Rough Canvas (30 page)

“What does that mean?”

Thomas crossed his arms on the table, rolled out two more antacids and took them down with a swig of Coke. “Are you ever going to tell me about you? Who you were before you became what you are now?”

“So I make a remark about old people, and automatically it’s got to be some chip on my shoulder about my parents?”

“No. Not automatically. But it does connect, doesn’t it?” Thomas cocked his head.

“There’s like this hellmouth inside of you. Every once in awhile, I knock on the door and get a blast of heat from it, but you won’t let me inside.”

“If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed every time I made a nasty comment, I’d go

straight and find myself a girl.”

“Then stop acting like a shrewish bitch and don’t curse in front of the old people, who we’ll assume deserve manners until they prove otherwise. Society does have to have some basic standards of moral behavior to have a civilized structure.”

Marcus shut his mouth with a snap. Thomas’ eyes danced and Marcus could tell he was waiting to see if he’d act pissed or try to steal his fries. He went for the latter.

Thomas intercepted with a block.

“Am I going to have to separate you boys?” The waitress, an older woman with

dangling rhinestone earrings that were a sparkling contrast to her clean jeans and embellished diner shirt, came to pour Thomas some more Coke.

“He started it,” Marcus pointed out, making her chuckle.

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Even as he watched Thomas banter with the waitress, Marcus knew his lover

probably deserved an answer.

I told him I loved him. What the hell more is there?

Proving it. Being willing to be vulnerable. To let go of some control.

Fuck off.

“Marcus?” Thomas had spoken, apparently a couple times. “You okay?”

Other than arguing with voices in my head? Just fine.
“Fine.”

“You know,” those dark eyes were studying him intently, “you don’t have to be

perfect, Marcus. Sometimes it would be a hell of a lot less intimidating for the rest of us if you showed you weren’t invincible.”

“Get over it.”

Thomas wasn’t asking questions that Julie or Josh or even Lauren hadn’t tried to get at in the past, questions he’d deflected without a passing thought. But when those eyes were on him as they were now, it was like Thomas had the ability to forcibly get him to say things better left buried and unsaid.

Why was it a man who’d grown up in the middle of a nowhere Southern town, who

had not an ounce of sophistication, no polish, had the ability to twist his insides like this? Make things raise their heads that Marcus had long ago exorcised with extreme prejudice? It was a surge of toxic waste he had no intention of dumping on anyone, let alone Thomas.

“Marcus.” Thomas spoke more sharply this time, concern edging his tone. Marcus

snapped out of it, shoving the memories away and slamming the door. Jesus, his hand was shaking under Thomas’ grip. “Your phone’s ringing.”

Thank God. He jerked away harder than necessary, fumbling for it.

Thomas had no polish because there was no veneer on Thomas, nothing but a

hundred percent who he was. With Thomas, it wasn’t that his whole family didn’t know who or what the fuck he was. It was that they wouldn’t accept it, and he was trying to live up to their expectations. He didn’t want to disappoint them because he loved them. And they loved him.

Whereas Marcus had six inches of lacquer he’d worked his ass off to refine until it went bone deep. It
was
him, through and through, damn it. Just like the alchemists who’d sought to turn non-precious metals to gold, he’d turned veneer and polish into solid oak. That was the end of it.

He glanced at the phone display. Blinked. “Hell, it’s Lawrence, probably trying to get another week on the show displays. He thinks if he calls me at night, he’ll get my voicemail, the spineless prick.”

At Thomas’ pointed look, Marcus grimaced. “The spineless
very bad man
.”

Thomas’ smile should have loosened the tight band around Marcus’ chest, but it

didn’t. Because the call wasn’t Lawrence. “I’m going to have to yell. I’ll go outside to 155

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take this.” Marcus said it casually and rose, avoiding Thomas’ gaze and moving around the table to stride for the door.

Just fucking ironic, perfect timing.

Thomas watched him go, speculating. He took another swig of his Coke.

Suppressing a sigh, he turned his attention to finishing his dinner rather than why he always hit a brick wall when he tried to push into any part of Marcus where Marcus didn’t want him to go. Had he ever surrendered, let someone just walk into a room of his soul, trusting them to treat what they found there gently? What could be there that was so awful?

