
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8157827.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Original_Male_Character/Original_Male_Character, Original_Female
      Character/Original_Male_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Michael_Golland_(OC)_-_Freeform, Daniel_Hart_(OC)_-_Freeform, Male
      Homosexuality, Homophobia, conversion_therapy, Bondage_and_Discipline,
      Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Child_Abuse, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Rape_Fantasy,
      Pedophilia
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-28 Updated: 2018-01-01 Chapters: 31/? Words: 105139
****** Silent Scream: a Michael and Daniel Story ******
by ObsessedtwibrarianOTB
Summary
     Two men hiding dark secrets from their past: one is a talented,
     seemingly well-adjusted graphic artist who proudly lives his life out
     of the closet; the other is wealthy, powerful and friendless,
     isolated behind a self-constructed wall of arrogance and disdain.
     Both are silently suffering until their paths cross at a company
     Christmas party. This is a story of acceptance and healing.
Notes
     This is an in-progress story. I am updating slowly because real life
     takes precedence. But these characters live in my thoughts almost
     constantly. I just need more quiet time to write than my current life
     provides. *sigh*
     There are some things in this story that some might find offensive.
     If you can't handle the following topics, then just exit out and move
     on to something else. Here's what you will encounter: 1) child abuse
     (physical, emotional, and sexual), 2) rape of minors, 3) extreme
     homophobia, 4) underage sexual exploration, 5) one scene of male/
     female BDSM not done correctly, 6) criticism of Christian theology,
     7) pedophilia, 8) male/male bondage and discipline, 9) domestic
     violence, and 10) rape fantasy.
     While writing this story, I imagine Channing Tatum in the role of
     Daniel Hart, Elia Cometti (an Italian fashion model) in the role of
     Michael Golland, and Emmy Rossum in the role of Anne Marie Parris.
     You're free to replace those faces with others of your choice, of
     course. ;)
      
     Also, I have written several flashfics with these characters. Since
     this multi-chapter story tends to be pretty intense and angsty, I use
     these one-shots to bring out the fun side of their relationship or
     delve into an emotional issue just a little bit more. They are not
     written in any particular order and they're out of sequence with the
     timeline of the story. Michael and Daniel may be just friends in
     some, but already lovers in others. These are the little snippets of
     scenes that float around in my head that I need to just get out on
     paper before they drive me crazy. lol I think you'd enjoy reading
     them. The links are at the beginning of the prologue.
***** Prologue *****
MICHAEL AND DANIEL ONE SHOTS (Probably shouldn't read them until AFTER you've
read the main story): 
Detour:_a_Michael_and_Daniel_FlashFic
Secrets:_a_Michael_and_Daniel_Flashfic
Attitude_Adjustment:_a_Michael_and_Daniel_Flashfic
Spontaneity:_a_Michael_and_Daniel_Flashfic
 
ARTWORK I HAVE CREATED FOR THIS STORY: 
Fan_Art:_Silent_Scream
 
                                     Alone
                             The feeling consumes,
                      You sit there, longing to lash out,
                             Fighting to be heard.
                        It builds up second by second,
                       No one hears your silent scream.
                             Your heart is empty,
                              You push everyone,
                            Just making this worse.
                          Your tears no longer fall,
                            Your heart has frozen.
                          All people ever do is moan,
                                  People die…
                                 Beauty fades…
                                 Love changes…
                         And you will always be alone.
                                Sharna K. Foan
              ---------------------------------------------------
                                        
PROLOGUE: 
Twelve is a difficult age for a boy. He’s no longer a child, but very far from
being a man. He shows his tough exterior to the world, bursting with the rough-
and-ready bravado that only the innocent can possess. But inside he’s soft and
malleable, still evolving into the adult he’ll one day be. He’s like artists’
clay, a medium that can be lovingly molded into something beautiful, or pounded
into the table in an unrecognizable mess.
                       --------------------------------
One such boy lies in the grass, unaware the sky above him is blue, but that
somber clouds are rolling in. His face is shoved into the ground. His hands are
pinned behind him, his thrashing feet finding no purchase to aid in his escape.
Clover tickles his nose and foul tasting weeds snake into his mouth. He takes
no notice, and instead tries to fight as best as he can. But he’s just a boy, a
gangly kid who hasn’t quite grown into his own skin. His arms and legs aren’t
yet his allies; his muscles are years away from coming to his aid.
The scared infant who lives inside all little boys (and men), cries out in
terror, hoping someone will hear and help him. A huge, calloused hand clamps
his mouth shut. His cries muffle and die, as does his hope.
All it takes is one harmless afternoon of playing cops and robbers for a boy’s
innocence to be ripped away in a frenzy of violence. He sobs as his pants are
torn from his body, and is ashamed of his tears. A breeze suddenly lifts the
strong smell of horse dung into the air. It permeates his nostrils, fills his
lungs and sears itself into his memory.
The only escape is the small patch of grass in his limited field of vision.
Suddenly, that tiny clump of green magnifies and become a small, alien world
all its own; the ants are its peaceful inhabitants scurrying around to get
their errands done before dinner. He focuses on that minuscule world while the
man on top of him grunts and pushes his cock in as far as it will go.
In no time at all, the boy loses his focus: the pain is just too great to
escape. He squeezes his eyes shut and does the only thing a twelve year old boy
can do: he endures. When it is finally over, he curls up in a ball like the
little pill bugs he used to play with when he was small. He pulls everything
that’s visible to the world back inside of himself so no one can see.
Then cold drops of water start to splat on his skin. He doesn’t move, not even
when the splats become a downpour and the patch of grass turns into a small
lake. Maybe God is cleansing me, he thinks, remembering snippets of the Sunday
sermons he’d been forced to listen to for years. But inside, he suspects the
truth. God isn’t cleansing him. He’s punishing him.
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
Another such boy is lying face down, his legs spread wide, his arms
outstretched, the coarse fibers of the maroon carpet scratching against his
cheek. Accumulated dust rises up from their depths and tickles his nose, but he
dares not sneeze, not in the presence of God.
He strains to keep his focus and pay attention to the prayers. There are so
many words, too many for him to remember. The boy hates the priest who is
currently praying over him. He uses words like weapons, slashing people to
pieces with them, especially twelve year old boys who are on the path to Hell.
He stabs his fiery prayers deep into the boy’s gut and rips upward, like the
ancient Japanese samurai when they committed suicide with their swords. The
words tear at his soul and make him feel ‘less than’, just like the taunts from
the hateful boys at his school.
God loves you, but you are lost! God is affronted by all sin, but especially by
yours! Ask for forgiveness, son! Ask and He will restore your soul! Ask and you
will be healed of your imperfections! Ask and you will not be denied the
Kingdom of Heaven, but will sit on the right hand of God! Your sins can be
washed away! Just ask, my son! ASK!!
He knows what the priest's shouted prayers really mean: ask and you will be
made normal. The boy knows there is something fundamentally wrong inside of
him. He’s always known it. His father knows it, and apparently God does, too.
He’s given in to the power of Satan, he’s told, and only his savior, Jesus
Christ, can fix him now.
After two days, the boy grows tired of the constant praying and fasting. He’s
sick of prostrating himself on the floor before his Lord and Savior and feeling
no different than when he arrived. He doesn’t feel cleansed of his sin. He’s
still dirty, contaminated. The Holy Spirit doesn’t dwell within him and he
doubts it ever will. So, he does the only thing a twelve year old sinner can
do: he pulls everything visible to the world back inside of himself where no
one can see. Like a castle under siege, he builds a thick wall of protection.
No one will ever get inside and discover he is broken and can't be fixed.
He leaves feeling empty and very angry, as he wonders why God couldn't be
bothered to make him right in the first damned place.
 
 
***** The Christmas Party *****
Daniel was bored and with good reason. Golland Enterprises & Marketing, or GEM
as everyone called it, may have been the largest marketing firm on the West
Coast but their employee Christmas party sucked ass. If it hadn’t been for his
friend Cameron, who’d provided humorous commentary on every hoity-toity snob in
attendance, Daniel would have flounced long ago.
Cameron sipped at his drink and leaned closer, his earring catching the light
and sparkling just like the mischievous gleam in his green eyes. “This party
needs some drag queens to liven it up. Some hot little princesses would work
wonders with this uptight bunch, don’t you think?”
Daniel snickered, imagining the reaction of the conservative crowd to one of
Felicia Fellatio's performances: shaking her ass in her pink hot pants and
matching halter top, in a bleach blonde beehive wig and four-inch spiked heels,
lip-synching to Beyonce.  Actually, that sounded pretty fun. He was just about
to suggest they ditch this snore fest and hit the clubs when someone grabbed
his attention. A slender man in a black tuxedo suddenly appeared in his line of
sight. Daniel was riveted as he watched the man smoothly make his way to the
buffet table. He seemed to glide, like his feet weren’t even touching the plush
carpeting.
“Who is he?” Daniel whispered to himself as he followed the man’s progress.
“Who?” Cameron asked, searching the room.
“That man at the buffet table. In the black tux,” Daniel answered softly.
“Every quality cock in this joint has on a black tux, darling,” Cameron
quipped, snickering. “Which one?”
“On this side of the table, left side, second from the end.”
Cameron laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh Dear God in Heaven. Please tell me you
are not drooling over that hot mess. That’s Michael Golland, the youngest son
of the man who owns this company.”
Cameron called every man who fell short of his idea of sexy a "hot mess", so
Daniel ignored his juvenile remark. He followed Michael's progress as he slowly
circled the table and inspected the platters of food. He was incredibly
graceful, his movements a study of controlled elegance.
“He’s beautiful,” Daniel whispered in awe.
“Oh my GOD, you are drooling!” Cameron yanked at his arm and pulled him back a
few feet into a secluded corner, the humor gone from his voice. “Listen to me.
You need to stay away from that one. He’s fucked up. A total Ice Prince. You
don't want that man's cock up your ass, especially if it’s as cold as the rest
of him.”
“But he’s gorgeous,” Daniel repeated softly.
Cameron growled in frustration. “He’s straight and narrow, you idiot. Do you
hear what I’m saying?? He’s a first-class homophobic prick. Everybody in this
building hates his guts. He’s filthy stinking rich, but he's arrogant, rude,
and anti-social. You couldn’t pay any person in this room enough money to hang
out with him, but somehow the guy manages to fuck every pussy that meows at
him. So, the moral of this story, sweetie, is that he’s not the least bit
interested in your Dollar Value Menu dick-and-ball combo, so just forget about
him.”
Daniel sighed. Why were all the good men straight? And why was Cameron being
such a wet blanket all of a sudden?  “I’m going talk to him,” Daniel said,
absent-mindedly handing off his drink to his friend.
“It’s your funeral, darling,” Cameron said to his back, because Daniel was
already walking away.
===============================================================================
                                        
Daniel worked his way to the table and eventually to within spitting distance
of his target. People had started to drift away from the buffet, leaving Daniel
to wonder if it was the bad food or the even worse company, just as Cameron had
said. When Michael sat his empty plate on the table and it looked like he was
preparing to leave without even eating anything, Daniel pounced.
“Hello. I’m Daniel Hart.” He stuck out his hand and waited for a response while
he took mental notes.
Daniel looked at the world through an artist’s eye, and Michael Golland was a
blank canvas begging to be filled with flowing lines, mysterious shadows and
vibrant colors. He was Daniel’s same height—an almost even six foot—and
elegantly slender. His dark brown hair was cropped short and neatly combed,
except for a small cowlick near one corner of his forehead. His clean-shaven
jawline was angular and strong—Greek god perfection. The man had a seductively
plump bottom lip that made Daniel want to suck it into his mouth and nibble on
it awhile. His skin was lightly tanned and looked like it had come from the
actual sun and not a salon. But it was his eyes that threw everything off. They
were a stunningly clear blue, but cold as the dead of an Alaskan winter, and
they were currently staring daggers into Daniel’s face.
“Michael Golland.”
After a very long hesitation, like he'd rather stick his head in a toilet than
touch Daniel's skin, he reluctantly, and very briefly, clasped his hand and
shook it firmly. He was momentarily surprised at the roughness of Michael’s
palm. It was definitely not the pampered softness one would expect from a
wealthy man. Daniel watched his eyes, mesmerized by their frigid translucent
beauty. Something flickered in them when their hands made contact. Shock?
Distaste? It was hard to tell because his eyes went flat again within
seconds. He dropped Daniel's hand like it was on fire and picked up his
discarded plate. He apparently had second thoughts about eating, because he
proceeded to focus his attention on the food spread out on the table.
"What do you want from me?" Michael asked as he chose a couple of wrapped hors
d'oeuvres, then moved to the other side of the table, as far away from Daniel
as he could get.
So much for small talk. Daniel considered his question, wondering how anyone
could possibly be so paranoid and defensive in the first thirty seconds of a
casual conversation. He took a few steps toward the end of the table and
Michael moved even farther away.
"What makes you think I want something from you?"
He gave Daniel an Are-You-a-Complete-Fucking-Moron look. "Because everyone
does."
Daniel frowned, not quite sure how to answer. "I just wanted to meet you. I’ve
heard quite a lot about you,” Daniel said, stuffing his hand in his pocket,
wishing he never had to wash it again, like some teenage girl who’d just
touched her celebrity crush.
“All bad, I’m sure,” Michael said as he moved further down the table.
Daniel decided to close the distance between them. When he circled to the other
side, Michael inched farther away, just a few steps, but Daniel noticed. Daniel
nodded and smirked. “Well, yeah. Apparently you’re a prick, but I like to make
my own judgments about people.”
He might have seen a small glimmer of humor appear in Michael’s eyes, but it
was probably just his imagination. He doubted there was any room for warmth in
there.
“What’s the verdict?” Michael asked, and there was more disdain in his question
than actual curiosity.
Something about his standoffishness intrigued Daniel. He was like one of those
guards at Buckingham Palace who wore the same blank face all day long. The man
either had some serious walls built around himself or else he was just your
ordinary asshole. It was difficult at this point to tell which it was, but
Daniel was determined to get some sort of measurable reaction from this cold
fish before he left this table.
Daniel looked him straight in the eye and smiled briefly before offering his
appraisal. “Well, it's a little soon to know for sure, but from what I've seen
already you’re an asshole and proud of it. I think you practice that blank
stare in front of the mirror every morning while you shave.”
The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched. He almost smiled and Daniel felt the
flush of victory. Finally, a sign there was a human being behind those cold
eyes. Then Michael crushed his victory beneath his polished heel. He slowly,
and oh so very arrogantly, ran his gaze over Daniel’s body from his head all
the way down to his black Converse.
“Are you an employee of GEM?”
His tone suggested Daniel was nothing but a dirty, homeless bum who had somehow
managed to sneak past the doorman and into the civilized world for one evening.
Daniel resisted the urge to straighten his shoulders and lift his chin. He’d be
damned if he was going to puff himself up for this snobby, but wildly handsome,
em-effer.
“Of course I’m an employee. Do you think I turned myself into a beetle and flew
through the keyhole? I'm not Harry Potter. I had an invitation…dude. I’m one of
your graphic artists.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed into steel blue slits. A confused frown marred his
smooth forehead. “I’m the head of personnel and I know for a fact I didn’t
interview you, let alone hire you.”
“No, you didn’t. I would have definitely remembered that.” Daniel smiled,
trying to keep the flirting down to a minimum, not sure he was being very
successful. His comment was met with the same indifference as before. He
cleared his throat and added, “Some fat, bald guy with horn-rimmed glasses did
the honors. I forget his name.”
“How long ago was this?” Michael asked sharply.
Daniel was puzzled by the sudden change in his demeanor. Was he angry that
Daniel was an employee or angry that he hadn’t been the one to interview and
hire him? And why the fuck did it matter anyway?? “The middle of August. The
18th to be exact.”
“Oh, I see,” he said smoothly, his face going bland and uninterested again.
“That explains it. I was…away…during that time.”
He hesitated just long enough to make Daniel wonder what he’d been away doing.
A harmless vacation in Aspen? Drug and alcohol rehab in Betty Ford? Sex-change
operation in Switzerland? Or perhaps he’d gone on a world-wide sojourn in
search of a personality. If that was the case, he’d wasted his money. The
possibilities were endless with this guy. Daniel snorted silently inside his
head and fought the urge to roll his eyes.
“Sooo…what do you recommend?” Daniel asked, changing the subject and glancing
at the food spread out on the table.
Michael seemed surprised at the question, like small talk wasn’t something he
did very often. But he recovered quickly and the disinterest slipped back into
place.  “I've heard the shrimp is excellent,” he answered. “That is, unless
you’re allergic, then it will kill you. But don’t expect me to call 911,
because, in my opinion, the world needs fewer people who think khakis and
tennis shoes are appropriate attire for a formal Christmas party.”
Daniel blinked in astonishment at the unexpected criticism of his clothes. This
motherfucker needed a foot shoved up his arrogant ass in a major way. “Did you
just insult me??”
Then the asshole did the one thing Daniel didn’t expect. He smiled brilliantly
and it made him even more drop-dead gorgeous.  “Yes, I did.”
Daniel saw the silent challenge in his smarmy expression: And what are you
going to do about it?  Daniel longed to punch him square in his aquiline nose,
then throw his fine white china clear across the room. Instead, he held his
temper, then looked directly into those icy blue eyes.
“Fuck you."
He watched Michael's face for a reaction. There was none. But the man didn't
seem to realize how his eyes gave him away. Or maybe he did? Regardless, there
was no missing the gleam in them. The fucker was enjoying himself.
Then his brief bout of good humor evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.
“I’ll expect you in my office first thing in the morning. Don’t be late. That
annoys me.”
Before Daniel could even open his mouth to ask why he was being summoned,
Michael sat his plate of uneaten food on the table, turned his back on him and
walked off. He watched him stroll casually across the room and through the
doorway as if nothing had happened, as if being a complete asshole to a perfect
stranger was absolutely normal for him. But then again, it probably was.
 
===============================================================================
                                        

“My dearest, darling Daniel, you’re alive. I’m positively flabbergasted. Are
you sure you still have your balls? Want me to check for you?” Cameron grinned
and innocently batted his eyelashes.
Daniel pulled him away from the press of people into a quiet corner. “Will you
stop with the gay shit?”
Cameron dropped his flaming gay act and sighed. “So, what did you think of
him?”
“I’m dying to draw that man naked. He’s beautiful in a tux. Can you even
imagine what he looks like nude?”
Cameron’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious. Didn’t you hear a word I said?
He’s a hetero-manwhore! He’s never going to take his clothes off for you.”
Daniel sighed out of sheer frustration. The truth hurt.  “All I know is that I
could barely breathe the whole time I was talking to him. But if I can’t be his
boy toy, I’ll settle for being his friend. That is if I don’t kill the bastard
first. He’s a complete jerk.”
The man was a stunning hunk of man flesh and, other than his physical
attractiveness, Daniel had no idea why he was so drawn to Michael Golland.
Perhaps it was because of his childhood habit of picking up strays and nursing
them back to health, or rooting for the underdog because everyone else didn’t.
As rude as he'd been, Daniel almost felt sorry for him. He couldn’t imagine
being completely friendless in this world; he wondered how anyone’s soul could
survive that kind of loneliness. Michael was filthy rich and handsome, but what
good was all of that when he seemed to be so miserable in his own skin?
“He seemed a little upset because I’d been hired without his knowledge. He said
he was away in August when I had my interview. Do you know where he was?”
Cameron chuckled softly and leaned closer so they couldn’t be overheard. “Oh,
he was away all right. His ass was sitting in a jail cell. He beat the shit out
of one of his girlfriends and she pressed charges. But Daddy G roared into town
on his white Porsche and saved the day. He paid off everyone involved and swept
that little 'incident' under their 100% Silk Persian Rug. Sweet little Mikey
was back at his desk the next week like nothing had happened.”
Being a rude son-of-a-bitch was one thing, but hitting women was something else
entirely. "Why did he do it? Any idea?” Daniel asked, not that the reason
mattered. Nothing justified that kind of violence against a woman.
Cameron shrugged. “No one knows the details and the girl isn’t talking.”
Daniel shook his head. A bad feeling was gnawing at the pit of his stomach. “He
wants me in his office first thing in the morning. Wonder why?”
Cameron sighed and slapped his thigh in defeat. “Did you open your big mouth
and say something you shouldn’t have again? No, don’t even bother answering
that. You did. So, he’s probably going to fire your ass for insubordination.”
Cameron looked completely put out with him, but he’d always had trouble with
his temper, and his filter seemed to be broken more often than not. Cameron’s
eyes widened. “Oh sweet Baby Jesus! You flirted with him, didn’t you? And after
I specifically pointed out he was a homophobic prick. Don’t you remember
anything I told you about GEM??”
Daniel remembered. When he’d approached Cameron about the working conditions at
Golland Enterprises, he’d gotten an education and a half. GEM was well-known
among artists as THE place to hone your skills. Their marketing division was
world-famous and the demand for high quality graphic designs and logos kept
their art department constantly busy.  But GEM was also well-known in the LGBT
community for their underhanded discrimination against homosexuals. You had to
walk the chalk or risk losing your job over something silly. Apparently, job
performance wasn’t as important as who you performed for in the bedroom.
Luckily, Daniel had gotten very good at hiding his homosexuality. He wasn’t
flamboyant and he purposely suppressed any behavior or appearance that would
set off people’s gaydar. But his attraction to Michael had overpowered his
common sense. That one flirtatious smile could have sent him over the edge.
“Maybe he just wants to talk to you,” Cameron said, trying to console him. “You
know, since he didn’t get to do your actual interview.”
Daniel sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe I should just start packing my shit.”
Cameron clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get out of this dump
and hit Napoleon's. Nobody knows how to party like a club full of hot gay men
with tight asses. Have fun tonight and worry about tomorrow another day.”
“Thank you, Scarlet O’Hara,” Daniel said, chuckling. Cameron always found a way
to make him laugh. “Let’s bounce.”
 
