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?"
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 naive, 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.
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 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.
"I see you standing against a fence, farm boy. Leaning there like you've just finished a day of plowing. You're sweaty, streaked with dirt and you've taken off your shirt."
"Of course." Thomas grinned, but he let out a moan of sheer ecstasy as Marcus hit the kink in his shoulder. "Right there."
Marcus obliged. "You're wearing those working jeans that have no style, but they're riding low on your hips. Because you're leaning against the fence, they're straining over that fine ass you've got." His fingers trailed there, but he'd told Thomas not to move, so he didn't, though his balls drew up tight and hard from his Master's provocative touch. "Maybe a cowboy hat dangling from your hand."
"Bill cap," Thomas said automatically.
"Excuse me?"
"It's a baseball cap. We don't wear cowboy hats."
"All right, then. The sun's setting behind your precious cow and sunlight is just barely touching you, outlining your body. I can see the hint of sweat on your shoulders." He smoothed his hands over them. When his fingers grazed Thomas' jaw, they paused to caress his lips. Thomas closed his eyes.
"He's just a farm boy taking a break after a hard day, never realizing how breathtaking he is in that one perfect moment. Everything about him is in that picture."
"You're so full of shit." Suddenly uncomfortable, Thomas flipped and attempted to heave Marcus off him. Instead, he found himself pinned full length under his Master's aroused body. He'd struggled, but when Marcus fisted his hands in his hair and kissed him hard, his tongue sweeping inside to claim his mind, that was that.
It had lingered with his muse, though, so he'd created the painting. He'd never done a self portrait and was glad to do it from the back. He did a photo session to get some perspective on points of himself he'd never seen, which included some close-ups he'd had to forcibly wrest from Marcus to destroy.
In the end, he'd found it oddly difficult to paint himself, trying to put together the pieces from photographs. The final effect gave the painting a brilliant starkness, almost as if the artist had painted the figure from inside to out, starting with the skeleton and forming muscle layers over which the skin was painted. The figure of the man was an absorbing contrast to the easy beauty in the green of the meadow, the vibrant colors of the sun.
"I kept that farm scene, because your soul is in it. You're living up to your responsibilities." Marcus nodded toward the hardware store. "But you're looking toward that sunset, all the colors, the miracle of it, yearning for it.
"It was one of your best pieces. It was you. I wanted it." Marcus' tone lightened, but Thomas heard the edge beneath it. "As you said, I get what I want." Marcus leaned against the fence. There was just the space of one man between him and Thomas now. When Marcus put his foot up on the bottom slat, Thomas couldn't see if he was as turgid and aching as Thomas had been only moments before. And would be again in no time if Marcus didn't remove his chiseled face, sensual lips and lean strong body from Thomas' senses soon.
"I have a proposal for you. One that I hope you'll consider. It would allow you to be here and nurture your talent both. Are you ready to listen, or do you need further attention?" He flicked his glance over Thomas, letting his gaze slide down like the lazy path of hot oill on heated skin.
Oh yeah, in no time at all. "Just tell me."
Marcus inclined his head. "Artists come to New York to make it because that's where you can get hip deep in the industry, make connections. You've done that. My gallery is in the center of things and the reaction at that auction says I can market your work without you. J. Martin is one of my biggest clients and he doesn't make public appearances at all. If you never want to cross the Mason Dixon line again, you don't have to. You provide the art, I'll sell it, get it distributed, build your name."
"What do you want in return?"
Silence was a weighted thing, and Thomas felt it in Marcus' gaze. Suddenly, beneath it, he felt so out of place. Everywhere. He didn't belong here, but it was where he was needed, had to be. He didn't belong in Marcus' New York world anymore either, but when he'd been with Marcus, he'd felt like he belonged anywhere. Wherever Marcus was.
He couldn't be thinking like this. He started to fumble open the work apron and spread it over his damp groin. Marcus spoke.
"One of the buyers was Hans Joyner, a hotel mogul who's salivating to see more.
He'd like to put about fifty original pieces in his exclusive male salons across Europe.
