by Alexa Land
I slipped into the building through a gap in the boards over a fourth story window, shed my harness, and pulled my face mask over my nose and mouth as I carefully wound through the former apartment, trailing the cord. The interior was grim, to say the least. Part of the building had suffered water damage, and the smell of mildew hung in the air.
At one time, some of the city’s homeless population had sought refuge here, before the property owner sent in the cops and drove them out. Clothes, bedding, and random items had been left behind, forming hulking shapes in the dark interior.
I located the small generator I’d concealed behind a broken door and plugged in the cord. It was on a timer that was set to go off the next night, which was Christmas Eve. Over the course of the weekend, I’d left generators and painted similar murals at a total of eight buildings throughout the city. But since I’d been discovered at this location, there was a good chance my holiday surprise would be taken down, so I went ahead and flipped the switch.
Then I returned to the broken window and grinned when I looked outside. The abandoned building was reflected in the windows of the apartment complex directly across the alley. A lush, snowy forest with mountains in the background covered the formerly drab exterior. Twelve of the painted pine trees were outfitted with working Christmas lights, and they illuminated the entire mural in a soft, golden glow.
A curtain across the way fluttered, and a little boy peeked out. As a smile spread across the child’s face, I whispered, “Merry Christmas, kid.” He disappeared for a few moments, only to return with two more kids. The joy in their faces as they stared in awe at their improved view made my exhausting weekend, the pain in my hands, and the imminent threat of arrest totally worth it.
Although really, if that last thing could be avoided, I was all for it.
There was a time in my not too distant past when I would have tried to dodge the police by doing something truly crazy, like leaping from rooftop to rooftop. That was back when I was sure the tumor growing inside my skull was going to kill me. I’d lived recklessly, under the faulty logic that I was never going to live to see twenty-five anyway, so what difference did it make?
Thanks to modern medicine, the tumor was long gone. It had left me a few parting gifts though, including a big scar on the side of my head, some minor issues with my fine motor skills, and a profound understanding of just how precious and precarious life was. The latter led me to sneak down a back staircase to avoid arrest, instead of the flashier methods of escape I might have employed back in the day.
I managed to make it out of the building without running into the cops. Victory! When I reached the street, I shivered a little and pulled up the hood of my black sweatshirt. It was nearly midnight on a Sunday, so the only people on the street were the ones who had to be, including homeless individuals with no place to go, prostitutes trying to earn a living, and a few police officers who were lucky enough to draw the overnight shift in one of the roughest parts of town.
San Francisco was a city of extremes. It was one of the most expensive places on earth, and its skyrocketing rents were well-publicized. Nearby, the Silicon Valley churned out millionaires, along with a young, ambitious upper middle class who thought nothing of dropping thousands a month on an apartment in the oh-so-desirable City by the Bay. But the homeless, the disenfranchised, and the working class hadn’t actually disappeared, even as the cost of living reached truly insane levels. Somehow, they found a way to survive in a city that showed them no mercy.
On the surface, I fit in with the fringe. No one gave me a second glance in my ripped jeans and oversized, paint-stained sweatshirt. I looked like what I was: a twenty-six-year-old graffiti artist.
But that wasn’t my whole story.
A few minutes into my walk, a sleek, black SUV pulled to the curb, and a deep voice said, “Hey sexy. Need a lift?”
I grinned at my husband through the open passenger-side window, and as I climbed into the warm, black leather interior and tossed my backpack into the back seat, I asked, “What happened to meeting me at home?”
Shea’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me. “I never signed off on that terrible idea.”
I picked up his hand and kissed his knuckles before saying, “It’s a good thing you never listen. I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Well, no wonder. Eight huge murals in a single weekend must be some kind of record. They’re all gorgeous, by the way, and I’m crossing my fingers that the lights work on Christmas Eve, because that’s going to be spectacular.”
“I turned on the lights before leaving that last building. There were some kids up way past their bedtime in that run-down housing complex across the alley. You should have seen the way their faces lit up.”
“Have I mentioned lately how amazing you are? As if the huge checks to several charities and truckloads of toy donations aren’t enough every holiday season, you’re out there literally making the world a more beautiful place.”
I looked out the window and murmured, “It’s the least I could do.”
That was guilt talking, and I knew it. I was far luckier than most, and I firmly believed in using what I’d been given to make things better for kids who’d been dealt a very different hand than I had.
Thanks to my father, who was both very rich and very famous, I’d never had to worry about money. I actually didn’t meet him until I was ten, so maybe that was the price I had to pay for all that came with being the son of a pop star. But the checks had always been there, from the day I was born.
*****
I didn’t even realize that I’d dozed off as Shea drove us across town, but when I opened my eyes, he was pulling into the garage beneath our home. He led me upstairs and into the master bathroom without discussion and started the water flowing in our large bathtub, because he knew exactly what I needed. As we waited for the tub to fill, I leaned against him and closed my eyes again, and he rubbed my back.
Shea was a natural caregiver. When the brain tumor was chipping away at my coordination and motor skills, I’d relied on him heavily. The same was true in the months that followed my surgery, as I struggled through physical therapy to try to rebuild some of what I’d lost.