***** The Interview *****
The next morning, Michael was in his office a full two hours before the first
employee was due to arrive, irritated and sleep deprived, staring menacingly at
the two folders sitting on his desk. It had been a long time since someone had
gotten under his skin as badly as Daniel Hart. Most of the people he
encountered on a daily basis were spineless cowards. They either cringed when
he walked past them or shot him hateful glares, but they never opened their
mouths. He wrote them off as unimportant and never gave them another moment’s
thought. That hadn’t been the case with Daniel Hart. He'd spent way too much of
his spare time thinking of that disrespectful bastard. The man was going to pay
for that.
Up until the Christmas party, there had only been one person who he could
honestly say he hated and also enjoyed tormenting. Now there were two. Daniel
Hart was everything he despised. He was nothing but trailer trash who had the
arrogance to think his presence on earth actually meant something, and even
worse, he was a faggot. He’d tried to hide it during their conversation, but
Michael knew. Knowing was part of his job description and he was determined to
find a reason to fire the pushy son-of-a-bitch (before nine o’clock) if it was
the last thing he accomplished on this earth.
As the weak winter sun inched over the horizon, bathing the room in a
deceptively warm glow, he sipped his coffee and poured over all of the
information in Daniel Tobias Hart’s file searching for something he could use
as a reason for dismissal. He memorized his resume, took mental notes of his
references, read every single letter of recommendation, and scoured his
personal history for any familiar names.
Then he turned his attention to Daniel’s art portfolio which contained examples
of his work. All perspective artists were required to submit twenty samples in
a wide range of mediums to demonstrate not only their skill, but also their
versatility. Despite his determination to hate the man and find a way to fire
him, he found himself absorbed in Daniel’s art. He was astonished at his
talent. Howard had made a wise decision in hiring him. His skill was phenomenal
and better than anything Michael had seen cross his desk in a very long time.
He shook his head in awe, his coffee forgotten, as he focused on one particular
picture that caught his eye.
It was a close-up of a small patch of grass rendered in vivid greens oils.
Every blade was drawn to intricate perfection. Tiny ants were crawling
everywhere and it looked so realistic he thought they might actually move if he
stared at them long enough. There were droplets on the grass of what he first
thought to be dew or rain, until he looked closer. Chill bumps rose on his skin
when he realized they weren’t round, but shaped like teardrops. But what really
puzzled him about the whole scene was the fist in upper right hand corner
attached to an arm that disappeared off the side of the page. The fingers were
clenched so tight he could almost feel his own fingernails digging bloody
trenches into his palm. There were blades of grass crushed and sticking out
between the crevices of its fingers, like the hand had been clawing at the
ground. It was the most disturbing picture he'd ever seen and he couldn’t
figure out why. He shivered, put it aside and continued on.
The last picture in the folder stopped him cold. He took a closer look, studied
it for nearly five minutes, then cursed softly at what he saw.  “Daniel Hart,
have you been a bad boy?”
He smiled to an empty room. Maybe this was something he could use.
                          ---------------------------
Daniel had spent the rest of the night before preparing himself for the worst.
He’d managed to land a coveted job any artist would kill to have and in less
than four months he’d lost it. His post-graduate career wasn’t off to a very
good start. But he’d also decided last night that if he was going to be fired
he wasn’t going to go quietly. Michael was going to hear, in vulgar detail,
exactly what he thought of him and his bigoted company.
Daniel swallowed down the nervous lump in his throat as he crossed the gray
marble floor to the receptionist’s desk. Her name plate identified her as Trudy
Barnes, Executive Secretary. She was an attractive, well-dressed brunette, who
looked a little too delicate for her job description. He wondered how much she
got paid to put up with Michael’s shit. Whatever her salary was, it wasn’t
enough.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Golland.”
Trudy looked up and smiled. He could have sworn he saw a bit of sympathy in her
warm, brown eyes. “You’re Daniel Hart?”
Daniel nodded. “That’s me. So, is he in a good mood?”
She rolled her eyes, chuckled, and lowered her voice. “Oh yeah, he’s been
humming show tunes all morning.”
He laughed softly and revised his opinion of Trudy. If she could work for that
prick and keep her sense of humor then she was tougher than she looked.
 “Thanks. I needed that laugh.”
She smiled and glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s waiting for you. Good
luck.”
Daniel murmured another soft ‘thanks’ and walked the short distance to
Michael’s office. Two brass doorknobs and a pair of ornate wooden doors were
all that lay between him and getting fired. He took a deep breath, let it out,
and then opened them.
The room he stepped into was nothing like what he’d expected. He’d envisioned a
gargantuan cherry desk with intricate scrollwork, fine art hanging on dark-
paneled walls, heavy damask drapes adorning the windows, and plush carpeting so
deep it would wipe your ass as you walked through it. Instead, he saw classic
minimalism: sleek, simple and functional furnishings in a light and airy room,
one wall of nothing but windows and very subtle recessed lighting. He should
have guessed. Everything about Michael Golland seemed to be minimalist except
for his rudeness.
“Come in and have a seat.”
He turned his attention away from the décor to see Michael sitting behind his
desk and eying him from across the room. He strode a good ten feet past four
square upholstered chairs nestled around a small coffee table, across ten more
feet of pale gray, low-pile carpeting to a pair of black chairs facing
Michael’s desk. He stopped just short of them and put his hands behind his
back.
Michael looked up at him, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “Have a seat,” he
repeated.
“No thank you. I’ll stand.”
From the look on Michael’s face, it was apparent not many people dared defy
him. To balance the power in the room, he slowly rose from his chair and placed
his palms flat on his desk, drilling that cold hard stare into Daniel’s eyes.
 “Sit.” He very clearly, and angrily, enunciated the ‘t’.
Daniel met his stare and raised his chin. “Why sit down and get comfortable
when I’m just going to have to get back up again after you fire me?”
His glare deepened. “It takes two seconds to tell someone they’re out of a job.
If I’d called you in here to fire you, I would have already done it,” he
snapped. “Now sit down or get out. You’re wasting my time.”
If Michael wasn’t so goddamned beautiful, and if he didn’t need this job to pay
the bills, he would have told the dickhead to shove his job up his tight, white
ass. Instead, he swallowed his pride and sat down, while trying to ignore the
gleam of victory in Michael’s eyes.
They sat and stared at each other. The silence dragged on until it became
uncomfortable—at least for him—but he was damned if he was going to look away
first. So, he did a little sightseeing while he waited for Michael to cave. He
traveled leisurely along Michael’s clean shaven jaw, wishing he could trail a
finger, or maybe even a tongue, along its contours. He strolled slowly across
his full lower lip and imagined sucking it into his mouth. A jump to his
forehead revealed that Michael’s cowlick was being unruly today. It stuck up in
the most endearing way and Daniel longed to smooth it down. Then he slowly
sojourned back to his cheek, his neck, then down to his shoulders. Michael was
sharply dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a crisp, deep blue
necktie. The man was so fucking hot he sizzled. Daniel idly wondered what he
wore in the evenings or on the weekends. He couldn’t imagine him in baggy
sweats and a ratty Eminem t-shirt. He probably wore one of those ridiculous
smoking jackets rich people seemed to favor, with fine leather house shoes.
“Did I pass inspection?” he asked coldly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” But he made sure his expression spoke the
truth: Oh yes I most certainly did mean to stare, and what are you going to do
about it? Two could play this smarmy, arrogant game, especially since one had
overplayed his hand too soon. Michael had made a huge mistake in revealing he
wasn’t going to fire him, and he was going to take complete advantage of that
fuck up.
Michael ignored his silent challenge and settled back in his chair, like he was
getting all cozy and comfortable for the entertainment portion of the show.
Daniel wasn’t fooled. He’d drawn the human form long enough to develop a deep
understanding of body language. He knew how muscles looked under tension.
Michael was putting up a good front, but he was far from relaxed, which made
Daniel smile inside.
“Tell me about yourself,” Michael said.
He glanced at the two folders neatly stacked in one corner of Michael’s desk.
The top one had his name on it—his personnel file.  “That’s all in my resume.”
“I didn’t read it. It’s been my experience that resumes are 98% BS and the rest
lies. I’d rather hear it from you. Start at the beginning.”
Start at the beginning?? His filter instantly disengaged. “My mother bragged
that I was the cutest little sperm she’d ever seen, and I swam like a bat out
of hell to get to that egg.”
The only reaction was a slight narrowing of those icy blue eyes. Michael really
needed to pull the stick out of his ass and buy a sense of humor. Daniel
fought, and succeeded, at keeping his expression completely neutral, even
though he was dying to laugh.
Michael’s lips thinned just a fraction. “Start with the place—that would be a
city and a state—where you were born and proceed from there.”
He suppressed a frustrated sigh. “I was born in Santa Paula…California. Lived
there until I was fourteen. Then we moved here to Los Angeles. After high
school, I enrolled in Loyola Marymount and graduated with a Bachelor’s degree
in Studio Art and a Master’s degree in Art Therapy.”
He might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a spark of interest in
Michael’s eyes for the first time since this farce of an interview had started.
“What exactly is art therapy?”
“It’s the therapeutic use of art to help people deal with physical or emotional
trauma. You can use it in everything from helping a stroke victim regain small
muscle control, to marriage and family counseling, to helping a soldier deal
with PTSD.”
Daniel expected he'd ask for more details, but Michael barely hesitated before
launching his next question.  “When did you discover your artistic talent?”
No one had ever asked him that before and Daniel was annoyed at being caught
off guard. When he’d discovered his talent was irrelevant, as far as he was
concerned, and not something he wanted to discuss in detail. “When I was
twelve.”
“And…?” Michael asked, obviously expecting more, but he was not going to get
it.
“And nothing,” he answered, shrugging. “I was twelve when I discovered it.” To
stave off any further questions, Daniel changed the subject. “So, what was your
favorite piece in my portfolio? Or did you even bother to look at it?”
Michael took the change of subject fairly gracefully, for a control freak. He
slid the portfolio in front of him and opened it.  "Actually, I spent quite a
bit of time looking at it," he said smoothly as he flipped through the samples.
He stopped and met Daniel's gaze. "Words lie, but art always speaks the truth."
His jaw figuratively dropped. Michael probably didn't realize the implication
of what he'd just said, but it was a defining moment for Daniel. Michael
understood. He actually got it. He knew what Daniel had known since he was
twelve years old: art was how the soul communicated with the world; it was the
ultimate expression of truth. He couldn't believe it. Beneath the cold,
arrogant exterior that was Michael Golland, there was a man with depth and
beauty, a man worth getting to know. Who would have thought?
Michael shuffled through a couple of samples, then chose one. He turned it
around and stood it up on his desk for Daniel to see. "This one is
interesting."
Of course he would choose Patch of Grass. He barely flinched when Michael
turned it around. It was his prized work. It had taken months of gut-wrenching
agony to get that painting out of his soul and onto the canvas, and years to be
able to look at it without cringing. "I've won a lot of awards with that one,
and a couple of competitions," Daniel said smoothly.
"I saw that. Now tell me about it."
He'd been asked to explain that painting more times than he could count, but no
one had ever gotten the truth of that scene from his mouth, and no one ever
would.  "It was an undergraduate assignment. We were challenged to paint a
picture that would evoke strong emotion in whoever viewed it."
Michael nodded. "You succeeded. It's very disturbing. What exactly is happening
in it?"
He bristled at Michael's persistence. Art was subjective and not something that
could be explained upon demand. Art critics made him want to puke with their
long-winded analyses of another person's soul, thinking, in their art-theory-
educated-arrogance, that they knew exactly what the artist was "saying".  
"What do you think is happening?" Daniel asked curiously.
Michael turned the picture back around and stared at it for several moments. He
spoke in an uncharacteristically soft voice and without meeting Daniel's eyes.
"Suffering. Pain. He's being torn apart and trying desperately to stop it, but
he's not strong enough. He's losing himself and he knows it."
There was a chilling silence in the room. The hairs rose on his neck at the
accuracy of Michael's critique. Michael looked up and met his gaze, and for a
split second Daniel saw sadness in those translucent blue eyes. Just as
quickly, it disappeared. 
"Was I close?"
The mocking arrogance was back, but Daniel ignored it. "It's been my experience
that a person's interpretation of that painting reveals more about them than
the picture itself."
When Michael's eyes hardened, his jaw bones clenched, he knew he'd hit a nerve.
There was so much more to this handsome, haughty man than what he was allowing
the public to see, and Daniel found that incredibly attractive and
intriguing. Michael returned his attention to the portfolio, hurriedly flipped
through the remaining samples until he came to the last one. He stood it up on
the desk in front of Daniel. It was the mural he'd painted on the outside of a
nightclub.
"So, you're a street artist," he said.
Daniel smiled. "Street art is technically vandalism of public property, and
that's illegal. That mural was commissioned. The owner of the building met with
me several times and we worked out the design together. He paid me by check and
the IRS was happy. It was all legitimate. I can give you his name if you'd
like."
Michael smiled in return, but there was no warmth in it. "That won't be
necessary." He laid the sample back down on his desk and leaned back in his
chair, his hands steepled together at the fingertips. "Do you know a street
artist by the name of Joystyk?"
His heart rate spiked at hearing that name from Michael's lips. A frantic
battle waged inside of his body as he struggled to hide his alarm from
Michael's icy, penetrating stare. He couldn't help but think they'd finally
reached the real reason for this strange interview.  Daniel answered calmly,
even though his heart felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. "I've
heard of him. Why do you ask?"
Michael leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk, his long fingers
clasped together, his eyes boring two holes in Daniel's face. "Eight months
ago, someone vandalized one of our buildings downtown—a very vulgar and
offensive image that cost GEM several thousand dollars to remove. I was given
the job of finding the criminal responsible."
"What was the image?" he asked, as if he didn't already know.
"Two naked men tonguing each other, their dicks twisted together like two
grapevines."
Hearing Michael utter the word 'dick' was enough to send shock waves straight
to his cock, and almost made him forget about the deep shit he was nearly in.
"I can see where that might be offensive," Daniel observed, careful to keep the
smirk off his face, and his eyes off Michael's luscious bottom lip.
"I spent a month studying the street art all over this city. I narrowed the
suspect list down to Joystyk. Do you know who he is?"
"No, I don't." He was damned if he was going to squirm under Michael's
scrutiny, but he couldn't stop his balls from shriveling into marbles. Once
again, he felt he was seconds away from being fired.
"You're a liar," Michael said softly.
Daniel did the smart thing for once and said nothing. They'd reached an impasse
and Michael knew it. He suspected something but he obviously had no proof or
heads would have already rolled. The bastard could stare at him all day long,
but he'd said all he was going to say, even if he lost his job over it.
Michael was pissed, but he controlled it well. With his lips pressed together
in a tight, angry line, he gathered up Daniel's samples and stuffed them back
into the portfolio and slid it aside. Daniel watched in fascination as he
pulled himself together. In a few short moments, all traces of his previous
anger were gone, submerged beneath the beautifully angular bone structure of
his face.
"You're very talented, Daniel."
He wasn't sure which shocked him more: hearing his name cross Michael's lips
for the first time, or hearing him say something nice for once. "Did you just
compliment me??" Daniel asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.
Michael gave him a sardonic look. "Every warm body in this building is an asset
and has only one purpose: to contribute to the success and profitability of
this company. You're a very talented asset to GEM...for now. But the second you
move into the liability column, for any reason at all, you're gone."
He should have known the fucker wasn't being nice. He nodded his understanding
and smiled crookedly. "You're welcome."
Michael immediately broke eye contact. "I think we're finished here."
 
===============================================================================
                                        
As soon as the door shut behind Daniel, Michael dropped his face into his hands
and ground the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to eradicate the
cocky bastard's image from his mind, but knowing it was a waste of energy. He'd
never met anyone as maddening as Daniel Hart before. No one had ever gotten
under his skin so badly, made him lose his composure so easily, or tricked him
into saying things he would never say under normal circumstances. He'd known
the very second the words had left his mouth, that he'd said entirely too much
about the painting, that he'd inadvertently revealed more about himself than he
should have. The wily son-of-a-bitch had picked up on it, too.
Plus, he was talented, no way around that. He hadn't exaggerated when he'd
said Daniel was a valuable asset to the company, but there was a limit to how
much of Daniel Hart's shit he was willing to put up with for the sake of a
dollar. There had been no trying to disguise his homosexuality this time. The
faggot had inspected him like he was an insect beneath a microscope, like he
was a piece of meat to be devoured at his leisure. It had been an infuriating
moment, and had taken every bit of composure he'd had not to plow a fist into
his smug face.  The man badly needed a lesson in humility, to experience what
it felt like to be underneath the boot of a powerful person. People like him
needed to be brought to their knees so they'd learn their place. Michael wished
he could be the one to teach him that lesson, but he'd have to settle for a
more subtle means of control: the mural.
Daniel was involved in that offensive act of vandalism on their building, of
that he had absolutely no doubt. Either he was Joystyk and had done the mural
himself, or he'd helped someone else do it. There were too many subtle
similarities in both their styles for it to be a coincidence.  He knew Daniel
had lied, and Daniel knew he knew.
Michael smiled as that familiar feeling of power spread through his body,
invigorating him and hardening his cock. Controlling Daniel Hart wasn't going
to be easy, but it was going to be thoroughly enjoyable. He felt sure Daniel
was quaking in his tacky Converse at that very moment. Just the thought of him
worrying over losing his job or perhaps landing in jail for his juvenile
vandalism, had his cock testing the strength of his linen slacks. It was
definitely going to take one of his most obedient women to satisfy him tonight.
Michael was just about to toss Daniel's personnel file, and his portfolio, into
the outgoing basket and get on with his day, when something stopped him, a
nagging feeling he was missing something important. He'd slipped up one too
many times with Daniel Hart already. It would be stupid of him to make that
mistake again. The files needed a second look, and maybe even a third. He
needed something more to hang over Daniel's head. To have complete control over
a marionette you had to know exactly where to attach the strings.
He slid the folders back in front of him, and opened the portfolio first. He
flipped past the grass painting without stopping. He never wanted to look at
that disturbing picture again. It reminded him too much of his mistake, and
also of his own weakness, which infuriated him. Daniel Hart was never going to
have control over him, not even through a canvas.
He hesitated over one sample that he'd purposely avoided before: the self-
portrait in watercolor. He forced himself to study the face staring back at
him. Daniel's eyes drew his attention first, as they had in their previous two
conversations. They were brown, but not the ordinary muddy brown of a million
other people's. His were a lighter shade, the color of rich coffee with just
the right amount of cream. There was warmth in those eyes, but also that gleam
of cockiness that made him so annoying.
Daniel had used a combination of pen and ink and paint to convey the dusting of
stubble across his lip, chin and jawline. He'd sported a five o'clock shadow at
the Christmas party and then again this morning. Michael doubted the man ever
shaved. The homeless bum look seemed to be his Bohemian idea of stylish. His
hair was short, thick, and a much darker brown than Michael's, his beard nearly
identical in color.
Every imperfection of the man's face was rendered flawlessly in the portrait,
even the scars: one just to the left of Daniel's nose and the other above his
right eyebrow. Michael had noticed them before and had idly wondered how they'd
gotten there. Scars always had stories to tell, some interesting and some not.
He had a feeling Daniel's would be worth hearing.
Daniel possessed all the qualities women seemed to like in a man: a strong
square jaw, full lips, a straight nose and a very striking eye color, all
ordinary, regular features when viewed separately, but together, they were an
attractive combination. He had to grudgingly admit that Daniel Hart was a
handsome man. A bit rustic and rough around the edges, but women seemed to
gravitate to that as much as they did to money and refinement. Too bad he was a
queer. Michael had a stable of eager whores he could have steered his way.
He slammed the portfolio shut and cursed softly at the ridiculous amount of
time he'd wasted gazing at the man's face. He had more important things to do.
He grabbed Daniel's personnel file, determined to find something he could use
against him. He looked over the resume again, finding absolutely nothing that
Daniel hadn't already mentioned in their conversation. He read his personal
history very slowly and carefully, scanned his references, and again he found
nothing valuable.
Michael fell back in his chair and growled in frustration. There had to be
something else, some scandalous skeleton in Daniel's closet he could exploit.
Sucking another man's dick was reason enough for dismissal in his mind, but
unfortunately, the law didn't see it that way. He needed something else or his
ass was going to be raked over the coals and very soon.
What about his family members?
Energized, he touched the keyboard of his laptop to wake it up. He quickly
scanned Daniel's personal history again, searching for his father's name: David
Allen Hart. There was nothing familiar about it. He'd never heard of him but he
was sure the Internet had. A few quick searches of some very expensive
databases and he'd find out everything there was to know about Daniel's father
and the rest of his family. If there was even a hint of a scandal, he'd find
it, and he'd use it without an ounce of conscience.
It took him less than thirty seconds to find Daniel's father. He scrolled past
the meaningless information—date and place of birth, address, marital status,
number of children, his income bracket—and skipped right to the important part:
his place of employment. What a man did for a living said more about him than
any over-embellished bio ever would. Michael froze as he stared at the words on
the screen.
"FUCK!!" he screamed, unleashing his fury upon his surroundings. Everything on
the surface of his desk and within reach of his hands was hurled violently to
the floor. The papers from Daniel's personnel file fluttered quietly to the
carpet; his samples from his portfolio were scattered everywhere. The self
portrait had so fucking conveniently landed in the chair in front of his desk.
That cocky face with the gleaming brown eyes stared defiantly back at Michael,
mocking him, laughing at his stupidity.
He fumed and fought to calm down. Thinking and planning required an inner
serenity, a coldness of thought, not the angry tantrums of a spoiled toddler.
He had to gain control of his temper or this was going to turn out very badly
for both him and this company. Daniel Hart was one smart son-of-a-bitch, as
Michael now realized. He'd pulled a fast one on GEM and no one had caught it.
Perhaps if he'd actually conducted Daniel's initial interview instead of
sitting in a fucking jail cell, this wouldn't have happened. But it was too
late for recriminations.
Daniel was the one who held the puppet strings now, and it was Michael Golland
and GEM who were his marionettes.
 
