“I’m not.” Michael thrust his hands behind his back, fingers locking above his butt. He wanted to be strong, but tremors spread into his shoulders and he couldn’t seem to stop them.
“The hell.” Gil propped his hands on his sturdy square hips. “Michael, seriously, take the princess and go curl up in the bed. You’re dead on your feet, and frankly, I need a couple of hours before my guys get here.”
Michael stared at him, feeling like a jerk. “Gil, I….”
Gil shook his head. “It’s all right. Just… go to sleep, okay?”
Michael’s hands were sweaty and his grip slid apart. He rubbed his palms on his tight jeans. “Yeah, okay. Do you need blankets or anything?”
Gil grabbed a chenille throw off the back of the rocking chair. “This is good.”
Michael knew it would only cover Gil from his waist to his ankles, but Gil had already turned away, flicking off the television and the lamp on the end table next to the sofa, dismissing him without another word.
Oddly bereft, Michael paused long enough to lower the shades on the windows, then called softly for Scooter. Her nails clicked on the hardwood floor as she approached him, and he turned toward the door to the hall.
“Michael?”
He stopped, pivoted, peering into the dark. “Yes?”
“If you need me, don’t forget I’m out here, okay?”
Michael allowed himself a slight smile because he knew Gil couldn’t see it. “I won’t. And thanks, Gil. Really.”
“You’re welcome.”
Michael turned and headed into the darkened hallway, Scooter on his heels. He closed the door at his back and lifted her up onto the bed, then found the remote on the nightstand and flicked on the TV. Climbing onto the soft bed, he pulled the thick duvet up and over his shoulder.
“Come here, baby.” He patted the bed so Scooter would lie next to him. The memory of Gil’s voice hit hard, of the deep voice saying “Michael, listen to me, baby.” He shivered, then considered turning off the light next to him on the nightstand, but decided he really wasn’t ready to lie in the dark, even with his mountain of a protector in the next room.
As he curled his arms around Scooter, he realized that his fallback attitude was snarky as hell—even he would cop to that—and he was lucky Gil still liked him.
THE LOW hum of some kind of equipment and men’s voices woke Michael the next morning. He blinked, looking around, realizing that instead of his own narrow Murphy bed, he was in David and Jackson’s bedroom, lying on their queen-size bed, still fully clothed. He hadn’t even taken his glasses off.
He had no memory of what had happened after he’d gotten on the bed; one moment he was holding Scooter, watching television with the sound down low so it didn’t disturb Gil, the next he was waking, the television off and Scooter gone.
He sat up, peering toward the windows and wondering what time it was. The sky was overcast, which wasn’t unusual for March; the sun wouldn’t really make its return in any appreciable way before May.
Michael scooted off the side of the bed just as someone passed in front of the bedroom window, and he reared back, nearly landing on his butt when his stockinged feet slipped on the hardwood floor. He grabbed the footboard, putting his butt back on the bed.
“Oh for fuck’s sakes, get it together, Michael,” he grumbled, feeling for his phone in his pocket. He fished it out, noting it was down to less than 10 percent battery life and it was six forty-five in the morning.
Six forty-five? Who the hell was hanging around outside of David and Jackson’s house at—
Cold fear chilled him as memories of the night before raced to the forefront of his mind. He padded over to the window and peeked around the edge of the frame.
“You’re so stupid,” he muttered when he saw men working in the driveway. He reached up to run his hands through his hair. He grimaced when he encountered dried hair gel.
Gil had said he wanted to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before his “guys” arrived. It had never occurred to Michael they’d arrive before seven. But they were out there, a compressor providing the mechanical hum Michael now recognized. Gil and Vernon were mixing paint, and he figured Manny was somewhere too. Unwilling to be seen with his hair a chunky mess, Michael went to the bathroom and turned on the light.