My much-repeated message to him these days was, “I’m fine.” That was true, more or less, but he was still a caregiver at his core. It put us at odds sometimes, because I was always trying to show him I was okay and that there was nothing to worry about, while he just really wanted to be the kind, loving, considerate man he was and do things for me.
That particular night, I was way too exhausted to fly the ‘I’m fine’ flag. Instead, I sat on the edge of the tub and let him undress me. We both knew I could do that for myself. I wasn’t helpless, and I wasn’t a child. But I was just so damn tired, and it clearly meant a lot to Shea to take care of me.
I watched him as he knelt in front of me and slid my beat up, paint-spattered Converse from my feet. He was such a beautiful human being, inside and out. Everyone jokingly called him Captain America, both because he bore a strong resemblance to the actor who played that role in the movies, and because he embodied that character in many ways. Shea was sincere, loyal, and just plain good. That wasn’t a word I applied to many people, but it fit perfectly in his case.
After he got my clothes off, he took my hands and massaged my palms with his thumbs. I usually tried to downplay the weakness in my hands, because I couldn’t stand the thought of my friends and family worrying about me all the time. But whenever I spent too long doing anything repetitive, especially using cans of spray paint, it left my hands fatigued and aching. There was just something about the way I had to press the nozzle while gripping the can that wore them out, even after years of physical therapy. Since that was my medium of choice as a graffiti artist, it was an ongoing problem.
Shea was one of the only people who knew about the lingering issues with my hands. He also knew I hated to talk about it, so he just rubbed them until the tub was full. Then
he shut off the water and surprised me by scooping me into his arms. He cradled me for just a moment and kissed me before lowering me into the warm water. I shoved aside my ego and the stubbornness that was one of my most defining characteristics and murmured, “Thank you.”
My husband grinned at me, and then he sat on the edge of the tub and gently washed me. I’d gotten in the habit of wearing my hair long on the top and shaved at the sides and back, and when he removed the elastic band that gathered my hair at the crown of my head, my light brown curls fell to my chin.
That hairstyle put my surgical scar on full display and meant I got a lot of personal questions from nosy strangers. (Why yes, I did have brain surgery. Thank you so much for asking and expecting me to talk about it, random person in line at the grocery store). But I wore my hair like that anyway, because the scar and what I’d lived through were a part of me. I didn’t want to hide the visual reminder and pretend none of it had happened, even if it set me up for a lot of intrusive conversations.
As much as I’d despised it, the brain tumor had shaped me into the person I was today. I’d stared death in the face and come to terms with my own mortality at age twenty-two, and that had changed me, in many ways for the better. The biggest positive was the sense of gratitude I was left with. I knew for a fact that every single day I had with Shea and with my friends and family was an absolute gift, never to be taken for granted. Maybe that sounded clichéd or corny, but it was what I lived by.
The kind, beautiful man who was shampooing my hair had met me when I thought the tumor was a death sentence. I’d been given a life expectancy of months, not years, and the prospect of what I would become as the tumor continued to grow and destroy my brain was horrifying. But Shea stood by me unwaveringly throughout all of it and showed me exactly what true love looked like. I’d never known it was possible to adore someone as much as I adored Shea Nolan.
Right about then, I realized my exhaustion was making me both introspective and emotional, and I really needed to cut that shit out before I got weepy.
I started to fall asleep in the water, and after he rinsed my hair, Shea helped me out of the tub and wrapped me in a thick towel. “It’s not even that late,” I muttered, as I rubbed my hair with a second towel. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“It might have something to do with the fact that you were up until dawn Friday and Saturday, not only creating those murals, but helping Skye install that massive sculpture. It was about three a.m. when we left him and his husband last night, but afterwards you still painted until just before daybreak.”
“I got it done though, with your help. Thank you. I know aiding and abetting me in my less than legal art form isn’t really your favorite thing.”
“No, but you are.”
I grinned at him and tried to run a comb through my damp curls, but it slipped from my grasp. My hand just couldn’t close tightly enough to hang on to it. Shea picked it up without comment and combed my hair for me before fishing around in a drawer.
After a moment, he produced a tennis ball outfitted with a little hole and stuck the end of my toothbrush into it. He’d come up with that solution when my motor skills first started to deteriorate and closing my hand around small objects became impossible. I hadn’t needed it for a while, but this weekend really had taken its toll. Shea put some toothpaste on the bristles and kissed my forehead before leaving me to finish the job. He knew I didn’t want an audience when I was struggling.
After brushing my teeth, I joined him in the bedroom. He’d changed into a white T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and I slid under the covers naked. I whispered, “I love you, Shea,” and moments later, I fell asleep in the comfort and security of his arms.
Christian: Chapter Two
I felt quite a bit better the next morning, though an experimental flex of my fingers told me my grip was still going to be a problem. Even on my best days, it was less than ideal.