TRUDY BARNES ~ EXECUTIVE SECRETARY
 
***** A Dangerous Eye for Detail *****
Cameron was bringing over pizza soon, and if they planned on eating it Daniel
was going to have to stop his ridiculous obsessing over Michael Golland and get
the damned kitchen table cleared off. As he worked at moving his art
paraphernalia from one inappropriate place (the table) to yet another
inappropriate place (the counter), his mind was filled with images of that
beautifully arrogant man. Snippets of their conversation filtered through his
thoughts as he went over and over everything that had been said that morning.
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was that he’d been completely
wrong about Michael. That remark about words lying and art always speaking the
truth hadn’t revealed anything profound about his personality. It was he who
had completely romanticized that moment, and had looked at it through his own
brand of rose-colored glasses. Only later, after he'd had some quiet time to
reflect, had he realized that Michael had not revealed any hidden love or
understanding of art with that remark, but instead, it had been his a-hole way
of letting Daniel know he’d discovered some half-assed proof of his involvement
in the defacement of their building via his own artwork.
He should have known Michael didn’t have the soul of an artist, or even a
superficial appreciation of the craft. A person who loved art surrounded
themselves with it, and there hadn’t been a single painting on the walls of his
office. Not one. Not even a boring landscape or a generic still life. Hell,
there hadn’t even been any small picture frames on his desk. Nothing. No, the
man didn’t love art, he loved money. He appreciated assets and despised
liabilities. He was probably now ecstatic over the fact that he could use
Daniel’s own art as a weapon against him and send him into that liability
column (and the unemployment line) at record speed.
Upon more reflection, Daniel pegged his softly-spoken interpretation of Patch
of Grass as nothing more than a face-saving performance for Daniel’s benefit.
He’d acted as if he’d understood the emotional and physical pain behind the
art, when in actuality he’d probably had no clue. Emotional trauma for a man
like Michael Golland was getting a Porsche for Christmas instead of the Jaguar
he’d asked for. A man in his position of wealth and prominence would never be
able to relate to the horror Daniel had experienced that day, no matter how
much he tried to pretend he understood.
To make matters even worse, Michael Golland was a control freak of the highest
order. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that his artistic talent would be enough
to save his job if Michael found solid proof to back up his suspicions. The man
was rich, powerful, good looking and got off on controlling everything around
him—a nightmarish combination for anyone stupid enough to get involved with
him. Cameron was right. He really needed to keep a professional distance
between himself and Michael.
He sighed as he transferred the last pile of sketches from the table to the
counter. Easier said than done. There was an attraction, no denying it. He
could tell himself to stay way until he turned blue in the face, but that
wouldn’t stop the gravitational pull that was drawing him closer and closer to
Michael Golland.
===============================================================================
                                        
“Oh sweetie, you cleaned for me??” Cameron swept into the kitchen in full
flaming gay mode. He deposited the cardboard pizza box on the table and
grinned. “So does this mean we’re engaged, my darling Danny?”
Daniel sneered at him. “I didn’t clean for you, you fucking queen. I cleaned
for myself. You know I can’t stand clutter.”
Cameron sputtered with laughter at the ridiculous lie and plopped down in a
chair, while Daniel got the plates, two beers, then settled down across from
him. “But seriously,” Cameron said in between mouthfuls of pizza. “The place
looks a little less pig-sty-ish than usual. There must be a special occasion on
the horizon.”
It was truly a wonder he and Cameron were such close friends, considering their
differences. Cam was a neat freak, a housekeeping ninja, his apartment spotless
with everything in its place, while Daniel considered himself lucky if there
was enough cleared space to plant his ass on the couch and nothing was blocking
the television.
Daniel shrugged and frowned. “I’ve been a little too restless to draw, so I
cleaned. Get the fuck over it.”
Cameron pursed his lips together and sucked in a harsh breath. “Oooh,
somebody’s a little testy,” he said with a fake lisp. Then he snickered. “Must
be the pleasant conversation you had with Mr. Ice Prince that has you in such a
good mood. Care to tell me the details?”
Cameron had waylaid him as soon as he’d gotten out of Michael’s office,
pestering him for details of their conversation. Daniel had put him off, citing
the presence of too many nosy-assed people, because who knew which one of them
was in Michael’s pocket. Some people would suck the devil’s dick if they were
palmed enough money.
“He asked me if I knew who Joystyk was.”
Cameron stopped chewing. The laughing, happy-go-lucky guy who loved playing the
effeminate queer to the hilt disappeared in an instant, replaced by a serious
man who just happened to be gay, and who had an extremely low tolerance for
stupid people’s bullshit—the main reason he and Cam got along so well.  He
finished his bite and swallowed. Took a big swig of beer to wash it down, then
sat back in his chair. “What the fuck?” he asked, frowning and his eyes
narrowing with suspicion. “In what possible context would that country club
peacock come across the name Joystyk?”
Daniel sighed, hoping he wouldn’t lose his best friend with his answer. “I
included that mural I did in San Francisco in my portfolio. You know, that gay
club with the owner who had the hots for me?” Daniel snickered, but Cam wasn’t
in a humorous mood. “The guy who interviewed me didn’t catch it, so I didn’t
figure anyone else would either.”
Cameron made a disgusted noise and shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re
saying he took one look at your mural and he made the connection." He snapped
his fingers. "Just like that.”
He explained to Cameron all about Michael being given the assignment of finding
the vandals responsible for defacing their building, that he’d spent every day
for a month studying the street art all over the city until he’d narrowed the
suspect list down to Joystyk.  “Michael has a dangerous eye for detail,” Daniel
said softly. “We’ve got to lay low for awhile.”
Cameron’s eyes hardened. “Fuck that laying low shit! You can lay low and I’m
okay with that, but I’m not. I paint for Devon and no fucking pansy-assed
little rich boy is going to stop me.”
Daniel had a sudden desire to put both hands around his friend’s neck and
squeeze really hard, but he managed to keep his temper under control. Cam could
be stubborn, especially when it came to Devon, but the man wasn’t stupid, nor
was he suicidal.
“Joystyk is a two-man team, Cam. Remember? You and me. You go off on your own
and start slapping shit all over GEM buildings and it won’t take a man as
observant as Michael a half hour to track you down and put your ass in jail.
Your style is too distinctive all on its own. You need my paint to muck it all
up, confuse everybody, and keep us both safe. We’re anonymous as Joystyk, but
if we paint separately, we’re sitting ducks. We’ve got to lay low for the time
being.”
Cameron’s lips were an angry slash across his face, but his eyes were
softening. He knew he couldn’t afford to go off on his own. Activist street art
was a risky, subversive little hobby. There were only two people in Los Angeles
who knew the identity of Joystyck and both of them were sitting in Daniel’s
kitchen. Three would definitely be a crowd. Michael was too smart to fuck
around with. Cam just needed someone to remind him of that stark reality.
“I fucking hate being controlled like this,” Cam muttered between clenched
teeth.
“I know, but we’ve both got to keep out of trouble or risk losing our jobs. I
don’t know about you, but I’ve grown rather fond of having a place to live and
food to eat.”
Cameron made another disgusted sound and concentrated on his pizza. They ate in
silence until the food was gone. He asked for another beer and Daniel obliged,
taking another one for himself, as well.
“I know you,” Cameron said, after sipping his brew in silence for awhile.
“You’re ignoring everything I’ve told you about that guy, aren’t you? I can see
it, man, see it in your eyes. He’s all the way across the fucking city in that
pretentious mansion of his, but he might as well be sitting right here in this
room. You’re hopeless, Daniel.”
Daniel sighed. Cam knew him better than anyone. “After Devon, you of all people
should know you can’t control who you’re attracted to.”
Cam surprised him by laughing instead of getting angry. “Devon was G. A. Y.
Hello?? Michael is a hetro, and an arrogant, rude bastard to boot. Big
difference there, sweetie.”
Daniel idly twirled his beer bottle as he tried to figure out just what it was
that attracted him. It wasn’t just physical lust, although he couldn’t deny how
much he wanted to slowly strip off that suit and tie, run his hands and tongue
all over the man’s body, slide his fingers between his legs, and do all the
other stuff that would come after that. No, it was something else. There was
something hiding underneath the ugly persona Michael presented to the world,
and Daniel was just romantic enough to believe it was something beautiful. He
just knew that when he uncovered the real man who was Michael Golland, there
would be a person worth loving under there. But the straight and narrow thing,
that was a definite hindrance.
Cam leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table and cradling his nearly
empty beer between his hands. “You’re nothing but a heaping tablespoon of white
sugar, a sweet man with an even sweeter heart. Even if you just want to be
friends with him, that guy is going to rip your heart out and stomp on it with
his fancy designer shoes. He’s going to hurt you.”
Daniel got up and started clearing the dishes from the table, ignoring
Cameron’s remarks and focusing on the task at hand. Cam was probably right, but
Daniel didn’t think he could just back away from Michael Golland at this point.
No matter how much it was going to hurt, Daniel wanted to know more about him,
wanted to get beneath that cold exterior and see if there was anything warm
waiting there.
“I plan on being careful,” Daniel finally said after the table was cleared and
there was nothing left for a distraction.
Cam nodded. “Careful is good, I guess, but what’s even better is having your
father in our corner. Did he mention him?”
“Not one word.” Daniel smirked. “I just knew someone would come across that
juicy little tidbit when they did a background on me, then toss my application
in the trash. But no one has said a word about him, not even Michael.”
Cameron grinned all over himself. “I still can’t believe you made it in.
Someone sure dropped the ball.”
“Yeah, my dad’s still scratching his head over that one, but he’s not
complaining.”
Cameron rose from the table and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets.
“Cavorting with the enemy is not the brightest idea, Danny Boy.”
“Maybe so.” Daniel shrugged. “But what about keeping your friends close and
your enemies closer? Something tells me Michael will find me out pretty soon,
if he hasn’t already, and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it now.
Oh, wouldn’t I love to be a fly on the wall when he does. He’s going to be so
pissed.”
GEM was a successful marketing firm with a dirty underbelly of discrimination.
It was time for someone to stop it. So, as long as Daniel was employed by GEM,
he had to keep his nose clean and his eyes open. No more illegal paint. He had
to be the perfect employee from now on and do everything by the book.
When Cam left, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, thinking.
Trying to build a friendship with a man who seemed to have no interest in being
part of the human race was going to be a challenge, for sure, but Daniel was
nothing if not persistent. He already had a plan in place on how to proceed,
and a backup plan, and a backup for the backup plan.
Michael Golland was going to have his first true friend, whether he wanted one
or not.  Starting Monday...
 
MICHAEL'S OFFICE
 
CAMERON SCOTT
 
***** An Education *****
Michael stared out the windows of his office, patiently watching the black fade
from the horizon as the sun slowly made its entrance into the sky. Early
morning was his favorite time of the day—always had been. As a child, he’d
stolen out of bed before everyone else and left the house, wandering in the
woods, watching the sun come up, or just thinking. He’d never grown out of it.
Even as a teenager, he could never sleep in. He loved the stillness, the
darkness just before dawn, that feeling of being the only person left in the
world. There was a unique serenity to be found in the silence of a sunrise.
Monday morning found him much calmer. The anger over discovering Daniel’s
deception had ruined the rest of his weekend. Instead of leaving it at the
door, he’d carried his rage home with him after work, refusing to let it go. No
book had been able to divert his attention, not even for a few minutes. His
evening workout had done nothing to stop the furious thoughts racing through
his mind: the recriminations, the best course of action for the company, the
reprimand he would soon get from his father for not doing his job, how to
handle Daniel from this point forward. He’d finally given up and sought out
Claire. Spending time with her had always helped him put the turmoil in his
life into perspective. She was his best friend and confidant, his lifeline. The
nearly two hours he’d spent with her over the weekend had driven away all of
his anger and given him the focus he’d needed to sort out the mess with Daniel.
And what a mess it was.
Michael shook his head, refusing to go there. He was not going to squander the
precious minutes left of this magnificent sunrise thinking of Daniel Hart and
his lies. He’d already made his final decision last night on how to deal with
him; there was no use going over it all again.  He took a deep cleansing
breath, slid his hands into his pockets and smiled in appreciation when the sun
finally broke free of the horizon. It had a long journey ahead of it, but with
nothing to block its progress, the trip would be easy. He only wished his life
was that simple.
He heard the door to his office quietly open and shut. He knew it was his
father without even looking. He chose to ignore him and continued to stare out
the windows, even though the sunrise was officially over. His father despised
being ignored which was why he did it at every opportunity.
“What’s so interesting that you can’t even acknowledge your own father?”
Michael cringed inside at just the sound of his father’s refined, aristocratic
voice. He drew upon the peaceful reserves from his time with Claire and turned
to face the despicable man who had helped bring him into this world. To John Q.
Public, Paul Golland, Sr. had been a loving husband to his deceased wife, a
conscientious father to his three successful children, a respected businessman,
a leader in the church, and a caring philanthropist who untiringly helped the
poor of Los Angeles. But his family knew the truth. The expensive tailored
suits, the distinguished graying hair, the fake manners and amicable smile were
all nothing but smoke and mirrors.
“I’m sorry father. I didn’t hear your knock.” A soft and respectful delivery,
but he knew his father would get his sarcastic point.
“I don’t have to knock. I own this place, in case you’ve forgotten that.” He
laughed quietly. “Besides, I’ve discovered some very interesting things about
people by walking into a room unannounced, as you well know.”
And just like Michael never passed up an opportunity to ignore his father, his
father never passed up an opportunity to wake those sleeping dogs, especially
when it came to his least favored and youngest son. But on this morning,
Michael was determined to hold his temper and let the dig go unacknowledged.
When his father realized his comment hadn’t had the effect he’d been hoping
for, he plowed forward with the real reason for the early morning visit. “It
always amazes me how wonderfully proficient you are at fucking up.”
Michael bit down on the retort that almost shot out of his mouth. Blatant
disrespect would get him nowhere fast. “Better to be proficient at something
than suck at everything.”  He smirked at his father, letting him think he was
not bothered at all by the insult, when in fact, it hurt like hell. He wondered
why the constant reminders of his imperfections continued to get underneath his
skin. One would think he would have developed some sort of immunity to it by
now, having listened to it his entire fucking life.
Michael crossed the room, putting some much-needed distance between them, and
casually sank into his office chair. There was no use trying to balance the
power when Paul Golland was in a room, so a man might as well sit and pretend
to be comfortable while he got a size 10-1/2 Gucci shoved up his ass.
“I give you one simple job to do and you can’t even do that right,” his father
continued, following him to his desk and towering above him.
“And what job is that?” he asked, staring up at his father and feigning
innocence.
“Getting rid of Cameron Scott,” he answered. “You were supposed to fire the fag
months ago, but I see he’s still here. He was an embarrassment at the Christmas
party, prancing around the place with his earring and limp wrist.”
Michael shrugged. “I’ve watched the man for months, but he’s the perfect
employee. I can’t find a reason to fire him that would withstand the scrutiny
of a good attorney.”
His father’s lips thinned, his icy blue stare boring twin holes in Michael’s
eyes. “You will find one or I'll find someone else to do your job. And while
you’re at it, get rid of Daniel Hart, too. I’ve been told by a reliable source
that Scott and Hart are big buddies, and that Hart is as queer as a three
dollar bill. I want them both off my payroll. I bought this piece of shit pile
of steel and built it into a Fortune 500 company. I won’t have our reputation
sullied by those perverts and their disgusting lifestyle. They have the morals
of horny alley cats and they spread disease like rats. I want them out.”
If Michael could have laughed without getting a fist rammed down his throat, he
would have fallen in the floor in hysterics. A couple of promiscuous homos
couldn’t even begin to touch the sexual decadence of the man standing before
him. His upstanding, God-fearing father had fucked every woman in his income
bracket, no matter her age or marital status, and some while Michael’s mother
had still been alive. Apparently God gave Get-Out-of-Hell-Free cards as long as
you stuck it in a pussy. His hypocrisy knew no bounds.
Michael leaned back in his chair and resisted the urge to smile. He hated
flaming fags as much as his father, but he had his priorities, and right now he
was about to metaphorically kick his dear old dad in the nuts. Sometimes, at
moments like this, he actually enjoyed being alive.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to get rid of Cameron or Daniel anytime soon.” He
waited a respectable few seconds, pleased to see his father’s body tense at
what he probably perceived as outright defiance. Before he could open his
mouth, he calmly delivered the coup de tat. “Daniel’s father is a lawyer. He
works for the state's Attorneys General Office here in Los Angeles...” Michael
hesitated for effect. “…in the Sexual Orientation Discrimination Division.”
Michael had thrown a violent temper tantrum at discovering Daniel’s deceit, but
his father was a completely different animal. When angered, there was a
disturbing stillness about him that Michael had learned to fear—the calm before
the storm. He could tell his father was livid at the news, but he controlled
his rage much better than his son had. He held his breath as he cautiously
watched him process the fact that GEM was most likely fucked, that his years of
skirting of the law had been brought to a screeching halt by the very thing he
hated the most.
“He’s a plant."
Michael nodded. “No doubt. And I’m sure his father has an entire drawer in his
filing cabinet devoted solely to complaints against GEM.”
The bones in his father's angular jaw visibly clenched. He hated being one-
upped by anyone, and especially someone like Daniel. He turned and went over to
the windows. Several silent minutes passed as his father stared at the vista
beyond the glass and Michael stared at his stiff back. Finally he spoke, not
bothering to turn around. “How could an employee of mine be so thoroughly
incompetent? How stupid do you have to be, Michael, to hire someone without
checking their background first?”
The unwarranted criticism of his competency infuriated him. He loosened the
tenuous grip on his temper, just a little, and proceeded to throw the man
responsible under the bus. “Howard hired him, not me. I wasn’t even here to do
the background check. If you recall, I was sitting in a fucking jail cell
because of your fucking whore! I just found out about this yesterday!”
He turned around and studied Michael for a few moments before laughing softly.
“You’re blaming me because you can’t control your temper??” Before Michael
could argue the point, he waved his hand in dismissal. “Water under the bridge.
What we need to focus on now is finding something we can use to get rid of
Hart.”
Michael already had something he could use, if he could gather sufficient
proof. Vandalizing the property of the company who provided your paycheck would
definitely be grounds for dismissal, but he wasn’t willing to share his
suspicions with his father just yet.  “I plan on keeping a very close eye on
him,” Michael said. “You know the saying: ‘Keep your friends close and your
enemies closer.’”
His father studied him with suspicious eyes for several moments before changing
the subject. “Remember, we have that immigrant charity thing tomorrow night.
It’s formal and there’ll be press there, so bring someone with some class. You
do have a date, I’m assuming.”
Michael gritted his teeth at the prospect of spending an evening preening
before cameras, pretending he gave a shit about the plight of the immigrant,
when he really couldn’t care less about them. Nor was he in the mood to deal
with the only one of his D&G whores who was available that night. She was a
snotty, pretentious bitch of the highest order who couldn’t quite grasp the
meaning of obedience.
“Camilla,” he answered.
His father nodded his approval and grinned. “Good choice. She’ll look nice on
your arm.” He winked. “She's one of my favorites. So needless to say, I’d like
her to make it though the evening without injury. Can you manage that?”
His snide tone hit a nerve. The truth was, he couldn’t guarantee anything when
it came to Camilla. Just being in the same room with her pushed his patience to
the limit. Slapping the fuck out of her in private was a distinct possibility,
especially if she ruined his play with her attitude. “I’ll try,” Michael
answered back, matching his father’s tone.
His father nodded an acknowledgment, then smirked. “Now we deal with Howard.
That man is going to get an education.”
Get an education.He cringed and fought the nausea that always rose up in his
gut whenever he heard his father say those words. He almost felt sorry for
Howard.
After his father left, Michael gravitated to the windows again, wishing he
could transport himself out of this room, this city, this miserable life he was
living. He stared through the tempered glass, but his eyes weren’t seeing the
cityscape beyond it, nor did they notice the brightness of the sun. They were
peering into the past, into a pool house, and behind a tightly closed door…
 