No restrictions on the subject matter. Fifteen thousand each upon delivery. Take out my sixty percent and you're still bringing in six thousand dollars per completed work, in addition to what else you'll start selling when your name starts growing."
As Thomas hesitated, Marcus sighed. "Thomas, you're working short-staffed at a hardware store that, while admittedly a tribute to a bygone age, only makes enough to break even. Barely. You run in the red half the time. You still have debts from your father's funeral and Rory's astronomical medical bills, not to mention that expensive medical college your sister's scholarship won't cover beyond the first year. If one of the big home improvement stores goes up in a nearer town in the next few years, it will end you and you know it."
"You've no right to dig into my business."
"No right." Abruptly, the civilized veneer was gone. Thomas was blasted with the unexpected heat. Marcus pivoted and shoved him back into the same corner, slamming his palm against the side of the barn so Thomas was caged between Marcus' arm and the fence. Violence and desire always rode the same horse when it came to his feelings about Marcus. Despite a desire to shove back, Thomas abruptly wanted the taste of that mouth again, the feel of those hands gripping him so roughly. Gripping him any way Marcus desired.
The green eyes flickered with the knowledge. With fire.
"Do you want to kiss me, pet?" Marcus asked huskily. "Do you think I don't know just my voice can make you hard? You were hiding that stiff cock of yours behind the counter from your sister, because your body remembers everything about responding to my voice, my touch, the whisper of a command. Did you cream yourself when I grabbed your wrist?"
His hand dropped to cup Thomas' balls again, his thumb rubbing slowly along the ridged head of his cock. Marcus swore softly as Thomas groaned, clenching his teeth.
He wouldn't stop him, but Thomas grabbed the edge of the fence in one hand, holding it so his knuckles whitened, so he wouldn't be weak and seize Marcus again.
"What you want is for me to bend you over this fence and fuck you hard, fill you where you've been empty for far too long."
"Haven't...been."
"I'm sure. There's a wealth of eligible playmates for you down here." Marcus' gaze shifted briefly over the open field. He leaned even closer, his lips a hairsbreadth away, his breath caressing Thomas' face. God, Thomas wanted that tongue, needed it pushing into his mouth the way he wanted Marcus' cock pushing into his ass. "But that's not the reason I know that. You're mine, Thomas. You've been mine from the beginning. If you let any other man touch you, I'd kill him."
With that one statement, Marcus put it out there. Thomas had walked away, convinced himself it was over, whereas Marcus had never released the end of the leash.
Perhaps that's why Thomas had never felt the chain had been broken. Because it hadn't.
A hard shudder ran through him despite himself. Marcus' eyes grew more intent, more brilliant. Perhaps his mother was right. A serpent in the desert. Marcus' complexity, his gentleness, his urban polish, his humor, all of it was underscored by a generosity that was limitless. He even at times had a loving, nurturing nature.
But all of that was twined like a serpent's coils with this, a ferocious darkness, a Dominant's need to possess and control that Thomas had not realized he would match with an equal submissive hunger. From the beginning he'd wanted to belong to Marcus and only Marcus, in ways a boy from rural North Carolina wouldn't have imagined existed inside himself.
"No!" He shoved Marcus away from him and backed into the open space of the parking area where he could breathe, though the world was teetering dangerously as if it wanted him to slide right back into Marcus' grip. "Don't fuck with my head. You don't need to pull that crap just to get me to make more money for you." While he said it only to hurt, he needed the defense. Besides which, in his heart he knew it was true. Not the part about Marcus using him for money. Even before he walked away, Thomas had always known Marcus would tire of him in time, no matter how intimate they'd gotten. These were Thomas' roots and he needed those roots. He had to live up to them, because they were permanent and real. Unlike Marcus' attraction to him, which he knew was only permanent and real in his most fantastical dreams.
Marcus' face transformed into a mask of indifferent politeness, which told Thomas he'd hit the mark with enough accuracy to make his heart hurt. "I knew you were gutless when you walked away from me. I didn't think you'd resort to being that stupid redneck kid again as well."
