Authors: Z. A. Maxfield
Tags: #Fiction, #Erotica, #Romance, #Adult, #General, #LGBT Multicultural
Drawn Together (33 page)
“Well, you know what I mean.” Yamane carried the dog back. “I never knew I could want something as badly as I want to stay with you. When I flew to New York, it was lonely.”
“I guess that I understand better than most that home isn’t a place. My home has been your heart since the day I met you. If I lost that connection, I don’t know what I’d do.” Yamane’s rich brown eyes searched Rory’s. “You’re safe with me.”
“Am I?” Rory asked for the reassurance he’d needed since the beginning, when he had no connection to Yamane and felt he had no right. “Am I really safe with you, Yamane?”
“I belong to you, Rory, and you belong to me.” Rory put his lips to Yamane’s and kissed him deeply, savoring Yamane’s words as though he could still taste them there. “I love you.” 202
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Epilogue
“Hey,” said Yamane, “I thought you’d need me to help you tie that.” He watched as Rory expertly tied the bow tie and smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo.
“I didn’t hear you, lover. Did you just say, ‘Dress, Forrest, dress’?”
“Okay, I’m sorry, it’s just that --” Rory turned around and Yamane swallowed hard.
“Oh, Rory, you really are James Bond, aren’t you?”
“Nope, just another one of Ran Yamane’s rabid fans.”
“Oh, hey. You aren’t still going on about that, are you?”
“Nah. Just teasing.” Rory took Yamane’s hands and held him away so he could look him over. “You take my breath away, Yamane.”
“Rory.” Yamane went to him for a long kiss. They held each other for only a few seconds and reluctantly parted. “I’m afraid we have to go. I can’t miss it. They’re sending a damn limousine and everything.”
“Ooh, goody. We can make out in the car.”
“Uh, well. Speaking of that. There’s something I’d like to tell you about the exhibit. I hope you won’t get mad.”
“Oh, do you want me to keep my hands off? Trying to make the ladies think they have a chance, huh? What some people won’t do to sell pictures. I’m shocked, Yamane. I thought I knew you better than that.”
“No, Rory, I’m afraid you don’t understand,” said Yamane. The elevator arrived, and they stepped in. “You see --”
Rory took the empty elevator car as a sign from heaven that he needed to kiss Yamane breathless. Yamane still looked dazed when Rory casually told him, “After you,” and motioned him out. A black limousine with tinted windows waited for them in front of the Drawn Together
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hotel. The chauffeur opened the door and Yamane entered, followed by Rory, who didn’t wait until the door closed before he took Yamane in his arms again.
“In an effort to aid you in your subterfuge,” said Rory, “I think I’ll continue to kiss you, because I hear that rich, art-acquiring women love men with swollen, kissable lips.” Rory did his best to create that impression.
“Rory, I --” said Yamane, but that was as far as he got before Rory’s hands started sliding down the inside of the silk coat he was wearing, and the next thing he knew, he was holding Rory’s head in his lap and whispering, “Go, baby, go” to the ceiling of the limousine.
Rory surfaced from under Yamane’s coat with a satisfied expression on his face and reached into the bar for a beer, but not before he kissed Yamane thoroughly again.
Yamane sighed. “You are the grand master of the sneak-attack blowjob.”
“I think everyone should have a hobby, don’t you?” Rory sipped his beer. Just looking at his lips on the neck of the bottle made Yamane shudder again. “You were saying?”
“Oh” -- Yamane tried to remember -- “yeah, I just wanted you to know that --” The car came to a jerky stop, and the driver opened the door on Rory’s side, waiting for him to step out.
Yamane stepped out a moment later, after a quick adjustment and a check in the mirror. “It’s written all over my face, isn’t it?”
“Kind of.” Rory grinned. “But it looks good on you.” He smiled and squeezed Yamane’s hand, then dropped it, looking casually around. “I’m going for straight guy friend, how am I doing?”
“You’re a na u
t ral. I’ve been trying to tell you all evening, but I haven’t had the chance, Rory. It’s important that you know…”
“Yamane!” called a well-dressed man from the doorway. He smoothed his dark hair back and caught Yamane’s hands in his. “I was starting to get worried.” Rory noticed he walked just like a New Yorker. He made no small talk but took Yamane and swept him into the gallery without a backward glance. Rory stood outside for a moment, looking at Yamane’s work through the windows.
As always, he was drawn in completely by what he saw. The paintings on display there were mostly landscapes, but unmistakably showed Yamane’s eye for pattern and detail. He made a landscape look like a textile somehow, and the way he used color and repeated patterns subtly was all Ran Yamane. These weren’t pictures you put in your living room because they matched the sofa. He took a deep breath.
Rory ambled into the gallery deliberately, upholding some inner contract to be a die-hard southern gentleman no matter how fast the world moved around him. He languidly sipped the beer he brought with him, and allowed himself to be absorbed by Yamane’s genius. He walked from painting to painting, amazed. He didn’t know that Yamane had such 204
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a body of work in this medium, for starters, and he hadn’t had any appreciation for just how good at it he really was. Personal prejudice aside, Yamane was so amazing Rory didn’t know where to begin.