Shea stirred beside me, and I turned my attention to the gorgeous man in my bed. It was December twenty-fourth, and we had plans to drive to southern California and catch a ferry to Catalina Island, so we could spend the holidays with my dad and his boyfriend. That meant a long day in the car, but a glance at the clock told me we still had some time.
After I turned off the alarm, which was set to go off in fifteen minutes, I draped my leg over my husband’s thigh. As I nuzzled his neck, he grinned, even though his eyes were still closed. When I slid my hand down his strong body and grazed his cock, Shea’s full lips parted and he drew a breath.
I climbed between his legs and pulled down the front of his sleep pants, and he made a sound almost like a purr when I slid my lips down his shaft. Then he rocked his hips, just a little. I rested my hands on his thighs and sucked him harder, and he let himself fuck my mouth for a few moments while he moaned softly.
I loved watching him let go. Shea was a lot of wonderful things, but uninhibited wasn’t the first word that usually came to mind. That was why it meant so much to me whenever he gave in to his primal side.
In just a few minutes, my efforts paid off. Shea arched his back as he came in my mouth, and I savored his familiar taste before swallowing his load. It felt good knowing I was the cause of the tremor that shook him as he came and the sounds that slipped from his lips.
He caught his breath as I tucked him back in and sat up, and then he gave me an adorably goofy grin and murmured, “Good morning.”
“Hi handsome.” I returned to his side, and he put his arm around me. “How long do I get to cuddle you before we have to get going?”
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and said, “Six minutes. Skye and Dare are expecting us to pick them up in Oakland at nine. Then it should be about a six hour drive to Long Beach, and the ferry ride from there is just over an hour. With a few breaks, some time to wait for the ferry, and the usual delays, we should arrive at your dad and Gianni’s house right around seven p.m., and they told us to plan on Christmas Eve dinner at eight.”
Sometimes I teased Shea about being so organized and precise, but I liked knowing he had everything under control. I was nothing like that, so it was great that at least one of us had those skills.
I told him, “We’d better make those six minutes count then,” as I looked up into those gorgeous blue eyes. He pulled me close and kissed me as I ran my hand over the stubble on his jaw. Then I whispered, “Have I told you lately that I absolutely adore you?”
He grinned at me. “Have I told you lately that it’s mutual?” When he kissed me again, it was deeper and laced with desire, and he asked, “I know we don’t have very long, but do I get to return the favor?”
Shea ran his fingertips over my cock as he said that, and even though I started to get hard and anticipation crackled through me like electricity, I said, “Soon. But for now, I know we have to get going.”
He kissed me again before heading to the shower, and I rolled out of bed and put on a black jock strap that I knew he loved, as a little surprise for later. I then pulled on a pair of jeans, and it took me a few moments to work the zipper and button them with my stiff, aching hands. After adding a comfortable pair of fabric slip-ons, a Ramones T-shirt, and a snug, black cardigan to my ensemble, I briefly considered piling on loads of jewelry. But then I decided to just leave it at a few of my favorite rings, to go with the Tibetan pendant I never took off. I just wasn’t feeling particularly over-the-top that morning.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our walk-in closet and assessed my overall look. My hair hung in my eyes, but I couldn’t do much about that. Gathering it into a bun or ponytail wasn’t possible when my hands were that bad.
Shea joined me a minute later with a towel around his hips. He was clean shaven, and his short, wet hair was a bit spiky. I knew exactly what he meant when he asked, “Up or down?”
“Up, please.”
He was holding two items, and he put the eyeliner pencil between his teeth while he finger-combed my hair
. My husband used the elastic band to gather it into a messy bun at the crown of my head, just the way I liked it, and then he held up the eyeliner as he gave me an inquisitive look.
When I nodded, he uncapped the pencil, grasped my chin, and concentrated on the task of outlining my eyes. I’d found out the hard way that sticking the eyeliner in the tennis ball and trying to draw a straight line was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
He tried so damn hard to do a good job. Makeup was something totally alien to him, but for me, he’d learned what to do. A crease appeared between his brows, and he leaned back to check his work, then added a tiny bit more to my left eye. Once he finished, he grinned at me and said, “I totally nailed it this time.”
My eyeliner was such a stupid, frivolous thing, but he turned putting it on for me into an act of love. I felt emotional as I hugged him for a long moment and whispered a thank you. When I could trust my voice not to waver, I asked, “What should I do while you get dressed?”
“If you want to, you can take our bags down to the SUV. Oh, and there’s a bag on the kitchen counter with snacks and drinks for the road. Could you grab that, too?”
“On it. Do you want me to make us some coffee?”
“No thanks,” he said, as he dropped the towel and pulled on a pair of navy blue briefs. My gaze automatically flickered to his perfect ass. “I’m planning on getting us coffee and something to eat at that organic drive-through to save time. We can pick up breakfast for Skye and Dare while we’re at it.” He’d been on a major health food kick for a while now, and I found it was easiest just to roll with it.
I grabbed the pair of overstuffed duffle bags and headed down the stairs. It was funny to me how our luggage represented us perfectly. Mine was vintage black leather, while his was printed all over with Marvel comics.