“Oh God.” He looked like last week’s garbage. His hair was every bit the mess he’d expected, thick with gel and hanging over bloodshot eyes. His jaw was shadowed dark with stubble. He couldn’t do anything about the beard. He rarely shaved on the weekend unless he was going out, and hadn’t brought his shaving stuff with him. But he could wash his face and attempt to get a brush through the mess on his head.
His shaving kit was on the back of the toilet, and he zipped it open and pulled out a bottle of Visine and a hairbrush. His eyes stung and teared when he put in the drops, and he closed them until the burning passed. Getting the brush through his chunky hair wasn’t as easy. It snagged on the gel and pulled, and he was cursing by the time it was brushed straight back from his face, revealing his widow’s peak. He also realized he was still wearing the clothes he’d worn the night before. By the time he was done helping outside, he was going to desperately need a shower. Being terrified out of his mind and then sleeping in his clothes had left him with a definite funk he hoped no one else would notice. His boots were still by the sofa, and he stepped into them, wondering about Scooter for the first time. He knew Gil would take care of her, but remembering the little dog made him wonder about other things. When Gil came into the bedroom to get her, had he looked down at Michael as he slept? Michael felt hot at the horrifying thought that he might have been drooling, or God forbid, snoring. Snagging his jacket from the coatrack, he opened the front door.
The cold hit him the moment he stepped out through the door, his breath a mist of condensation before his face. He paused on the porch; the ugly graffiti that had marred the front of the house had been painted over. It was a blotch of white, but that was an improvement to what had been there. He went down the steps, seeing Gil’s truck parked out front, along with Vern’s restored ’66 Mustang and Manny’s Dodge Charger. His Subaru was still in the driveway. Someone had pulled the shovel out of the windshield and covered the hole with plastic.
As he walked around the corner of the house, there was a happy bark, and relief flowed through him when he spotted Scooter lying in the driveway. She was on a long lead attached to the front of his car, and she bounded over to him, going up to dance on her back feet.
“There you are,” he said, ruffling the fur behind her ears.
“And there you are.”
Michael looked up at the sound of Gil’s voice. The big man stood halfway up a ladder, taping around a window. Relief flooded Michael when Gil smiled down at him. A small part of him had been afraid Gil would be weird this morning, that Michael’s reaction the night before would cause things between them to be weird. He was so glad to be wrong.
“Feeling rested?”
“It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. Who the hell feels rested at this hour?” The comment lacked his usual bite, but it was the best he could do. Gil seemed to appreciate the effort, because his smile widened to include those lethal dimples.
“What’s the matter, your highness?”
Michael turned to see Vern approaching, a roll of blue tape in his hand. He paused in front of Michael, one gray brow raised. “You okay there, little boy?” Vern asked, affection in his faded blue eyes. “Gil told us about your night, and we saw the evidence. I’d like to kick whoever did that square in the balls.”
Warmed by the irascible man’s obvious concern, Michael gave him a small smile. “Get in line, old man.”
Vernon winked at him. “Attaboy.”
“You planning to do any work today, Vernon?” Gil asked. “Those windows won’t tape themselves.”
“Fuck off, Gilbert,” he said mildly, giving Michael another subtle wink as he walked away.
“Did y
ou get some rest?”
Michael turned to look at Gil, who was coming down the ladder. “Until the compressor kicked on, yeah.”
Gil looked apologetic. “There’s a primer that’s specifically for covering spray paint. We had to get it on so it could dry. It’s damp today.”
“It’s fine. I’m rested. Are you?”
Gil nodded, but Michael thought he looked tired.
“We usually start at six, so I actually got an extra hour.”
“Good Lord, there’s another good reason to stay in the interiors business. We work civilized hours.”
“Oh, la di da.” Gil nudged him in the side. His expression softened. “Seriously, are you okay? You were pretty out of it when I came to let Scooter out.”
Michael shrugged. “I’ve had better nights, but I’ll survive.” He looked around at Vern taping off windows and Manny spraying white paint over the ugly words on the garage door. They were buried under the white primer, but Michael wondered if he’d ever stop seeing them. He turned back, studying Vernon taping plastic over the windows. “Wait, are you painting the whole house?”
