Never: A MM, Opposites Attract, Fairy Tale Retelling Romance (The Pennymaker Tales Book 4)

by Tara Lain

  “Magic.” Peter grinned and slid an arm through Wen’s. “Buy me a drink.”

  Wen slowly inhaled. Calm down. More flies with honey and all that. “Sure.”

  Peter pulled him through the masses toward the big bar. The crowd seemed to part to let him by, and lots of smiles flashed his way.

  A girl reached out to touch him. “Hi, Peter.”

  He gifted her a grin.

  “Hey, Double P.” That came from a giant guy in spangles.

  Peter flipped him a small salute.

  Double P. The “sort of” signature at the top of the artwork flashed in Wen’s mind. Ask about that later.

  They got to the bar, and people made space for Peter. In a huge place like this, how could so many people know him? Of course, he reeked of charisma, some special magic all his own. He accepted the homage of the multitude with offhand appreciation, offering the barstool that someone vacated for him to Wen.

  Wen slid on, and Peter stepped close to him. “What’ll you have?”

  Wen shrugged. “Beer, I guess.”

  Peter waved a finger at an Amazonian bartender with blue hair. She nodded, disappeared behind the bar, and returned with a glass of beer and—what? The other drink sparkled and glowed pink.

  Wen eyed Peter’s glass and sipped his beer. “What’s that?”

  “Fairy juice. It keeps me young.”

  “Jesus, how much younger do you want to be?”

  A cirrus cloud of pain drifted across his face and vanished in his smile. “I just don’t want to get any older.”

  “Uh, I think you’re fighting physics—or something.”

  Peter’s eyes met Wen’s with a jolt. “Isn’t it worth the fight?”

  “Maybe not when you consider the alternative.”

  For a second Peter said nothing, and Wen swallowed; then that elf smile broke through. “La, la, we defy aging around here.”

  “Are you even out of your teens?”

  “I should ask you the same thing.” He rested his chin on his slim hand and gazed up through his lashes.

  “Of course. I’m twenty-three.”

  “So old.”

  “How old are you?”

  He straightened. “Old enough to drink fairy juice.” He chugged a mouthful.

  Be-ringed hands wrapped around Peter’s chest, and a pale face peeked over his shoulder. Parasol Girl.

  Wen couldn’t help smiling. She felt like an old friend. “Hi.”

  She cocked her head with a crease between her brows but said nothing.

  Peter reached up and gave her frizzy pink hair a tug. “This is Tink.”

  Wen wanted to ask if she was his girlfriend, but the erection in his butt crack a few minutes before seemed clear testimony to the contrary—unless Peter had no team. A definite possibility. “Hi, Tink.”

  “AreyoutryingtotalkPeterintopaintingforyou?” She spoke so fast, he could barely make out separate words. Her voice also pitched somewhere north of glass breaking.

  “Uh, yes. I’m actually trying to hire him to do some artwork for me.”

  “NobodyhiresPeternobody.”

  “Why is that?” His eyes glanced toward Peter then back to Tink.

  “Heneverpaintsformoneynevernevernever.”

  “Hmm. Then how does Peter live?”

  Peter flipped a hand. “Elegantly.”

  “Come on. Surely you can’t object to making a nice sum for doing what you do effortlessly.”

  His smile cooled a little. “Why can’t I object?”

  Wen shrugged. “Because it’s silly. Why is painting on subway walls purer than doing an ad for peanut butter?”

  “Why should I use my art to persuade people to eat a product I have no reason to believe in? That’s sophistry, if not outright lying.”

  “Come on, Peter, it’s not intestinal surgery. It’s just an ad.”

  One arched red eyebrow rose. “If you don’t believe in the power of what you do, why do it?”

  “Because I have people to feed, dammit!” Shit. Too late to unsay those words. Wen’s heart constricted like someone squeezed it in a vise. No use. He’d found Peter. So what? He sloshed back another swallow of the beer and reached for his wallet.

  Peter put a hand over Wen’s and the warmth tingled up his arm. “No need to pay.”

  He felt his brows draw together. “Why? Don’t beer and—” He waved a hand toward Peter’s glass. “—fairy juice cost money in Neverland?”

