Love You So Special

by Tara Lain

Artie got pinker. “I’m just your regular. Nothing special.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth.” He sucked in a breath. “But what is true is that my mother’s going to be barging in here in about two minutes, so we better go soon.”

  “Oh, okay.” Artie started toward the door.

  “Wait. I said soon.”

  He stopped.

  “Why are you doing what I tell you?”

  “To prove I’m not as alpha as you think.”

  He couldn’t quite control his smile. “And why do you want to do that?”

  “Because then you might let me kiss you again sometime.” His lips tugged upward.

  Man, what an invitation. François stretched upward and captured his mouth, kissed him hard and deeply, then pulled away. “I’ll let you do more than kiss me if you’re so inclined.” His whole body flamed at the thought. Most men were simply too much trouble, but not this one. He’d do a lot to let Artie in his pants—or better yet, get in his.

  Artie pressed his lips against François’s ear. “I’m so inclined.”

  François whispered, “Tell me, macho man. Do you like to bottom or top?”

  Artie actually shook where his hand touched François’s arm. “What do you think?”

  “Well, stereotypes tell me you’re a top, but some niggling instinct suggests you might like to take it where the sun don’t shine.” He chuckled.

  “Niggle away. In fact, I love being niggled.”

  François grabbed his own crotch before it exploded. Oh God, died and went to heaven time. He almost never got to have sex, and the few times he had, he’d mostly been on the bottom. Something about being so pretty. But the one time he’d topped? Wow.

  Artie spoke softly. “Hmm, I think you like that idea.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “When?” His voice vibrated with need.

  “Tonight. Please, tonight.”

  “How? Man, I never thought about how hard it is not to drive. Remind me to teach you. But meanwhile, how can we get you into my car and then into my bed?”

  François glanced at his watch. It was already almost ten. “Just pull up somewhere outside the front gate. I’ll come find you.”

  Artie leaned in for another fast kiss. “I can’t wait.”

  “Me either, but if I keep talking about it, I’ll never get my erection down and Mother will notice.”

  “Right.” Artie took a deep breath.

  After a couple more inhales just like that, they both smoothed their coats down and opened the door, encountering Madame with her fist raised to knock. “Sorry, Mother, I just needed a few minutes to cool down.”

  “It’s been more than a few, and why did you have to have him with you?” She frowned toward Artie.

  François gazed at his mother as she took a few steps away from the door. She really did want the best for him—and she knew exactly what that was. Her ferocity and certainty about everything made him feel safe, but man, it sure did limit his options. He’d always been willing to trade one for the other. At that moment it just felt confining. Like he’d given up choices and horizons to live inside her carefully drawn circle. He stepped closer to her and lowered his voice to at least give the impression that Artie couldn’t hear them. “Because I wanted to.”

  “What?”

  “I took Artie into my dressing room because I wanted to. He’s my friend. Why should that be a problem?”

  She glanced away. “It’s not, of course.”

  “My having other friends doesn’t compromise how special you are to me.”

  “I realize that.” But she still looked pleased.

  “So let’s go.” He waved a hand to indicate she should go first, then waited for Artie to catch up. François gave him a wink and followed his mother to the stage door. His only big challenge was to get all the way home without thinking about being buried in Artie’s beautiful body.

  COME ON, come on, come on. Artie tried not to reach into his jeans and do something about his straining erection. He’d managed to make it all the way to his apartment, thanked Madame and François politely for inviting him, and waved to Joseph as he trotted up his stairs. Inside the door, he’d poised until he heard the crunch of tires, ran to the bedroom, and carefully changed out of the beautiful tux into jeans, then washed up and ran even faster to his truck. Occasionally for dates he’d borrow Don’s little-used old Prius, but it was way too late.

  Trying to keep the truck engine from roaring and waking the neighborhood, he headed down Irvine Avenue toward the ritzier neighborhoods near the ocean. Since it would certainly take François a few minutes to sneak out and make his way to the front gate, he purposefully didn’t drive too fast, even though all his body parts were dying to get there. He didn’t want to give the police a reason to worry about the old truck hanging out too long outside one of Newport’s fancier areas.

  Finally he did arrive. Slowly, he cruised up the street, looking for François, but no sign. A block past the gate, he pulled over and parked. It was a heavily traveled road, but with almost entirely through traffic. No one had a reason to be stopped for long. He kept his motor running and lights on in case someone asked what he was doing there. He even pulled out a map.

  Then he stared into space. Do I know what I’m doing? I’m about to have sex with a client and a man who has no reason to protect my secrets. Hell, we didn’t even talk about what happens after the sex. Does he expect long moonlit walks on the beach? Plus I don’t even know what I want from him. He banged his head against the seat back. That’s what you get when you think with your dick!

  A movement in the corner of his eyes attracted him, and he turned to see François emerge from some gate in the wall that led into the complex. Moonlight shone off his hair and glinted on his high cheekbones. Stomach flipping material, without a doubt. Then he looked both ways and broke into a jog across the wide street. By all rights the man should have been an awkward dork. Hell, the only thing he played was the piano. But no such luck. Damned poetry, like some lean cat loping, while contemplating whether to break into a full run to bring down the antelope. Yeah, and I’m the antelope. Still, Artie sighed at the sheer beauty as he leaned over to open the passenger door.

