Randy stepped back. “Don’t do that, Danny. I told you no strings and I meant it.”
Danny swallowed hard. “What if it’s not payment?” Randy tilted his head, puzzled, and Danny said more boldly, “Maybe I just think you’re hot.” He leaned forward and stretched on his toes to try for a kiss.
Randy held him back with his hands on Danny’s thin arms. “Ah, kid. Thanks. I’m flattered but you’re, what? More than thirty years younger than me. No offense, but I’m into men closer to my age, not to mention legal. Okay?” He’d tried to be light, but Danny dropped his eyes to the ground and turned red. “Don’t look like that. You took a shot and I turned you down. That’s all. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”
“I’m not good enough for you,” Danny mumbled, and Randy shook his head.
“You’re good enough that I brought you into my home. Shit, you’re plenty cute but you’re way too young for me. When you find the right guy it’ll all come together. Besides, you’ve got the balls to go for what you want. That’s good too.”
He looked up shyly. “Okay. I’m sorry I made things weird.”
“It doesn’t have to be weird. Grab a shower and I’ll leave a shirt on the bed for you. Toss your clothes outside the bathroom when you strip and I can throw them in the wash.”
Danny started to move into the hall bath, then whirled around and blurted, “Why are you being so nice to me, if you don’t want sex?”
“It’s just how I was raised,” Randy said with a shrug. “You see someone you can help, you do it. Maybe someday there will be somebody you can help, and you’ll step in. That’s enough for me.”
“You don’t even know me. What if I, dunno, try to rob you while you’re sleeping?”
Randy caught him with a gimlet stare. “You planning on doing that?” Danny turned pale and wide-eyed as if Randy had grown bigger without even moving. The boy shook his head quickly. “Didn’t think you would. So, shower. Bed. I usually get up by eleven, so if you wake up earlier and you’re hungry, help yourself in the kitchen.” He turned away toward his own bedroom.
A little later, after throwing Danny’s clothes into the washing machine, Randy let himself out of the kitchen and crossed the walkway to his studio. Fingers twitching, he wanted to get down the sadness and fragility in Danny’s face. He should be in bed but allowed himself an hour to sketch to see what he could come up with. He unlocked the door and flipped on first the overhead light, then a small lamp. Grabbing a sketchpad and some pencils, he sat in his rocker and began to rough out what he saw in his mind’s eye.
Nearly two hours passed before Randy caught sight of the small clock on his workbench and realized it was already five-thirty. “Shit,” he muttered. He was going to be exhausted if he didn’t get some sleep. One more look at the sketchpad, and he was pleased. He’d done a decent job of suggesting Danny’s delicate features and the loneliness and fear in his eyes as he stared through a window and into the night. Behind the pensive figure, Randy had roughed in the key details of Del’s Diner. He’d like to do a few more sketches of Danny from different angles before he committed, but he thought this could make a powerful painting.
• • •
When he woke at eleven, Randy was fuzzy from lack of sleep, but he could smell coffee and bacon. In the quiet of the house, he heard the dryer door open and close again, followed by a few beeps. He tensed for a moment at the unfamiliar scents and sounds before he remembered.
Danny.
Randy wore sweat pants over his gym shorts downstairs. He didn’t bother with a shirt, but realized that might have been a mistake when he walked into the kitchen, scratching his hairy chest, and Danny ran his eyes up and down his torso. Dammit. He wasn’t trying to stir shit up with the kid; he just didn’t think. The front of Danny’s oversized T-shirt tented out a bit but Randy pretended not to notice.
He remembered what it was like to be a teenager and bone up over every decent-looking guy that passed by. Rather than run awkwardly back upstairs, he ignored the flush on Danny’s face and poured himself a cup of coffee. Drank deeply. Muttered, “That’s good. Thanks.”
Another sip and he woke up enough to ask, “How are you feeling today? Are you having any nausea or trouble with your eyes?”
Danny shook his head. “I don’t think so. My face aches a little and my ribs are sore, but it isn’t too bad.”