  “You’re mad at me.” He gazed intently at Wen’s face with an amazed look, as if he didn’t see people get angry at him often.

  Wen dipped his head back and closed his eyes on a long sigh. “No. I’m mad at—the fucking universe. It dangles the solution to my problem in front of me, then makes it impossible to reach.” He slid off the barstool and glanced around the dance floor at the wild-ass mass of humans or whatever the hell they were. “Bunch of special fucking snowflakes.” He actually jumped when he realized he’d said that out loud, turned, and stalked toward the front entrance.

  He pushed through the crowd, not caring whom he bumped or elbowed. A few people glanced at him, and one gave him an elbow back, which he totally deserved. He made it outside, past the line of people waiting to get in, before he felt bad. Damn, he wasn’t usually mean or rude.

  With a puff of his cheeks, he walked across the street in front of the club and stopped under a scraggly tree that looked like it was in a big fight for survival. That made two of them. Every fucking person in that fucking club raised the hairs on his neck. They were entitled assholes who wanted to be let off the real-life hook because they were weird and artistic, but don’t ask them to be on time or keep their word or follow through with anything they started. Don’t dare to expect anything from them, and God forbid they should work for a living. He pressed a hand to his chest. Maybe he could slow down the hammering of his heart from the outside.

  A hand touched his arm. He gasped and spun—half in anger and half in hope. Parasol Girl. What was her name? Tink. “What?”

  “Youshouldleavehimalone.”

  “Look, slow down if you want to talk to me.”

  “Leavehim—” She took a breath. “—alone.”

  “Yeah, I got that message. You didn’t have to deliver it twice.”

  “Dangerous.”

  That stopped his feet like rubber soles on carpet. He looked back over his shoulder. “Why dangerous? To whom?”

  She shrugged and walked backward toward Neverland.

  Peter stood at the entrance to Neverland, vibrating like he’d been connected to a massage machine, but not in a good way. Stay or run out? He could just make out Wendell walking down the street toward the subway, looking defeated. What did Tink say to him? Hell, what did he mean about people to feed?

  A hand clamped on Peter’s shoulder. Don’t tense. Don’t tense. He forced a smile and looked up into the dark, gorgeous eyes of Vadon Hooker. Yep, a lot of snakes are beautiful. “Hey Vadon. How’s it hanging?”

  “Low and loose, my dear. How are you?”

  Put on a good show. “Okay, but I kind of got hassled inside, so I came out for some air.”

  “Hassled? By that cute guy I saw you with? Looked pretty friendly to me.”

  A rivulet of ice slipped down his back. “You must not have been looking hard enough. The dude’s cracked on the subject of me working for him, and he stalked me here to the club. I told him where to get off.”

  “Work for him? What on earth would he want you to do?” He raised a dark eyebrow.

  Peter shot him a look. “Not that. He saw some of my art and wants me to draw something for some ad campaign. He’s nuts.” He snorted. “In fact, peanuts. It’s some peanut butter thing. Jesus.”

  Vadon laughed and wrapped an elbow around Peter’s neck. “Can’t have my fairy boy getting tied up with commerce. The dull grayness of it all would clip your wings.” He ruffled Peter’s hair, and Peter tried not to yank his head away. Vadon turned to Peter and held his shoulders. “I h
ave a new product. Very mild but very dreamy. Want some?”

  Peter laughed merrily—hard to do while biting his tongue. “You know me. I’m high enough.”

  Vadon contained the frown that flashed across his face. “Can one ever be high enough?”

  Vadon’s chuckle made Peter’s stomach grip, but he giggled and flapped his arms as he sailed back into the club. Appear harmless. Harmless.

  Inside the door, he stopped. Just breathe.

  Samu stepped up beside him. “You okay, man?” Just the presence of his big body settled Peter’s nerves.

  “Yeah.” He flashed his eyes to the side and mouthed, “Vadon.”

  “I saw.” He wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulders and walked him into the tumult of the club, a decibel lower in noise level since the Lost Boys were taking a break. “I sure liked this place better before Smee started letting that asshole run things.”

  “I wonder what Hooker has on Smee?”

  He leaned closer. “He’s been working on Dudish. You know how hard it is for Dudish to stay off blue, and Vadon pushes every soft spot in his fried brain.”