“It’s as good an excuse as any. David’s been bitching about the colors as long as I’ve known him.”
It was true. David liked the burgundy trim, but the two-toned gray wasn’t his favorite, and he’d discussed changing the exterior later in the spring. It was just that Michael had no idea what he wanted in place of the current scheme, and David was so picky…. “I didn’t think you could paint a house when it’s this cold.”
“Depends on the paint. You buy the right paint, you can do an exterior when it’s thirty degrees. We haven’t hit the freezing point at night in weeks, and there’s supposed to be a break in the weather for the next few days, so we’re good.”
“I didn’t know that.” Michael looked back at Manny and the beigey, shortbread-cookie color going on the door. It was so… beige. “Um—”
“Um what?” Gil angled his head, a knowing smile curving his lips. He’d noticed Michael looking at the garage door. “You think I can’t get the colors right?”
“No, no, I don’t think that at all,” Michael said quickly, even though he sort of did. “It’s just, well… you know how David is.”
“I do.” Gil’s lips quirked in amusement.
“And he’s weird about the house.”
“He is.” Again, Gil gave another casual, relaxed nod. “Do you want to see the colors before we go any further?”
“If you’d like to show me.” Michael thought his answer was innocuous enough, but Gil rolled his eyes.
“How very politically correct of you, Mr. Crane. Come here.” Gil walked toward a makeshift table created by a piece of wood on top of the trash cans. There were three cans of paint on the shelf, and three five-gallon cans on the ground nearby. They’d been opened, and someone had painted three stripes of color on the surface of the plywood.
Michael stepped close, studying them with interest. The soft beigey-brown color, like fresh-baked biscuits, was painted alongside a mossy cypress green and a deep rich burgundy, like the color of pomegranate seeds. He bit his lip. They were beautiful. The limestone component of the rock foundation leaned heavily toward beige, which went well with the biscuit and cypress colors, and the burgundy would be a lively, lush counterpoint.
“Well….” Michael intentionally let his tone drag out, feeling the tension in the bigger man’s body. “If he doesn’t love it, I’m going to start questioning his career decision.”
Gil’s face lit with quiet pleasure, the green in his eyes more pronounced than the gray for the moment. That would change, Michael knew. He’d noticed the mercurial shift of the colors in Gil’s eyes based on what he wore or his mood. They sort of fascinated Michael, but he tried not to stare.
“The biscuit color is for the big sections, the green is for the square pillars and the horizontal wood framing the windows and the porch, and the burgundy is for the smaller trim.”
Michael could see it in his mind, and it would be stunning with the huge trees, the evergreen plants around the foundation, and the flowers that would bloom when the weather warmed.
“I talked to Jackson again this morning.”
Michael looked up from the paint colors. “Did he tell David?”
Gil shook his head. “He thinks it will be easier once they’re home.”
“He’s probably right.”
“He asked about you.”
Michael felt his face heat under Gil’s steady regard. “I’m all right.”
“That’s what I told him. You handled it like a champ.”
For some reason Gil’s quiet assurance warmed Michael. He straightened.
“How can I help?”
Gil looked mildly surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. What, you think I’m not capable?”
Gil eased into a smile. “Michael, I think you’re capable of anything you want to do.”
Michael glanced away, flustered. “That’s good to know. So, put me to work.”
Gil picked up an inch-wide roll of blue masking tape and held it out to him. “Start on the porch, taping down the free side of the plastic on all the windows. The guys are going to start on the back of the house, spraying the beige. We’ll start cutting in with the cypress on the framework as soon as the second coat is on and set.”
“Okay.”
