by Tara Lain
“You too.” He looked up at Wen, those green eyes steady and serious. “And no one, I mean no one, would know who painted it. Correct? No matter who asks or what they tell you, nobody finds out.”
Man, he’s serious. “Yes, okay. No one finds out no matter what.”
“And this will really help your kids? If I paint?”
“I can’t tell you how much.” Wen gripped his hands together.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?”
“You know. A guy you kiss and have sex with. A boyfriend?”
“Uh, no.”
Suddenly Peter leaped to his feet. “Let me think about it.”
Woosh. Just like that, he zipped across the living room, out the front door, and was gone.
Did that happen? Holy crap, was Peter eccentric or crazy? Why did it matter so much that no one know that a twentysomething-year-old street kid did a painting? Not like it was going to break the bank at Sotheby’s.
Every cell in his body twitched in both hope and disappointment, with a healthy dose of lust thrown in. Stupid. So very stupid. Here he was once again, having to depend on a firefly to light up New York.
Oh hell, I’m tired.
He stood, turned off the lamp, and slipped back into his couch bed. Fuck. Peter would either come back or he wouldn’t.
Chapter Six
Oh man. Oh. He laughed. Tickles. Tickles good.
Wait. For a dream, this sure feels—
Wen swatted a hand toward his tingling ear and touched hair that wasn’t his own. “What?”
He sat up in one move and banged hard into a good-smelling obstacle.
Wen’s lids flew open, and he gazed eye-to-eye with glistening emerald green. “Peter!”
“Shh.” In one move, Peter closed his lips over Wen’s.
“Mfft.” Wen pressed his hands against Peter’s shoulders and found that reed-thin body to be strong as bamboo. Oh man, and those lips are so sweet. So sweet.
His mind reeled and his body followed, as his arms wrapped around Peter like a life buoy in a stormy sea. He pulled Peter full-length on top of him, and they fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces, writhing and thrusting. Oh dear God, how long had it been since his cock had any action not from his own hand? And this was so far beyond that. Peter’s tongue caressed his, his dick rubbed against Wen’s like the very best kindling, Want more. Peter’s moan tickled his ear and—well, hell—woke up his brain.
This was not such a great idea. He managed to raise his languid body up on his elbow and glanced toward the hall. “Stop.”
Peter ran his tongue up Wen’s neck.
Wen pulled away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Peter whispered, “If you don’t know, I must be doing it wrong.”
Wen shook his head and slid off the narrow couch, then plopped in the chair. Peter flipped on his back and stretched a hand above the fan of flame-red hair spread around his head. Wen sighed. “Please quit jerking me around.”
Peter gazed up through his thick lashes. “I thought it was more jerking off than around.”
Wen frowned, and Peter dropped his eyes. Wen shook his head again. “Look, I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t great, but my kids are in there. I didn’t track you down for sex. It’s not that I don’t find you attractive. I do. But I asked for your help, and all I get is whiplash. I—”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes. That’s what I came to tell you. Yes, I’ll paint for you. You have to abide by the agreement, but with that stipulation, my answer is yes.”
“Well, holy shit, what made you change your mind?”
He shrugged. “I like to be seen.”
“I don’t understand. If you like to be seen, why don’t you sell your paintings?”
“I don’t like being viewed. I like being seen.”
What the hell. Just go with it. “So, uh, you want to paint here?”
“Okay.”
When do you want to start?”
“Tomorrow.”
Wow. Just wow. “Uh, okay. I mean, it’s Saturday, and the kids will be here and can help you get set up. I have to talk to them first.”
“Do you think they’ll say no?”
“Not likely.”
“Okay. I’ll be here at ten. Does that work?”
“In the morning?”
Peter grinned. “Sure. I can actually go out in the day without burning up.”
Wen wiped a hand across his forehead. “Why did you kiss me?”
Peter tilted his head, which increased his resemblance to a green-eyed cat. “You looked like you needed kissing. See you tomorrow.”
