Authors: Lane Hayes
T
HE
EDITOR
in chief at Aaron’s magazine was a savvy businesswoman. Marsha Feinstein recognized the importance of balancing a tasteful upscale vibe with hip fashion-forward sensibility. A nod toward convention in the nation’s political mecca was always a prudent choice. She’d hired a staff of young professionals who shared her talent to effortlessly push the boundaries of the conservative side with a cutting-edge flare without alienating its readership. It was how she came up with the bright idea to use Simon Pickard’s work in the upcoming spread featuring British fashion and interior designers. It was to be released in conjunction with a royal visit to the White House. Brilliant. However, I still wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t care how they juxtaposed the art with the clothing. I trusted Aaron to do his job. I had a premonition even the slightest show of interest would lead to a “meeting” with the esteemed artist. It was odd enough to be part of some broken triangle with someone I’d happily shed from my life years ago. Avoiding Simon altogether was for the best.
If Aaron was curious about my obvious absence during what many would have considered a pivotal edition featuring a few of my clients, he didn’t say a word. It could have been he was distracted with his job and wedding plans, but either way I was fairly sure I’d dodged a bullet when I heard through the grapevine the shoot had wrapped up the first week of September and the Brits had finally flown home.
I had a feeling something was amiss when I stepped into the chic lobby at the magazine that afternoon in mid-September. A buzz in the air or maybe an intuitive pulse I misread because it had been too long since I’d worried about the once all too familiar sly negative energy invading my head. Once upon a time, it had been another part of me. I woke up next to a sinfully handsome creative genius and wondered where his passion would lead us that day. Some days the rush of the unexpected made time move in a blur of neon lights and brightly colored canvases. Others, I waded through a mental pool of molasses, hoping for a way to trip the switch and find the light again. I didn’t know what fueled Simon’s quest for inspiration. Sometimes it was natural beauty. We would take long walks in the woods and make love under a lush canopy of evergreens. Other times, it was macabre. Walks in the woods became jaunts through the cemetery. Not my favorite, but not terrible. When his muse directed him toward more hedonistic pursuits, I’d finally put the brakes on. It was one thing to kiss another man while he watched. But to have sex with another man or two to fuel his fucked-up notion of artistry wasn’t going to happen. It took me five bloody years to realize I’d been nothing more than a puppet on a string. A play toy used to channel his creativity. A conduit, he’d said, between his hand and the canvas.
I wasn’t a stupid man. It was astonishing I’d given up so much of myself to please someone else. Much like my mother did for my father. That was the part I hated. Knowing I’d fallen into the trap I’d hoped to avoid. I’d become someone else’s muse at the expense of myself.
So I left.
And it wasn’t pretty. He hounded me relentlessly, sometimes with tender pleas and other times with a feral tenacity that on more than one occasion made me think he was certifiable. It wasn’t until I’d moved to the States that I really sensed I’d gotten rid of Simon Pickard. In the five years since I’d left England, I’d done a decent job avoiding any and all news regarding Britain’s so-called “national treasure.”
Until today.
I said a brief hello to the receptionist sitting behind an enormous sleek pale wood elliptically shaped desk. I had started to tell her I was expected for a meeting when I was interrupted by the sound of Aaron’s cheerful voice coming from the direction of the elevators off to the side. He was chatting animatedly to an unseen companion using his signature hand gestures and a friendly dialogue indicating he was bidding his guest farewell. I turned with a grin to greet him and froze.
“Hi Paul! Are you here to…?” Aaron’s melodic voice became static white noise. I could hear his words and even catch the meaning, but my brain was doing its best to figure out what the hell to say to Simon after all these years.
“Hello Paul. How are you?”
“I’m well. You?” I was proud of my cool but courteous tone and amazed I felt… nothing. No malice, no anxiety. I didn’t want to stand about asking after old friends or, God forbid, reminisce, but I was glad to not feel intimidated by his presence. I took it as a good sign and was relieved to feel my shoulders relax. Until I thought of Seth and felt a strong surge of loathing. I hated that Simon knew any part of him. My smile dipped as I took a step back.
“Well. You look fantastic,” he commented with a slightly lecherous tone.