“You have a Jacuzzi?? Cool!” Dari flashed a bright smile filled with perfect
white teeth, his dark eyes glistening with excitement.
Dario, or Dari as he preferred to be called, had been Michael’s friend for only
two short days, but they’d been the best days of his life so far. He was an
illegal Mexican immigrant, and his parents had been picked up by the INS.
Michael’s mother had a soft spot for the poor of LA and had brought Dari home
to stay with them temporarily while things got sorted out. Michael had been
less than enthusiastic at first. He was a Golland, as his father almost daily
reminded him, and Gollands did not run in the same social circles as wetbacks.
But within the first few minutes of their meeting, Michael had fallen in love
with the dark-skinned boy. He was everything Michael wasn’t: outgoing and
adventurous, bursting with joy and energy, loving life despite the hopelessness
of his personal circumstances.
“Can we get in it?” Dari asked, barely containing his excitement.
Michael nodded and shut the door behind them. The room was dim and pleasantly
warm. Clouds had temporarily hidden the sun, so they were both shivering from
being in the pool. Michael checked the temperature and started the jets.
Dari glanced over his shoulder and grinned with mischief. Michael adored him
and seemed to be unable to stop looking at him. He was so beautiful, so
different from all the other boys he knew.
Dari suddenly shucked off his swimming trunks and kicked them to the corner.
Michael’s mouth dropped open of its own accord. It wasn't like he’d never saw a
naked boy before. He had, plenty of times—at the country club pool house and
the gym locker room at school—but this was different somehow.
“It’ll be funner butt naked,” Dari said, laughing softly. “Come on, Michael.
Take yours off.”
Suddenly, Michael felt very awkward. He was skinny and gangly, his arms and
legs resembling the klutzy appendages of a newborn giraffe. Dari was compact
and strong, his arms and legs already forming muscles Michael doubted he’d ever
possess.
One more request from Dari was all it took. Michael was not going to appear
weak or cowardly in front of his friend. He quickly shoved his trunks down to
his ankles, cringing at the thought of what Dari would think of his body, but
his friend wasn’t looking. He was already sliding into the water and groaning
at the warmth. Michael did the same, taking a spot for himself on the submerged
ledge directly opposite from Dari.
“This is nice.” Dari grinned and ducked completely under the water. Michael
watched his distorted form shift among the bubbles, his arms waving gracefully
like coral in the sea, his dark hair floating like seaweed caught in a current.
He could hold his breath for an incredibly long time. Michael was envious.
Suddenly, he broke the surface, shaking his head like a wet dog, whipping warm
water into Michael’s face. He laughed and Michael joined him while wiping the
water from his eyes. When they stopped laughing, he realized that Dari was very
close, so close his knees were brushing lightly against Michael’s own. Dari was
staring at him strangely, his characteristic smile gone from his face.
Something stirred in Michael, a feeling he’d never had before. Dari was making
him very nervous, but also a little excited. He held his friend’s eyes,
determined not to look away. When he saw Dari begin to move closer, Michael
held his breath, his skin racing with chill bumps.
When their lips finally touched, Michael’s body came alive. It reminded him of
an old horror movie he’d watched once, where someone had pumped electricity
into a corpse. His insides convulsed and writhed with shock and pleasure at the
feel of Dari’s soft mouth pressed against his. His dick jerked as it grew hard.
Michael loved the taste of him and wanted more, but it was over too soon.
Dari pulled away and watched him. He seemed to be waiting for Michael to say
something, but he’d never be able to find the words to describe his feelings at
that moment.  Dari must have taken his silence as acceptance. Michael’s eyes
drifted shut when he brushed his fingers up his leg. He groaned when Dari
cupped his balls gently in his hand, using his thumb to tenderly stroke them.
He cursed softly when Dari tenderly ran his fingers up and down his growing
erection.
“You’re so good-looking,” Dari whispered, his voice husky and low.
“So are you,” Michael managed to croak.
Dari smiled and chuckled beneath his breath. “Look what you do to me, mi
amigo.”
He rose from the water until his hips broke free of the bubbles. Michael’s eyes
stayed glued to his groin. He studied it, fascinated with the glistening
droplets of water clinging to Dari’s scant pubic hair and dripping off the head
of his swollen dick. Michael had seen plenty of boys naked, but never one so
close, and never any that had affected him in this way. He was riveted by the
beauty of Dari’s body: his size, the dusky tint of his skin, the vein running
down his length.
“You like my tito?” he asked, grinning as he playfully waved his dick back and
forth with his hand.
Michael doubted Dari even heard the whispered ‘yes’ that slipped from his
mouth, but his expression must have said the same thing.
Dari let go of himself, smiled down at Michael and winked. “You can touch it. I
don’t mind.”
Michael had wrapped his hand around his own dick more times than he could
count, but he’d never touched anyone else’s. Even though in his mind he knew
what it would feel like, Michael was completely unprepared for the reality of
Dari’s hard shaft resting against his palm. Was his that silky? Michael wound
his fingers around it and tightened his grip just a little, causing Dari to
throw his head back and groan. A string of Spanish words filled the room.
Michael didn’t understand their meaning, but he loved the sound of Dari’s voice
as he spoke them.
Dari looked down at him, his eyes dark and strange. He threaded his fingers
into Michael’s short hair, pulling hard at the strands and digging the tips
into his scalp.  “Besamelo. Kiss it,” he gasped softly. “Please.”
Michael felt a pull he couldn’t resist, like Dari had put an invisible yolk
around his neck and was gently tugging at the reins. He gripped Dari tighter
and felt the throbbing pulse beneath his fingers. Dari pushed his hips forward
just enough to lightly touch the head of his dick against Michael’s lips. He
gently nudged with his swollen tip; Michael's mouth opened willingly. He slid
inside, slow and smooth, but not very deep, just enough so that Michael could
curl his tongue around the head. The sensations taking over his body were more
intense than anything Michael had ever experienced. He felt like he could come
right then if he just relaxed and let it go.
Then everything fell apart. They’d been so absorbed in each other that neither
one of them realized Michael’s father had slipped into the room unannounced.
“Get the fuck away from him.”
The command was spoken very softly, but only Michael knew the rage hidden
beneath it. Dari stumbled backward in surprise, nearly falling in his haste to
get away. Michael could only cower in the water, terrified of what was coming.
“Get your clothes on, go to the house and stay there!” he shouted at Dari as he
fumbled for his shorts in the corner.
Wisely, Dari didn’t argue or even apologize. He silently did as he was ordered
and it didn’t escape Michael’s attention that his hands shook as he slipped on
his trunks. When he finally scurried from the room, Michael’s heart sank,
because he knew that was the last time he’d ever see him.
His father turned his furious gaze on him. “You disgusting piece of perverted
SHIT!!”
Michael tried to scrabble away from him, but in the confines of the Jacuzzi,
there was nowhere he could go. His father grabbed his arm and bodily dragged
him from the water. Michael yelped from the pain in his shoulder, but it could
never be worse than what he suspected was coming. He literally threw him to the
tiled floor and kicked his feet out from under him as he fought for balance.
His cheek slammed against the cold, wet tiles and the world dimmed. But the
disorientation didn't last long. His father ground the sole of one shoe into
his neck to hold him in place while he unfastened his belt and violently tore
it from his waistband.
“This is your idea of helping the poor? By sucking a wetback’s dick??”
The leather hit his skin with such force that Michael couldn’t have kept his
mouth shut if he’d wanted to. He screamed with each stroke of the belt and
tried to get away from its fury, but there was nowhere to escape to in the
small room. His back, his butt, the backs of his thighs all burned as if his
skin were on fire. Tears ran down his face and snot clogged his nose as he
cried his apologies and begged his father to stop. He kept at it until Michael
wondered if he would live through his punishment. Would his father even feel
bad if he accidentally killed him?
Finally the whipping stopped. Michael had no idea why, but he was grateful. Now
if only he would just leave him alone, everything would be okay. But he should
have known his father wasn't finished. He grabbed his shoulder and nearly
pulled it from its socket while hauling Michael to his feet. He fought to stand
and keep his balance even though he was hurting all over and felt like he was
going to vomit. His father grabbed him by the face, clutching his chin and
cheeks in his iron grip, his fingers digging into Michael's jaw on both sides.
"Twelve years old." He squeezed harder; tears slid down Michael's cheek.
"Twelve fucking years old and you're already a fucking disgrace. We're going to
fix that, Michael. No Golland male is going to shame our family like this, not
as long as there's breath in my body. You're not going to grow up to be a
faggot. You're going to Redemption House tomorrow. They deal with situations
like this all the time. They can fix you."
Michael had no idea what Redemption House was, nor did he care at the moment.
He didn't want anyone to fix him. All he wanted was to get as far away from his
father as he could. He wanted Claire. He needed her like he needed air to
breathe.
"Tomorrow, you're going to get an education, son," he said softly.
 
"Mr. Golland?"
Trudy's hesitant voice jerked him violently back from the past. He continued to
stare out the window while he waited for her to continue.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but you said you wanted these files to look over
before your first interview."
Michael swallowed down the bile rising up in his throat. "Put them on my desk."
He listened with disinterest as she did what she was told, leaving the room
without another word. He stayed at the window, staring at the city spread out
before him. He often wondered what had happened to Dari. He'd been gone by the
time Michael had gotten back to the house, and he'd been too scared to ask
anyone what had happened to him. He liked to think his father had taken him to
a homeless shelter or maybe the church, until his parents had been able to get
him. He wanted to believe his mother would have never allowed any harm to come
to the boy. But to this day, he was still unsure.
As Michael stared out at the vista before him, he wondered if Dari was out
there somewhere, or if he was back in Mexico living in squalor, or if he was
dead.
 
PAUL GOLLAND, SR.
 
***** Daniel's Lunch *****
“Is he in?”
Trudy glanced down at what Daniel had in his hand and gave him a What-The-Hell-
Are-You-Thinking look.  “Yeah, he’s in there, and no appointments until 1:30,”
she answered.
“Show tunes?” he asked.
She actually giggled. “Disney soundtracks.”
It was astounding the girl still had a sense of humor. She either loved being
Executive Secretary to an asshole or she needed the money really badly. Not
hard to figure that one out. He offered her his fist. They bumped knuckles and
grinned at each other.  “You’re all right, Trudy.”
“Thanks,” she said. Then she lowered her voice. “Watch yourself. He’s an expert
at social castration, if you know what I mean.”
Daniel gave her a reassuring nod. His balls had acquired a strong coating of
steel throughout the years, starting at the age of twelve and continuing on
through his teens. The constant bullying and the continuous fights with other
boys who, for some unknown reason, had been threatened by his sexuality had
toughened him up pretty quickly. He’d been called every foul name in the book
as well as kicked in every possible part of his body that could be reached with
a shoe. He’d cried enough tears into his pillow to fill an ocean. He doubted
Michael had any original material; Daniel had heard it all.
Trudy said if she buzzed Michael, letting him know he had a visitor, he would
most likely turn him away. He liked to spend his lunches alone. So, she grinned
and announced that she had a sudden, and very intense, urge to go to the
bathroom, and that she sure hoped no one got past her desk and into Michael’s
office. But, hey, it wouldn’t be her fault, right? She winked at him and
scurried off. He wondered, as he walked toward the massive wooden doors, if
Michael had any idea just how sneaky his little secretary was.
He wiped the amusement from his face and pushed the doors open. Michael was
standing at the windows looking out. The first detail Daniel noticed was that
he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. He’d never seen Michael without one. The
sight of his form-fitting white dress shirt hugging his slender torso, and his
hands thrust deep into the pockets of his light gray designer slacks—which fit
his fine ass like a sexy linen glove—sent Daniel’s sex-starved libido into
overdrive. Ass-fucking hot. The description flashed through his mind like a
blowtorch, searing his brain cells together and making him forget what he was
going to say.
Michael’s head turned and his body visibly stiffened. “Yet another person who
doesn’t understand the concept of knocking.”
“Trudy wasn’t at her desk,” he said, shrugging. He crossed the short distance
to the four-chair grouping and sat the two vinyl lunch bags on the small table
in the middle of them. “Even the great Michael Golland’s secretary has to take
a piss once in a while, so it’s not her fault I’m rude. Anyway, I made us both
lunch.”
He wanted to laugh at the shock on Michael’s face, but he pretended he hadn’t
seen it and instead plopped down in one of the soft chairs and began to unpack
their lunch.
“I have a fully stocked kitchen with gourmet food in it,” Michael said coldly,
nodding his head in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. “And
I outgrew cartoon character lunch pails a long time ago.”
Daniel looked up at him and grinned, ignoring the haughtiness in Michael’s
voice. “You never outgrow Iron Man and Superman.” He gestured to the chair
across from him. “Come on, sit. I don’t have a two-hour lunch like you do.”
Without waiting for Michael to respond, he started preparing the sandwiches. “I
have homemade chicken salad on wheat, sun tea, and a surprise for dessert.”
Michael’s expression hadn’t warmed in the slightest, and his blue eyes were
like shards of ice as they met Daniel’s. “Apparently I’m not making myself
clear. Get out of my office. Now.”
Daniel had never met a man who had him dreaming of licking his body from head
to toe one moment and then wanting to rip his balls off the next, all in the
space of a few minutes. But he was damned if he was going to give up. Michael’s
sexiness outweighed his rudeness by leaps and bounds. He was going to break
though the wall this man had around himself no matter what it took, and he was
going to get those fancy clothes off of him in the process. Of course, Michael
being annoyingly straight was a bit of a snag, but he would cross that bridge
later.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a little skinny,” he said,
struggling to keep a straight face. “A good Santa Ana would blow you off the
sidewalk. You need some protein and calories.”
Michael glared, but said nothing.
“And that’s not even taking into consideration blood sugar levels. You have to
eat regular meals or your sugar drops and you feel like shit. Making other
people’s lives miserable takes energy.”
He watched Michael’s expression and he could almost see the man’s thought
processes like a film playing on his face. He could even provide the subtitles:
‘I hate this fucking fag bastard, but I can’t think of a way to get rid of him
short of calling security and making a huge scene, which will make me look like
I can’t even handle one little annoying employee without calling for Robo-Cop
back up. So, maybe I’ll let him stay and fuck with him a little while just for
grins and giggles.’
“You’re a pushy, arrogant bastard,” Michael observed as he pulled his hands
from his pockets and reluctantly sat down opposite Daniel.
He had to laugh at that one, because it was true. “I prefer the words
persistent and confident, but I’m okay with bastard. I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” Michael said smugly. “Did you put grapes in the chicken
salad, because I won’t eat it unless it has grapes in it. And not white grapes
either. They have to be red, seedless and in season, and in the right
proportion. Too few grapes and chicken salad is bland and inedible.”
Fucking Jesus, what a control freak A-hole. It’s just chicken salad, dude.
Lighten up.  How his broken filter managed to keep that biting comment inside
his mouth, he had no idea. He could already see that socializing with Michael
Golland was going to be more of an exercise in restraint than anything remotely
enjoyable. Although pecking away at that stone wall surrounding Michael was
extremely entertaining. There was nothing more fun than teasing someone who
acted like their ass would crack wide open if they actually smiled.
Daniel rolled his eyes. “Of course it has red, seedless grapes in it, and in
the right proportion. My chicken salad is the shit.”
Michael grimaced. “You’re crude.”
“And you’re an uptight snob,” he shot back.
If this lunch were an episode from a Saturday morning cartoon, Michael would
have smoke rolling out of his ears and there would be a bunch of curse word
symbols in a conversation bubble over his head. He was pissed but he was
controlling it. If they were going to play the insult game, then Michael had
picked the wrong opponent. Daniel’s repertoire was as vast and limitless as the
universe.
Michael stared at the food on the table and lightly drummed his index finger on
the cloth arm of the chair. That one nervous “tell” made him want to smile all
over himself. He’d found a small crack in that wall: he didn’t like being
called a snob.
“What about nuts?” Michael asked.
Daniel smiled with feigned sadness. “No nuts. I was afraid you might be
allergic. Then I’d be faced with the moral dilemma of whether to call 911 or
not because, in my opinion, the world need fewer asshole millionaires who think
they’re better than everyone else.”
It took a few seconds but eventually that beautiful mouth of his twitched into
the tiniest of smiles, and that frigid blue gaze sparkled with amusement.
“Oh. My. God. Did you just smile??” Daniel asked with exaggerated shock.
And quick as that, the smile was gone, replaced by another one of his trademark
glares. He was sure that if a hard object would have been within reach of his
fingers, Michael would have thrown it at him.  Without another word, Michael
leaned forward and picked up the sandwich. He looked at it, turned it over and
lifted the top piece of bread, closely inspecting the inside like he worked for
the USDA and was searching for salmonella cooties. The man was being a complete
dick and he was doing it on purpose.
He finally took a bite. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he chewed. “It’s
actually pretty good,” he said after he’d swallowed.
Daniel acknowledged the half-assed compliment in silence for a change. His
chicken salad wasn’t ‘pretty good’, it was epic, but he wasn’t going to quibble
over the details. The next few minutes passed without conversation as they both
enjoyed their lunch. Michael even commented on the perfect brew of the tea,
which he said hardly anyone got right. He pitied the poor menial servant whose
job it was to cook Michael's meals.
After the last bite of chicken salad was consumed, Michael took a long drink of
tea and then cleared his throat. “So, what is your favorite medium?”
He was at a loss for words for a few moments. He’d never expected Michael to
start any kind of meaningful conversation that didn’t involve an insult or a
glare. He appeared to be genuinely interested.
“Charcoals.”
“Why?”
Michael also had an annoying habit of asking questions no one else cared
about. He'd never had to explain his feelings about a particular medium to an
ordinary person before. Only artists enjoyed long, animated conversations over
which medium was the best, easiest, cheapest, most versatile, et cetera, and
they could debate the topic for hours while consuming copious amounts of beer
and pizza.
“I like the immediacy of them. They’re quick and easy. No preparation needed.
You can catch moments in time with just a piece of paper and a pencil. Fill in
the details later at your leisure.”
Michael’s finger pecked out a soft rhythm on the chair arm again. “I’m
surprised it’s not aerosols.”
Oh, what a persistent prick you are, Michael Golland. Daniel deliberately
waited a few beats before answering. He couldn’t afford to let this guy ruffle
his feathers or make him say the wrong thing and tighten the noose around his
and Cam’s throats.  “Aerosols are a quick way to get high or paint your patio
furniture, but they’re a cumbersome medium for artistic works.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Apparently they’re not for some, because there are
thousands of these idiots’ names sprayed on walls all over this city.”
“You’re talking about tagging. That’s a quick throw-up that’s usually done on
the spur of the moment with a few cans of spray. Murals are a different story.
They’re just like an oil painting, except on a much bigger canvas. You have to
plan the design on paper, take precise measurements and scale it to fit the
building. You have to take into account the surface you’re painting. Is it
porous or smooth? That determines how much spray and sealant you have to buy.
Then there are the permits, the scaffolding and the weather to consider. It’s
not a quick and easy medium. And a good-sized mural takes a hell of a lot of
paint. It’s expensive.”
Michael held Daniel’s gaze for an uncomfortably long time. “Then someone went
to a whole lot of trouble to deface our building. All that time and money
invested and they got absolutely no return out of it. Why would someone do
that?”
I don’t know, maybe because your company treats homosexuals like they’re
subhuman? Because you manipulate your own employee handbook to fire people for
the most ridiculous infractions, when you’re actually just getting rid of them
because they’re gay or lesbian? Or maybe it’s because your upper echelon is
nothing but a bunch of homophobic bigots who think they can break the law
without consequences? Or maybe it’s because the really important things in life
aren’t columns on a balance sheet?  He couldn’t say what he really thought, so
he shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea.”
Michael accepted defeat pretty well. He crossed his legs at the knee in that
priggish way only rich men seemed to be able to get away with and arrogantly
swept his gaze over Daniel’s clothes, from his blue-checked button-up
shirt—which was presently unbuttoned and layered over a plain white tee—to his
eight-pocket khakis, and finally his navy blue canvas shoes.
“Do you have stock in their company?” he asked, referring to Daniel’s Converse.
And this time, Daniel's broken filter stayed broken. The snob shit was getting
a little old. “Maybe if you included a generous clothing allowance in my
compensation package, I could dress to suit you,” he said snidely.
Michael surprised him by laughing, which transformed the bone structure in his
face from starkly angular to round and boyish. “There isn’t enough money.”
It was Daniel’s turn to wish there was an anvil handy that he could toss on the
fucker’s head. He also fervently prayed his cock was way bigger than Michael’s.
Then at least he would have one thing he could lord over him, that is if he
ever got a chance to see it.
“I thought people like you were supposed to come with a built-in sense of
style,” Michael continued, smirking.
His temper was starting to simmer. “People like me? What the hell does that
mean?”  Oh, please say it. Please, please, PLEASE call me a faggot, a queer, or
a cocksucker. I’ll take any of them, just fucking say it so I can shove it down
your throat and blow it out your ass with California labor law.
“A Bohemian is what I meant,” Michael explained with a smarmy smile.
They both knew that was not what he meant, but Daniel let it go and decided to
change the subject before his temper came to a rolling boil. “So, what do you
do for fun?”
Getting meaningful nouns, verbs and adjectives out of Michael Golland was like
trying to pull teeth without an opposable thumb. He was irritatingly evasive
and continually tried to shift the conversation away from himself. But Daniel
gathered a few interesting tidbits along the way. He didn’t own a television
(Daniel couldn’t conceive of life without a TV), he read everything he could
get his hands on about any topic that interested him, (Daniel’s library
consisted mostly of art books and Details magazines), he worked out in his own
private gym, (Daniel paid an outrageous fee to sweat alongside a bunch of
grunting ‘roiders), and he liked to play billiards (which Daniel, and all other
normal people of the world, referred to as pool).
“Is there anyone special in your life?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he
wished he could yank them back. He fully expected Michael to tell him to go
fuck himself and then throw him out, but the curiosity was killing him.
“Actually there is,” Michael answered, totally surprising him with his
unexpected honesty. “Claire. She’s the most beautiful soul I’ve met in this
life.”
Daniel was stunned, not only at the revelation that Michael had a girlfriend,
but also at his heartfelt description of her. His hopes sank. This drop-dead
gorgeous man, who he wanted to kiss until he couldn’t breathe, was already
taken. He was surprised to realize he hated this Claire chick and he didn’t
even know her. The bitch had what he wanted, not just Michael’s luscious body,
but she had his heart. Jealousy was a new emotion for him and his insides were
turning a putrid green from it.
“She’s everything a man could want,” Michael continued, speaking softly and
holding Daniel’s gaze. “She’s always there for me, and I’m always there for
her. We give each other everything the other one needs.” He sighed, then
smiled. “So what about you?” Michael asked. “You have someone special?”
He was still trying to recover from the fact that he’d lost Michael before he’d
even gotten him, not that he’d stood a chance anyway. The man obviously loved
women and one woman in particular. Cameron was right. Michael had no interest
in anything he had to offer. The truth didn’t just hurt, it fucking stung like
a bitch.
“No,” Daniel said, fighting to keep his voice normal and not let his dejection
show. “I’ve been out of the dating scene for awhile. The pickings are slim
around here.”
“I imagine a good fag is hard to find,” Michael said, smirking.
Conversation thudded to a stop. The man had said it. He’d finally fucking said
the word and Daniel wasn’t about to let that shit pass. It wasn’t that the word
offended him—he’d heard worse—but it was the context. Michael was a
representative of the company and they were having a conversation in his
office.
Daniel chuckled arrogantly. “Fag? Seriously?? Is that the best you can come up
with, because ‘fag’ is so 1999, Michael. If you’re going to insult someone, at
least get a little creative: fudge packer, friend of Dorothy, butt pirate, and
Irish Creamer are a few good ones. Oh, and do I need to remind you that it is
illegal in the state of California for you to make reference to my sexual
orientation, whatever it may be, during work hours?”
“You seem to know a lot about the law,” he observed smoothly.
“My father read case law to me as bedtime stories. He’s an attorney.”
“Yes, I know.” Michael's lips thinned into an angry slash across his face. “A
fact you failed to mention at your interview.”
“A fact you failed to ask me at my interview, and there weren’t any blanks on
my application asking for my father’s occupation, either. Nondisclosure of that
which isn’t required is not illegal or unethical.”
They stared at each other in angry silence. He hadn’t done anything wrong and
Michael knew it. He was just being an ass because he’d dropped the ball.
“So you’re daddy’s little spy,” he said, and Daniel did not appreciate his
condescending tone. He wasn’t anybody’s anything. He was Daniel Fucking Hart.
He leaned forward and looked that bastard straight in the eye. “No. I’m an
artist employed by Golland Enterprises & Marketing. My father just happens to
be an attorney specializing in discrimination against homosexuals in the
workplace. The two have nothing to do with each other—“ he stood and started
stuffing everything back into the lunch pails. “—as long as you follow the law.
And I’m not anyone’s fucking spy!”
He'd almost forgotten about dessert. He dug around in one of the lunch bags
until he found the small, cylindrical package. “Here’s your dessert. It’s a fag
joke, by the way. Google it if you’re interested.”
He threw the chocolate Ho-Ho in Michael’s lap and stalked out of the room.
So much for the lunch idea….
 
