by Jet Mykles
Incensed, Reese grabbed over Tarkington’s shoulder. Smirking, Luc ducked aside.
Tarkington roared. He grabbed Reese’s wrist and yanked. “Mr. Schuyler!” He made sure he had Reese’s attention. “You will accompany me to my office. Now!” He turned and pointed at the guard. “You, escort—” He glared at Luc. “—Mr. Sloane off campus. Mrs. Greene, please stay with the students until I’ve made other arrangements.” He pointed at the door, silent indication that Reese should leave the room first.”
He was too mad to glance over his shoulder as he stormed out.
“I’ll call you, lover,” Luc called over his shoulder as he exited way ahead of the guard.
“Don’t even think about it!” Reese spat over his own shoulder as he followed Tarkington down the hall the opposite way.
Chapter Twelve
He didn’t get fired.
He was sharply chastised for his language and behavior in front of his students. Tarkington made it very clear that he would be writing a letter of reprimand that would be on his record and it would serve as his first warning. Another such outburst and he could be let go.
Oh yes, and he did hear the gay basher comment. Reese assured him that he hadn’t said that to Luc, but of course Tarkington didn’t believe him. Without proof, he let it lie, but not before a long lecture to Reese about the equal opportunity policy at Brighton. Through that, Reese got the clear picture that he was free to be with anyone he wanted, so long as nothing interfered with his classwork and didn’t adversely affect the students. It was vague but he didn’t bother to ask for specifics.
Given the time of year and the fact of finals in two days, Tarkington decided to let him finish the year but only after a solemn promise that Luc would not be coming back and no such scenes would be repeated.
Reese left, wondering if that would have gone differently if they weren’t in the last week of the year. He further wondered if he’d have a job in the fall or if Tarkington would find a reason get rid of him. If so, he figured his life as a teacher was over, at least anywhere within the adjoining counties. Sure, there may be other schools in other towns that wouldn’t care about what happened, but that would mean he'd have to move. It would mean he'd have to supplant his life and start over anyway.
He had to laugh as he waited for a stoplight. This was exactly what Luc wanted. He was outed and probably out of a job. Now he needed to figure out what to do with his life, because crawling to Luc wasn’t an option.
He opened his front door and immediately saw the envelope on the floor. The ticket envelope Luc had flourished in front of his face. Scowling, he picked it up, intending to rip the tickets in half. Morbid curiosity made him look at the handwritten note on the envelope itself:
You’re pissed. I get that. But when you calm down, you’ll have to admit that I did you a favor. Use the ticket. Come to Italy. I DO love you and I want you with me. Luc
He almost ripped up the envelope and tickets in fit of pique, but stopped himself. Fuck Luc. They were paid for, open-ended and first class. Once he figured out what he was doing, he’d use the tickets to go to Italy. But he wouldn’t go see the asshole!
Reese dropped the tickets and his keys on the table by the front door, then stood there. Now what? He should go out and get drunk. He should go out and get laid. By a guy! That would show Luc. Unfortunately, he had to work in the morning. Anyway, the idea had no appeal, even as revenge. He quite truthfully didn’t want any other body—male or female—but Luc’s.
He sank against the door and shut his eyes over a sudden pang of remorse. Damn it!
After a few moments of self-indulgent pity, he stood with a sigh. Blankly, he stared at the bare walls and utilitarian furniture of his domicile. Took in the empty bookshelves and the rickety cart that held his twenty-two-inch television. He stared like he’d never seen any of it before. How depressing. Was this really his furniture? Was this how he’d been living?
He climbed the stairs, loosening his tie. He tossed it into his bedroom and walked into the second bedroom, which served as his office. That space was even more sparsely furnished than the downstairs. He had cardboard boxes lining the walls, due to be unpacked. Still. Two years after he’d moved in. The computer desk and its contents were the only part of the room that had received his attention.
He crossed to open one side of the mirrored closet. A small pile of old sketchbooks lay in one corner, dusty and brittle. His easel and two blank canvases leaned to the side behind them, sorely neglected.
Without really making the decision, he pulled them out. He set up the easel in the corner by the window and propped one of the canvases on it. The sketchbooks he dropped onto his computer chair. He retrieved an old familiar tackle box from the top shelf of the closet and sat right on the dingy off-white carpeting to open it. He opened paint tube after paint tube, only to find that there wasn’t a single color that was useable. But the charcoals were still good.
He stood and set the tackle box on the computer desk and gathered up the sketchbooks so he could sit. He started flipping through them, refamiliarizing himself with what used to be one of his obsessions. The most recent book was filled with Heaven Sent—mostly Luc. He’d spent many an hour learning to depict that face. That body. Figuring out what it was about Luc that made him unique. Gorgeous. Heavenly.
Grimacing, he had his hand poised to rip up the pages. But he couldn’t do it. Images of Luc filled his head. He couldn’t even work up a good head of anger, just despair. He hadn’t felt this bad since… Well, since Luc had rejected him those many years ago. Ha! The one man was responsible for the two most emotional upheavals in Reese’s life. How appropriate.