I probably didn’t look half bad in my light gray Hugo Boss suit and navy print tie. My hair was streaked with sun and my skin was a shade darker than normal from sitting at Seth’s side for hours at the river or on the grass at the park while he sketched tirelessly and chatted about anything from literature to a recipe he wanted to try. However, Simon was better looking than ever. I gave him a brief once-over, noting how his dark curly hair fell enticingly over his brow and gave him a rakish, youthful appeal. He was tall and commanding with broad shoulders, and there was no denying his close shaven beard sealed his status as an extremely handsome middle-aged man. As my eyes swept over him, cataloging changes and looking for signs of the familiar, I could honestly say I felt a sense of immunity. The indescribably fierce longing that at one point threatened my sanity was long gone.
“Thank you,” I replied with a real smile as I glanced sideways at Aaron.
I was amused by his transparent curiosity. He’d probably wrangle the story from me later, but I wasn’t about to dive into ancient history while standing in his office lobby with the receptionist and other passersby as an audience.
“No introductions necessary I see,” Aaron commented with a grin. “How do you two know—”
“We met in London years ago,” I intercepted. “I’m headed upstairs to meet with Marsha. Cheers, Aaron…. Simon.” I inclined my head and turned toward the elevators.
“It’s good to see you again, Paul.” Simon’s deep voice stopped me in my tracks.
“You too,” I lied. I waved a short farewell and dashed toward an open elevator as though it was the last lift available for the day.
Just as the doors finally began to slide shut, he called my name again. I glanced up, surprised to find him closer than expected. His head was cocked and though his demeanor was casual, his lips were curled in a cruel twist. “Tell Seth hello for me.”
I gulped and pushed the button hard. My pulse quickened as an allover flush sent a heat wave through my body. I was dizzy and sick to my stomach. My senses were on overdrive. A panic attack was imminent if I didn’t pull myself together. I took a deep breath and then another before silently admonishing myself.
He is nothing to you. Do not let him win.
I willed myself to breathe and stay in the moment, but the claustrophobic confines of the elevator didn’t help. I clutched at my wrist without thinking and closed my eyes, expecting to feel a warm rush of blood drip down my hand. When the door slid open, I licked my upper lip and cautiously looked at my wrist. There was no blood. No pain. I was safe. Questionably sane, but safe.
O
N
MY
way home later that afternoon, Sarah Vaughn was singing a seductive, slow version of “You Go to My Head” as I reached for the garage opener. The arrangement and haunting vocals conjured thoughts of sipping champagne with a naked lover. I had no idea where mine was. Perhaps unexpectedly bumping into my past made me long for something solid from my present. I was desperate to stay in the here and now, and possessively anxious to be with him. Seth had mentioned Rand was in town in the morning before we’d peeled ourselves from the warm cocoon of my bed to get on with our respective days. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to tell me I was on my own for the evening, but I really hoped not. Not now.
My cell binged loudly. I listened to the garage door begin its ascent before picking up my phone to read the text.
Sending coordinates. Come after work
Where?
No response. I squinted at the display, waiting for the explanation I should have known wouldn’t come before typing the address he gave me into my car’s navigation system and heading north. Ten minutes later I passed the Safeway market he’d sent me to a couple of months ago. I smiled at the memory, but quickly sobered when I realized he was inviting me to his studio for the first time. This was a big deal. This was Seth’s sanctuary. To be granted entry to an artist’s workspace was an enormous show of trust not to be taken lightly. I knew this from the very rare occasions I was allowed into my father’s studio as a child.
The address he’d given led to a narrow street in an upscale boutique area east of the supermarket. I parked and looked around the neighborhood at the brick façade buildings with their brightly colored awnings. It was quiet and peaceful, but not at all what I expected. I wouldn’t have blinked at an industrial-style space in an abandoned warehouse, but a neat and tidy, respectable studio above a FedEx storefront was unexpected. I climbed the whitewashed stairs adjacent to the shop and paused before knocking on the door. It was slightly ajar, which I assumed was for my benefit until I heard a voice I recognize as Rand’s.
“It won’t kill you to play one night with us. Don’t make me beg.”