***** Deidra *****
Michael hated days when the clouds blocked the sun. He took it personally, as
if those vaporous masses of moisture knew how much the morning sun meant to
him, and they were purposely blocking his view just to ruin his day. He sighed
aloud at the overcast sky just beyond his office windows. The earth’s mood
today matched his own: dull, gray and listless. There was no enjoyment to be
had with this morning’s sunrise, so he took his coffee and returned to his
desk.
The unopened Ho-Ho sat on his blotter right in front of his tape and stapler.
He’d almost tossed the thing in the trash numerous times, but had finally
decided to keep it. He might as well let it decorate his desk for a little
while, because he sure as hell wasn't going to eat it. It served him better as
a reminder of the disastrous lunch than a pleasurable dessert. He was not going
to allow Daniel to throw him off balance again.
As he’d left the office yesterday, he'd stopped at Trudy’s desk and had given
her strict instructions to keep Daniel Hart out of his office until further
notice—no more unannounced entrances or spur-of-the-moment lunch dates or else
she’d be in the unemployment line faster than she could say food stamps. She'd
objected to his reprimand, saying she had no control over what happened while
she was in the bathroom, and was she supposed to hold it all day?? Trudy was an
excellent secretary—which was the only reason Michael overlooked her occasional
attitude—but she had an independent streak that annoyed him. He'd stressed to
her that she'd better figure something out, because if Daniel got by her desk
one more time without being announced, she was gone. He'd find someone else who
could actually do the job they'd been hired to do.
He needed a day without distractions so he could think and regroup. Things had
not gone well with Daniel yesterday. He couldn’t believe he'd wasted an entire
weekend formulating the perfect plan to get in the man’s good graces and
develop a fake friendship with him just long enough to gather proof to fire
him, and it had all fallen apart within minutes. He’d been caught off guard,
first by Daniel entering his office without knocking, then with the ridiculous
idea of the two of them sharing a lunch together. He'd felt like the queen in a
tense game of chess, thinking himself safe from harm, but suddenly finding
himself checkmated and toppled without any warning. It was maddening how much
the man irritated him. Daniel was so ungodly arrogant, rude, and had the
potential to be a major pain in his ass if he wasn’t careful. But he was also
amusing and interesting.
Michael sighed aloud at the dichotomy that was Daniel Tobias Hart. He shouldn’t
like the faggot with his Wal-mart wardrobe and tacky sneakers, but he found it
impossible not to. No one in recent memory had possessed the balls to stand up
to him like Daniel had. GEM was full to the brim with pathetic ass-kissers who
would say or do anything to keep their job and social standing. They might
think it, but they would never say it in front of him. He chuckled aloud to the
empty room as he tried to recall the last person who had said ‘Fuck you’ to his
face. No one came to mind.
Michael’s laugh faded into a sly grin as he remembered their short conversation
about Claire. He’d been surprised at how easily Daniel had been fooled. He'd
had to fight to keep from laughing at the expression on Daniel's face when he’d
revealed his love for Claire. The dunce had bought the ludicrous lie without
question; he truly believed Michael had a girlfriend. The good thing was now
maybe Daniel would stop staring a hole in his face, and running those eyes all
over his body every time they were in the same room. It was infuriating.
Michael stared at the disgusting lump of chocolate cholesterol and smirked,
deciding to let Daniel stew in his own juices for a few days. Then he would
turn the tables on the cocky bastard, yank that tacky rug he was standing on
right out from under his feet, and knock him completely off balance. Let him
see how that felt. And no matter how entertaining Daniel was, it was going to
be thoroughly enjoyable watching him fall when he finally found the proof that
he was Joystyk.
His office door swung open unexpectedly, interrupting his pleasant thoughts.
Michael looked up and silently cursed as his father once again strode
unannounced into his office.
“Camilla is not happy.”
Like he gave a fuck. “Good morning to you too, father.”
His father ignored the sarcastic jibe and continued, “She called me late last
night. Seems the balance on her bank card is considerably less than the last
time she attended an event with you. She said there’s not nearly enough there
for her to be presentable tonight.”
Michael shrugged. “Poor Camilla. So she might have to wear the same dress
twice. I doubt she'll die. Tell her to shut her mouth and do what she’s told
and she won’t have a bank card problem next time. She ruined my entire evening
at that last party. I don’t reward bad behavior by throwing more money at it.”
His father leaned forward and placed his palms on the edge of Michael’s desk,
staring him down. “You haven’t listened to anything I’ve tried to teach you.
Women, especially beautiful women, are an asset, just like your cash, stocks
and bonds. They’re investment capital, and you treat them as such. A beautiful
and successful woman on your arm is as important as having a balanced
portfolio. They help you project an image to the community, one of stability
and good character, if you’re careful who you choose. You know Camilla’s family
and they will not take kindly to you mistreating her, publicly or otherwise.
Nor will I.”
Fuck Camilla’s family, and fuck YOU, dearest Daddy.
The public scrutiny was the one thing about his life that he found nearly
intolerable. He despised the attention he garnered at these ridiculous events
he had to attend, the interviews with the lifestyle editors of magazines, the
photos of him with some beautiful heiress bitch of LA attached to his arm like
a blood-swelled leech. He loathed having to pretend to be a god-like,
philanthropic angel to the unwashed masses of the city. ‘Look at us, the
Gollands. We’re rich and beautiful people, and we’re so happy to share our
massive and undeserved wealth with the poor and downtrodden in our city, which
deserve it more than us because they’ve been dealt a bad hand in life.’
Bullshit.
“You will not hurt her,” his father commanded softly. “Do you understand me?”
Michael smirked. “Of course I won’t,if she does what she’s told.”
His father straightened, then shook his head. “I know what goes on in that
penthouse of yours. Women talk and what I’ve been hearing makes me sick.
Apparently, my attempts to educate you all these years have been a waste of my
time. Nothing about you is normal, never has been, and apparently is never
going to be. But I’m warning you. If you hurt her tonight, I will personally
see to it that you regret it for a very long time. Just take her to dinner,
smile for the cameras, take her home and everyone will be happy.”
His poor father obviously had his head in the sand where his precious Camilla
was concerned. She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest Catholic families
in the city, but she loved cock more than a fat kid loved cake. She’d professed
a deep and profound longing for Michael’s cock, a pleasure he gleefully
continued to deny her. Her biggest problem, and the one that caused the most
friction between them, was that she wasn’t very good at following his orders.
Her lack of obedience was appalling. As far as submissives went, she was a
dismal failure. Tormenting her was the only real pleasure he got from their
encounters.
Michael didn’t acknowledge the threat or the insult. He'd heard it all before.
As far as he was concerned, what he did in the privacy of his own bedroom was
none of his father’s damned business. He had never interfered in his father’s
fucked up private life—there was enough deviance there to keep a psych major
busy for decades—and he expected the same consideration.
“Oh, and you’ll never guess who my date is.” His father’s change of subject and
shift in tone immediately set his alarm bells to ringing.
“Who?”
He smiled and it sent chills up Michael’s back. “Deidra. You remember her,
don’t you?”
Deidra. Just the sound of her name shriveled his balls and made the acid in his
stomach churn. He remembered her all right, but he didn’t want to. He hated
Deidra almost as much as he hated his father.
“Of course I remember her,” Michael said, careful to keep his voice steady and
calm.
“She definitely remembers you.” His father winked, smiling crookedly. “She
hopes to get a chance to speak with you tonight. To catch up. Relive old
memories. That sort of thing.”
The thought of seeing her again, hearing that throaty voice everyone thought
was so sexy, looking into her empty eyes that no amount of make up could make
warm, or feeling the touch of her perfectly manicured claws made Michael sick
to his stomach. He fought the nausea as he tried to come up with an appropriate
response.
“I doubt Camilla will approve,” he said coolly. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, I
have some work to do before my first appointment.”
His father smiled arrogantly before turning and leaving. Michael barely made it
to the small bathroom in his office, gagging into the toilet as he tried to
block out the past.
===============================================================================
                                        
The second the limo doors slammed shut, Michael began delivering his
instructions to his date.
“It’s absurd that I have to go through these every single time we’re together,
but you obviously have short term memory loss,” he said to Camilla as he stared
straight ahead at the darkened glass barrier that separated them from the
driver. “Do not touch me without my permission, or unless I touch you first.
Don’t engage me in conversation. I have no interest in anything you have to
say. Your only job on these…dates…is to pretend you adore me, smile graciously
for the cameras, and give intelligent answers without saying anything
meaningful. For example: 'I admire GEM and the Golland family for their
overwhelming generosity to the community.' Blah blah, blah. Just give them what
they want to hear.”
He felt her stare but refused to look at her. The initial, and necessary,
inspection of her appearance was all she was going to get from him. Apparently,
her pathetically small bank card—which she’d complained about—had been enough
after all. Her dark brown hair had been styled in a lavish mound on the back of
her head, with some left trailing down her shoulder. Her face had been
perfectly applied over her porcelain skin. The red strapless dress screamed
expensive and hugged her curves, showing just enough cleavage to make some men
look twice without giving her away for the whore she really was. She could have
worn her plastic tits on the outside of her dress for all he cared. He wouldn’t
have given them a second look.
“You look absolutely edible in that blue suit,” she purred. “It matches your
eyes.”
His first impulse was to slap the hell out of her, but he gritted his teeth
instead. “Breaking the rules already, Camilla? You must not want my cock as
much you say you do. Your lack of obedience is the main reason why I continue
to deny you that pleasure.”
Which was a fucking lie. He’d rather cum in his vacuum cleaner hose than put
his cock inside her filthy cunt. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye
and smiled when she sank back into the leather seats, pouting. She’d break
every rule he’d laid down before the evening was over. She always did. He could
hardly wait for this tediousness to be done so he could take her back to his
penthouse and have some fun.
===============================================================================
                                        
He was roasting in the suit and dying to ditch the tie, sick of giving
interviews and disgusted at the number of women who had tried to hit on him,
and at a charity event, no less. The entire thing was nothing but a theatrical
farce and the wealthy who attended were pathetically stilted actors just
playing a role society expected of them. Nobody in the cavernous ball room
cared about immigrants. They cared about being seen and talked about in the
local gossip rags.
Camilla was being her normal bitchy, pouting self. No surprise there. He’d
actually had to threaten to send her home in a taxi if she didn’t stop touching
him without his permission. But she had ended up being fairly useful, for once.
She was extremely effective at chasing away her competitors with just one
little murderous stare. It was rather touching when Michael thought about it.
Camilla was like a sleek lioness slut, protecting her captured prey from the
other skanky predators who wanted to drag it off to the corner and consume it
in a frenzy of teeth and claws. It was too bad she wasn’t even going to get a
bite of her own kill. She’d repeatedly broken every one of his rules within the
first hour.
No cock for Camilla. He chuckled at his own joke, but that humor evaporated in
an instant when he locked eyes with Deidra. She was making her way through the
crowd and moving in his direction. He searched the immediate area for his
disobedient lioness, but she'd picked that inopportune moment to wander off and
chat with one of her numerous friends. He was on his own.
Deidra stopped a couple of feet in front of him and inspected him like he was
up for sale on the cattle market. Michael wanted to run, but his feet felt like
cement blocks holding him fast to the floor. He was livid at his own weakness
and hated himself for the fear that suddenly rose up and gnawed at his gut. She
was nothing but a whore with absolutely no heart or morals. She was his past.
He should be over all of that by now. But he wasn't.
"Don't you look delicious," she said, slowly running her tongue along the edge
of her upper lip. "And oh so fuckable."
He gritted his teeth to keep from letting out a string of profanities. Showing
his ass among his father's friends wouldn't be the smartest move.
She dropped her gaze to his groin, smirked at whatever she saw, then flicked
her eyes back up to his. "I'd love to take another ride on that."
The thought sickened and enraged him. He despised his father for inviting her
here, for bringing her name up to him, and especially for encouraging a
reunion. He had to know that Michael wouldn't touch this foul piece of shit if
she was last human left on the earth.  "Fuck you, bitch," he snarled, shocked
that he was even able to utter a coherent sentence, let alone give voice to the
submerged anger that had eaten away at him for years.
She chuckled low in her throat. "The little penis has grown up to be a big
dick. How utterly predictable. But you really should be thanking me...baby
boy...instead of insulting me."
Baby boy. An innocent and endearing phrase that only this filthy whore could
manage to twist into something ugly and perverse. He'd eliminated that
combination of words from his vocabulary a long time ago, but they still
stalked him in his nightmares.
"My goodness. I leave your side for a few moments and come back to find you
fraternizing with the help." Camilla was, once again, by his side with her cat
claws fully unsheathed. He grabbed her hand and squeezed, holding on to the
only lifeline available to him at the moment. He could tell she was surprised
at his sudden burst of public affection, but she wisely withheld comment. He
was sure he would hear about it later.
"I'm not the help," Deidre answered, lifting her chin the tiniest bit. "Michael
and I are friends from way back."
He squeezed Camilla's hand even tighter and wondered how she managed to keep
from wincing.
"Well, I'm his friend from right now, and we were just leaving."
He forced his head to move, giving Deidra a minuscule nod of acknowledgment
before allowing Camilla to drop his hand, grab his arm and pull him away.
"Think of me, baby boy," Deidra said, raising her voice just enough that it
carried over his shoulder and stabbed itself into his ears. "She'll never be as
good as me."
 