Thomas' spine snapped straight, his chin jutting out like his brother's. "Now you're trying to start a fight."
"If it makes you remember the will to have one, gladly." Marcus nodded once.
Coldly.
"This is who I am. Where I'm staying."
"Is it what you want?"
"It doesn't always get to be about what you want," Thomas said between clenched teeth. "Life sometimes is making the best of what you're given." Marcus considered him. The breeze moved his hair on his shoulders, a strand brushing his firmly held lips. "Fine, then. Ignore your feelings about me, bury them. Try to destroy them by throwing asinine insults at me, but do the work, send it to me. I'll sell them at the contracted price, send you the money and it will supplement your income to keep your family going.
"If nothing else, I'm still the gallery owner who has the connections to get your work noticed, Thomas. Your talent is phenomenal. You've only scratched the surface of it. No matter what you think about me, people don't spend thousands of dollars on a piece of artwork from someone whose name they don't even know, unless the talent is so remarkable they don't care whether it's a brand name or not."
"Stop." Thomas shook his head. "You know I can't handle that kind of shit. I can't...I haven't thought about..."
As Marcus' eyes narrowed, Thomas felt the gnawing teeth start up on his gut, as vicious as the blades of the chipper.
For months, the ideas had been elusive, formless, ruthlessly kicked into a hole in his subconscious like a swamp filled with sucking mud.
Because of that, he couldn't allow himself to accept what Marcus was saying.
Couldn't even enjoy the vision for a moment, though a greedy part of him wanted to bask in the idea of achieving success as an artist. Instead, Thomas almost felt sick. When he moved his hand to knead his stomach, he forced himself to stop as Marcus' sharp attention went to it.
It wasn't Marcus' fault. He knew that. He'd always known that. It just wasn't meant to be. Thomas took a deep breath, let it flow out of him, let the anger go. "You know your business, you always have. When you say things like that...it scares the hell out of me. It also...there's a part of me that's just fucking amazed by it." A light smile crossed Marcus' face, but didn't reach his eyes. "You deserve to let all of you be amazed by it. Not just a part."
"It's not there anymore." Thomas forced the words past stiff lips. "I need the money, but I wouldn't know where to start. Everything's insecticide, feed, and 'what size couplings do you need for your plumbing'?" He gave a half laugh at Marcus' raised brow.
"I'm sure I don't want you to explain what a coupling is to me." Thomas shook his head, reached out a hand. It felt as if it weighed three times what Kate did. "Thanks for dropping off the check. I'm sorry for how I acted. You...you didn't do anything. It was all me. I took it out on you. You just surprised me, is all.
Wasn't ready to see you here."
"I don't exactly fit in this painting, do I?" Marcus looked around, still not taking the hand, though Thomas kept it out stubbornly.
"No, you don't."
When Marcus clasped it at last, Thomas tried not to show how the contact rippled through him, ached in his bones as if he'd been gripped by the flu. Already the sandwich he'd packed to have at noontime was something he knew he wouldn't be eating.
"Give me a week."
"What?"
"You've been here eighteen months, working six or seven days a week with no time off, no breathing room at all. I think they can cover for you a week, particularly if it means they can add a significant source of income to the annual budget. I've got a friend's place up in the Berkshires for a month." Still holding Thomas' hand, Marcus reached inside his coat with a free hand and drew out an airline ticket. "The date's transferable. I'll be there for the next thirty days, working out of the house and visiting some of my gallery contacts and artists in that area. Come spend the week in the house, bring your sketchbook. I promise you beautiful scenery, wonderful eccentric communities and quiet spots of nature." His eyes gleamed. "A wide variety of things to resurrect your muse."
"You'll be there."
Marcus nodded. "I'll be there."
"Marcus, I can't... I can't promise you anything." That wasn't what he'd intended to say. No, I can't start this again. I can't be with you even a week. A day.
