for someone with his mental disability to be left alone on nights like this when he seemed so confused about everything?

  He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave.

  Hopefully, Ryder would be feeling better tomorrow, and they could discuss this situation, or maybe, he’d bring up the issue with Tommy and Mac. If something happened to Ryder, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. For tonight, he’d just sleep on the couch.

  ***

  Stig

  Stig startled awake and sat up on the couch, looking around the strange apartment in confusion. The art reminded him. He was in Ryder’s apartment. It all came back to him quickly...the bookstore, Mac’s engagement, Ryder’s migraine. Another clattering sound echoed down the hall of the apartment.

  Stig stood and followed the trail of light spilling out into the hall. He’d thought that door had led to a closet before, but as he approached the room, Ryder sat in his wheelchair in front of an easel. Stacks of canvases were piled around the room, all facing toward the walls. Besides a table holding an iron and various painting mediums, there was no other decoration in the room.

  Stig focused on Ryder. Sometime during the night, he’d shed his T-shirt, so he sat there in only his boxers. As he reached toward the painting, all the muscles in Ryder’s core tightened and flexed. Stig’s mouth went dry, but then it dawned on him what he was seeing.

  This spare bedroom had been transformed into an art studio. Ryder was an artist.

  Ryder was the artist.

  The pieces clicked. Ryder’s brother, Tommy, was also an artist. It had just never occurred to Stig that both brothers could have that talented gene.

  Being careful to approach quietly so he didn’t disturb Ryder, Stig entered and stood behind him, watching. But it didn’t matter. Ryder was wholly consumed with his creation. If he was aware of Stig, he didn’t acknowledge him at all. He continued to paint.

  Stig tilted his head, trying to see what the original photo had been. He glanced around the room but didn’t see the original photograph for this piece. From what he could tell, this was another bridge piece, but the angle of the photo had been taken from below and to the side of the bridge. The painting was more than halfway painted, so it was hard to tell what the original lines were for sure.

  But Ryder appeared to be transforming the supporting pillars of the bridge into sentries in front of a prison cell. Behind the guards and inside the cell, a huddled form stood isolated, illuminated by a single shaft of light. For some reason at this stage, the art was disturbing, so Stig focused on Ryder.

  He worked with a huge palette in his lap. Right now, he worked entirely in watercolor, but broken and melted crayons lay in complete disarray across the surface of the desk beside him.

  Crayons?

  But even as Stig questioned what he was seeing, Ryder set the palette on the desk, picked up a clothes iron, and expertly ran several pieces of crayon across the surface
of it. He drew the iron across the canvas with as much expertise as an artist would a paintbrush. In the wake of the iron, a mix of grays and gold colors filled the background of the cell in a remarkable effect.

  Stig dropped cross-legged to the floor, completely blown away and mesmerized by the technique. His life revolved around the art world, but he rarely got the chance to enjoy this aspect of it...the creation phase. He wanted to watch more of both the art being revealed and the play of muscles across Ryder’s back.

  His body leapt to life as he watched Ryder paint. It was...arousing. Stig loved art. He also really loved watching a good-looking guy move. This combination of his two favorite things was as good as porn, but he ignored his throbbing dick. This scene would be revisited as part of his spank bank later.

  He spent the next hour simply watching, marveling, and surreptitiously readjusting his junk. When Ryder’s arm began to drop in fatigue, Stig realized how long they’d both been sitting. Ryder hadn’t been in good shape to begin with.

  “Hey, Ry. How about we get you back in bed now?”

  Ryder scowled at the painting and added another stroke, acting like he never even heard Stig.

  Stig stood and touched Ryder’s shoulder lightly. Still no response.

  It wasn’t until Stig literally took the paintbrush from Ryder’s hand that Ryder looked at him. Then there was absolutely no recognition or truly any light or life in his eyes at all. He looked like someone in a fugue state...there, but not truly there mentally.

  What the fuck?

  Stig pulled the wheelchair back from the painting and crouched in front of Ryder, gripping his chin lightly. “Hey, Ry, are you in there? It’s me, Stig. Are you tired?”

  Ryder flinched, his eyes cleared slightly of their dazed glint, and then his forehead creased. “Hurts,” he mumbled and closed his eyes, sinking his head into his palm.

  For the second time in the last twelve hours, Stig felt completely overwhelmed and unable to deal. He had no idea what was normal for Ryder and what wasn’t.