“Fuck it.”
The sketchbooks hit the floor. He crossed to the other side of the room to dig through the boxes that held his CDs and found all of Heaven Sent’s released albums as well as the recordings he had of early, pre-record-company shows. He woke up his laptop, slipped his favorite into the CD slot then fired it up to so sound filled the space. Darien’s driving drums. Johnnie’s sultry voice. Brent’s leading riffs. And threading it all together, Luc’s throbbing bass beat.
Impatiently, Reese took off his button-down shirt and toed out of his dress shoes. He even dropped his pants, leaving himself only in boxers and socks, and grabbed up the charcoals and the half-full sketchbook. He sank to the floor near one corner, within the light of the window, and started sketching.
Chapter Thirteen
He didn’t know she was there until the music stopped. He glanced toward the computer desk, frowning, as the song “Up the Ante” halted just before the bass solo. Reegan stood there, hands on hips, glowering at him. Jeans and a black Purgatory T-shirt suggested she was either just off her shift or she was heading in to work. Whatever had possessed him to give her a key to his townhouse?
“How long have you been here?”
He turned back to the easel, paintbrush hovering. “This townhouse? About two years.”
“Asshole! You know what I mean. I’ve been trying to call you all week.”
He shrugged, brush still hovering.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
Red?
“Reese?”
No, maybe some violet would make the shadow…
“Reese!”
He jumped back a step because she was now standing beside the easel, screeching at him. “What?”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“It’s off.” Why was she here?
“Your cell too?”
“Yes.” He scowled at her, wanting her gone.
“Why?”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” He dabbed at the paints. “Go away.”
Of course she didn’t heed. She never did. Instead, she took the few steps that would let her see what he saw.
“Oh. Reese.” Her words were a soft sigh, as soft as the brush of her fingers against his bare side.
His heart warmed. He was mostly pleased with the wo
rk in progress before him, although he was never truly happy with any of his work. But considering he hadn’t done anything for years, the painting was shaping up nicely. And the subject matter was, of course, divine. Luc lay sprawled among ivory sheets, one corner covering his groin for modesty, but otherwise gloriously naked. It was far from done, but he’d been working on it since Thursday night, barely paying attention on the last two days of school. After he got home Friday, he’d been working on it constantly, only sleeping when he could no longer keep his eyes open.
Putting his sister from his mind, he faced the folding table he’d set up beside the easel to hold the paints and tools he’d purchased on his way home Thursday night. He wore an old pair of board shorts that now had paint splotches on them. He’d remembered quickly why he painted with barely any clothes on. There was a dress shirt and pair of slacks that was ruined when he’d forgotten to change the first night. He’d paint naked except he did remember not liking to wash dried paint off his junk. He squeezed some midnight blue into a clear spot on the palette and then mulled over which red to mix with it.
“…for years.”
“Could you put the music back on?”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“What?”
She sighed. “I heard about what happened?”
He turned back to the canvas but had to stop. “You’re in my way.” She was, standing between him and his work.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m busy.”
“I can see that and you can’t begin to know how happy I am that you’re painting, but I need to know if you’re okay.”
He stared into eyes that matched his own. “I don’t understand the question.”
She scowled. “Don’t be cute.”
“Can’t help it.”
The scowl deepened.
He sighed. “I’m fine.”
“I heard about what happened.”
“Okay.” Not a surprise. At least two of the teachers at Brighton were friends of hers. Maybe not close, but close enough that they would have called her to gossip.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why would I?” She took a deep, fortifying breath but he cut off an impending tirade. Or, tried to. “I’m fine.”
“Really.” She didn’t believe him.
“Yes.” He just stared at her, willing her to let it go so he could get on with what he was doing.
“You’re painting again.”
“Obvious.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I do.”
“Not for years.”
He narrowed his eyes, not wanting to talk about this. “Now I do.”
“Why?”
He took a breath that echoed the one she’d taken. “The urge struck.”
She glanced at the canvas behind her. “I wonder why that happened.”
“Get out of the way.”
“Have you called him?”
That surprised him. “Why would I call him?” His phone was turned off, hadn’t she heard him?
She glanced behind her again.
“What?”
“Obviously you miss him.”
“Obviously nothing. He’s beautiful. Worthy of painting. I can’t deny that.”
“And he could be yours.”
Anger cast red over his vision. “Go home.”
“Reese.”
“Leave so I can do this.”
“Do what?”
“Are you, like, blind or something?” He held up brush and palette and gestured with his chin at the canvas behind her.
God she was stubborn! “If you’re not thinking about him, why are you painting him?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t thinking about him and I’m painting him to get him out of my system.” It was just easier to tell her so she’d go away and leave him alone. Besides, a little part of him did want to share. The part that was lost and scared and didn’t know what to think anymore. The part that wanted to think that maybe dreams could come true. The part that was so much smaller than the parts that just didn’t want to think.
