Rough Canvas (29 page)

Julie wavered, uncertain, but Marcus put pressure under her elbow and took her off a few paces, turning them so with the help of the landscaping and their bodies they were partially screening Thomas and Ellen from the invasive, curious glances of those exiting the club.

“I thought this would help. She’s been in such a funk, and it’s been two years.”

“Thomas doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean,” Marcus reassured her. “If he says it’s helping, it is.”

Julie watched Thomas with him. “You know, it’s so obvious what a pure heart he

has. He’s the type you can take home to Mom.”

“That should stand him well with the girl his mother wants him to marry,” Marcus remarked acidly.

Julie glanced at him, startled, but Thomas was rising. He pulled out a pocket

handkerchief, dabbed at Ellen’s eyes and made her smile blearily when he had her blow her nose. Pulling her back in for another hug and kiss, he rubbed her back reassuringly.

When they began to move, she was wobbly on her dress heels. Thomas simply bent and picked her up, sending Julie a meaningful glance and head jerk to tell her to lead them to her vehicle.

“Tell Thomas I’ll meet him at our car,” Marcus said, turning on his heel. “I’ll see you next week.”

Julie stared after him, but he was already striding away.

Thomas registered Marcus moving away from them and the shift in mood it

signaled, but he followed Julie to her roomy SUV. When she opened the door, Thomas put Ellen in the passenger seat, pulling the seat belt over her and buckling it. Ellen looked at him, her eyes still wet. “Thanks,” she said.

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He shook his head, kept hold of her hand. “You owe me another couple dances. I

think we can wipe the floor with them next time, when you’re not in the mood to be such a pathetic lush.” When he gave her a wink, she managed a watery smile.

Closing the door, he turned, coming around to the driver’s side. Before he could open it for her, Julie gave him another one of her hard, reassuring hugs. “Thanks,” she murmured. “You just reminded me why I’m tempted to come kidnap you from North

Carolina myself.”

Drawing back, she looked at him. “Tell him, Thomas. Even if you’re going to leave again, he needs to hear it. People think it makes it harder if you say it when you know you’re going to go, but it doesn’t. It makes it worse thinking someone’s ripped your heart out of your chest and just didn’t really give a crap.”

Thomas gave a half smile. “I hear you, Julie.” His gaze shifted. Ellen had leaned over and pressed her palm to the driver’s window. He reached out, placed his on the other side. She nodded, her eyes wet. Then her head disappeared as she curled up on the seat like an exhausted toddler, oblivious to her surroundings. “You’re staying with her tonight, right?”

“Lord, yes. She’ll be in good hands.” Julie gave him a searching glance. “Fuck you, I’m not saying good-bye. I can’t do it again.”

Getting in, she got Ellen propped up and closed the door. When Thomas tapped on the window, Julie gazed at him, her eyes sheened with tears.

“Lock the doors,” he mouthed.

She managed a smile, put one fingertip to the glass where Ellen had put her whole hand. He did the same, nodded. He could no more make promises to her than he could to Marcus, but as he watched her pull out of the parking lot, the sense of belonging he’d had at the beginning of the night deserted him.

He walked in silence to the Maserati. Marcus leaned against the passenger side, bringing Thomas up short.

“You going to get my door for me?” Thomas raised a brow. “I think you’ve been

hanging around too many women tonight.”

“How did you know what she needed?” Marcus’ green eyes studied him, sharp and

filled with something unreadable.

Thomas shrugged. “Women get weepy. She wanted a hug. I have a sister, Marcus.”

“No. Julie was ready with the hugs. You took her away, took her outside.” Marcus put his hand on the car latch when Thomas would have reached for it. “It’s locked anyway. Tell me.”

Thomas sighed, gave him an irritated look. “Type A’s don’t break. They might shed a few tears at a funeral, but they immerse themselves in the arrangements, changing names on the bills, all that shit. Then something will trigger it. Feeling a man holding them, the way they used to be held, but not… Being held by a man’s different than 150

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being held by a woman. Right?” He gave Marcus an ironic look. “That’s what she

needed. That was the trigger.”

“Like your mom.”