But Thomas didn't say that. Everyone knew an addict couldn't have just one drink, one fix. But no matter how strong Marcus' hold over him, they both knew the building behind Thomas, the people waiting in it and all that meant would always call him back.
The question was whether it was worth it to him to give himself a week of Marcus again, now that he knew how intolerably hard it was to walk away from him, be without him. Knowing he'd have to sever that link and do it to himself all over again at the end of the week.
But Marcus and his art together...even if Thomas had to let Marcus go again, if he rediscovered his art, he could have that. Maybe that would help fill the aching void enough that it wouldn't be as difficult this time.
And maybe Thomas wanted Marcus so much he just didn't give a damn how hard it was going to be to walk away again.
"No," he said. "No. I won't."
Marcus nodded. "Hold onto the ticket. It's yours to use or not to use." Thomas held it out. He couldn't afford the temptation. "No. You take it back. Give it..." The words "to someone else" hung on his tongue as if he were pierced by a fish hook whose barbed tip he couldn't dislodge.
He'd tortured himself with images of other hands on Marcus' body, other men seeing that thick cock, Marcus thrusting into them. He woke from dreams about it, wanting to smash and tear something. He usually settled for going out in the middle of the night in nothing but his pajama bottoms to chop wood, the pain singing through every muscle, his fingers knotting with the agony of clenching the axe too hard.
"I can't, Marcus. I just can't."
Marcus turned for his car. Didn't take the ticket. Thomas clutched it with the check Marcus had picked up, smoothed and handed back to him. He swallowed. Goddamn it.
"Marcus, are you - " He bit it off, knowing it was wrong to show how he felt. As powerful as the physical attraction was between them, it was even more dangerous to give Marcus the edge of knowing how much deeper it went for Thomas still. In fact, if he was forced to look at himself in a mirror and be brutally honest, Thomas knew he hadn't realized how much he loved Marcus Stanton until he left him. He was pathetic.
Marcus turned at the driver's side door. He'd put his sunglasses back on, distancing himself, and Thomas felt exactly like what he was, an awkward, gangling kid dealing with a man who was one step ahead of him on everything. Swiss watch, self confidence and a strong sense of his identity.
"What, pet?"
The endearment was uttered in a neutral tone Thomas knew could hide anything from hurt to scornful amusement.
"Are you...are you being careful? I'm not...fishing. I don't have any right to be, to ask anything. And I'm not," he added quickly. He just knew Marcus. Knew that there was a reckless side to his personality, odd moments of melancholy that had once been known to compel him to go out for an evening's entertainment wherever he could find it, not giving a damn about protection. It was a side of Marcus few knew about, and he'd only picked up on it from bits and pieces of things Marcus had revealed about himself, most of them inadvertently.
Thomas had been able to balance Marcus' dark side, calm it, where friends who'd known him longer couldn't even touch it. When Thomas had asked Marcus about that, to determine if he was imagining it or not, Marcus had been sitting on the balcony staring out in the night, seeing shadows Thomas didn't understand.
"It's because you're an artist, Thomas. I don't mean a person who paints or sculpts, though that's one form your perception takes. You see into the souls of others more easily. It should make me want to close all doors against you, because my soul is the last thing I want anyone to see. But - "
"But..." Thomas had prodded. But Marcus had said nothing else, his green eyes lost in the darkness.
"I just want to know you're taking care of yourself," Thomas said, coming back to the present. "You matter."
Marcus left the driver's side, came back across the gravel in his Italian shoes.
Thomas held his ground as Marcus picked up his hand and ran his fingers over the tip of the injured one. "Same goes, pet." Though the shades concealed Marcus' eyes, Thomas felt the intensity of his focus. "Come to the Berkshires. The address is written on the back of the ticket. Don't say no. Just think about it and be willing to give it a try. One week."
"One week when you'll try to get me back in your bed."
"Oh, there won't be any trying on that one, Thomas. We both know that's not what's in question." Marcus' lips curved. Thomas felt his cock respond as if on a chain that Marcus could jerk to attention whenever he wished.
"You'll be in my bed."