DEIDRA (Played by Sheridan Smith)
***** I'm Broken *****
“Who was that blonde Barbie?”
Michael slammed the door behind them and flicked the gold light switch. If the
fixture had been made out of cheap plastic, the force of his anger would have
ripped it right out of the wall. The main room glowed warmly with subdued
lighting but the calming effect was lost on him. He ignored Camilla’s question
and focused on gaining control of himself. Seeing Deidra after so many years
had thrown him off balance worse than anything in recent memory. With just a
few well-chosen words she’d awakened a cesspool of emotions in him he’d thought
were gone. Camilla had tried to get him to talk about her in the car, but his
threat of dumping her ass out onto the grimy sidewalk had dampened her
curiosity considerably.
“Shut up!” he snapped.
He felt her eyes on him as he shed his suit jacket and draped it over the
nearest chair, taking care to fold it so the linen wouldn’t wrinkle. He
methodically emptied his pockets, placing the contents neatly onto the glass
coffee table in an arrangement that was pleasing to his eye. He took a deep
cleansing breath then slowly unknotted his tie, savoring the sensual feel of
the silk against his fingers, sliding it from beneath his collar, folding it,
and placing it gently over his jacket. He unlaced his shoes, pried them off,
and carefully retied them, placing them neatly side-by-side near the chair. By
the time he began to unfasten his belt, he was calm and back in control. He
held Camilla’s dark eyes while he tugged the leather strap through the
confining loops until it was free. It dangled from his hand as he slowly
approached her.
“Where are we, Camilla?”  She didn’t answer, which pleased him. He’d reminded
her of the rules earlier in the evening, and he was in no mood to repeat
himself.  “Answer,” he commanded.
“Your penthouse, sir.” Her voice was soft and deferential, which pleased him
even more.
“You do not question me.”
He saw a spark of defiance flicker in her eyes and tightened his grip on the
belt.
“But she scared you. Why?”
As soon as the hurried words passed her lips she knew she’d made a mistake. He
jacked his arm back and cracked the leather against her thigh with enough force
to make her cry out and feel the sharp sting even through the fabric of her
dress. He felt the pleasant tug of an erection as she struggled to deal with
the sudden onslaught of pain without crying.
Camilla was into “fair weather fuckery”, as he liked to call it. Give her a
playful spank with the paddle here, a tiny pinch of her nipple there, a pretty
little hot pink dildo shoved into her perfectly manicured pussy and she fancied
herself a hardcore BDSM whore, and liked to brag with superiority to her rich-
bitch friends that she “practiced the lifestyle.” In reality, she was a spoiled
brat who was used to getting her way, and therefore a pathetic pseudo-
submissive who would always be “in training”. She had absolutely no real-life
understanding of obedience. Intense pain terrified her, therefore he never
hesitated to use that weakness to control her.
He stepped closer until only a few inches separated their bodies. He tenderly
pushed a strand of her hair that had gotten loose from the salon up-do away
from her cheek and tucked it behind her delicate ear. “Don’t fuck with me
tonight.”
He supposed she could see in his eyes that his patience with her had reached
its end. He put up with a lot from her, but his understanding stopped at his
penthouse door. This space was his sanctuary in the city—the only place that
was truly his. Inside these walls, he was in control, and no one else. Anyone
who tried to shift that power dynamic in their favor got the hell beat out of
them. He’d only had to resort to that level of violence once. His ass had
landed in jail for it, but he’d never regretted it for a minute.
“Yes sir,” she said softly, and his cock twitched in response to her
subservience.
“Undress.”
He watched with only mild interest as she followed his order. She started with
the bracelet, necklace and earrings, tossing them thoughtlessly onto the
nearest flat surface. Then she presented her back to him so he could help with
the zipper. He yanked it down then stepped back, watching her shimmy the red
sheath down her torso and onto the floor. He was surprised that she was
completely naked underneath, as he’d instructed. More than once, she’d taken it
upon herself to don a lacy bra or a tiny thong in hopes of enticing him to
actually fuck her.
After prying off her shoes, she stood naked before him awaiting his
instructions. He studied her, not because he found her body appealing, but to
try and figure out why it wasn’t. He instinctively knew a normal man would have
had a boner by now just from the anticipation alone—his father certainly would
have—but his cock was still mostly limp. Her large globular tits, or the hidden
crevice between her slender thighs, did nothing for him. He felt nothing but
contempt for the female form. Controlling women was the only thing about them
that excited him. Inflicting pain was also pleasurable, but not because he
derived actual enjoyment from hurting them. His sexual satisfaction came from
the resultant obedience that punishment always carried with it. Redemption
House had been right on the money about one thing: he was definitely not
normal. He was infinitely broken—he’d accepted that long ago—and his life now
was nothing more than an excruciatingly long exercise in trying to hold the
pieces together in some semblance of order.
“Room two,” he ordered.
He ignored the surprise he saw on her face. He’d never taken her to two. She
knew that room was reserved for his strongest and most obedient women, of which
she wasn’t one, and never would be one. Shifting her gaze to the floor, she
turned and made her way down the short hall to the guest room that he never
used for actual sleeping.  
The room was empty of the usual bedroom accoutrements, replaced with an array
of BDSM paraphernalia. His latest acquisition, a stockade in black oak, stood
in the middle of the floor waiting to be broken in. He’d had no idea what he
was specifically going to use it for when he’d bought it. It had been an
impulse purchase; he’d fallen in love with the barbaric, primitive look of it.
He’d gotten hard just from picturing in his mind a woman being held captive by
the strong planks of solid wood with iron manacles around her ankles, her ass
bared and vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do to it.
“Camilla.”
When she raised her head, he gestured to the stockade. He saw curiosity and
just a little fear in her eyes, which pleased him. With a few clear
instructions and a minimal amount of touching, he got her fastened in. The
moment he slid the manacles onto her feet, blood surged to his cock, giving him
an amazing power rush. She was bent over at the waist in a perfect L shape, her
head and arms tightly encased in leather-padded oak. Her legs were spread wide,
her feet held fast to the wood platform by the steel restraints around her
ankles. He bit back a groan as his cock twitched and hardened. Just the sight
of a woman bound and helpless flat out did it for him, and got him going like
nothing else; not even porn could get him this aroused this quickly. He
supposed a good shrink could have a field day with that, but he already knew
the reason he loved bondage so much: it gave him complete control, but most
importantly, it guaranteed no touching. He fucking hated being touched by
anyone.
“Mmmm, what a beautiful baby boy you are. Your skin is so soft. Even this is
soft and silky…”
Flashes of Deidra’s manicured red talons running all over his body sent a cold
shiver down his back. Fucking cunt. He thought he’d exorcised her from his life
completely, but apparently jagged slivers of her were still deeply embedded
into his psyche, just waiting to eviscerate him at her convenience.  He
struggled to gain control of his temper and not take it out on Camilla. Not
that he gave a fuck if he hurt her in the process of getting off, but his
father’s threats weren’t to be taken lightly. He’d been clearly warned not to
harm her, but his father hadn’t mentioned a word about torment and humiliation.
He walked around to the front of the stockade. Her head was conveniently level
with his groin, but that didn’t matter, not tonight. A blow job was the last
thing he wanted. He squatted down and looked up at her.  “Guess what?”
She didn’t answer—which was smart—but she was paying attention. He could tell
by the light dancing in her eyes she was still a little afraid, but was also
bursting with curiosity.
“I’m going to give you what you’ve been begging for.” He smiled when her brown
eyes grew huge with shock. “I’m going to fuck you tonight. Our first time.”
He described in great pornographic detail what he was going to do to her: how
he was going to slide his cock inside of her hot pussy—slowly at first, so she
could become accustomed to his size—then he was going tease her mercilessly
with it. Rub her clit with his tip until it was swollen and aching, then fuck
her hard for ten or twenty deep strokes. Then he’d pull out and make her beg
him to continue. If she was an obedient girl, he’d give her more, any way she
wanted it. If she wanted him to fuck her for an hour straight, or even two,
he’d put on a cock ring and he’d do that for her, because she was a beautiful
and desirable woman, even if she did have difficulty obeying him sometimes.
Of course, he wasn’t going to do any of that bullshit, but she didn’t have to
know that…yet.
“Are you wet?”
She knew better than to answer unless he’d instructed her to, so she gave him a
pitiful whimper instead, and humped the air with her exposed ass. Pathetic.
He stood and began the preparations for his descent into hell. He slowly
unbuttoned his shirt as he considered what he was about to do. He’d never done
this before because it was wrong. That fact had been hammered into his brain
since age twelve. He’d been sent to Redemption House for just sliding the tip
of his friend’s dick into his mouth, but the reparative therapists had taken
his education much, much further than that.
He unbuttoned his pants and slid them, along with his underwear, down his legs
until they were mid thigh. He never fully undressed with the women he brought
here. Too much skin contact always made him queasy. A wet-behind-the-ears psych
major fresh out of Psychology 101 could figure that one out.  He slid on a
condom, double-checking that it was secure and as snug against the base of his
shaft as he could get it. As much as he wanted this, he didn’t want any part of
his body touching hers if he could avoid it. He grabbed the tube of lubricating
gel and returned to the front of the stockade.
“Look at me.”
She obediently raised her head, and he had to choke down the derisive laugh
that nearly burst out of his throat. Her deep brown eyes were smoldering and so
filled with lust that it was a wonder she could even see him through the fog.
He tried not to think of the glistening slime that was oozing out of her pussy
and probably dripping down her thighs by now. He gathered his courage as he
prepared to spit in the face of God.
“Just thought you might want to know. I lied. I don’t do pussy, especially when
my father has already hit it numerous times. I don’t take Daddy’s sloppy
seconds. I’m going to ass-fuck you, because I know for a certainty that Daddy
Dearest has never been there.”
The good little Catholic Camilla, who was buried so far beneath her flawlessly
tucked and salon-pampered skin as to be invisible, rose up in outrage. “That’s
sodomy and a sin!” she yelled. “You can’t do that to me!!”
He grabbed her chin and ground it hard between his fingers. “You have a choice.
Give me what I want—willingly—and you get to see me again, and you get…oh…let’s
say two thousand extra dollars on your bank card next time in appreciation. You
deny me and you get to leave, but you’ll never see me again, and you won’t be
able to sit down on that pretty ass of yours by the time I get through with the
riding crop. Your choice.”
He released her chin and stepped back, giving her room to think while she
watched him fondle himself. He lazily dragged a fingertip up and down his
sheathed cock, and then pushed it back against his stomach so she could watch
him squeeze and stroke his balls. He so enjoyed torturing her with her own
desires: watching him touch himself, teasing her with his cock, lightly
touching the tip to her mouth and then pulling it away. He was always dangling
the carrot in front of her, but never letting her take a bite. Delicious
torment.
He could force her, of course—it wasn’t like she was in any position to get
away from him—but the last thing he needed right now was to be accused of rape.
So, he was prepared to give her as much time as she needed to decide. It didn’t
take long. She nodded twice, her silent signal she wanted permission to speak.
He granted it.
“Make it five thousand,” she said.
Instead of being enraged by the idea of her bargaining with him and slapping
the arrogance off of her pretty face, he laughed. The bitch was the worst
submissive on the planet, but she had balls.  “You are such a predictable,
money-grubbing whore,” he said, shaking his head and smirking. “I should flog
you until your ass is beet red, but I’m not going to. You’ve got a deal.”
He slathered a generous amount of the gel on his sheathed cock and positioned
himself behind her. He swallowed hard, determined that no amount of nausea was
going to stop him from doing this. The thought of being inside her was slightly
sickening, but the condom would help mitigate that. He hoped. He was just so
damned tired of being made to feel like shit beneath his father’s shoe, tired
of the religious fanatics in their social circle fucking their whores on
Friday, having happy time with their girlfriends and wives on Saturday, and
then confessing and praying it all better come Sunday, only to start all over
again the next weekend. Constantly preaching about how perversion was ruining
the “moral fabric” of our great nation. Who were they to look down on everyone
else? Or on him? And why the fuck was he denying himself pleasure? No one else
was.
He hoped God was watching, because he was about to give Him the big middle
finger.
He knew he should go slowly so he wouldn’t hurt her, but his empathy gene was,
unfortunately, grossly under-developed. Much like he dove into the deep end of
his pool instead of just sliding into the frigid water inch by inch, he shoved
into her all in one long, hard stroke, then stopped. She cried out once and
then went quiet, or else it was him who had suddenly vacated the room, leaving
her cries behind. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his physical form was
there in that room, his cock was buried deep in her ass, but the rest of him
was gone somewhere else. The sensations racing through his body, the images
flashing through his thoughts, the overwhelming surge of lust had him wanting
to pound into her flesh without mercy.
He gripped the oak crossbar of the stockade to keep from touching her hips and
gritted his teeth as he plunged in and out of her. With his jaw clenched in
angry determination, he held the sounds of his own pleasure inside his throat.
He never gave voice to it. Never. The women he used never heard a single groan
or an oath to God pass his lips. He would never give them the satisfaction of
thinking they could control him through his cock.
He closed his eyes, savoring the tightness. If only when he opened them someone
else would be there. A man. Any man. He didn’t care who, just as long as it
wasn’t any of his father’s stable of cunts who continually hounded him for
money and sex. He wanted rough skin, not smooth. He wanted to hear deep, full-
throated and masculine groans when he fucked someone, not the strident high-
pitched cries that were currently filling the room.
Images flashed through his mind as the pressure started to build: the faces of
the various attractive men he’d met throughout his life, but had tried to
forget. The things he imagined in his mind pushed him to fuck harder. This was
like nothing he’d ever experienced before and he marveled over his own
stupidity at being satisfied with just a blow job when he could have had this
all along. The only mistake he’d made was not gagging her. The noises coming
out of her mouth were distracting and annoying. Determined to shut them out, he
relaxed his thoughts, ignoring her and letting his mind wander where it would.
It chose to wander to Daniel Hart, that maddening man with the beautiful light
brown eyes and contagious smile. His handsome rugged face swam through
Michael’s mind like a siren lounging on the ocean’s edge, tempting him,
taunting him, calling him closer. Daniel Hart with his cheap, off-the-rack
clothing that somehow managed to hug his ass, and accentuate the muscles
underneath. The talent in his hands. And those fingers…
Daniel had gotten a small dollop of chicken salad on his finger and had licked
it off without a thought. That crude, ill-mannered gesture was seared into
Michael’s brain forever. As he steadily pumped, he imagined that finger sliding
into his own mouth. Slow. Sucking on it. Licking it. Then his fucked-up mind
twisted the image, warped it around until it was Daniel’s cock, not his finger,
which was slowing sliding in and out of his mouth.
The growl started deep in his diaphragm and shot out of his throat as his
orgasm suddenly surged up his shaft with a violence and intensity he couldn’t
have stopped if he’d wanted to. He caught himself just in time, clenching his
teeth together so he wouldn’t yell out the name of the man responsible for the
best orgasm he’d had in a very long time. But his mind was screaming it over
and over.
“You motherfucking BASTARD!! Didn’t you hear my safe word?!!”
Camilla's loud screech brought him down from his high with an infuriating
abruptness. She continued to curse him at the top of her lungs as he carefully
removed the sodden condom and tossed it into the nearest trashcan. He’d
apparently motherfucking hurt her and had ignored her motherfucking safe word
and he was going to regret the motherfucking day he ever saw her, blah, blah,
motherfucking blah.
He grabbed a ball gag from a hook on the wall and stuffed it in her mouth. She
fought him and screamed as he tightened it, getting strands of her hair caught
in it and not giving one big damn. She’d ruined his play, as usual. Next time,
the gag would be the first thing he’d put on her. He left her in the room by
herself, her muffled cries fading as he made his way to the bathroom at the end
of the hall.
First order of business: a shower. He always felt compelled to wash all traces
of his dalliances from his skin, even if nothing had gotten on him. It was like
feeling the proverbial phantom spider crawling all over you when you knew for a
certainty there was nothing there. He'd cleanse himself first, then he'd deal
with Camilla's little tantrum.
===============================================================================
                                        
She was sitting at the kitchen table fully dressed and fuming, her nails
pecking an annoying rhythm on the marble tabletop. He leaned his ass against
the counter and watched her.
After getting out of the shower and dressing in fresh clothes, he'd found the
apartment totally quiet—no muffled curses to be heard. He'd checked on
her—pretending he cared about her well-being—and had found her to be perfectly
fine. There hadn't been any blood gushing out of her ass, and not even the most
miniscule smear could be found anywhere on her thighs. She'd gotten a taste of
a good hard ass-fucking and hadn't found it to her liking. Well, tough shit.
"I'm not asking your fucking permission to talk anymore, so if you want to beat
the hell out of me just do it now!" she shouted.
He gave her his best indifferent look. He didn't care if she talked to him or
not. He wasn't interested in anything she had to say anyway.
"You don't know a single thing about being a dom!" she fumed. "I've read about
BDSM. I know how it works. Ignoring a safe word is not allowed! You were
hurting me and you totally ignored me!"
He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. How long was he going to have to endure
this shit? The traffic must be really bad tonight for his driver to be so late.
"You don't have anything to say to me??!" Her strident voice bounced off the
ceramic walls, making him wish the builders had chosen a more acoustically
soothing material for the kitchen.
He looked straight at her, knowing full well she was waiting for an apology,
but Hell would freeze over first.  "Here's the deal, Camilla. If you want to
continue to prostitute yourself out in the style to which you've become
accustomed, then you're going to have to learn to shut the fuck up. I don't
care about BDSM. I make my own rules. I do things my way, and I fuck however
the hell I want to. Don't like it? Leave. And don't come back. Don't go running
to Daddy and complaining about how mean old Michael mistreated you either. Just
shut up and go find someone else who'll set up housekeeping in your filthy
cunt."
That shut her up.
She stared at him for the longest time and said nothing. Just stared. He stared
back. No D&G whore in designer clothes (which he'd paid for, by the way) was
going to intimidate him.
"You don't care anything about me, do you?" she asked, her voice trembling,
like she was on the verge of tears.
Jesus Christ. Women were so fucking predictable and manipulative. He shrugged.
"No, I don't."
"Not even the least little bit."
He shook his head and smiled. "Nope."
She stood up from the table and gave him the strangest look, like she was
puzzled or maybe sad? He'd never been good at interpreting women's wildly
gyrating emotions.
"You're a beautiful man...on the outside," she observed softly, her eyes roving
slowly over his body. "But inside, there's nothing there. Paul is such a nice
man. He's kind to me, protective, so loving and passionate. It's hard to
believe you came from the same stock. What is wrong with you?"
What was wrong with him, she asked? Was he really that good at hiding it?? To
him, it was fucking obvious. He boldly met her gaze and wondered if she had the
mental capacity to recognize the truth when she heard it. "I'm broken." Then he
shrugged and smirked. "Or I'm just a sadistic asshole. You pick."
She shook her head. "I'm not ever coming here again. I'm going to wait in the
lobby for the car. Goodbye."
She left the room without looking back. He sighed with relief when he heard the
front door close behind her. He was alone, again, but he was used to it.
What was wrong with him? He chuckled aloud to an empty apartment. What wasn't
wrong with him would be the more appropriate question.  And his father was
protective, loving and passionate?? Someone needed to shoot Camilla in the head
because she was too fucking stupid to live. His father was a waste of human
organs.
He tried really hard to find some small bit of regret inside of him for what
he'd done to her, but there just wasn't any. He wasn't going to miss her. He
had Daniel now, and he was much more entertaining, both in reality and in his
fantasies.
 
***** Michael's Lunch *****
“Come on…come on in.”
I stood at the entrance of the barn not sure what to do. He was being nice, but
I didn’t trust him.
“I thought you might want to see the horses. I’ve seen you watching me when I
take them out for exercise. You like horses, don’t you?”
I nodded, because I loved horses and daydreamed about having one of my own.
“What about my mother?”
He dismissed my question. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now, just enjoy
the horses. You can come in and look at them, even touch them if you want. I’ll
stay right over here. I won’t move. I promise.”
I hesitated. He'd promised me several times he’d stay in that corner and not
come near me. I wanted to believe him, because I wanted to finally get a close-
up look at the black horse, the one that reminded me of that book, Black
Beauty. I took a few steps in and stopped, checking to make sure he was keeping
his promise. He was. I moved to the four stalls on the right side of the barn.
Four amazing horses, each a different color. I nervously watched him out of the
corner of my eye as I moved closer to the black one. He was staying away from
me just like he'd promised.
“That black one is named Apache. He’s a beauty, that one. Very feisty, but he
won’t hurt you, not unless you do something to provoke him.”
I touched Apache's body and something changed deep inside of me. I didn’t know
exactly what it was, but it made me feel different, in a good way. I smiled.
His hair was so smooth and felt like the silk blouses my mother wore. I never
imagined a horse would feel like that. I ran my fingers through the tail, and
even though it felt rougher than his body hair, I still loved it. I loved the
way it felt against my hand. I stared at the individual strands woven through
my fingers and wondered how many there were.
I lost track of time as I moved from one stall to the next, touching them,
patting them, rubbing their bodies and running my fingers through each one’s
mane and tail. They didn’t scare me like I thought they would. They seemed to
like me. They flicked their ears when I touched them, but other than that, they
let me do whatever I wanted.
“Would you like to become my helper around here? You can come over every
Saturday afternoon. I’ll teach you how to feed and groom them, all about
tack—that’s the accessories that go with them, like saddles and such—and I’ll
even teach you to ride. Would you like that?”
“What about my mother?” I asked again.
He shook his head. “Let’s just forget about that for right now. Do you want to
learn about horses?”
I left the stalls and moved closer to the door so I could think and get away if
I had to. He’d kept his promise and hadn’t come near me, but still…people broke
promises all the time.  “I don’t know,” I said softly, but he heard me.
“I know you don’t trust me, but I promise you that what happened will never
happen again. I won’t ever hurt you again. I promise. I don’t have any sons of
my own to teach this to. I just want to pass on my love for horses to the next
generation. Do you understand?”
I sort of did. Maybe. I looked back at the stalls and already my fingers were
itching to touch them, to feel that coarse hair between my fingers. I couldn’t
even imagine what it would be like to ride one. I wanted to know so badly. I
nodded. “Okay.”
When he smiled at my answer, I finally started to relax a little. He took a few
steps closer, very slowly, and I fought the urge to run. But he talked softly
to me as he approached, promising me he wouldn’t hurt me, and I finally thought
he was telling me the truth. He stopped in front of me and I had to look up to
see his eyes. My mother always said you could tell if a person was evil by
their eyes. He didn’t look evil to me, which didn’t make sense.
“What I did was wrong. I admit that and I’m so sorry for it. Temptation is one
of the worst evils in existence. You tempted me and I was just too weak to
fight it. But that’s not your fault. That is my sin to bear. I’ve asked God’s
forgiveness so many times, and now I’m asking it from you. Please, please
forgive me for hurting you. It will never happen again. Please…”
I’d never had a grown up ask me for forgiveness before. I didn’t really know
what to say. I was just a kid. I didn’t know whether my words meant anything to
God or whether he even listened when people talked to him.
“Have you told anyone?”
I shook my head. I was never going to tell.
“So…?”
He waited for my answer. I thought back to the times I was made to sit in
church and listen to stuff that made no sense to me before. The preacher was
always talking about forgiveness and how all we had to do was ask for it— and
mean it—and then God would give it to us. If God could forgive people for all
the bad stuff they did, shouldn’t I forgive, too? I glanced over at the horses
again, and I somehow knew that if I didn’t forgive him, he wouldn’t invite me
back. I didn’t know how I knew that, but I just did. And I really wanted to
learn how to ride.
“I forgive you.”
He smiled. “You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.”
 
