Rough Canvas (37 page)

Thomas choked on a snort. “That’s Mrs. Dorsey.”

“She gave me a recipe for a seven layer salad that calls for enough mayonnaise to give me arterial blockage. When I told her I’d bought this place, she said if I needed help making the salad for entertaining my friends, her divorced daughters—one or both of them—would be happy to help.” His eyes managed to glint with amusement without losing a watt of that immobilizing intensity. Something in Thomas was responding despite himself, like a bird waiting at the door of a cage that was inching open.

“At which point,” Marcus continued, “her mother—who, by the way, looks like she sailed over on the Mayflower—elbowed her and said in a stage whisper, ‘Betsy, he’s far too good-looking. You know he’s got to be one of those homos’. Elongated o’s, by the way.”

Thomas’ lips twitched. “I bet Betsy Dorsey just about passed out.”

“She was quite mortified. I took Mrs. Mayflower’s hand, kissed it and said she had senses as sharp as a vampire’s teeth. And I’d appreciate that help if the offer was still open, because I figured she was the one who taught her daughter how to make the salad to begin with.”

Thomas pushed off the door, ran a finger through the thick dust on the table.

“We’re not backward here, Marcus. As long as you don’t shove your differences in people’s faces, they’re pretty tolerant.”

“Did I sound shocked?” Marcus asked mildly, raising a brow. “We had a good

chuckle over it and Mrs. Dorsey talked me into some fresh squash. I know the problem isn’t the community, Thomas. It’s your history in it. Your family. What will Mrs. Dorsey say when Thomas Wilder shows up with that handsome Yankee everyone knows is

gay? But it’s not even about that, because small town people are usually a lot sharper than us big city folk believe. Most of them probably guessed it about you long ago.”

He shifted, tilted his head. “Your mother, your family, is a serious obstacle. But what I’ve realized is that you’re the true problem. What you feel you deserve, the faith you have in us. The question isn’t
do
I belong in this world of yours, but do you
want
me to belong in it? I’m willing to try, because your mother is right about one thing. You need this part of your life. It’s as much a part of who you are as your painting.

And…maybe I need it too, because it’s the core of you.”

193

Joey W. Hill

Thomas’ gaze snapped up. Marcus turned then, as if he suddenly had a need to

move, had gone somewhere he’d not necessarily intended to go. Looking out the

window, his expression became more thoughtful, his gaze drifting.

“At the hospital,” he said at last, quietly, “you said that if it wasn’t for your responsibility to your family, you’d stay with me until I kicked you out. Are they your safety net, your mother, Rory and Les?”

“What?” Thomas’ brow furrowed.

“If you believed I would never tire of you, never kick you out, would the answer be the same?”

Thomas shuffled, drew a circle in the dust. “As hard as it is to be without you now, I don’t think I could handle watching you get bored with me.”

“And you think I would?”

Thomas couldn’t answer. Though he thought he saw a flash of pain in Marcus’

expression, his voice was still even when he spoke next. “How would you feel if you knew I had every intention of making what we had a forever deal? That I consider you mine, not just now or a year from now, but every year after that?”

“Scared shitless.” Thomas managed a smile he didn’t feel.

Marcus nodded. “I can see a lot of things here, Thomas. I can see us in this kitchen, making dinner for your family. Your mother might be tight-lipped at first, but then we’d all loosen her up. She’d be giving ideas on curtains before she left. I imagine you on that front swing, your feet bare, toes brushing the ground as you sketch that way you do, like everything else has disappeared. I see a tester bed, a firm mattress, able to take punishment. Like you.”

Marcus turned now, his lips curving, voice settling into a lower, enchanting

cadence. “I see you leaning against the doorway over there. I can imagine moving past you, stopping just a breath away from your mouth, pressing you back into the frame with the weight of my body. I’d be on the phone, brokering deals hundreds of miles away, and yet my hand would be on your cock, sliding around to your hip to cup your ass, watching your eyes go opaque and dangerous like they are now.