* * * * *

As Marcus listened to his brother, he stared into the dark mural of silhouettes formed by the scrub trees and underbrush behind the restaurant. There was a pretty retention pond area complete with cattails. It was lit dimly by the bug-encrusted light mounted by the back kitchen entrance. Lily pads moved like ghosts across the water’s surface. He’d walked away from the bright front lights where Thomas could still see him. He needed to pace, to feel like he wasn’t trapped.

“Yeah, I heard you. A couple months. Does she—” He closed his eyes. “What do

you need? Okay, I’ll send it. In fact, I’ll just set up a separate account. You can pull from it as you need it. You’re going to have a lot of unexpected expenses. No. Okay. Bye.”

He clicked off. Too late, the scuff of a boot on gravel alerted him and he turned.

There were three of them. He’d noticed them in the diner at the counter, knew

enough about their kind that he should have kept his guard up, shouldn’t have been so stupid as to wander away from the front of the restaurant.

“What’s this we got in the dark, all alone? A pretty, pretty girl, all by herself.

Wearing fancy shoes and an expensive watch.”

Only one of them believed in chitchat. The other two were moving in. They could have tried to get him to hand over his watch and wallet, but they weren’t thieves. That wasn’t what had made them get up and come out here, and they all knew it, including him.

“You need to stay in your city and keep your queer ass out of our hangouts. Don’t even like to eat near you.”

“I suppose it
is
uncomfortable, being around someone who actually knows how to chew with his mouth closed.”

That gave them pause. Marcus could have tried to bolt, call out. Someone in the kitchen probably would have heard. But he didn’t. When they charged forward, Marcus snarled and flung himself at them, outnumbered and taken by surprise, but in the perfect mood for a fight.

* * * * *

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Thomas pushed aside his plate and looked up in time to see the manager glance at the second waitress, a younger, worried-looking woman. At his meaningful look, she rolled her eyes and made a “boys will be boys” expression toward the three empty spots at the lunch counter. Three men gone, their plates not empty, beers left

unfinished.

He met the manager’s eyes and knew. Son of a bitch. Thomas exploded up from the table and headed for the door, even as he heard the man call out, “We don’t want any trouble. Son, you need to—”

He shoved out the door, so violently it hit the wall. The choice was obvious when he didn’t see them out front. Pivoting on his foot, he ran around the corner toward the back and saw two figures on the ground. One was off to the side not moving. The other was being kicked by two men still on their feet.

“Get up on your knees,” one of the men snarled. “That’s something a cocksucker

should know all about. I’m going to piss on your faggoty ass like I did your fancy car, and then I might let you live.”

Thomas’ fist took him in the kidney. The man stumbled, trying to turn, but Thomas followed it with an uppercut that knocked his head back and took him clean off his feet, slamming him down on his back. Roaring his fury, Thomas yanked him back to his feet and drove him into the restaurant wall, knocking the metal trashcans out of his path.

They crashed into the outdoor light mounted by the kitchen door, breaking the bulb and casing, eliminating all but the cloud-covered moonlight. The other man stumbled after them. Thomas drove his knee hard into his opponent’s groin to ensure he’d be out of commission a moment longer and spun. Grabbing up a trash can lid, he met the other man with it, thrusting upward to knock his teeth together onto his tongue, resulting in a spurt of blood. Another punch pushed the man back.

Thomas whirled, ducked under the strike of the man who’d scrambled back to his

feet behind him. Grabbing him by the shirtfront, he slung him to the ground, bowling him into the legs of the other man trying to charge forward again. The man stumbled over his fallen comrade, but managed to lunge over him.

Thomas landed a kick in the prone man’s midsection to keep him on the ground

and hammered at the other one’s face with a fast series of jabs, hearing the satisfying break of cartilage from his nose and a cry of pain. He fell back, holding his face.

When the man on the ground grabbed his jeans’ cuff, Thomas stomped on his chest, put his foot to his throat.