There were large canvases that filled his gaze with a chaos of color, and small canvases like tiny jewels, so beautiful they seemed to beg him to come closer, as if he could be absorbed into them. He was making the rounds when a subtle change in the tone of the conversations around him caught his attention, a kind of hush that made him think Yamane must have entered the room. He looked around and found instead that people seemed to be staring at him. He looked behind him and heard a man near his elbow laugh.
“Don’t look now, but you’ve been spotted.” He indicated a smaller alcove with the words GALLERIE PRIVÉE on an archway over the entrance.
Rory meandered in that direction, certain now that people were staring at him. One or two women had their eyebrows raised, and one man put his program to his mouth to hide his grin. No one would meet his eyes.
“Yamane, what have you done?” Rory muttered under his breath. He entered the dimly lit private gallery and caught his breath. Each and every work on the wall was a pen-and-ink sketch of him. His face, his body, and him with Yamane straddling him in the heat of a passionate moment. He swallowed. He had been captured as early as when they first met, walking to Gladstone’s in Long Beach, and as recently as the week before, playing with Daiki on the lawn at his grandparents’ house. It was…unspeakable.
“Rory,” Yamane began. “Before you say anything, let me explain.”
“You little shit,” Rory hissed, but he was laughing. “Everyone out there was looking at me! I couldn’t figure out why.”
“Well, um… I tried to tell you.”
“Yeah, now I know, huh? Holy cow!” He looked around and sipped his beer some more.
“I wanted to show you before, but I didn’t want you to tell me no.” Yamane wrung his hands. “I won’t take it down; it’s my best work.”
“Of course you don’t have to take it down, are you crazy? Were you that worried I’d be angry?”
“Well --” Yamane bit his lip.
“I’m not. I’m an artist’s lover. I just guess it goes with the territory, right?” Rory kissed his brow, brushing the hair back away from his face. “But, damn.” He looked at an outrageously erotic picture of him in the shower. “I guess I won’t be teaching elementary school.”
Yamane raised his brows. “I guess I’m hot for teacher.” Yamane pushed him to the back of the private room. “This is my most recent, and I wouldn’t let them light up this alcove until I could show it to you. Close your eyes.” Rory did as he was told. From behind his Drawn Together
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closed eyes, he sensed the lighting change in the room and heard Yamane fumbling around with something against the far wall.
“Okay, Rory, open.”
Rory opened his eyes. At the far wall hung a painting about two feet by four feet. In the lower left corner, Yamane had painted a magnificent portrait of himself, in traditional Japanese clothing, the fabric texture and colors so magnificent they just popped off the canvas.
He had painted himself as a doll, thought Rory, almost cold and lifeless with an eerie, haunting, and ethereal beauty. Yamane’s image was painted on a hill with the night sky as a backdrop, his arms outstretched as though he could touch the stars. He had used a multitude of blues to achieve an inky, dark sky that was at once crisp and clear but vaguely chaotic, as though the heavens were moving, and the pinpricks of light that formed the stars vibrantly alive. Rory had never seen anything like it and it took his breath away.
“It’s exquisite,” he murmured. “So magnificent. I hope to hell you’re not thinking of selling that; I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“No, it’s not for sale,” said Yamane quietly. “Watch.” Yamane changed the light slowly.
Rory couldn’t tell if he was turning it up or down, but the light had a subtle effect on the painting itself, and all of a sudden, Rory saw what Yamane was trying to show him.
“Oh, Yamane… I’m speechless.”
Yamane came to stand next to him. “It’s not a trick or glow-in-the-dark paint or something. It’s something I discovered one night while I was painting it. I…was thinking about you, and it just happened.”
In this light, Rory could clearly see that Yamane had used a pointillism technique to render his image in the cluster of stars. The thousands of pinpricks of paint Yamane used to paint them shone brightly in the dim light and made a perfect picture of Rory’s face in profile.
“I’m speechless,” Rory said again.
“And yet, you’ve said that twice.”
“Yamane, I couldn’t begin to be worthy of something like this --” Yamane cut him off with a kiss. “Pish posh. A guy doesn’t find his prince every day, you know. At any rate, I quit smoking, so you have to stay with me forever. No one else will have me.”
“Yamane, it’s only considered quitting when you stop wearing the nicotine patch.” He picked up Yamane’s hand in both of his and kissed it. They stood looking at Yamane’s painting for a while, holding each other, completely oblivious to the others milling about the gallery.
“I have only one question for you,” said Rory, looking into Yamane’s shining eyes.
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“What?” Yamane asked breathlessly.
“How are we ever going to find a couch that matches that?” Z. A. Maxfield
Z. A. Maxfield is a fifth generation native of Los Angeles, although she now lives in the O.C. She started writing in 2006 on a dare from her children and never looked back.
Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends. If anyone asks her how a wife and mother of four manages to find time for a writing career, she’ll answer, “It’s amazing what you can do if you completely give up housework.” Check out her website at http://www.zamaxfield.com.
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