“I’m not asking you to beg. I’m just not interested. And I have plans.”
“With your boyfriend?” The sneer in his friend’s tone was obvious. I heard a snapping sound and a chuckle before Rand continued, “I have an idea! Blow the guy, fuck him senseless, and put him to bed early. He’s old, right? You have a thing for ancient guys. He won’t even notice you’re gone. Then you come downtown and shred with us for a couple hours. Please?”
“You are unreal.”
I tapped the door once to announce my presence before opening it. Seth stood with a paintbrush in his right hand behind a canvas that faced the back wall. The room was large with light colored hardwood flooring. It was lined on all sides with paned windows situated high on the white-painted walls. The late afternoon sun flooded the room with natural light and cast a brilliant glow across the canvas-filled space. There were three large easels set at various angles. A table laden with paints and supplies stood against the back wall, anchored by an enormous drop cloth. An ancient, tiny desk and chair took up a corner and a miniature refrigerator and microwave sat nearby. I would have easily guessed this was an art studio, but I was puzzled. Every single canvas lining the space was turned to face the wall. There was no hint at the artist’s style other than he was fairly neat.
“Ah, the boyfriend. We meet again. How’s it goin’?”
Rand’s tone was friendly enough but laced with vague distrust as if to say he hadn’t decided if I was worthy yet.
“Good to see you again.” I offered him my hand in greeting. He stared at it for a long moment before grinning good-naturedly and finally shaking it.
Seth set his paintbrush aside and greeted me with a soft kiss. Suddenly the other man standing a few feet away disappeared from view. The most innocent touch of Seth’s lips made my head spin. We’d been naked in bed sucking each other to oblivion that very morning, but it felt like forever ago. Just being near him made me dizzy. Nothing mattered but Seth. Not Rand. And certainly not Simon.
The moment that last thought filtered through my brain, I flinched, instantly uncomfortable with my thoughts. I gave Seth a small smile and reached out to rub paint from his cheek.
The grin he gave in return was glorious. “You’re here early. I would have gotten rid of this guy if I’d known you were coming soon.”
“I left after a meeting.”
“So you’re British. Tell me something interesting about yourself. Do you like music? Oh wait—this is the jazz enthusiast, right? I might like you after all. Who’s your favorite jazz artist?”
“John Coltrane,” I answered immediately.
Rand nodded and gave me a begrudging half smile. “Favorite album?”
“
Blue Train
.”
“Favorite track?”
I gave a short chuckle, amused at his rapid-fire questions and strange intensity. “The title track followed closely by ‘I’m Old Fashioned.’”
“Lively and sexy then sentimental. Hmm.” Rand turned back to Seth, who was watching our exchange with his arms crossed and a bemused expression. “I’ll give him a tentative thumbs-up. Too bad you’re British. This guy’s got a thing for accents. Dontcha?” Rand squeezed Seth’s cheek like an old aunt might a favorite nephew. Seth smacked his hand away and gave his friend a hostile look of warning.
“Weren’t you just leaving?” Seth asked in a syrupy tone.
“Fine.” Rand moved toward the door and turned back. “Look, if you change your mind, I’d be grateful. If not… I’ll still love you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Sure thing. Hey Paul… sorry if I sounded like a jerk, I—”
“Nice try, asshole. I don’t care if you’re suddenly the nicest guy on the planet, I’m still not playing tonight. Get your guitarist to sober up or better yet, find another one who’s reliable.” Seth shook his head and pointed toward the door. “Bye.”
“Why am I the guy in charge of this shit?”
“Because it’s your band and your dream. I’m doing my own thing now. It’s time to let me go, Rand.”
The two men stared at each other in a quiet that spoke volumes. It was easy to tell they were old friends who no longer had to rely on words to communicate. I envied their ease and was thinking Seth was lucky to have that in his life when the other man spoke again.
“But Seth… I’ll never let go. Not completely.” He stepped back toward Seth and captured his head in his hands before kissing his mouth noisily. He gave me a cocky smile and a short wave before finally opening the door. “See ya, Paul. You seem better than that shithead, Pickard. Don’t hurt my boy… or else.”