  “Shit. We gotta keep Dudish with us. Save him from himself.”

  “Hard to do, my man. He’s too pretty for his own good, and every female lusts for him. Vadon works through the women.”

  Peter shook his head. Stuck. Lux Smee, the owner of Neverland, employed the Lost Boys. Gigs were tough in this town, and the Boys were totally associated with Neverland. Without it? Just another unemployed rock band. No food. No place to sleep. But now Smee had Hooker prowling the place. It was never quite clear what his job was—pretty much anything he said it was. Mostly it was selling drugs, or giving them away to suck the kids further into Neverland.

  “What happened with that guy? Darling? I saw you with him.”

  “Same thing as before. He really wants me to do something for his ad campaign. He got upset when I said no.” He wiped a hand over his hair.

  “Hey, man, you’re really talented, and he sees that. Why don’t you just throw the dog a bone and do some art for him?” Samu nudged Peter. “I think you kind of like him.”

  Hell, Samu didn’t know the half of it. And none of the Boys knew the real story about Peter. Hopefully they never would. “If he’s around me, then he’s around Vadon Hooker. That could be bad.” He looked up into his friend’s dark eyes. Of course, someone recognizing Peter’s art could be worse.

  Why am I awake? Wen stared into the darkness of the living room and listened. Is John sick? Restless? Wen’s inner mom, developed over a lifetime of taking up the parenting slack, vibrated to both kids. The change in breathing that could mean bronchitis or pneumonia, the scratching of allergies, the whimpers and cries of loneliness and fear. Mostly those.

  He got up off the couch, padded in the dark down the narrow hall to John’s room, opened the door softly, and listened. Just snuffling snores. Good. He closed the door again, listened at Michaela’s as he walked past but heard no sounds of anguish or illness. Maybe just a siren or a truck had woken him. Of course, they were all so used to the traffic sounds of Brooklyn that seemed unlikely. Collapsing on the couch again with a sigh, he closed his eyes. Need some sleep.

  Wait.

  Do I hear someone breathing?

  He listened harder. So soft, but still breathing.

  What the hell should I do? Someone might be behind the curtains with a gun. No, his curtains wouldn’t hide a three-year-old. God knew, John had tried.

  The breath kind of stuttered, like a little laugh. What the hell? It came from behind his head, closer to the front door. Damn, I wish I had a weapon. Without moving his head, he turned his eyes toward the coffee table. A lazy Susan that Michaela used to help serve sat in the middle. It was made of some kind of heavy ceramic. That would have to do.

  With a huge sweep of his covers, Wen sat up, sprang to his feet, grabbed the lazy Susan in two hands and leaped forward—

  —to see Peter’s eyes widen as he flattened himself against the wall with his hands lifted to fend off his attacker.

  Wen stared at his elf face and hissed, “What the hell are you doing here?” No, wait, wrong question. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  Peter pointed at the slightly open window.

  Uh, wait. Wen walked over and looked out at the four-story drop—and the old rusty fire escape that ran beside the window. What the hell? He stalked back to Peter, grabbed his arm, and pulled him to the couch. “Sit.”

  Peter sat.

  Wen turned on a small lamp, went into the kitchenette, grabbed their filter pitcher of water and poured two glasses, then carried them back to the couch. He handed one to Peter. “I figure you need it after your adventures. How the hell did you get up that fire escape without falling or ripping the thing off the wall? Fly?”

  He grinned. “I’m a good climber.”

  Wen wanted to scream, and only biting his tongue kept it at bay. “Why did you do it? I’ve asked you to help me. You’ve said no. We have nothing else to talk about. You put yourself at risk, and you broke into my house where my kids sleep!”

  “Kids?” His cat eyes widened. “You have children?”

  “Yes, they’re my younger brother and sister. I’m responsible for them. I have to leave them alone sometimes, and now I find out that any criminal can waltz up that fire escape and threaten them.”

  “Well, not any criminal.” He gave a half grin.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “No. I get that. But honestly, most people would rip that thing off the wall. I really am a good climber and it’s very high. I think you and your kids are safe.”

  Wen planted a hand on his hip. “From everyone but you.”

