Rough Canvas (Nature of Desire 6)

He made a fist, pressed it against his chest. "I wanted everything for him. I wanted to see him achieve every dream, embrace every desire. I wanted to protect him from anyone who would cause him harm or a moment's pain, tear them apart with my bare hands. Never let him out of my sight, even as I wanted him to stretch out his wings as far as they could go and soar. And at the bottom, top and middle of it all, I just wanted to stand there, just that way forever. Not disturb him. Just look at him and love him. Do nothing but simply love him for everything he is, a creation too perfect to be anything but God's gift to the rest of us. "

He straightened. "You may recognize my 'chip', but you don't know what that chip made me. Don't you ever assume you fucking know who I am. " Getting into the car, he slammed the door and left her standing on the side of the road. Her face was in her hands, her shoulders shaking. His gut was in a hard aching ball. No wonder Thomas was probably getting an ulcer. But even as he thought it, he couldn't ignore the way it felt, leaving her like that. He was a bastard. A selfish bastard.

Just as she said. Just as Thomas had said.

You don't know him the way you think you do. . .

"Want to bet?" he muttered grimly. You have no idea.

Chapter Four

You'll be in my bed.

A hard shiver went through Thomas, as it had every time that arrogant statement stroked through his mind, making his blood run hot and thick through his vitals.

He was insane. Two weeks had passed. He hadn't intended to go, had known he was risking too much. That check, the bills it immediately made disappear, couldn't help but factor into it. But Thomas knew it was the least of his reasons for driving away from the hardware store and swinging onto the interstate.

When Marcus left, Thomas had walked out into the field with Kate, kept on walking. For one weak moment, he'd been overcome with this irresistible warm. . . glow.

Marcus had come for him. He didn't believe it. Couldn't do a damn thing with it, but for just a little while, the horrible ache that had been with him for over a year had settled down.

It would be back in the dead of the night, of course. Probably ten times worse for having seen Marcus. But right then, he'd pushed the consequences away and stood in the field, aching in a good, stupid way, like a kid who'd gotten his first kiss.

Marcus had written his cell number on the ticket, but he hadn't used either the number or the ticket. He knew he might back out if he stopped for anything, even to park at an airport and check his bag.

So he'd just gotten into his ancient Nova and driven. He had to stop twice along the turnpike to coax the car back to life, but his worn-out faithful steed revived each time, as if knowing she had to get him to the end of this quest.

However, nineteen hours later, as he drove through the winding two-lane highway deep in the Berkshires, populated with small towns where houses were likely to be constructed by their owners and locks weren't included as part of the design, he was tired enough to be concocting horror stories about what he might find.

Marcus might have given up on him and invited someone else to come.

His lips twisted grimly. Well, tragic irony would be a good jump start, if that was the type of thing that got his artistic muse going. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

Images had once flowed through his mind as if the muse had set up house there. He could see the possibilities in. . . well, everything. For months, since the block occurred, he hadn't had the energy or the courage to face what had caused the muse to depart so abruptly, cutting off the power, clearing out and leaving nothing.

He only knew at one time he'd been able to translate all the raw emotion of life to a canvas. Despite how close that emotion cut to his own life, his soul had somehow found a safe haven from which to observe without becoming a paralyzed part of it.

It had been a week since Marcus had visited. When Thomas had made the decision to take him up on his offer, his mother of course had been the most difficult obstacle, Rory a close second. Only Celeste, after all the screaming and tears were done with, had squeezed him in one of her generous hugs, bringing her bony body close, and whispered, "Have a good trip. "

His mother had gone to church right before he left. She'd likely stay until he returned, holding a solitary prayer vigil.

He'd told her he'd be back in six days. Made himself say it only once. Left the ledger out where she could see it, see what money like that on a regular basis could do for them.

With each mile between home and Marcus, he was torn between sick apprehension and excitement. Need. Arousal. He'd taken a box of sketchpads, his pencils and charcoals, but he didn't know what he was doing or going to accomplish. He might destroy what was left of his sanity.

He'd left Marcus abruptly, both when his father died and then shortly thereafter when Rory was hurt. Then he hadn't come back at all. If nothing else, they could do the proper goodbyes. Best case scenario, he'd get his muse jump-started from the beauty of the Berkshires, be Marcus' lover for a week, be as generous and grateful as he could be, leave on friendly terms, and that was that. He'd handled it badly before, like an immature child. Marcus deserved better than that.

So it went, a jumble of thoughts he recognized as nervous babbling and rationalizations as his foot pushed down on the pedal even harder. Nineteen hours, and he never even turned on the radio, just letting the cacophony of his mind keep him company. A couple times on the Pennsylvania turnpike he thought of hurtling over the edge of a cliff.

Now at last, he made the turn off the two-lane highway and drove for a few miles into deeper forest until he was on a dirt road. When he saw the red cedar mailbox that was the landmark for the house, he made the turn.

As he went up the hill, he saw the brown wooden cottage, blending into the close surrounding foliage. It had the look of a custom-designed chateau. The house was on pilings with a generous shaded patio below, while the upper level had a glassed-in sunroom that led out to a deck with a lattice-enclosed area for a hot tub. Turning around, he saw the incline gave the house a view of the layered vista of hills.

There was only one car, Marcus' Maserati Spyder. Of course, he could have brought someone. He could be in there with a lover. Thomas put the Nova in park, gripped the steering wheel.

Don't be a complete pussy, Thomas. Get out of the damn car. But his mother's tears, Rory's accusing stare, the ache behind his eyes and in his back from driving like he had demons on his tail. . . the miles between this place, what it symbolized, and a farmhouse hardware store a handful of states away, loomed in his mind like a crash wall in a driving test. Getting out would be like flooring a car that had no brakes. Nothing would stop him but the crash at the end of the road. The end of this week.

If Marcus had told him to come to New York, he couldn't have done it. Perhaps Marcus knew the quiet setting, the familiarity of trees and nature all around, wouldn't only inspire his muse but reassure him, give him that final gentle push. He knew the Berkshires. Now that he was here, though, it wasn't enough. He couldn't get his hands to let go of the steering wheel, couldn't reach for the door, get out. Who was he kidding? This was a mistake.