Michael did as Gil instructed, and within minutes he was engrossed in trying to keep the tape straight on the window frames. As his hands worked, his thoughts returned to the night before. He knew, without a doubt, that if Gil hadn’t been in the living room, he wouldn’t have slept a wink. Knowing he was out there, lying on the couch, had helped him relax enough to close his eyes. He’d also wondered more than once what his reception would be if he’d asked Gil to come join him on the bed. Just to sleep, of course, but the way Gil was so determined that seduction wasn’t on his agenda kept Michael silent. He’d never admit it, but it bruised his ego a bit.
Gil getting the guys to the house early, even if they did disturb his sleep, was a huge plus now that Michael realized the scope of work they had left to do. The last thing he wanted David to see were the horrible words on the garage door. He was the closest thing Michael had to family, at least family he spoke to, and he’d do anything he could to prevent him having to face that ugliness. It would be bad enough for him to hear about it, but there was no way they could keep the vandalism from David. Jackson already knew. That had to suck; he took his lover away for a quiet weekend only to have someone scrawl hate all over their house.
Michael finished taping the windows on the porch, then covered the thick oak door with another sheet of plastic. The burnished door with inset iron studs was original to the house, and David was so proud of it. Michael took extra care to make sure every inch of it was securely masked. The generator hummed, the compressor clicking on and off as the spray gun was used to apply paint on the side of the house. The sound was almost soothing, and he worked a long time in the midst of the white noise. Then Gil stepped into his line of sight, gesturing toward the lawn. Michael turned to see Beverley Snyder and Shirley Henry approaching up the walkway.
“Oh hell,” he muttered. Beverley waved, a gesture Michael returned with trepidation. He loved David’s mom, and he liked what he knew of Jackson’s, but he didn’t have a lot of experience with the kind of relationship the mothers and sons shared. For the most part, he’d been raised by a series of nannies and only saw his socialite mother between parties or fundraisers. He wiped his suddenly damp palms on the seat of his jeans and took the porch steps down to meet them, wondering what he could say to explain all the activity on their sons’ house.
“Good morning.”
“Hello, Michael.” Beverley smiled, catching his hands and pulling him into a hug. He let her scent surround him. He loved the smell of her perfume and the feel of her soft cheek. His own mother had had so much plastic surgery her cheek felt tight when she deigned to hug him at all. Us
ually when he saw his mother, there were lots of air kisses involved. “I didn’t know David planned to have the house painted.”
“He was going to do it in the spring, but Gil thought it might be a nice surprise for when he and Jackson get back from the lake.”
“I’m quite sure it will be.” She released his hands and slipped hers into the pockets of her camel-colored winter coat. “So this has nothing to do with the graffiti?”
Michael blinked. “Um….” Rarely was he caught completely off guard. He’d assumed the moms had been in the back of Bev’s home, in the den, and blissfully unaware of the police crawling all over David’s house. “We sort of hoped you didn’t know.”
“We didn’t until this morning,” she explained. “My next-door neighbor dropped in, wondering if David knew who sprayed graffiti all over his house and why that would require two police cars. She was certain I’d know all the details, being as I’m his mother.”
Michael felt his face heat. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
She patted his arm. “I know, and I appreciate you trying to protect us. I really do. But Michael, honey, are you all right? Weren’t you here by yourself?”
“I’m okay,” he assured her softly. “Scooter was with me.”
“Not that I doubt she’d try to protect you, but….” She caught his hand. She was wearing soft leather gloves, and she squeezed his fingers. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
She looked so worried that it caught at Michael’s heart. He didn’t think his own mother had ever looked at him with that combination of love and concern. “I’m okay, Bev. I promise.”
“Did you see who did this?” Shirley asked.
He shook his head. “Not really. And they got away before the police got here.”
“You do plan to tell our boys, don’t you?” Bev studied the white patch on the wall on the porch.
“Jackson already knows. Gil called him to get permission to paint the house. The colors are really nice,” he offered, his voice trailing off. He knew it sounded lame, like a weak offering. Frankly he wouldn’t have blamed them if they were irritated at all of them. They were too smart to be kept in the dark.
Michael, Reinvented Page 9