He jerked awake, disoriented, his heart pounding, the sheet clutched in his
fists. He was panicked and not quite sure where he was. He thrashed around in
the bed, entangling himself in the covers, violently kicking at them and
whimpering like a baby as he fought to liberate himself from that fucking
dream. He finally made it out of the bed and lurched across the room to the
place where his subconscious mind knew there was a light switch. A warm amber
glow flooded the room and revealed that he was, in fact, in his own bedroom and
not inside that loathsome barn. His mind was calmly telling him to chill out,
that he was fine, but he didn’t trust his mind any further than he could throw
the motherfucker. He frantically scoured the room to make absolutely sure that
lying piece of shit from his dream wasn’t lurking in a corner somewhere.
When he finally realized he was alone, he slid his back down the wall and
crunched himself up in a ball on the floor. He hugged his knees, hid his face
and cried like a little kid, cried until the reservoir finally ran dry. Who was
he kidding? That well of childhood tears inside of him was too deep to run dry.
Every single time he thought he’d shed all the tears he had in him, the dreams
would resurface, in all their various and assorted torturous forms, and prove
him wrong.
What the fuck was wrong with him?? He was twenty-six years old—a grown man. He
should be over this shit by now. These dreams shouldn’t keep coming back to
haunt him. He wasn’t twelve anymore. He was old enough now to understand what
had happened and analyze it from a more mature point of view. He knew all the
mistakes he’d made and why. He’d accepted his part of the responsibility for it
a long time ago. Why wouldn’t his subconscious mind just let it the fuck go??
He had two choices. He could sit in his floor for the rest of the night and
think about all that shit again—go over it and over it in his mind, even though
it was in the past and there was no way to change it. He could spend hours
trying to figure out why his brain refused to let it go, why it continued to
torture him with HD clarity. Even now, with the dream mostly faded, he could
swear he detected the smell of horses and hay in the room even though he knew
that was impossible. He could sit in the floor and think about his fucked up
childhood for the next hundred years, but what would be the point? Thinking had
never helped him in the past. Only one thing had ever helped, and that was his
other choice.
He washed the salty residue of his tears from his face, then went into living
room. He turned the lamp on by the couch, grabbed his charcoals and a sketchpad
and began to draw.
===============================================================================
                                        
Being called to the office of the most arrogant prick on the planet the morning
after you’d spent half the night drawing and fighting off your demons was not
the optimum way to celebrate Hump Day. Daniel was exhausted, grouchy and in no
mood to play “Who’s the Bigger Dick?” with Michael Golland. He couldn’t even
make a guess as to the reason he was being summoned. They hadn’t spoken to each
other in days. Daniel had only seen him once in passing as Michael had left the
building, and even then he’d only managed to see his back. Trudy had buzzed him
as soon as he’d arrived at work and had told him to be in Michael’s office by
noon and not to be late. She’d given no further explanation and no amount of
charm could get it out of her. He knew he hadn’t done anything to warrant being
called on the carpet, so he was at a loss to explain it.
“He’s expecting you. Go on in.”
He managed a smile for Trudy, then pushed open the door to Michael’s office
without announcing himself. His mouth dropped open at what he saw. There was a
table draped with a tablecloth sitting in the previously empty space between
Michael’s desk and the four-chair grouping. Fine china? Wine glasses? What the
fuck was this??
“I thought you might like to have lunch with me.” Michael was standing by the
table, dressed impeccably (as usual) in a form-fitting dark suit, white shirt
and deep red tie, his expression and demeanor pleasant, which was a shock in
and of itself. “I hope you like lobster. It was flown in fresh from Maine and
prepared in a cold salad with fresh greens and avocados. I have herbed cream
dressing and sourdough bread to go with it. And wine, of course.”
Okay. Michael had either decided to play nice finally, or else the lobster was
poisoned and he’d be in intensive care at the hospital within the hour. Life is
full of risks. Daniel mentally shrugged and joined him at the table. He got
another shock when he was able to see Michael’s face up close, but he held his
tongue and sat down, watching as he spooned the salad onto their plates and
poured the wine.
“So, are you trying to one-up me? I do chicken salad and you do lobster
salad?” he asked, taking a chunk of sourdough from the marble serving board to
his left.
“Of course not,” Michael answered as he sat down and grabbed his own chunk of
sourdough. “Your chicken salad was exceptional and my lobster salad is the
seafood equivalent.”
“My lobster salad? As in, you prepared this yourself?”
Michael explained while they ate that while the other boys he knew had been
smoking weed and chasing girls, he’d been in the kitchen learning how to cook.
His mother finally got tired of him sneaking bites behind her back and one day
set her foot down and made him help her. Next thing he knew, she was teaching
him to prepare entire gourmet meals all by himself.
“My father highly disapproved, of course. He said cooking was a woman’s job and
she was making a pansy out of me. I was just at the right age to think that if
my father disapproved of it, then it was totally cool. So, I decided I was
going to be the best fifteen-year-old chef in Los Angeles.”
His lobster salad was damned good, and Daniel told him so. He graciously
accepted the compliment without any of his signature snobbery. Daniel confessed
to knowing how to cook as well. Sons stealing food behind their mothers' backs
must be a common occurrence because that was how he'd ended up learning how to
cook, too.
In between bites of the best seafood salad he'd ever eaten, he tried to figure
out what the hell was going on. First, Michael dodged nearly all personal
questions, and now he was telling him stories about him and his mother. And
just how long did he expect Daniel not to mention the pink elephant in the
room?? He'd obviously been punched in the eye, but the bruising was fading. A
smaller, even fainter bruise lay on the upper crest of his left cheekbone.
"Who hit you?" Daniel asked.
Michael didn't answer immediately, but continued to eat as if he hadn't even
heard the question. Daniel probably should have kept his mouth shut, but tact
wasn't exactly his forte.
"It doesn't matter who it was," he answered finally. "All that matters is I
deserved it."
"What did you do?"
"Something I knew I wasn't supposed to do, but I did it anyway just to piss
someone off." He smirked. "Trust me, it was worth the black eye. Would you like
dessert? I have Tiramisu and Blue Mountain coffee."
Daniel had no idea what Tiramisu was, but after one bite he fell in love with
the coffee-flavored confection. The Blue Mountain was to die for, easily the
most flavorful java that had ever passed his lips. Was Michael trying to
impress him with exotic food and drink, or did he eat like this every day?? He
wondered when was the last time Michael had ordered out for pizza. Probably
never.
"You look bad, Daniel. Are you all right?"
Okay. Things were starting to get that Twilight Zone feel now. Since when did
A-Hole Golland care about how he looked or felt? Why the big turnaround from
arrogant and hostile to friendly and concerned?  "I was up all night drawing.
Couldn't sleep."
Michael nodded. "I have those nights when my mind refuses to shut down, except
I read. Sometimes I'll read an entire book in one night, or if the night is
warm, I'll swim laps in the pool."
Daniel was feeling a little off-balance. Normal, pleasant conversation was
something he'd never expected from Michael. He'd come into his office prepared
for arrogance and glib remarks about his sexuality, and now they were chatting
over lunch like two old friends. Like tact, the ability to trust wasn't one of
Daniel's strengths either, thanks to his fucked up childhood. He was
suspicious.
"There's a reason I asked you to lunch today," Michael said, relaxing back in
his chair. "I think two grown men playing the insult game is rather childish,
don't you?"
He nodded in agreement and wondered when Michael had acquired mind-reading
abilities. Just as he'd suspected, there was an ulterior motive for inviting
him to lunch. Here it comes...
"I want everything out on the table between us, so there's no misunderstandings
later on," Michael continued. His blue gaze lacked it's usual coldness, but it
was very focused and intent. "I'm not picking a fight with you. Rather, I think
having an open dialogue between two people is much more productive."
"I couldn't agree more," Daniel acknowledged. "Hit me with it."
"You're Joystyk. You're a criminal. You vandalize personal property and you
feel no remorse for it. I don't begin to understand your motives, but in the
end that's not important to me. I realize I took the wrong approach when I
first investigated this. I'm rectifying that mistake. I have a new strategy
now; I will find proof to back up my suspicions. And when I do, I'm going to
fire you. It won't matter how talented you are, how valuable an asset you are
to this company, who your father is, nor will I consider your relationships
with others in this building. I will fire you, regardless of all of that. Do
you understand?"
Daniel was shocked by his polite honesty and also by the fact that the delivery
lacked his usual arrogance and snobbery. A straight forward statement from this
guy was nothing short of refreshing. His respect for Michael shot through the
roof.
"I understand," Daniel answered. "And I'll be equally honest with you. I'm gay,
I'm out, and I'm proud. And I'm not my father's spy. He was not happy when he
found out I'd applied for a job here. He tried to talk me out of it, but he's
an attorney, not an artist. He doesn't understand what having GEM on my resume
can do for my career. So, even though I respect his opinion, he doesn't control
my life. I made the decision to come here, not him. But make no mistake, if I
see even the tiniest instance of discrimination anywhere in this building, I
will report you and not think twice about it. Do you understand?"
The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Duly noted and
understood."
"And another thing," Daniel continued. "Me sneaking in here last time with
lunch wasn't Trudy's fault. You had no right to threaten her job. Did you know
she has a little boy with cerebral palsy and that her dickhead husband walked
out on her?"
"I knew about her son, but I had no idea about her husband. Not that it
matters. She knows what her job is and she failed to do it. I had every right
to chastise her for that."
"You should have came to me and told me to stay out of your office. That would
have been the open and honest thing to do. So, from now on, if you have a beef
with me, take it to my face. Deal?"
Daniel leaned forward and extended his hand across the table, carefully
monitoring Michael's expression for a reaction. His pleasant demeanor wavered
for a moment, just like it had the night of the Christmas party. Was he a
germaphobe or something? It was obvious he didn't want to touch him, but he
clasped Daniel's hand anyway. The skin-to-skin contact sent an electrical
charge of sexual attraction straight from Daniel's palm directly to his cock.
Michael broke the contact far too quickly to suit him. It was a damned shame
the man liked women. Daniel could have a hell of a lot of fun running his
fingers all over that sleek body. He wanted to reach over and smooth down his
cowlick, which was being unruly again, and plant a tender kiss on his bruised
cheek, plus beat the fuck out of whoever had dared hit him. Shit. Life was just
so fucking unfair sometimes.
"Deal. And while we're being honest, I have to say that I find your habit of
staring a hole in my face to be very annoying. I often wonder if I've got
spinach between my teeth or snot hanging out of my nose."
Daniel chuckled and took another sip of the amazing coffee before answering. "I
can't help it. Your face is an artist's wet dream. You have classic features,
and your bone structure is unbelievably beautiful."
Michael frowned. "My chin is too long and my nose is weird. Plus I have this
idiotic cowlick that refuses to bend to my will. I'd hardly call that classic."
He shook his head and grinned at Michael's naivete. The man's face was
stunning, and not just from an artist's perspective. He could kiss and suck on
that mouth for hours and not get bored. By the time he got through running his
fingers though his thick hair, it would all be sticking out, not just his
cowlick.
"You're wrong. The length of your chin is in proportion to the rest of your
face, and your nose is not weird. It makes your features more interesting and
exotic. And the cowlick is just plain cute."
Michael's frown deepened, and he added a glare for good
measure. Daniel wondered if it was the cute cowlick remark that had upset him
or if he just hated being told he was wrong.
"By the way, I noticed that down in the main lobby every officer of this
company but you has an oil painting hanging on the wall. You need one, and you
should commission me to paint it. I'll give you a good deal: half of what I
normally charge."
Michael shook his head at his suggestion. "I'm not an officer of this company.
My portrait will never hang in the main lobby."
"But you're head of personnel and you're the president's son."
"I'm a regular employee, just like you. If I mess up, I'll be fired, same as
everyone else. There is no such thing as nepotism at GEM."
Jesus. What was the point of being filthy rich and owning a Fortune 500 company
if you couldn't engage in a little healthy nepotism now and then? Your family
was supposed to have the cushy positions and job security for the rest of
eternity.
"Damn. Your father's hardcore."
"You have no idea."
"So, forget about the main lobby. Hang it on that wall behind your desk. Front
and center. You've gotta make a statement, Michael: I'm an important part of
this company, fuck you very much, and right here is my bad ass motherfucking
portrait. In. Your. Face."
Michael smiled, then the smile morphed into a grin and finally a full-fledged
laugh, white teeth and all. God, he was even more stunning when he laughed, if
that was even possible. "I like the way you think, Daniel Hart. Set it up. And
I'll pay your regular fee."
Oh hell yeah! He was going to have Michael Golland's hot, sexy body all to
himself for as long as it took to get the portrait finished. And he was going
to drag that project out for as long as humanly possible.
Who said life wasn't fair?
***** The Sitting *****
“You’ll never learn this in a school...”
Hands were all over him. Sharp nails scraped lightly across his skin. The
nausea…
The sounds, they made him sick. Skin slapping against skin with a moist,
squelching noise. Eyes squeezed shut, he tried to block it out, but a disgusted
moan escaped his throat and he shivered with revulsion.
“Oooh, you like that, baby boy? You want it harder, huh?”
 
The sunrise was beautiful but he couldn’t enjoy it. The nightmare—the sounds,
the smells, the dirtiness of it—still lingered hours later. The sun kissed the
glass panes but its warm caresses were too weak to do Michael any good. He felt
cold, raw and exposed, his soul thrown wide open, his broken pieces spilling
out all over the floor. His skin still tingled from the scalding hot shower
he’d taken to try and wash the nightmare away, but Deidra’s talons were
embedded in him too deep. There wasn’t enough soap and water in the universe to
get rid of her.
Ridiculous. He snarled at his reflection in the window, despising his own
weakness. He had a long, busy day ahead of him. He needed to pull himself
together. His father was due to arrive in a few minutes for an early meeting
and he needed to be on his toes.
He turned away from the windows and took a deep, cleansing breath, shoving all
thoughts of the dream to the back of his mind. Instead, he indulged in a few
stolen minutes of delicious fantasy: an anonymous woman tied face down to the
floor of his play room, her legs spread wide, red streaks from his riding crop
mottling her skin. He imagined shoving himself into her ass, her muffled pleas
for him to stop only making him pound her harder. Then the image morphed into
thick, muscular thighs with a light coating of dark hair, spread painfully
wide; strong arms straining against the rope; wrists ringed red from the
friction; hand prints like crimson flames sprinkled over a tight ass.
“Just what in hell are you doing?” his father demanded as he entered Michael’s
office, shutting the doors behind him harder than necessary.
Michael wiped his expression clean, none of his annoyance at his fantasy being
so rudely interrupted showing on his face. No ‘Good morning, son’ or inquiries
about his health ever precluded conversations with his father. He always got
right down to business, and where his youngest fuck-up was concerned, that
business was nearly always unpleasant.
“What do you mean?” Michael sank down into the chair behind his desk and forced
himself to relax.
“You’ve had lunch with Daniel Hart—here in this office—for the past three days.
That’s what I mean.”
Not that he’d been trying to hide it, but the idea that his father had been
spying on him angered him. “Should I have my office swept for bugs?”
He smiled smugly. “I don’t need bugs. I have loyal employees who keep me
informed. Now, answer my question. What the hell are you doing? You were
supposed to be finding a reason to fire him, not getting chummy with him.”
In the tense silence that followed, and under the scrutiny of his father’s cold
stare, he decided it was time to play his ace. “I have something on Daniel,
something big enough that I can fire him without us having to worry about
getting sued.”
His father’s eyes narrowed in sudden interest. “What do you have?”
“I’d rather not say until I have definitive proof. I’m working on it.”
“By serving him lunch every day??”
He felt like telling his father to go fuck himself and get his own damned proof
if he didn’t like how it was being handled. He settled for sarcasm instead.
“Unfortunately, our Iron Maiden is in the shop getting the spikes sharpened, so
we’ll have to settle for using lies and manipulation to get the information we
need.”
His father slammed his palms down on Michael’s desk, his eyes blazing. “I’m
glad you think this is funny, because I don’t! I have the government's nose in
my business enough as it is without having one of their damned spies on my
payroll! I want him gone!”
In truth, Michael thought this entire situation was becoming more entertaining
by the day. It was actually a relief for him that the firings had come to a
stop since Daniel had arrived. He could relax for awhile and not have to worry
about covering his ass with every single personnel decision he made. A huge
plus was that his father’s hands were metaphorically tied for the first time in
Michael’s memory. He was enjoying watching the bastard squirm for a change.
“Because of the precarious situation we’re in, I have to be subtle, Father,” he
said. “I’m deliberately cultivating his friendship so he’ll feel comfortable
with me. I’m developing a trust between us, because when someone trusts you,
they tell you things. They drop little tidbits of information into conversation
without even realizing what they’re doing. And while he’s busy believing I’m
his new best friend, I’ll be busy gathering evidence behind his back. This kind
of manipulation takes time, but the results will be worth it. I’ll have an
ironclad case against him, and there won’t be any loopholes for him to wiggle
through.”
His father righted himself, slid his hands into his pockets, and stared at him,
his expression unreadable. “Sounds reasonable, but…let me add a little extra
incentive for you. I know how much you hate Personnel.” He smiled arrogantly.
“I purposely left you here knowing how much you hate it. I wanted to see how
you handled it.”
Michael’s temper flared to life. He had to grit his teeth to keep from saying
something that would end up hurting him worse than it would his father. Of
course he loathed Personnel, because he hated people in general. He hated
dealing with their shit on a daily basis, their myriad of problems and excuses,
their ridiculous family drama, their continuous whining over every aspect of
their menial jobs. He’d despised it from the first day and he hadn’t warmed up
to it at all in the seven years he’d been in the position. Several times he’d
asked his father about a promotion, or at the very least, a horizontal move
within the company to another department, but his requests had been
emphatically denied each time.
“Here’s the deal. If you get Daniel Hart off my payroll, I’ll give you whatever
department you want. Your choice and a raise to go with it.”
The raise didn’t mean shit to him, but the opportunity to get out of Personnel
was another matter altogether. That was definitely a game changer. He stood and
offered his father his hand. “You’ve got a deal.”
===============================================================================
                                        