Peter opened the door to his apartment and crept inside. Dark. It might have been quiet except for the sound of at least three different snores and Map’s muttering in multiple languages that always accompanied his sleeping. Peter used the term “his” apartment loosely. In fact, his name didn’t even appear on the lease—on purpose. Whose did? He couldn’t quite remember. One of the Lost Boys. The landlord—another loosely used term—didn’t really complain about how many people slept there as long as they paid the rent and never ever bitched about anything. Toilet overflowed? Fix it yourself. Heat not working? Put on a coat. Rats ate your dinner? Welcome to New York.
Peter crept past the body on the couch. It looked like Wingman. He must have been the last one in. Whoever returned home latest slept on the lumpy sofa—except for Peter, who always slept with Samu, and Samu was too big to fit on the couch. Samu and Peter got the queen-sized mattress in the corner of the bedroom. Tonight, Dudish curled around some girl on the daybed. They probably had sex before Wingman got home and after the rest crashed. Public displays of orgasm were discouraged in the apartment.
In the one bedroom, two twin beds accommodated Map on one and Tink on the other, while Samu lay on his side on the mattress facing the wall. Peter stripped down to his skin, then pulled on his sweats, which lay over the back of a chair. He used the bathroom, considered brushing his teeth but decided not to spoil the taste in his mouth, and padded back into the bedroom.
Tink sat up and stared at him with a frown. “Wherehaveyoubeen?”
He frowned back. “I decided to do a painting for that guy. Wendell Darling. I went to tell him.”
Her dark eyebrows scrunched even farther over her turned-up nose, and her volume rose. “Youcan’tdothat.”
“Shhh.” He glanced at Map and Samu. No one knew anything about him—except Tink. She’d been his first friend, before he knew to keep his mouth shut and his life history creative. She didn’t know details, but he’d given her broad strokes, and she worried all the time. “Yes, I can. I’m going to do it anonymously. Nobody will even know I did it.”
“Toodangerous.”
He sat on the edge of her bed. “He really needs me to help. He could lose his job.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, currently dressed in a pink jersey with rabbits on it. “Notyourfault.”
“I know, Tink. But he’s got these kids he takes care of. I can help him so easily.”
“Youneedtotakecareofyou.”
He reached out and brushed her fuzzy pink hair from her forehead. “I don’t need to take care of me. I’ve got you to do it for me.”
She pulled her head away, but her lips stretched just a little. She wanted to smile.
He said, “Go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”
“Wasn’tasleep.”
“I know.” She never slept until he did. Sometimes he wanted to tell her that her hyperprotectiveness made him responsible for her. If she didn’t sleep until he got home or gave him food she should eat, it came out being his fault. I guess that’s how friendship is.
He stood and crossed to the mattress, pulled back the thin blanket, and crawled in next to Samu. When he felt the heat of that big body, he sighed.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey, Samu.”
Turning on his side, he conjured the taste
and feel of Wen’s lips. Oh my. Am I doing this painting for all the wrong reasons? Shit, who cares? Licking his lips, he fell asleep.
Wen hung a few of Michaela’s clothes in the teeny space in John’s closet. He’d moved a couple of his own suits into the front hall wardrobe to make what little room they could muster. He had no idea how long the painting would take, and Michaela would need school clothes. “Thank you for doing this. I know it’s a huge inconvenience, but Peter says it won’t be long.”
She made the single bed behind him with fresh sheets. “It’s okay.” She glanced toward the bedroom door and lowered her voice. “John’s so worried. I just want to make him feel better.”
“About my job, you mean?”
She nodded.
John’s footsteps sounded in the short hall. “Okay, I cleared out all the space by the window ’cause I know artists need light, right?”
“Yep. Makes sense.” Wen smiled. John seemed more optimistic than he had been.
Michaela gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ll put an old sheet over my bed to protect it. Maybe we can push it back out of the way.”