“Bending you over the kitchen table, or pushing you to your knees to suck my cock while watching the sun set over the fields, anticipating taking you up to my bed, fucking you and holding you while you sleep… I can imagine you and us a million ways here, Thomas. I will make my home where you are, because you are my home. I don’t know any way to say it any more clearly. So now the ball’s in your court.”

Marcus straightened, faced him squarely. “I want you to move into this house.

Make a home with me.”

As Thomas stared at him, speechless, Marcus came across the room. “And another

thing. I’ve had enough of this shit.” He laid a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, then another on his abdomen, curving over the ache, making Thomas wince. “It ends here. You need someone at your back, making sure you’re taking care of yourself, someone who’s able to truly kick your ass back into line when you don’t. And in the words of the country 194

Rough Canvas

song, slightly altered, I’m wearing the outrageously expensive Italian loafers that can do it.”

* * * * *

It was unreal. Like a Twilight Zone episode, only in vibrant color and without the eerie echoing hopeless ending suggesting that human nature
would
always disappoint.

Thomas didn’t know what to answer, couldn’t think what to say. Then Marcus’ cell rang. Marcus glanced at it. His eyes darkened, his lips thinning. “I’ll be outside. Look around.”

As Thomas watched Marcus leave out the kitchen door, step onto the porch, he felt that brief sense of hope drain away.

He looked around the kitchen. Marcus wanted him to make the ultimate step, and

yet in this fateful moment, he was demonstrating he wasn’t willing to make Thomas fully a part of his life. Perhaps the Twilight Zone episodes were on target, just like Thomas’ original feelings. Even if Marcus did think his feelings for Thomas were love, they wouldn’t last. A passing phase, having to do with not being willing to hear the word no. Marcus’ subconscious apparently knew it even if he didn’t, because he

continued to feel the need to keep his secrets.

As he had the thought, Thomas realized that wasn’t fair, exactly. Once again they were at the point of “I’ll show you my hand if you show me yours.” Whatever was in Marcus’ past was apparently his most closely guarded secret. Until Thomas was willing to surrender to him completely, he wasn’t going to trust. Was that how it worked? A slave’s full surrender could win a Master’s trust?

Or was it like gradually loosening a tight box lid, taking it up a little on either side, not able to get too far ahead of the other side until it all came up at once? Maybe it was different for every two people.

He stepped out as Marcus snapped the phone closed, exchanged a look with him.

Marcus opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” Thomas said quietly. “Don’t lie to me about who that was. If you don’t want to tell me, just don’t tell me. You’ve…” He turned and looked at the house. “This is a dream, Marcus. I think it’s a dream I want, maybe
the
dream I’ve always wanted, but I’m not sure of what you want, or even who you are. You always keep it to just you and me, and a person is about a lot more than that. They are what they come from, who their family is, where their deepest secrets and fears lie.

“You know all those things about me,” Thomas said. “I’ve never hidden them from you—when I tried, you just ferreted them out. But in order to live in a house like this, you’ve got to appreciate the light. An artist needs light like air. To flourish and create.

To believe in the art.”

When Marcus didn’t respond, Thomas turned to face him again. Marcus looked at a loss for words. Not being reticent, not muddling through something insightful to take 195

Joey W. Hill

the wind out of Thomas’ sails later. It was like he didn’t know how the hell to respond.

Marcus was ageless in his looks, but in that second Thomas almost saw evidence of his mortality in the rigidity of his facial muscles.

He stepped forward, the weighty topic thrust aside. “Marcus, you okay? What’s

wrong?”

Marcus started as if caught doing something wrong, shook his head. Turned away

quickly before Thomas could touch him. “I told your sister I’d have you back. Let’s go.”

“Marcus—”

“Don’t.” The word snapped out like a whip, and Thomas froze in the act of

reaching toward him. Marcus had never rebuffed him. He’d intended to take Marcus’

arm, stop him, and the way Marcus recoiled from him, his eyes green and hard, clearly did not invite contact. “Get in the car or walk.”

Thomas set his teeth and inclined his head. “Fine.” He should feel anger and a sense of justification in his mistrust of Marcus’ offer to play house. But as Marcus turned away, Thomas watched him closely, the stiff body posture, and all that didn’t seem to matter. Marcus, the epitome of dangerous grace, narrowly avoided running into the side mirror before he found the door handle and got back in.