  François crawled into the seat and took a deep breath. He looked—scared.

  “Are you okay?”

  He nodded but didn’t seem sure.

  Artie put a hand on his arm. “Did something bad happen? Did you have a fight with your mom?”

  “What?” He glanced up, looking more like the prey than the predator. “Oh no. It was just, this reminded me of a bad event.” He shivered.

  “What?”

  François shook his head but his breathing came fast and harsh.

  “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

  He waved a hand. “Let’s get away from here before the gate guard notices us.”

  “Sure.”

  Artie pulled from the curb and paused. “Do you still want to go to my place?”

  “Yes.” But his voice sounded tight.

  Artie pointed the truck toward Costa Mesa. The silence in the cab didn’t feel comfortable, but he kept quiet.

  François’s voice was soft. “It was a long time ago. I should just forget it.”

  “Sometimes those are the things we have trouble getting over.”

  “Yes.”

  Artie just drove and let the dark surround them.

  François’s voice could barely be heard above the roar of the engine. “What reminded me was I sneaked out of the house then too.” He paused and breathed. “Not this house. It was my mother’s house in Palos Verdes. I’d never sneaked out before and I was so scared.” He stared out the side window and sounded far away. “A group of boys had asked me to do it, to come join them for a party. I was homeschooled, spent all my time on the piano and doing concerts, and was incredibly lonely, so I was thrilled to have been asked by these guys who were so cool and popular.” He took a breath, and it sounded like he�
��d been running for miles. Artie’s stomach tightened. Not sure I want to hear this.

  François hardly sounded like he was in the truck anymore. “I was only thirteen and most of the boys were midteens, but one kid looked older. He’d stolen his mother’s car and took us to his family’s beach house. It was literally right on the sand. There was a bonfire and booze, and I felt very uncomfortable but so flattered to be included.” He dragged in a breath. “Until I saw the hole.”

  Artie swallowed hard and forced himself not to moan.

  François’s voice became flat and matter-of-fact. He turned back and looked through the windshield. “Of course the hole was intended for me. They planned to bury me alive in sand. I was so terrified I soiled myself. I tried to run, but there were four of them, all bigger or at least heavier than me. I made it almost to the street. I remember the burst of hope, crushed the next second by a hand grabbing my arm and yanking me to the ground.” He paused, and Artie pulled the truck to the curb in the neighborhood just a few blocks from his house, but he couldn’t drive and listen to this at the same time.

  When the car sat still and quiet, François took another breath. “It was only by chance that the beach patrol came to investigate the fire and saved me.”

  Artie barely noticed his own exhale. Of course, he knew François had escaped somehow. He was here. Still, to have gone through that kind of terror— “That’s why you hate crowds and are scared of strangers.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. I suppose. Being large amounts of a wuss probably doesn’t help.”

  “You’re no wuss.” He looked at François’s downcast face. “Jesus, François, they’d have taken me away from there in a box.” He leaned his head back. “And this is what your mother considers to be all in your head?”

  “Not exactly. She doesn’t really know what happened.”

  “How’s that even possible?” Artie tried to keep from yelling. Was everybody blind and deaf?

  “The police didn’t know what was going on. They saw me and the hole but didn’t quite get that the boys were intending to bury me in it. When one of the cops came to talk to me, I said they hadn’t told me there was going to be drinking and would they please take me home. They did, and my mother punished me for sneaking out, but she thought they were my friends. I was so mortified that the only reason someone would invite me to a party was to abuse me that I kind of suppressed the whole murder thing. Sadly, I couldn’t keep it out of my nightmares—sleeping or waking.”

  There weren’t any words. Artie slid as far as he could on his seat and wrapped his arms around François, pulling him close. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  François buried his face in Artie’s neck and sighed. “It was a long time ago.”

  “It was eight years ago, and it doesn’t seem like you’ve had any chance to deal with it since then.”

  “How do I deal with it, Artie? It feels like a part of me now, the fear, the cowardice.”

  “But courage is just being afraid and doing it anyway. You do that every day.”

  “Thanks.” He sat back, pulling away enough for Artie to see his face. “How’s that for a crappy topic when you’re planning to get laid?” He wiped a hand across his face.

  “I’m flattered you chose to tell me.” Amazed, actually.

  He shrugged. “I guess I wanted you to know I didn’t just make up the whole scaredy-cat routine. There was a starting point.”

  Artie nodded and they both fell silent, the weight of it pressing on Artie’s chest. Reality stared him in the face. Sitting here was a powerful, courageous, complicated man who needed someone who could appreciate him and shield him while he came to terms with a world that he’d experienced as full of bad shit. No dumbass plumber, so busy hiding himself he couldn’t protect a fish, would serve that purpose. This wasn’t a game or a thoughtless roll in the hay. It was so much more it made his head hurt. “I should take you home.”

  François looked up sharply. “Oh, I killed the mood completely, huh?”

  “It’s really late now. And—you’re so great.”