“So did Peter call to say he’s coming?” John twisted his fingers.
“No. But he didn’t text to say he wasn’t, so I imagine he’ll be here.”
“Isn’t it ten o’clock yet?”
Wen glanced at his watch for the twelfth time in an hour. “Just a couple more minutes.”
The bell sounded.
John’s eyes lit up. “I’ll get it!” He ran to the hall, and Wen heard him say, “Darling residence.”
Michaela smiled.
The scratchy speaker made a crackling noise, and it must have been enough to satisfy John, because he pressed the buzzer that unlocked the downstairs door. John yelled, “I’m going down to help.”
Wen’s heart beat stupidly hard as he walked toward the front door of the apartment. He’d literally never introduced the kids to any guy who turned him on. Of course, the cardiac overload might also have something to do with the prospect of keeping his job.
John raced up the stairs carrying a tackle box, the kind artists often used to carry brushes and paints. “They’re coming.”
“They?”
He whispered, “Yes, Peter and this giant dude.”
Wen walked down one flight with John bouncing beside him and met Peter coming up beside Sumo Guy. Sumo was hauling an easel and several canvases, one so big only a man his size could have managed it. Wen reached out. “Hi. Can I help?”
Sumo handed him two small canvases. John grabbed one and ran ahead. When they mounted the top step, Sumo said in a surprisingly soft voice, “Nothing available on the ground floor?” He leaned against the wall and breathed.
Peter laughed. “Samu, how can you be my bodyguard when you can’t climb four flights without collapsing?”
Wen looked between them. “He’s your bodyguard?”
“It’s our joke.” Peter pointed at his giant friend. “This is Samu, short for Samurai.”
“That’s funny. In my mind, I called him Sumo. Close.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Wendell Darling. People call me Wen.”
“I’m sure glad they don’t call you Darling.” His broad face crinkled.
“Yeah, well, they do.”
Peter grinned. “Where to, Wendell Darling?”
“Follow me.” He led them into the apartment and to Michaela’s room.
Peter twirled around. “This is perfect. Such good light.”
Michaela hung in the doorway. “I’m glad you like it.” Her wide eyes spoke of amazement—and admiration.
Wen said, “Michaela, this is Peter and this is Sumo, I mean Samu. They’re the ones who are going to help me with a new idea for the Comfort peanut butter campaign.”
Her eyes dropped and her cheeks got pink. “Thank you so much. This will really help Wen a lot.”
Uh, okay. He hadn’t really thought about the fact that Michaela was only a few years younger than Peter—probably. Whew. It was hard thinking of his kid sister as a teenage girl who liked boys. But this happened to be the wrong boy.
Samu said, “I’ll go downstairs and get the shelf thing.”
“Thanks, Samu.”
Wen watched him go. “How did you get all this stuff here?”
“We’ve got a friend who drives a cab. He brought us.”
A couple of minutes later, Samu walked back in carrying a plastic rolling shelf unit like the ones some of the renderers in Wen’s art department used. It was called a taboret. Samu set it down next to the easel.
Peter waved his arms. “We better cover this floor. Do you have any drop cloths?”
John kind of hopped. “I’ll bet there’re some in the basement.”
Basement? “How do you know what’s in the basement?”
Michaela said, “It’s okay, Wen. I checked it out. John likes to play down there with a couple other kids from the building.”
“I’ll go look.” John raced out the bedroom door.
Wen watched him with a frown and glanced at Michaela. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
Samu stepped to the door. “I’ll make sure it’s cool, okay?” He ambled out.
Michaela said, “Would you like some iced tea and cookies.”
Peter twirled. Twirled. “I’d love it. Are they lemon cookies?”
“Uh, gingersnaps.”
“Just as good.” He leaped over and took her arm. For a second she looked like she might faint, but then she laughed and led him to the living room. Wen followed behind. I’m definitely chopped liver.