When a muscle flexed in Thomas’ jaw, his expression going impassive, Marcus

knew he was treading in that area that was always the red zone for them. So he was surprised when Thomas responded.

“Yeah. It happened to her. She was trying to get something down from the second shelf. I’d come into the kitchen and she said, ‘Robert, will you get that?’ And that was it.

It scared the shit out of Rory and Celeste, but I just picked her up off the floor, sat down with her in my lap and rocked her, let her cry it out. She held onto me tight, buried herself…” His voice wavered slightly, then he cleared his throat, looked away. “It wasn’t… she wasn’t confused, you know. She knew I was her son.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Marcus said. “I know.”

Thomas nodded, a very controlled movement, his gaze holding Marcus’ with

forced steadiness. “That’s how I knew. For Ellen.”

It made more sense to Marcus then. The meshing of the son with the memory of his father. It had added to the burden and yet deepened the bond, given Thomas the

insight and strength to reinforce his stubborn resolve. Marcus might have observed it gave his mother another weapon to hold against her son, her vulnerability more

powerful than the sharpest words, but he didn’t.

Instead, he made a noncommittal noise, unlocked the door. “You okay?” Marcus

asked, when Thomas didn’t move.

“Yeah. I was actually thinking I should be asking you that.”

But Marcus could see the picture that Thomas’ words had painted, that was playing behind his eyes now. It had been the pivotal moment. The moment when Thomas

hadn’t been just the surrogate. He’d
become
the head of the family. There was nothing, no matter how much he wanted or needed for himself, that would make him abandon that. If he did, Thomas would abandon an essential part of who he was, a part that made him the man Marcus loved so much.

He couldn’t make Thomas choose between him and his family any more than he

would have a year ago. He’d known it subconsciously, watching him with Ellen.

So that was that.

“I’m fine, pet. C’mon.” Marcus cleared his throat. “Let’s hit one of those little hole-in-the-wall diners on the drive back and get a late dinner.”

When he passed his knuckles alongside Thomas’ jaw and squeezed the back of his

nape, it was almost the gesture of a brother. But as he backed off, Thomas was sure Marcus had been about to do something more. His body had drawn taut, anticipating it.

He knew enough about Marcus’ moods to know not to reach after him. He stood

there, though, undecided until Marcus got to the other side. He needed to say it to someone. Maybe Marcus would turn away from it, but then again, maybe he was the 151

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only one who could understand. Because just maybe it was true, that Marcus did love him the way love was supposed to be. Even though that didn’t change anything.

“Marcus?”

“Hmm?”

Thomas met his gaze across the top of the low sports car. “I really miss my dad. He didn’t…you know, understand me, but he did… Love me.”

His throat closed up tight and suddenly there was something huge welling up in

him, something he tried to stomp down, but it sprang leaks, made it hard to breathe.

Like one of his attacks, but not. Almost worse.

“Never mind,” he managed.

When Marcus came around the car, Thomas shook his head, backed up. He was

disoriented enough by what he was trying to control in himself to bump into the door.

He fought it back as Marcus put his arms around him without a word. Thomas gripped him, held onto the broad back, smelled the combination of smells that were Marcus, felt the soft stuff of his shirt he was crumpling, his fingers opening and closing.

“You held out a lot longer than your mother,” Marcus said. “Let it out.”

The words were a quiet push over the edge of a cliff. But Marcus put his hands to the back of Thomas’ head, leaning to sandwich him between the grounding points of his body and the car. When Thomas would have pulled back, tried to fight it down, fight it away, thinking that’s what he had to do, Marcus held on, telling Thomas he wasn’t getting away. Didn’t need to.

Because Thomas’ mother, Celeste and Rory had needed him, Marcus was sure

Thomas had avoided any opportunity to be overwhelmed by the painful emotions,

thinking if he kept them at bay long enough, they would simply go away.

Thomas’ shoulders heaved as he choked on a sob. It came forth in a sudden,

strangled burst, the rough tearing sound of a man’s grief, so much more hard-won than a woman’s easy tears.

“I was here, pet. I was always here. Even if you told me you needed me just for an hour, for this, I would have been there.” Marcus spoke gruffly into his hair, holding him tighter. “Why is it so fucking hard for you to believe I love you?”

