Rough Canvas (3 page)

From the way Thomas’ body reacted, it was as if Marcus had in fact slapped a manacle on him right there.

“He’s the serpent in the desert,” a voice said acidly.

The reaction was instinctive. Just like a high-school kid surprised with his hand up his girlfriend’s shirt, Thomas jerked back at the first syllables from his mother’s voice.

He succeeded in freeing himself, though he also managed to tear loose the bandage Celeste had been molding over his finger. The guilty reaction of course made the situation more apparent to everyone, including Celeste. Her eyes widened, shifting between the two of them even as Marcus gave him an unreadable look.

“What are you doing here?”

Marcus turned, as calm and composed as Thomas was disturbed.

His mother had been gardening, he saw. Wearing her neat jeans and smock printed with wildflowers, she carried her garden gloves in one hand with her dusty spade.

While she colored her hair now to keep it ebony, her skin, tanned from her time outdoors, showed attractive lines around her blue eyes.

The deep lines around the corners of her mouth were not as appealing, particularly since she didn’t often smile since his father had died and Thomas’ brother Rory ended up in a wheelchair from a tractor accident. An accident Thomas knew she felt wouldn’t have happened if Thomas had been here. And of course she was right. Right or wrong, it wouldn’t have happened.

“The last time I checked,” Marcus responded, “you weren’t my mother. So I don’t see that why I’m here is any business of yours.”

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Joey W. Hill

“Marcus.” His face might be inscrutable, but Thomas knew the reaction simmering under the surface. For all his polish, Marcus became a mean son of a bitch when his temper was provoked. He could wound a person terminally with the clever cruelty of his tongue, and his mother was far too vulnerable a target.

“New York fag,” Rory snarled. He’d been just behind Thomas’ mother, so he rolled forward now, jutting out his chin and pinning Marcus with a glare.

Marcus swept him with a dismissive glance. “But one who can walk. Would you

prefer being a New York fag if you could walk again? Or punch someone in the face who told you to fuck off?”

Celeste drew in a horrified breath. No one talked to Rory like that. In fact, he’d been pretty much coddled like a newborn since the accident. He was drowning in self-pity.

As his brother and the de facto head of the family now, Thomas knew it was something he should be doing something about. But with the store and everything else, and his own pain…he just hadn’t. Maybe Rory wasn’t the only one with a self-pity problem.

“Marcus—” Thomas warned as his mother stepped forward, her expression taut

with anger. Her hand automatically landed in reassurance on Rory’s stiff shoulder.

“Your mother asked what I was doing here. Fine.” Marcus drew a check out of his coat, turned and handed it to Thomas. “I thought I’d personally deliver your earnings from the work you left with me.”

“But we pulled my work…months ago.”

Before Thomas left New York, Marcus had decided to include him in an upcoming

gallery showing with bigger names. While Thomas’ credentials from art school and awards had been exceptional enough to make his presence in the show acceptable, he was an unknown. Therefore, he’d worked his ass off on the handful of pieces, knowing Marcus was giving him the type of break most artists didn’t get offered twice.

His walking out after finishing only half of the promised work brought an end to that. Not to mention it was a credibility blow to Marcus as a gallery owner. Marcus had been in the business long enough to weather such things with a shrug, especially from a nonestablished artist, but Thomas was fairly sure Marcus had never had a lover do it.

While Thomas had missed his chance at the show when his father had the heart

attack, it was when Rory’s accident brought him home again less than a month later he knew his career as an artist was over. He’d come close, but it wasn’t meant to be. He’d known then he wouldn’t be going back.

“Since you said you didn’t care what was done with them, I decided to feature the pieces in a recent show I held, for deceased artists.” The light trace of sarcasm would go undetected by his family. Not by Thomas. Even as Thomas’ jaw tightened, Marcus

continued. “I set the prices at what I felt they were worth. I thought you might appreciate the extra income.”

Thomas still hadn’t looked at the check, but then Celeste’s hand was on his, tilting it. “Oh my God, Thomas. Twenty-five… It’s twenty-five thousand dollars.”