A couple of minutes later, John and Samu came in the front door carrying some big pieces of plastic. They weren’t even too dirty. John said, “I knew I’d seen these down there.”
Peter pronounced them perfect, and the three went to lay them on the bedroom floor while Michaela and Wen gathered the iced tea.
She whispered, “How old is Peter?”
“Not as young as he looks, I think. I don’t know exactly.”
“He’s very…” He could practically see the words gorgeous, cute, handsome, adorable floating through her brain. “…unique.”
Wen snorted. “That’s a powerful understatement.” He glanced at her smile. Better do it now. “Uh, yeah. Gay guys sometimes have very creative self-expression.”
She jerked her eyes toward him and then back to the glasses. “I see. Letting me down easy.”
He leaned on the counter and smiled at her. “You’re way too smart for me, and yes. I didn’t want you getting designs on him.”
She gave him a long glance. “Because you have them?”
“Because he’s not into girls—uh, romantically. And I’m interested in his painting—mostly.”
Her turn to snort. “He reminds me of Mother.”
Wen wiped some drops of tea from the counter. Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.
Chapter Seven
John yelled, “Hey are you two growing your own tea?”
Laughing, Wen and Michaela carried the tea into the living room, each taking two glasses, and then Michaela went back for her own. Samu sat next to Peter on the couch, Wen and Michaela took the chairs, and John plopped on the rug.
Peter took a cookie from the big plate Michaela had placed on the coffee table and bit into it. “Wow. Who made these?”
John said, “Nabisco.”
Michaela narrowed her eyes. “Dork.”
“Well, they’re good.” Peter sipped his lemonade. “So what do you want me to paint specifically?”
“Honestly, anything you want. I mean, as long as it looks something like what was on that wall.”
Peter looked at Samu. “Do you remember what it was I painted?”
Samu shrugged. “Some.”
Peter said, “I took photos, remember?”
“Oh, good.”
Wen pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolled through his photos, and crossed to the couch to sit beside Peter. Samu’s big body on the other side of Peter m
eant the only space available was pressed against Peter from hipbone to ankle. Wen swallowed hard and held out the phone.
Peter leaned in, increasing the contact, and Wen’s skin practically glowed radioactive. Peter looked at the photo and chuckled. “Oh right. Cosmic kittens and chaos.”
“What?”
“That’s the way I thought of that painting.”
Wen’s insides split down the middle—half wanted to cheer and half to barf. Just what he needed. More chaos. “Oh. Uh, okay.”
Peter sprang up, breaking the thigh contact, but he grabbed Wen by the shoulders. “Cosmic!” He planted a huge kiss on Wen’s cheek, then grabbed his glass and swept into the bedroom.
Wen sat stunned, like he’d just been attacked by a unicorn.
John bounced up. “Let’s go watch!”
“Uh, maybe Peter doesn’t want an audience.”
Samu grinned. “You kidding? My man’s a performance artist.”
John ran for the bedroom with Michaela following, Samu next, and Wen bringing up the rear. Wen’s thigh still tingled, and he wiped a hand down it. Being attracted to Peter was like a defeat. Surrender to—what did he call it? Cosmic chaos? Shit, I’m a masochist.
In the bedroom, John sprawled on the floor and Michaela leaned against the wall next to him. Both stared, enrapt at the wild-ass process going on. Peter pulled paint from the taboret and the zipper bag—both spray paint cans, like a tagger might use, and acrylic paints in tubes. He produced brushes, bottle caps, rags, and hunks of net material until he stood in the midst of disarray. With a spin, he stared at Wen. “How big?” He swept a hand at the two canvases—one large and on the easel, the other huge and against the wall.
“I can probably work with either one—”
Peter grinned. “Ah, but size matters.” He winked, spun, and moved the easel out of the way in favor of approaching the big canvas. Waving an arm to no one in particular, he commanded, “Protect the wall.”