  His fair brows dove for his nose. “What does my being great have to do with anything?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Not what? Great? Fuck that. What if I disagree?”

  Shit, I can’t breathe. “Seriously, you need a guy who has the same great tastes you do. Not some semi-illiterate plumber who didn’t know who Chopin was.” He turned the ignition.

  “You think I didn’t know you were a plumber when I asked you to go to dinner and to the concert? All that copper piping and the butt crack might have been a clue.” It sounded funny, but he didn’t smile.

  Neither did Artie. Artie stared at the dashboard as the engine rumbled. “Look, everything I do, all my, uh, relationships, like, everything depends on, uh—”

  “Yes, what? What does it depend on?”

  “On—”

  “Artie, come on. This isn’t like you. Spit it out.”

  “Gay.”

  “What?”

  He forced the words out. “It depends on my not being gay.”

  “B-but you are gay.” François spread his hands at the obvious.

  “Yeah, well, no one knows—but you.”

  “What do you mean no one?”

  “I’ve had random hookups, but those guys never know who I am, and anyone who knows who I am doesn’t know I’m gay.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “No. My dad wouldn’t stand for it. He’d probably never speak to me again. My mom might, but—see, I help them out financially. If they don’t speak to me, they won’t take money from me, and then they’ll—” He shrugged. “They can’t make it without help.”

  François stared at him like he’d gone crazy. Yeah, long time ago.

  “Plus I’d likely lose my job, and if I can’t work, I can’t help them and—”

  “You’ve sneaked around this long. What’s adding one more person to your sneaking?”

  “You deserve better than that, and what good is it having a boyfriend if I’m going to be diving behind doors when I see anybody I know? And I can’t take you to meet my family, and if you tell Madame, she’ll fire me, and I’ll lose the job for JT and the guys, and he hired me because he trusts me and—”

  Suddenly François held up a hand. “I got it. Obviously, you’ve thought this through ad nauseum and have created a huge imaginary house of cards that will keep you trapped for the rest of your miserable life.” He stared through the windshield, his face a mask but tears shining in his eyes. “Finish the job in my backyard. I won’t bother you again.” He opened the door and hopped out.

  “What the—François, get back in this fucking truck. Where do you think you’re going?” For a second he couldn’t get his brain in gear. Turn off the ignition? Drive the truck? He turned the key off, jumped out the door, and ran after François—but François was gone. Vanished like somebody said abracadabra.

  Artie’s heart hammered and every protective instinct screamed. He’s alone. There’s no one to protect him but me. Artie ran like a crazy man through all the yards near him, then raced down to the next intersection. There was traffic there headed toward the entrance to the freeway. François wouldn’t hitch a ride, would he?

  Artie trotted down the sidewalk, peering into the doorways of the shops, but somehow François was gone. Artie paused to catch his breath—and his knees collapsed under the weight of his heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  FRANÇOIS PASSED money to the Uber driver, slammed the car door after him, walked through the gate, up the walkway, and stalked up the front stairs of his house. Keying open the front door, he didn’t even try for quiet. Hell, she had X-ray ears.

  As expected, his mother ran into the entry from the living room, wearing her dressing gown. “Oh my God, François, where have you been?”

  Had it. Done. He spun on her, and his expression must have shocked her because she backed up. “I went out for some air. I’m now going t
o bed.”

  “Air? You went out for air? Your bed’s not even slept in and—”

  “Mother, enough! The condition of my bed is none of your business. I’m an adult and I expect to be treated like one. I know it’s not fair to ask you to protect me and treat me as a grown-up at the same time, so I’m withdrawing my implied request that you stand between me and the world. I’ll do my best to take care of myself. I’m sure I’ll fail frequently and not do as good a job as you do.” He managed to smile. “But I still intend to do it.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Sleep well.” With that exit line, he climbed the stairs, strode down the hall, and entered his bedroom. The empty bed stared back at him.

  Shit, I accused Artie of limiting himself. Here I stand, a nearly twenty-one-year-old man who can’t drive, can’t go out in public without having a nervous breakdown, and has no place of his own to invite a man. How the fuck could I have limited myself any more? Artie and I are quite a pair.

  A pain pierced his chest with such force it could have been a metal spike. He walked slowly across the room and collapsed on the bed. No. We’re not a pair at all.

  ARTIE OPENED his eyes. No, that wasn’t right. His eyes had pretty much been open the whole night, or at least what was left of it after a cop rousted him out of some doorway on the street like a homeless person. That was a bad moment. He’d been so wrecked, he couldn’t think up a convincing lie. He said he’d had a fight with a person he cared about and he just couldn’t walk any farther. The cop must have believed him because once he’d established Artie wasn’t drunk, he drove him the block back to his truck, then followed Artie home and gave him a wave before pulling away.

  Artie had made it as far as his bed. He hadn’t even fed the fish. Damn, they’ll be pissed at me. Now, here he lay still in his jeans and T-shirt, surveying the wreckage. Somewhere in the night, he’d settled on the fact that if François hadn’t made it home, Madame would be all over Artie like a mama spider. She’d blame him first. So François must be home in bed—forgetting about Artie. Shit, that should take about five minutes.