  “Yeah.” He giggled, which despite being shocked and furious, kind of made Wen want to smile.

  “Why did you risk your life to get up here?”

  “I like watching you sleep.” He smiled and sipped his water. “I like watching you do a lot of things.”

  Wen slammed the glass down on the coffee table and tried to keep his voice quiet. “How would you know what I look like doing a lot of things?”

  “I stalk you.” He glanced up and grinned. Devastating and infuriating in equal amounts.

  “Was that you at my office with the pizza?”

  “Yes, but I think turnabout is fair play. You stalked me too, right?”

  Wen flopped into one of the rickety chairs to keep from beating Peter with the table lamp. “I suppose so. I didn’t exactly sneak into your bedroom.”

  He shrugged. “Why do you sleep on the couch?”

  “My sister’s sixteen and needs her own space, and I like having some little bit of privacy.”

  “So you take care of your sister and brother.”

  “We take care of each other.”

  “Is it them you won’t be able to feed if I don’t paint for you?”

  Wen wrinkled his nose. “That might have been a tad melodramatic. I’ll probably lose my job, but I should be able to find another one.” I hope.

  “You’ll lose your job without my help?” He sounded horrified.

  “Sort of. If I can’t come up with an astounding new idea for the peanut butter account, I’ll likely lose my job. You were my one idea. I need a new concept fast because I haven’t got long.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “New concepts?”

  Peter nodded

  “A million of them, but I doubt any are good enough.”

  “Why do you take care of your sibs?”

  Conversation whiplash. “Our parents are dead.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He didn’t look very sorry.

  Wen’s turn to shrug. “I pretty much took care of Michaela and John before our folks died, so it’s not new.”

  “Maybe I can help you come up with a concept.” He set his empty water glass on the coffee table like he was ready to go to work.

  “Promoting a product you don’t believe in?” Okay, snarky, but what the hell?
<
br />   Peter folded his legs yoga style on the couch. “You can persuade me to believe in it.”

  “If I persuade you to believe in it, will you paint for me?”

  Peter gazed at his hands. “Sorry. I can’t.”

  “I don’t get the difference.” Wen wanted to wring his neck. He also wanted to kiss him right after he wrung his neck, since he looked like a sexy elf sitting there in his tight jeans and green T-shirt, brilliant red hair hanging on his shoulders.

  “Painting takes time, and people might see it and ask questions, and that wouldn’t be good for me.”

  “Why?” Peter frowned, and Wen held up his hands. “Okay, forget I asked.” But he wouldn’t forget it. “Don’t people see your art in the subway?”

  “Yes, but they don’t know who did it. No one else is as sneaky as you.” He flashed some serious dimples.

  “Why would it be bad for you if someone knows who painted it?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “What if no one knows who painted it? What if I keep it secret?”

  “How?”

  Wen’s heart leaped. Was this a tiny pinprick of hope? “Uh, what if you painted it where you live?”

  “No. I have a lot of roommates. Not enough space. And no privacy.”

  That sounded interesting. “How about here? We could set you up—uh.” He glanced around at the postage stamp that did triple duty as living room, bedroom, and kitchen. “Maybe we can set you up in the bedroom, and Michaela will double up with John until you’re done.”

  “I thought she needed privacy.”

  “It wouldn’t be for that long, right?” He rubbed his eyes. “Thing is, both of them are so scared I’m going to lose my job, they’ve been encouraging me to find you. I didn’t know Neverland was a club. They’re the ones who told me.”

  “It smells a lot. The paint.”

  “We could close the door.”

  Peter stared at his empty glass. “What would you want me to paint?”

  Wen swallowed hard. Don’t get your hopes up yet. “Something sort of like you did on the subway wall. Just a lot of dynamics and movement and whimsy and excitement with figures and birds and flowers and—like that.” His heart slammed against his chest.

  “No peanut butter?”

  “No. I’m going to take your art and animate it. Bring it to life.” He waved his arms. Jesus, he could see it. “I’ll integrate the idea of peanut butter in it, or more likely what peanut butter represents—like nutrition and health and comfort and fun. This company makes organic peanut butter with no sugar or additives, and they want an ad that really speaks to the next generation. People like you.”