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Pandemonium broke out. Rory pushed his chair forward, nearly running over Les’

toes while she continued to exclaim. “Thomas, this is…oh my God. Your art…” His mother stood there speechless, though he could tell a hundred thoughts were rocketing through her head like mortar fire, her body stiff as if having to withstand the barrage.

But he couldn’t help looking down at it himself, touching the ink. Five figures. Five fucking figures for work he had done.

A gallery check. Marcus’ logo. Marcus’ signature. Thomas’ lips tightened, anger filling his mind with heat.

Give him the damn check in front of his family. Like a gift from God.

Pulling the check away from Celeste and Rory, he strode through the store, hearing the shop bells chime as Marcus exited the building ahead of him. His mother called after Thomas, her voice stammering as she tried to marshal her defenses, but he was already past the defensive line. His own fury could carry him through this. He would handle it.

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Joey W. Hill

Marcus had walked to the end of the parking lot at the edge of the barn and storage area. He now stood looking out at the pasture where the cow raised her head and stared at him. She chewed her cud, as perplexed by him as he seemed mesmerized by her.

“You son of a bitch.”

Marcus glanced at him as Thomas stepped over the curb and crossed the grass to

the fence. “An accurate statement, based on what I know of my mother.”

“What is this?” Thomas waved the check. “What the hell are you doing here?” The ache in his chest was suffocating him. He stopped three paces away because—God help him—he didn’t trust himself closer. He might go to his knees and beg, and he didn’t know for what. He was the one who’d walked away, and nothing had changed about

the situation. If anything, it had gotten worse, confirming that he’d made the right decision.

“This is the cow.” When Marcus turned fully to study him, Thomas had to lock his jaw and plant his feet to meet his gaze. “The one you mentioned the day I said you wouldn’t be able to sell a picture in my gallery with a cow in it. You told me not only would it sell, I could put it up for auction and people would try to outbid one another for it.”

Marcus, always one to take a challenge, had agreed he’d put the painting up at the next auction. Which had never happened because Thomas left. Thomas forced himself to respond. “Yes, that’s her. Kate. Her name is Kate. Les named her.”

“I should hope so. Else you would have been outed long ago. No straight farm boy names his cow, after all.”

The slight edge to Marcus’ tone helped Thomas remember the point. He lifted the check. “What is this?”

“I told you. It’s your percentage. All of the pieces sold. Even the sculpture, though we both know that’s not your best medium. Oils. In your hands, they can become

anything.”

As Marcus’ attention drifted to his mouth, lingered, Thomas couldn’t bear it. He crushed the check in his fist.

“Bullshit. Total bullshit. No way an unknown—hell, one who hadn’t even gotten

his Master of Fine Arts yet—would get this kind of money. It’s you. Your signature, your gallery. There were no buyers. You think you can buy me into being something I can’t be, like some boy whore you picked up on the street?”

Marcus’ green eyes rose, narrowed. “Do you think I’m that desperate, pet?”

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No. He didn’t think Marcus was desperate at all, whereas Thomas was going to

choke on his own misery if he stood here another moment looking at what he wanted so much and couldn’t have.
Please God, just let him vanish and be one of those million dreams
I’ve had of him before I do something stupid.

“You aren’t desperate. But you’re used to getting what you want. That’s all this is about. You don’t want me. You just can’t stand that I walked away. I should have expected you sooner. Keep your money, and like I told you then, keep those pieces.

Burn them, toss them in the trash. It doesn’t mean anything here. Nothing. You don’t mean anything here.”

He slapped the check against Marcus’ chest, hard enough to shove him back toward the fence.

He’d overlooked it in his fury, or perhaps he didn’t care, craving the fight and the violence, some outlet for everything churning inside of him. While cultured, elegant and beautiful, Marcus was also bloody strong, dangerous as a wolf and knew how to fight in ways far beyond Thomas’ skills. He was deadly when crossed, and he was a sexual Dominant.

Not to be confused with an alpha male, though he was that. Thomas had been

naïve, unaware of all those terms until he got direct experience in what they meant and what things it unlocked in himself.