“Good. You’ve got a bruise coming in there on your cheek. Be sure to put some more ice on your face and your side both. That’ll help with the swelling.”
Danny fidgeted under Randy’s gaze before he whirled away and tugged down the edge of his shirt. “Oh! I cooked up some bacon too. I hope that’s okay. You said to help myself.”
“It’s fine.”
“I made extra. It’s keeping warm in the oven. Can I make you some eggs to go with it?”
“Uh, sure. Why not?”
Randy sat on a stool at the center kitchen island and watched Danny bustle around. He’d figured out where the basic pans, utensils, and plates were kept, and in a few minutes he placed a platter of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast before Randy. He was obviously competent at basic cooking, which suggested that at some point he’d enjoyed a normal home life with a caring parent.
“This looks good. Thank you.”
Danny’d apparently gotten himself under control, so he poured another coffee and leaned against the counter as Randy ate. He drew himself inward somehow, making him seem even smaller than he had the night before in his thin sweatshirt. Still and quiet, there was an air of eagerness to please. Wary, yes, but not out of his element in a comfortable kitchen. Randy would bet Danny hadn’t been on the streets long.
He couldn’t help himself—he had to know. He took a bite of eggs and glanced up casually. “So, how’d you end up homeless? Your parents kick you out?”
Danny flushed and turned away, but Randy just waited. Sure he was being nosy, but he had some investment in this kid’s well-being. If Danny told him to fuck off, well, that was his prerogative. But maybe he’d want to talk.
“My mother died six months ago,” Danny finally answered, his voice soft and thick. “Heart attack. There was no money, and I couldn’t find any work except bagging groceries. That wasn’t enough to keep the rental house. When the landlord changed the locks, I took what money was left and just got on a bus. I figured anyplace was better than that.” He shrugged. “I ran out of money when I got to Washington.”
“Father?”
Danny flicked him a glance, and the emotions Randy read there were confusing. Anger. Doubt.
Finally he spoke. “My dad hasn’t been in the picture much. I don’t really know him. I just saw him a few times a year.”
“No other family?” Randy asked, and Danny shook his head.
Shoulders hunched, he clutched the coffee cup to his chest. Abruptly, he asked, “What time do you go back into DC?”
Randy flicked a glance to the wall clock. “Usually I head in around three, three-thirty, to get the bar ready for opening.”
“Oh. Can I, um, get a ride with you? Back in.” Danny turned red. “To the park.”
Randy winced. What the hell was he thinking to bring this boy home? He only wanted to give Danny a warm place to spend a night as a break from the homeless camp under the bridge. Now he had to think about sending this small, thin, bruised-up kid back out into the same scary space, alone. His stomach rebelled at the thought.
“You need a safer place to sleep. The Beach isn’t good for you.”
Danny flushed deeply. “I’ll buy a coat with what you gave me last night.” His color faded quickly from red to almost-green. “Unless you want the money back.” He swallowed hard. “It’s there on the dining room table if you want it.”
Randy shook his head. “I don’t want the money back. I can take you to buy a coat this morning. Maybe some other clothes.”
“No. I mean, thanks but if I’m wearing anything new…”
“You’ll have to fig
ht or lose it. Okay.” Randy finished his breakfast, and Danny leapt to take his plate and cutlery to wash. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. To say thank you.” Danny wouldn’t look at him as he rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the washer. As he bent over, his skinny pale butt flashed. Embarrassed, Randy scooped up the bills he’d deposited on the counter and started reading through them until a beep signaled that the dryer in the utility closet between the kitchen and study was done. Danny dashed over to pull out his jeans, underwear, and sweatshirt. He clutched them to his chest. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go put these on upstairs.”
While he was gone, Randy tapped the counter and thought hard. Finally, he reached for his cell phone.
“This is Joe Mulholland,” he heard. Randy had to smile at the soft words in a slight Boston accent from his favorite customer.