“Stop it. Stop. Please, stop.” It was the young waitress, who’d come at a run. “Stop, that’s my brother.”

Fists clenched, Thomas glanced over at her. Even in the semidarkness, the fury in his snapping dark eyes apparently warned her to stay back. He kept his attention on his opponents, but they were done. The third man seemed mostly unconscious still, though groaning a bit. Marcus’ work.

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The other man was on his knees, cupping his gushing nose. The brother she was

defending was curled up like a shrimp and staring up at him through a swollen eye.

His lip was bloody, his breath labored from Thomas’ pressure on his throat.

“No. It’s a piece of shit that calls itself your brother.” Removing his foot, Thomas gave the man a disgusted shove with it that rolled him over on his back, his arms flopping out.

The broken shards of brown glass gleaming dully in the fitful moonlight and the jagged-edged bottle lying near them told Thomas why Marcus had likely focused on disarming the unconscious man first. Which in turn had put him at the mercy of the two men fighting with just their fists.

Thomas gave them one last glance and turned his attention to Marcus. He’d made it to one knee, but wavered there, his long fingers tented on the ground on one side to balance him, the other hand holding his ribs, his head down.

“Here, hold on…” Thomas got to him, knelt to take the bracing hand and guide

Marcus’ arm up over his shoulders, reaching out to touch Marcus’ jaw. “C’mon, look at me. Let’s see. Oh, holy Christ.”

They’d cut him with a bottle. Marcus’ beautiful face. His perfect, beautiful face, laid open from the high point of his cheekbone and across his nose to his jaw. The lower half of his face was wet with blood. Bits of gravel were in the gash. His clothes were torn and dirty.

Then Thomas noticed the blood soaking his shirt and waistband. “Jesus.” He had

his hands there and was pulling it away to see before Marcus could stop him. The bottle jab had cut him just below the hip bone and made it to the pubic area, cutting through the slacks and underwear beneath. Fortunately, it appeared to be a shallow strike.

“He was trying to cut my dick off,” Marcus coughed. “Said I didn’t need it. Lucky for you I’m quick.”

The murderous rage that had settled into an uneasy simmer flared, a fuel for

hellfire. Thomas was up and ready to go another round, but Marcus caught his

shirtfront, held on. “No,” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood. “Enough.”

He wouldn’t accept Thomas’ help to rise, making it to his feet on his own, but

Thomas could feel the pain vibrating off his stubborn, prideful silhouette.

“Where the hell did you come from, man? You don’t fight like no queer.”

The brother spoke. He was sitting up now, helped to an upright position by his

sister who was crouched by him, her mouth tight. The man with the broken nose was staying far back, almost lost in the darkness, but Thomas kept a watchful eye on him.

“North Carolina.” As Thomas stepped forward, he was satisfied to see them all

shrink back as if he were much closer. “Where I learned exactly how to field dress a deer, so cutting you into chunks and feeding them into the pond back here is sounding pretty good. What the hell is wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? You could have killed him.”

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“Pet.” Marcus spoke, stiffly lurching up next to him. “Come on. He’s not worth it, and I need stitches.”

“Should I…can I call an ambulance?” The manager had come out and obviously

was wavering between support of his regulars and the possibility of involvement in a lawsuit. He had a flashlight, and swept the ground with it, briefly hitting their faces. He lingered on Marcus’ with a gasp and muttered curse before Marcus turned away.

Thomas shifted in front of him, compelling the manager to lower the beam.

“No,” Marcus said emphatically before Thomas could respond. “We’ll stop

somewhere and get them to stitch this up.” He started to move forward at a careful hobble.

The waitress’ brother was getting up. She, like Thomas, tried to help her sibling and was shaken off.

Marcus stopped when he was even with the man and looked in his direction, six

feet between them. It seemed to Thomas he was detachedly studying his battered

features. “It’s the shy, quiet ones you have to watch,” Marcus advised, briefly looking toward Thomas, then back at his opponent. “Was it worth it to you?”

The man spat blood on the ground.

“Look at me.” Marcus snarled.

The man’s gaze shot to him in reaction. In that moment, Marcus lunged forward.