Marcus’ hand clamped down on his wrist, holding it to his chest. Catching Thomas by the back of the neck, he stepped forward aggressively. Riding on anger, Thomas was unbalanced and so Marcus was able to thrust him against the section of the barn wall that formed a corner with the fence.

Marcus immobilized his legs by thrusting one of his own between them, holding

the hard pressure of his thigh against the base of Thomas’ testicles, his forward weight making it uncomfortable. The slam against the barn wall also knocked the wind out of him, pissing him off further. He could beat Marcus in a fair fight, but nothing about this was fair, not with his head so fucked up, caught off guard by Marcus’ presence in his world, a world Marcus had never been a part of. Could never be a part of.

“Settle down,” Marcus said shortly. A short brusque command he emphasized with

the pressure of his leg, the squeeze of his hand on his nape. “Settle,” he repeated, and Thomas realized his clenched hands were gripping Marcus’ shirt just above his waist under the coat. Ostensibly it was to thrust him away, straight-arm him, but Thomas found his hands were squeezed into tight fists, holding onto him as desperately as he was trying to push him away.

When Marcus shifted against that needy ache in his groin, Thomas did something

he’d not done since he was thirteen years old. Without warning or plan, not even a frantic moment to try to stop it, he came, his cock spurting hard inside his jeans. His hips jerked, grinding him against the muscular steel of Marcus’ thigh beneath the pressed slacks even as he wished for the grip of his hand, those clever fingers.

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Joey W. Hill

As if he knew Thomas’ mind as well as his cock, Marcus slid his hand in between them, cupped him, took him through it, a desperate, over-too-quickly orgasm cut short by Thomas’ own shame and fear of being seen. But they were screened by the barn wall, so for one minute his mind shoved that away and allowed him to savor the feel of Marcus’ possessive touch on his cock, his intimate knowledge of it that helped him find the head unerringly and rub the ridge.

Marcus stroked his knuckles up Thomas’ turgid length, then down to the balls to hold them in a firm grip, squeezing.

“Oh God.” Thomas shut his eyes. One of his hands had now moved to Marcus’

shoulder, clutching it, seeking to steady himself because the ground was no longer stable.

“All right, then?” Marcus’ voice. The anger remained, but there was something

ragged and tender beneath it. He had his hand on Thomas’ nape still, only now he was stroking him. “You didn’t ask permission to come, but I think under the circumstances I’m flattered enough to overlook it.”

“You can’t be here. You can’t do this to me.”

“It appears I did, regardless.” Still, Marcus drew back, considered him as Thomas looked away over the field, trying to catch his breath, find a balance. Marcus didn’t let him go, though. Nor did Thomas release his grip.

“I did buy one of your pieces. Just one. The one with the cow.”

“Nobody else wanted it. Like you said, right?” Because Marcus was always right. It didn’t change anything, though. Being right didn’t make things right. He wondered if Marcus had ever understood that in his whole life.

“No. I auctioned it as I promised. For ten thousand dollars.”

It took Thomas’ brain a moment to register it. When he did, his face went rigid with shock.

“I had to bid against seven other serious bidders. It created quite a bit of excitement, as well as the accusation that I was driving up the price for my gallery. Didn’t matter.

They fought me all the way for it.”

“For ten thousand dollars.” Thomas couldn’t even get his mind around it. He was weak enough to wonder what it would have been like to be there, see people wanting his work enough to compete against each other for it.

“But…why that one?”

“You know why.”

He did know.

* * * * *

They’d been in Marcus’ bedroom, which Thomas had started to think of as “theirs”, since he’d practically moved in by then. He’d been naked on his stomach in their bed 18

Rough Canvas

and Marcus had been straddling his ass, working his hands down his shoulders,

helping him work out one of the muscle kinks that came with a too-intense studio session.

“So…this cow picture? I might have an idea for you.”

“You’re just trying to sabotage the bet. Get me to paint something that wouldn’t be picked up at a yard sale. Cows playing Mahjong.”

“That
would
be picked up at a yard sale.” Marcus chuckled, his hands kneading, fingers tracing curves of muscles in ways that had Thomas aware of his every shift against his buttocks, the press of Marcus’ thighs on either side of his hips, holding him down.