“Hey, Joe. It’s Randy. Am I disturbing you?”
“Randall! Of course not. I’m always delighted to hear from you, dear heart. Can I do something for you on this beautiful autumn day?”
“I have a question. I know how full up you are at Rainbow Space, but could you make room for a seventeen-year-old? For a few days?”
“Oh, my dear, I so wish I could.” Joe sounded distressed. “Every bed I have is taken, and Child Protective Services keeps sending me more names.”
“I get it. Listen, is there another place you’d recommend? Something safe for a gay kid?” Not that he knew for sure, but the way Danny reacted to him made it a safe bet he was either gay or bisexual.
Joe sighed. “If only there was. The city runs several shelters, of course, and they do try. But you know the dangers, especially for a young person on his own. Or is it her own?”
“His. It’s a homeless boy I met last night. He’s been sleeping on the P Street Beach, but I don’t know since when. Not very long, I’d guess.”
“Covenant House might be a solution. One or two other places come to mind. I can make some calls for you to see if I could locate a placement.”
“Would you do that? It would mean a lot to me.”
“Of course, Randall. I’d be delighted to help. It might take some time though. Perhaps even a week.”
“I understand. Drinks are on me the next time you come in.”
“Careful, dear heart. You know I insist upon top shelf vodka.”
Randy chuckled. “You deserve nothing less. Let me know if you find anything. Give Terry my best.”
Joe rang off, and when Randy turned, Danny stood in the doorway, dressed again in his purple sweatshirt. He tugged at the end of the strings dangling from the hood. His eyes were on the ground, and Randy’s stomach lurched again. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t push this boy out of his truck and hope he made it through another night. He’d taken on some kind of responsibility for Danny when he rescued him from the muggers, fed him, gave him a haven. He needed time to think.
“You mind hanging out here for a few hours? I’d like to go to the gym.”
Danny looked up at him, shy all over again. “It’s okay. I can get back to town on my own.”
“No. Just hunker down for a bit. I’ve got cable, or there’re books.”
After a long moment, Danny blinked. “Okay. Thank you.”
Randy grabbed his workout shirt and his sneakers from his bedroom, but he scowled at the rug as he pulled them on. He climbed into his truck and drove the mile to his gym, frowning the whole way. Normally he ran there as a warm-up, but he wasn’t in the mood today. He moved through his lifting routine in a slight fog until he nearly dropped an iron plate on his foot and realized he had to get his head out of his ass.
He focused then on his workout and pushed everything out of his noisy brain. Of course as soon as he got his mind off Danny, thoughts of Jack Fraser returned with a vengeance.
It was ridiculous since he barely knew the man. Hell, he didn’t even like him. Yet something about Jack tugged at him, and Randy wondered if he was having any luck in New York, tracking down the painting he wanted. If he did, that probably meant Randy would never see him again. Jack would return to London and his mystery. The thought shouldn’t have bothered him.
On the off chance Jack did come to see him again, maybe Randy should get the Sunrise painting back from Thomas’s apartment where he currently kept it. That way, if Jack finally gave him the full story, Randy could casually invite him out to Arlington to see it. He’d like to talk to Jack about the post-impressionists in which he specialized, and hear about the life of an art historian.
I want to show him the leather and the ropes in my closet and see if I’m right about what he needs.
Dammit, he had to stop fantasizing about that. Concentrating carefully on each press, each position, allowed him to set aside concerns about Danny and his preoccupation with the annoying Jack for a little while. He even reached a personal best on his front squats, carrying down and back up a barbell loaded to three hundred and eighty-five pounds. By the time he re-racked the barbell at the end of a grueling set, he knew what he had to do about one of his problems.
When Randy pulled up in front of his house again, Danny was sitting on the porch in a shaft of sunlight. A paperback was open on his lap, but he was studying the little garden in Randy’s front yard. The day was mild enough to enjoy the sun, though the cold snap had yet to break.