When they got back to the store parking lot, he parked and got out of the car before Thomas could say anything. Alarmed by the way Marcus shoved open the door of the store, Thomas lunged out of the car and quickly followed him in.

Les and his mother were at the cash register. Rory was on the nail aisle, restocking.

His mother paled at the sight of Marcus, but curled her fingers into resolute balls on the counter, even as Les put a reassuring hand on her arm and cast a worried glance at Thomas. Thomas increased his step and managed to almost catch up before Marcus

reached them. He’d taken his organizer from the car and now unzipped it on the

counter, inches away from his mother’s knuckles. “Pen,” he said to Les, in a voice so calm and precise Thomas thought it could chisel rock.

Les mutely handed him the pen and he began to write.

“Celeste says you’re buying the Hill farm.” Elaine raised her chin. Marcus didn’t even glance at her.

“It’s already bought. In cash, closing statement signed and deed recorded. I know enough about small towns to know that family connections can muck with a building inspector’s report.”

“You can’t buy us,” Elaine said, her voice quivering. “You can’t buy my son.”

“An intriguing thought, and a pity. I think he’d be far happier as my slave than he is as yours.” Marcus kept writing. “Thomas, this is your part on the dozen pieces you’ve done. The courier will arrive later today to pick them up. It’s a good agency so you don’t need to worry about them getting to me safely.” While he shifted his attention to Thomas, Thomas had the strange feeling Marcus was somehow seeing them all,

including him, through some type of distorted filter.

196

Rough Canvas

He’d done that once as an experiment, painted an image through a wavering piece of glass. For a little while it had seemed as if he was somehow seeing an alternative but perhaps more true reality of what he was painting. In the same way now, Marcus

seemed conscious of all of them, but in a way that felt skewed, raw.

“You’ll redo the last one as we discussed or I’ll take the extra advance out of your hide.” His green eyes focused somewhat, a seductive promise briefly in his voice.

Thomas didn’t dare look at his mother or sister, alarmed at the tone even as he couldn’t help but respond to it. “I want that painting.”

Abruptly, Marcus turned and slammed his hand down on the counter, making both

women jump. He leaned in, his eyes snapping, face inches from Elaine’s frozen features.

“I haven’t bought him. I have the goddamned privilege of handling his work. Have you looked beyond your own nose at what those paintings are? They’re art. Art is that which touches us down to the soul, tells us this is what life’s about. People come into my fucking gallery and stand in front of his fucking work for twenty minutes, because even if they can’t put their finger on it, they know they’re standing before something so priceless this measly amount,” he waved the check, “doesn’t touch its value.

“Accepting what people are, what they can’t change and loving them with every

part of yourself anyway.
That’s
what love is about.” He glared at Elaine. “You take that away from him, you make him believe that kind of love doesn’t exist… It would be better for you to shoot him rather than destroy him inch by inch, year after year. If you do that, you’re not saving his soul, you’re killing it. If you’d look into his eyes for once, you’ll see it. How we love
is
our soul.”

Out of his pocket he yanked the rag that Thomas had left on the sink in the shed and foolishly not thrown away. Marcus tossed it on the counter in front of her. “That brown stain covering about half of that cloth isn’t paint. It’s coming from your son’s stomach lining. I want him to see a doctor this week. If he won’t go, you hogtie him and make him do it.” He looked toward Thomas. “Or I’ll come back and do it for you.”

“Marcus, cut it out. Mom, that’s not—”

Marcus made a slicing gesture with his hand, relocked gazes with Elaine. “If you still actually know what being a mother instead of a missionary is about, you’ll get him there and figure out why he’s doing it before he kills himself. He’ll do anything to take care of you. Of all of you.” He sent a hard glance toward Rory. “Get a clue.”

As Elaine lowered her gaze to stare at the rag, her fingers reaching out to touch it, Marcus tore off the check, left it on the counter and turned toward Thomas. “I’m headed back to New York. But I’ll be back, and we’ll pick up our conversation then.”

Folding the organizer up, he pivoted and headed toward the door as brusquely as he’d come in.