But she gaped. “What?”
Growling, he nudged her none-too-gently aside so he could get back to his work. He ignored the pang of want that even the unfinished vision of Luc swiped through his system.
“You’re painting him to get him out of your system?” she asked, enunciating carefully.
“Yes.”
“Because that’ll work.” Her tone conveyed extreme skepticism.
So what? He was skeptical too. But it was the only thing he knew to do and the urge had refused to quit him. It had started Monday night and he’d managed to assuage it by sketching. He’d filled one of his old books with sketch after sketch. But by Thursday he’d had get paints and start something bigger, more substantial. “Yep.” He popped the ‘P’ to emphasize his point.
“What happens when you’re done?”
“I burn it.”
She gasped. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Reese, you can’t… What the fuck?”
“It gets him out of my life.”
“It does not do any such thing, you idiot!” She did her own growling. “You can’t get him out of your life. He’s been part of it forever.”
Ignore. Yes, the violet was working but it needed more red. The fucking hair was giving him fits! He turned back to the paint table. She was quiet for a few minutes, watching his back then watching when he came back to the canvas. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that she’d perched on his desk chair sideways, one arm draped over the back. He wished she’d turn the music back on because the silence was too loud, but he was afraid if he spoke so would she.
Of course, she spoke anyway. “Did you hate the time you spent with him that much?”
Reese’s hand shook so badly that he had to pull the paintbrush back or else slash purple across Luc’s chest. To anyone but his sister, he might have lied. He was tempted to do so anyway. “No. I didn’t hate it at all.”
“Don’t you love him?”
“Obsessed. I believe ‘obsessed’ is the word.” He switched from the brush with violet to the brush with the specially mixed mid-tone of auburn. “I’m obsessed with him but I was fine when he was gone.”
“You weren’t fine.”
He chose not to comment.
“You haven’t been fine for years.”
He stared at Luc’s lips, finely detailed, the start of a smug grin tipping the corners. He knew that grin so well, but so did any fan who’d seen a promo picture of him. Reese had very carefully chosen to not depict the special smile, the one he’d only seen in person. In private. The smile that promised dreams come true that couldn’t possibly be real.
“He said he loved you.”
Surprise struck an errant slash of red across the pillows. Damn it! He glared at his sister. “Who told you that?”
“Please.” Her look was pure condescension. “You don’t think that little tidbit was shared all over social media? In text and clear, glorious video?”
He wouldn’t know. He hadn’t been online since the incident and his kids had been under strict instructions to not speak about it in class. He’d managed to avoid all teachers by not visiting the break room and he’d closed his doors to everyone outside of class time. Without comment, he contemplated the red swipe and how he could fix it. It was too far away from the rest of the spread hair.
“Reese.”
He sighed. “He doesn’t love me.”
“Because he just lied? Doesn’t sound like Luc.”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“Hold on, let me see if I’ve got this.” He knew her hands were up to tick off points but he wouldn’t look. “He spent a whole week fucking you into oblivion, kissed you in public then came to your place of work to declare his love where he knew it’d leak to the world. Sure seems he means it.”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t know me.”
“Beca
use you didn’t do any talking all week? Jesus, I didn’t know it was even possible to fuck that much.”
He couldn’t take the bait and snap back at her. His head was still shaking, as was his hand. The eyes he had trained on the slash of paint clouded up and a weird pressure welled up from his heart into his throat.
“Reese?”
“I… can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Her voice was soft again, a lot like their mother’s when they needed comfort.
“I can’t do him. I can’t do his life.”
“Why not?”
“That’s not me.”
“Reese…”
“No. I… was. I tried. I failed.”
“What?”
Now he was just staring without seeing. Not the present, at least. His vision dimmed until he was looking into the past. Watching hopes be dashed and dreams denied. “I can’t do that again. I can’t try and hope and get… broken—” his voice cracked, “—again. I tried being gay. I tried being an artist. I tried dreaming. It didn’t work.” The paintbrush cracked in his grip and he stared at it in surprise while a lone tear tricked down his cheek.
“Reese…” she was on her feet, coming toward him.
He stopped her by raising the hand holding the palette, uncaring as paints drooled together threatening to drip on the floor. “No. No.” He said it as much to her as to the memories that wanted to well up. “It took all that I had to drag myself out of that. To stop fucking wanting.” He straightened, vision clearing. “I’m fine. I’m comfortable. I can live. Now.” Feeling stronger, he glanced at the canvas, dropping the dripping palette to his side. “Or I will once I get him out of my system.”
“Sweetheart, I know you went through a rough time.” She did, having helped nurse him through the agony of broken dreams. “But you can’t let that stop you from grabbing what could be something amazing.”
“I don’t do amazing.”
She grabbed his arm, startling him since he didn’t realize she was close enough. Pieces of paintbrush clattered to the carpet. “Fuck that! You are amazing. Don’t you fucking tell me that my brother isn’t amazing.”