He got out of his truck and walked up two steps to join Danny on the porch. Without preliminaries, he said, “My friend Joe is hunting for a safe place for you. It may take him a few days. Until then I’d like you to stay here with me. Still no strings.”
Danny’s jaw dropped open and then snapped closed again. He looked up at Randy and his eyes narrowed a bit. “I don’t get it. You don’t know me.”
“I trust my instincts. You need a safe place to get on your feet, and I can give that to you.”
Danny was silent, though Randy could see his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to calculate the angles. Apparently he gave up, and he exhaled heavily. “Do you mean it?” he asked softly.
“Yes.” Randy gave a small smile. “My only condition is that you don’t hit on me again. I don’t like awkward. Does that work for you?”
Danny nodded and stood. He rubbed his hands nervously on his jeans. “Can I, uh, do anything to help you around the house? I’d feel better about staying.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I don’t want you to barter.”
“It isn’t that. I just, uh…” Danny gestured widely, a curious hunger on his face.
He needed to be useful, Randy guessed. So he wasn’t just a charity case. A sponge. Randy thought about it and finally said, “Tell you what. I hate doing laundry. And I could use help getting my yard ready for winter.”
Danny lit up instantly. “I can do those things for you.”
He rapped his knuckles twice on the wooden railing of the porch. “Deal. Bed and board until Joe finds you something, and I’ll make up a list of chores.”
Chapter Six
They settled into a fairly easy routine. Danny worked hard, so by Saturday afternoon when Randy left to open the bar, the fallen leaves in both the front and back of the house were raked and bagged, dead annuals were pulled from the garden, the grass was cut, and decorative mums lined the walk of the house. Danny even drained the irrigation system to be ready for the first frost.
His bruises faded fairly quickly, and his lip healed until just a small scab remained. He made meals for them, and had something waiting for Randy each night in the warming drawer of the oven when he got back from Mata Hari. He kept his room clean, the laundry done, and the house picked up. As a roommate, he wasn’t bad.
Randy tried to be subtle with checking around the house when he got home from the bar each night, and he was relieved when nothing turned up missing. He believed in the maxim “trust but verify,” and Danny didn’t disappoint.
Still, Randy had lived alone for most of the last twenty-five years, and it made him itchy to have someone share his space. Other th
an a few short-term boyfriends in his twenties, and of course the fiasco with Trevor, he’d never had to adjust to the presence of another. Small things grated, like remembering to put on clothes before he went downstairs in the morning, or being mindful of the television volume if he turned it on at three in the morning while he ate the food Danny left for him.
Even when he jacked off, he was careful to keep down the moans, and that really sucked because he tended to be loud when he came. Danny respected Randy’s instruction not to hit on him again, but he was a normal teenager beset by hormones, and his eyes tracked Randy through the house when he came back from the gym all pumped up and sweaty. Randy had no idea whether Danny was into bears or daddies or muscle, and that was not a conversation he was going to enter into with a seventeen-year-old boy. Regardless, Randy qualified for any of those fetishes, and a few others. It was useful and gratifying when he was around men into his own kinks; not so much when he was sheltering a hero-struck kid too inexperienced to hide his desires.
As the days passed, Randy also found himself watching the door at Mata Hari too often. Fraser had said he planned to return from New York on Wednesday, and Randy half-hoped he’d try again to see the Sunrise painting that evening. He never showed up. Thursday also passed without a sign of the elegant Englishman, and Randy chalked it all up to a momentary attraction and nothing more. Perhaps Fraser had found the painting he was seeking in New York or Philadelphia.
Or perhaps he was unwilling to face Randy again because of the reaction they apparently produced in one another.
Friday evening he found himself standing with a glass in his hand, daydreaming about how it might have been to take Fraser somewhere private where they could explore that longing to submit that Randy detected. He really wished that he’d been able to stroke that beard. It looked so soft and fine that Randy shivered as he imagined Fraser’s cheeks brushing down Randy’s chest and over his taught belly as he sought Randy’s cock.
Lying Eyes Page 5