Thomas didn’t reply, but Marcus didn’t expect him to do so. He held him, the

parking lot, the lights, even the breeze against their bodies just vague impressions as the storm of emotion passed. He wasn’t surprised that, like the violence of a summer squall, it didn’t long.

As Thomas pulled back, he ducked his head away to swipe at his eyes,

embarrassed. Marcus offered him a Starbuck’s napkin from the car with a half smile.

“Take it, you stubborn ass,” he ordered, caressing his cheek. “Do you want me to hold it to your nose and tell you to blow, like Ellen?”

“Bite me.”

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Marcus obliged, leaning in, his nose brushing Thomas’ cheek, breath barely

brushing the hair over his ear. He cupped the opposite side of Thomas’ head in his palm and set his teeth to his jugular, staying that way, motionless, letting Thomas feel the restraint of it, the certain possession and reassurance he intended to convey in the one gesture.

At length, he felt Thomas’ hand lift, grip his waist. Otherwise, Thomas was just as still, submitting to the hold with a mere quiver running through his muscles, as powerful a reaction in this moment as a climax. Marcus spoke, his voice rough.

“You think I wouldn’t want to wipe your nose, your ass or any other part for you when you need it, Thomas? Now, or fifty years from now?”

Thomas had closed his eyes, for his lashes brushed Marcus’ cheek. “Don’t,” he said, low. “Just don’t.”

Marcus stepped back, but he could tell he flustered Thomas when he opened the

door and guided him in, hand lingering over his elbow, his hip. “Come on. I want to get you back home and into my bed as soon as possible.”

“You promised me food. Real cooking, where they use grease.”

““Whine, whine, whine. God, worse than a two-year-old.”

When he got into his side of the car, he met Thomas’ eyes, flashed teeth. Ran a hand along the side of his head, ruffled his hair and was rewarded with a tired but genuine smile. As much as he’d like to take his lover over and over again, he was pleased Thomas was hungry.

For the short time they had, Marcus realized he didn’t care where he was or what they were doing, as long as Thomas was part of it. The sands of time would run out whether or not they watched the clock. For now, he’d just enjoy watching Thomas eat a cheeseburger.

* * * * *

They found one of the diners that met Thomas’ specifications about halfway back to the cottage. A local hangout just off the highway where people tended to look up when you entered but then went back to their business. They were certainly used to

Connecticut tourists on the way to the hills. The waitress told them to pick any table and before long she slid a cheeseburger, fries and tall Coke in front of Thomas. Marcus ordered a Chef’s salad and a bottle of import.

“I’ll probably pay for this later.” Thomas fished the roll of antacids out of his pocket and flicked out two, added them in with his next bite. “Maybe that will help.”

Marcus suppressed a comment with effort, tried to eye Thomas with light

amusement as he wolfed down the cheeseburger. “Keep that up and your ass will get as wide as that cow of yours.”

“First I’m too skinny, now I’m getting too fat. Shallow bastard.”

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“You know it.” Marcus grinned, took the beer to his lips. “Seems like fucking your brains out at least once every twelve hours does good things for you. This is the first time since you’ve been here I’ve seen you eat with an appetite.”

“Jesus, Marcus.” Thomas glanced around. “Keep it down.”

Marcus’ lips tightened. “What, you think any one with sense would look at us and not realize we’re together? We’re in New England, not on the moon.”

Thomas shook his head. “Not that. Language. There are mothers here. Older

people.”

When Marcus’ gaze shifted, he saw that in addition to a cadre of men their age at the counter there were several groups of senior citizens and one family with a little girl, the latter obviously travelers who’d stopped for pie and a rest break. He turned his regard back to Thomas. “You’re a piece of work, you know it? You live in New York City for what, over two years? And absolutely none of it rubs off on you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Thomas teased. “Besides, that’s not true. You did.”

Marcus eyed the senior citizens. “Why is it older people deserve respect just

because they’re old? Pedophiles and sleazy politicians have been known to live to ripe old ages, right along with Mahatma Gandhi.”

Thomas glanced at him, sat back. “Want a French fry?”