Sitting on a wooden box with no back support, trussed up in a suit when he'd
rather be in jeans and t-shirt, was not the way Michael wanted to spend his
evening. He had better things to do—more relaxing things—than getting a numb
ass while watching Daniel scrabble around on the floor with wood strips, some
kind of weird pliers he'd never seen before, and some cloth.  "What are you
doing?" he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.
Daniel answered, his focus never leaving the floor. "Stretching the canvas."
So that's how one stretches a canvas. He'd never actually seen it done before
and found the process interesting despite his annoyance. But Daniel didn't have
to know that. "I have better things to do than watch you crawl around all over
the floor for hours. You should have had this done before our appointment."
Daniel looked up from his work. "I'm charging you a small fortune for this, so
I figured you'd want to see what you're paying for. Painting a portrait is a
long process. You don't just sit down and start slopping paint all all over the
place. You have to stretch the canvas first, get it really tight, which only
takes about 30 minutes, then you have to prime it and sand it. It'll be ready
to use on our next appointment."
"So you're not even going to start painting tonight??"
"Nope," he answered.
Then why in hell had he been instructed to wear this damned suit if the
annoying bastard wasn't even going to start the actual painting?? He wasn't
even going to bother asking. Despite his interest in what Daniel was doing, he
decided to ignore him for awhile.  They were in a back studio in some art
gallery he had never heard of. Supposedly a friend of a friend had volunteered
the room for the portrait, since Daniel had no studio of his own. The room held
only the essentials in furniture: an artist's table and chair, varied sizes of
boxes like the one he was currently sitting on, a stool, a metal easel, and
different types of lights.
"So, where did you go to college?" Daniel asked.
He let the question hang in the air unanswered while he watched Daniel make the
final adjustments to the canvas.
"Finished!" he announced, bringing the canvas over to Michael for inspection.
He flicked it with his fingers and grinned. "Nice and tight. Now, while I prime
it, you can answer my question."
Michael bristled. He didn't like being ordered around. First the demand that he
wear the damned suit, and now he was going to be subjected to interrogation as
well?? And just how long was this priming going to take??  "I didn't go to
college," he answered brusquely.
Daniel looked at him over his shoulder, obviously surprised. "Really?"
"I guess that makes you feel superior to me now."
Daniel frowned. "No, not at all. Lots of successful people didn't go college.
I'm just surprised. Wealthy families tend to send their kids to Ivy League
schools. I just assumed."
"My older brother, Paul, attended Yale, and my sister, Cassandra, went to
Dartmouth. I was...chosen...to learn the family business."
While he watched Daniel prime the canvas with something called Gesso, he gave
him the abbreviated version of his induction into the world of work. At the
tender age of fifteen, his father plopped him down in the middle of the mail
room and told him to learn everything about it and not to 'fuck it up'. He was
going to be paid the minimum wage like all unskilled workers, except he didn't
have the option to quit if he didn't like it. Michael spent a good ten minutes
pouting over the loss of his leisurely summer, but in the end he was determined
he wasn't going to fuck it up. He was going to make his father proud of him. He
was going to learn everything about mail. Before a month went by, he knew the
name of every single employee at GEM, what department they worked in, and what
kind of mail they received. He also noticed that the way paper moved throughout
the building was extremely inefficient, so he came up with a better way,
presented his idea to his father, and within six months, the changes were
implemented.
Daniel raised his eyebrows and looked like he was impressed, but he continued
to spread the primer over the canvas without comment.
Then, in his sixteenth summer, he was promoted to shipping and receiving, with
a twenty-five cent raise in pay. He was told to learn it and not to 'fuck it
up'. It only took him two weeks to match shipments with the appropriate
department. He learned all about the movement of goods throughout the building
and the process of routing packing slips and invoices to the appropriate
department heads. Shipping and receiving was ran very efficiently, but after a
few months he began to suspect some of the purchases coming into the building
might not be legit. He turned the information over to his father, who then
investigated, and within weeks of his report, two people were fired for
spending budget monies on things they shouldn't have, and one for not catching
the fraud in the first place.
"I'll bet that earned you a few friends," Daniel observed, chuckling.
"I made enemies the first minute I stepped foot in the building—" he responded,
shrugging. "—for the sole reason that I was the son of the president of the
company. It wouldn't have mattered what I did or didn't do. Some hated me
automatically, so I decided not to worry about what anyone thought. I was just
trying to do the best job I could."
When he was seventeen, he was promoted to Accounting and given another twenty-
five cent raise.
"Accounting?? Were you good at math?"
"Not particularly," Michael answered. "But then again, I'd never tried to be
good at it."
Daniel stopped priming and turned his full attention to Michael's story. "So,
what did you fix in accounting?"
He hesitated, considering how best to answer. "I didn't fix anything, but I
discovered that numbers are very...slippery."  He left it at that. Daniel
studied him with narrowed eyes for a few moments, then returned to his priming.
After his less than stellar performance in Accounting, his father promoted him,
on his eighteenth birthday, to head of Personnel, and with a substantial raise
to go along with it. Once again, he was told to learn everything about it and
not to 'fuck it up'.
"And of course, I fucked it up. Apparently I wasn't 'good with people'," he
said with a straight face.
Daniel laid down his paintbrush and snickered. "Really?? I never noticed that."
 Then Daniel smiled. It was an understanding smile that said he knew Michael
was an arrogant, unfriendly asshole, but he liked him anyway. Michael didn't
know what he'd done to deserve that kind of understanding from someone he'd
only known for a short time, but he welcomed it.
"The primer has to dry before I can sand it and give it a second coat, so..."
 He got up from the floor and dug around in the huge black bag he'd brought
with him. Out came a very professional-looking camera.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to take some pictures of you," he answered. "I'm going to do an oil
and a digital portrait. I need photos to load into the software."
Daniel photographed him from every possible angle and some of the shots were
uncomfortably close, especially the ones of his face. Plus, he was forced to
listen to Daniel's ridiculous commentary while he did it: how the shadows loved
his bone structure; how crystal clear his blue eyes were up close; how his
fingers were long and elegant like a musician's; how sleek he looked in a suit;
how cute his cowlick was.
"Would you just shut up and take the pictures," he snapped after the stupid
cowlick comment.
Daniel chuckled softly. "You know, if you ever decide to get out of the family
business, you could be a model," he said as he snapped away. "You're exactly
the type these fashion houses like: tall and slender with a face that loves the
camera. You look good in clothes. Yep, I can definitely see you on a runway in
Milan." He grinned and backed away. "All done."
Michael glared at him. "You don't listen very well, do you? I don't want your
career advice, nor do I need a detailed critique of my body."
Daniel turned his back to him and started putting away his camera. "Sorry. I'm
not good at taking orders. Never have been."
The arrogant defiance he heard in Daniel's voice was like a siren song, making
him wish he was head of the Graphic Arts department instead of Personnel. Then
Daniel would be forced to follow his every order without any objections, or
he'd find his ass out on the sidewalk. If only he could manage to maneuver
himself into that position without having to fire Daniel to get it, his life
would be perfect. Unrealistic, and unlikely to happen, but it was a nice
fantasy.
He pulled out his cell to check the time. "I have to go. Claire is waiting for
me at home. She's probably upset with me because I'm so late." He emphasized
the last part with a glare in Daniel's direction.
He watched, fascinated, as Daniel's expression went blank, his voice carefully
impassive. "Just buy her something. That'll make up for it."
He smiled inside, amused at the unspoken jealousy he sensed in Daniel, despite
his guarded expression. "That's a great idea. I think Claire would love a new
pair of shoes."
"I'm sure she would," he said, his voice flat. "So, I guess I'll add the second
coat of primer tomorrow." Daniel slung the black bag over his shoulder and
studiously avoiding Michael's eyes. "Are we doing lunch tomorrow?"
Their lunches had become the highlight of Michael's workday. He enjoyed his
hour of sparring with Daniel, artfully dodging his probing personal questions,
gracefully sidestepping his short fuse when he was teased, and gently probing
for clues among the chatter to implicate him in the vandalism of their
building. He'd picked up one tiny clue yesterday, and he doubted Daniel even
realized it.
"Of course, and it's your turn to provide the food."
When they parted company on the sidewalk outside the gallery, Michael watched
him walk away. Daniel was a very attractive man if you could factor out his
fondness for sucking dicks, as well as the off-the-rack khakis, rock band t-
shirt, and red Converse this time, instead of black. As he had already learned,
Daniel was a strong-willed and a very stubborn individual, but that muscular
frame underneath the cheap clothes spoke of a physical strength that Michael
had yet to discover.
What would it be like to control that kind of strength?
 
***** A Bit of Detective Work *****
Michael inspected the half-naked man staring back at him in the bathroom
mirror. He ignored the cowlick—nothing could fix that particular flaw—and
focused on his face. Turning his head slowly right and then left, he studied
the way the light played across the planes of his cheekbones, jaw, nose, and
forehead. He’d never noticed, or cared, about such things before, but Daniel’s
comments from their last sitting had roused his curiosity. But where Daniel
apparently saw beauty in his features, he only saw sharp bones protruding
beneath skin, the stubble of an unshaved jaw, a weirdly shaped nose that came
close to resembling a penis when viewed at the right angle, and a thin sheen of
sweat forming on his too-large forehead.
He hit the dimmer switch on the wall beside him, thinking that lowering the
glare of the vanity lights would bring out those wondrous shadows Daniel has
gushed about while photographing him. Once again, he slowly turned his head,
dipping it low, then gradually raising it higher, watching how the light played
across his features. He shook his head in disgust. The shadows were definitely
more pronounced in the low light, but they only made him look ominous and
angry, not attractive. Daniel was an idiot, and so were all the whores who
constantly chased after him. It wasn’t the ‘beautiful’ shadows on his face that
drew them to him, nor did his many imperfections drive them away. His money was
the attraction. The physical and emotional flaws of a wealthy man were easy to
ignore when there were bank accounts and investment portfolios involved, as
evidenced by the simpering, brainless women who hung off his father’s arms like
bats attached to the rafters of an old barn.
He cursed himself for wasting so much time gazing at his reflection. He was
going to miss watching the sunrise from his office windows if he didn’t get his
ass in gear and get ready. He reached for the razor, curling his long fingers
around the marble handle like he did every weekday morning, but then hesitated
before actually picking it up. You have long fingers, like musicians’ fingers,
Daniel had said yesterday. He held out his hands, spreading his fingers wide
apart and studying them. For the first time, he pondered what those fingers
might have accomplished had he’d been allowed to continue his music lessons.
His mother had enrolled him in piano and violin at the tender age of seven.
He’d only managed to learn a few songs before his father had yanked him out,
proclaiming such nonsense a waste of Michael’s time. More appropriately, he’d
been forced to join the country club lacrosse team alongside a bunch of raucous
boys who were way more athletic than him, considering he’d had no earthly idea
how to even play the game. A mid-season badly sprained ankle had taken care of
that little technicality. After a severe (and private) tongue lashing from his
father about how he couldn’t even manage to hit a little rubber ball without
fucking it up, his career in team sports had came to an abrupt, but welcomed,
end.
He sighed, wondering why he was so morose this morning when he had such an easy
day ahead of him. He got down to the tiresome business of scraping the stubble
from his face while mentally reviewing his schedule for the day: a meaningless
morning meeting with the suits upstairs, two mid-morning interviews for one
vacant low-level position no one in their right mind should want, what would
most likely be an interesting and entertaining lunch with Daniel, then the rest
of the afternoon free until his equally interesting and entertaining evening
portrait appointment.
“You’re running late.”
He startled, nicking his chin and seething inwardly at his father’s unannounced
interruption. He was leaning against the bathroom door jamb eying Michael with
deep disapproval.
“Is my doorbell broken again?” Michael asked, careful to keep the sneering to a
minimum, while he blotted the bloody wound on his chin with a tissue.
His father faked a laugh. “Funny.”
It was useless for him to lock his doors. His father had keys to all of the
entrances of his cottage. In a rare display of defiance, he had once changed
all of the locks, but had come home that evening to find them replaced with new
locks. And his father, of course, had kept a spare set of keys. He never rang
the doorbell, knocked, or called beforehand to announce his
arrival. He'd objected many times to the intrusions upon his privacy, but it
had fallen on deaf ears. When Paul Golland owned you, you had no rights,
privacy, or a life that you could call your own.
“I needed to catch you before you left for work. I’m leaving for Boston this
morning. An unexpected business opportunity arose last night that I can’t pass
up. I’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”
He finished shaving while halfway listening to a long list of ridiculous
instructions from his father like he was a thirteen-year-old delinquent being
left alone at the house for the first time. He was to stay on the grounds at
night, no sleeping in that ‘perverted penthouse’ in the city. Monitor the help
and make sure their work was completed before they left for the day. No
‘undesirables’ on the property and no wild parties. He was also warned not to
make any major decisions at work until his father returned and could approve
(or deny) them. He felt like asking if he should text him in Boston to ask
permission before wiping his own ass.
He rinsed his face and blotted it with aftershave, carefully avoiding the gash
in his chin. He fought the overwhelming urge to slap the living fuck out of his
dear old dad. He wasn’t a kid and he resented being treated like one. He was
twenty-six years old and he’d never had a ‘wild party’ in his entire life,
being friendless and living on the fringes of his social circle all his teenage
years. The only ‘undesirable’ who had managed to make it onto the grounds, and
into his life, had been Dario. He fervently wished he actually knew some
‘undesirables’ personally so he could invite them over and let them trash the
place all to hell before Sunday.
"I'm really wondering if you can keep your head out of Claire's ass long enough
to even notice what's going on around here. Your obsession with her is
unnatural."
He ignored the comment and chose to stuff a loaded toothbrush into his mouth,
which effectively prevented him from saying something he'd regret later.
Anything that made him happy was considered 'unnatural' by his father, but
apparently fucking every woman in Los Angeles, some of whom were your friends'
wives, and a select few who were their "almost legal" teenage daughters, was
perfectly natural. He spit into the sink and rinsed his toothbrush. "You can
trust me to take care of things while you're gone."
He got a 'We'll see about that' look from his father, but thankfully, no
scathing rebuttal. He wished he was rebellious enough to throw the largest and
most lavish house party in the history of LA this weekend, but he lacked the
balls to seriously cross Daddy Dearest, and they both knew it.
“I noticed your schedule is free this afternoon. Why is that?” 
He felt the chill of corporate disapproval in his father’s icy stare. Slackers
were not tolerated at GEM, and it was even worse for him. The son of the
president of the company was expected to go above and beyond the call of duty,
to work inhumanly long hours, take work home if needed, and never complain
about the load. Paying homage to the bottom line was more important to his
father than altar time was to God.
“I’m spending the afternoon downtown following a lead on the Daniel Hart
thing,” he said, scooting past his father and into the bedroom to get dressed.
His father grunted his approval. “Okay, but I expect some results in exchange
for the lost productivity." He looked like he was going to leave—finally—but
his father never left a conversation on a positive note. This one wasn't any
different. "Oh, and one more thing. Deidra is upset with you. She said you were
rude to her at the charity thing. That is not acceptable, Michael. She’s a dear
friend of this family and I expect you to fix things with her by the time I get
back. Call her and smooth it over.”
A dear friend of this family???  He gritted his teeth and yanked up his zipper
hard enough to break it if his slacks had been off-the-rack instead of tailor
made. Fuck Deidra and her hurt feelings. Hell would freeze over before he’d
ever call that fucking cunt.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said brusquely as he grabbed his jacket and
briefcase and left the room without saying goodbye or wishing his father a safe
trip.
===============================================================================
                                        
The Glazed Canvas was a small, but surprisingly upscale and elegant, art
gallery. He'd never heard of it, let alone visited it. He wouldn’t have even
known of its existence if Daniel hadn’t mentioned it in their lunch
conversation the other day. On those occasions when he felt the need to add a
new piece of artwork to his collection, he always used a private broker. He
loathed the fakery surrounding gallery openings, the pretentious oohing and
aahing over artwork that was pure shit, the fawning over weed-smoking Bohemians
as if they were the next Salvador Dali. You drank some wine, ate a few hors d’
oeuvres, got papped for the next issue of Blackbook and you were an instant art
connoisseur.
Within moments of the door shutting behind him, a nicely-dressed twenty-
something guy approached him, asking if there was anything in particular he was
looking for.
“Do you have any of Daniel Hart’s work? He’s a local artist.”
The guy didn’t know offhand and left to find the answer on the gallery’s
computer. He wandered aimlessly through the displays, not really paying
attention to the canvases for sale. He wasn’t in the market for anything new,
that is, unless it was something of Daniel’s.
“I’m sorry,” the employee said upon his return. “We had a few pieces of Mr.
Hart’s, but they’ve already been sold. Could we interest you in something
else?"
“Do you have anything by Joystyk?”
The guy looked shocked at first, but recovered his professionalism fairly
quickly. “We don’t display your normal street art here. We don’t have a big
enough space, and as far as Joystyk goes—or any other activist artists—their
subject matter is...” He paused, probably searching for a polite way to say
that Joystyk’s art was nothing but highly offensive homosexual pornography of
the worst kind. “…it’s a little too ‘in your face’ for most of our clientele.
You need to go over to The Funky Easel for that sort of thing.”
“Do you, by chance, know the identity of Joystyk?” 
The guy laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nobody knows who that guy is.”
Michael believed him. “We do have a few smaller pieces that are representative
of what you would call 'normal' street art. They're not sprayed. They're done
in pastels, oil, pen and ink, that sort of thing. Would you like to see them?”
He nodded his interest and followed him to a remote corner of the room where a
small grouping of five elegantly framed pieces was arranged artfully on the
wall. He studied the tags one-by-one, taking his time, searching for anything
unusual or familiar. Even though they weren’t aerosols, the designs were in the
same style as all the other crap graffiti sprayed all over this city. His
patience was finally rewarded as he inspected the last two pieces. There was
something there, something that caught his eye. He wasn’t sure what it was, but
his subconscious mind had latched onto it immediately. Something was familiar
about these two designs. There was a link to Joystyk in there somewhere. He
felt in his bones.
“Who did these?” he asked, pointing to the last two.
“We just put these out this week. All five are by the same artist: Cameron
Scott. He’s a local, too.” 
Cameron Scott?! He smiled, his mind working furiously to put the pieces of this
puzzle together. Was he chasing the wrong man?  “How much for all five?” 
The guy left to get the total price while he stared fixedly at the two
incriminating pieces.
“Fifteen seventy-five," the salesman said upon his return.
“You have a sale,” he said, pleased he was finally making some progress in
discovering Joystyk’s identity.  He declined the offer to have them delivered
to his house, opting instead to ‘cash and carry’. He couldn’t wait to get them
home so he could go over every square centimeter with a fine toothed comb.
===============================================================================
                                        
“What are you doing to waste my valuable time tonight?” he asked, smirking.
He’d liked to have been home going over Scott’s canvases with a magnifying
glass, but he also enjoyed seeing that annoyed frown on Daniel’s face whenever
he complained about something.
“I’m blocking,” Daniel answered without any further explanation.
“Blocking? What does that mean?”
“It means I’m putting in the value tones,” he answered without meeting
Michael’s gaze. He focused on the canvas while he elaborated. “First I sketch
out a rough outline of your form with charcoals. Then, I divide your face and
body into planes, painting in the shadows and highlights first. The finer
details come later.”
He nodded his understanding, but Daniel didn’t acknowledge it. They sat in
silence for quite awhile, the scratching of his brush on the canvas the only
audible sound in the room. Daniel was being very unsociable tonight, and he
couldn’t figure out why. Nothing untoward had taken place during lunch to upset
him. They’d had a very pleasant conversation about art therapy and no
disagreements over anything. But tonight, every time he tried to start a
conversation Daniel shot it down with abrupt one-word answers and more silence.
The explanation about blocking was the most words he'd spoken all evening.
“Have I said or done something to upset you?” 
Daniel stopped painting and looked at him with surprise. “What??”
He was annoyed he had to repeat the question. Daniel wasn’t even paying any
attention to him. It was as if he wasn’t even in the room. "Did I do something
to upset you?" he asked again. "You're being an ass tonight."
Daniel laid down his brush. “Sorry,” he said, chuckling. “I get a
little…intense…when I’m painting. I sort of zone out, if you know what I mean.
It’s not you, it’s totally me. It’s just how I work.”
“Oh.” Was that all? He was surprised to feel a sense of relief that Daniel
wasn’t upset with him, which was unusual for him. He’d never cared what anyone
thought of him before, let alone whether they were upset over something he’d
said or done. It was a strange feeling, but also a little unnerving. It gave
Daniel a bit of power over him that he wasn’t sure he liked.
The rest of the sitting was conducted in silence, which gave him some much
needed time to think and consider the man sitting before him. He watched,
fascinated, as Daniel painted with a focused intensity, his eyes darting back
and forth from his face to the canvas, his brush moving with practiced speed
and skill. Despite his fervent wish to despise Daniel, he found him intriguing
and interesting. He was extremely annoying, arrogant, rude, strong-willed and
stubborn. But he was also amusing at times and a very good cook. Michael was in
awe of his talent; the art was as vibrant and complex as the man. Daniel also
had an independent streak in him that Michael both admired and jealously
envied. But, there was so much more about him that he yearned to know; he was
especially curious about his family and childhood. All of his attempts to
discover any personal details of Daniel's early life had been met with
practiced resistance and some very adept side-stepping. There was something in
Daniel's past he didn't want to talk about. As someone who'd been hiding
secrets all his life, he recognized the signs.
Inevitably, his mind eventually wandered to his earlier conversation with his
father. His irritation at being treated like an irresponsible teenager had worn
off on the drive to work. By the time lunch had rolled around, he'd been in a
state of near euphoria. Even Trudy had noticed his change in mood, asking if he
had won the lottery or something. Four whole days without the bastard breathing
down his neck. Four long, wonderful days of complete freedom to do anything he
wanted. He may not have the guts to throw a wild house party, or invite the
local riff-raff over for some booze, weed and pizza, but he could do the next
best thing.
“What are you doing this Saturday?” he asked, breaking the silence for the
first time in over an hour.
Daniel hesitated and actually looked at him this time. “What?”
He sighed in irritation at having to, once again, repeat his question. “I
said…what are you doing this Saturday?”
Daniel frowned, like he didn’t understand the question. “Uh…I’m doing what I do
every Saturday: sleeping in, laundry and painting. Why?”
He swallowed down a sudden surge of nervousness. What if he said no? “I
wondered if you’d like to come over to my house…and…hang out for the day.”
Daniel’s eyes widened, his mouth actually dropped open. “Hang out??”
He nodded. “My father is out of town until Sunday.” As soon as the words left
his mouth he wanted to shoot himself in the head. He sounded exactly like a
silly teenager rejoicing at being left home alone.
Daniel's surprise eventually morphed into a pleased smile. He sat his brush
down and started wiping off his hands. “I’d love that, Michael.”
They discussed times while Daniel put away his supplies. He suggested 8 AM.
Daniel rolled his eyes, protesting that the sun didn’t even get out of bed that
early on a Saturday, while he tried to convince him that the early morning
hours were the best ones of the day. They argued back and forth until they
finally reached a compromise: Daniel would attempt to be in his driveway by 10
AM, 10:30 at the very latest.
“What does a person wear when hanging out with a snobby millionaire on a lazy
Saturday afternoon?” Daniel asked, grinning. “Because I’m fresh out of silk
smoking jackets and alligator skin penny loafers.”
Michael shot him an annoyed glare. “Just wear jeans and sneakers.”
Daniel's dark eyebrows nearly overshot his hairline. “You mean you actually own
a pair of jeans??”
He sighed, rolled his eyes and shot up from the hard crate, his ass tingling as
the numbness wore off. “I own an entire closet full of jeans. Two hundred
dollars a pop.”
“Well, I cannot wait to see what those two hundred dollar jeans look like,”
Daniel said sarcastically as he turned off the lights in the gallery and locked
the door behind them.
And he couldn’t wait for Daniel to finally meet Claire.
 
***** The Cottage *****
Daniel heard the front door open and slam shut and within seconds a highly
pissed Cameron burst into his kitchen carrying two large paper bags, one in
each hand. He set them none too gently onto the table and began angrily pulling
take-out containers out of the bags. They hadn’t planned on getting together
tonight, but Daniel appreciated free food, no matter the source.  He watched in
stupefied silence as Cameron stalked the few steps across his small kitchen,
without even acknowledging his presence, and slung open the cabinet that housed
the plates, and then jerked open the drawer with the silverware. Once settled
at the table, Cameron open the boxes and spooned Chinese onto his plate with a
fury he'd never seen in his friend.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
No response. Daniel cautiously grabbed his own plate and fork, then settled
down across the table from Cam, eying the little white boxes taking up nearly
the entire table. This wasn’t the cheap buffet stuff. This food had come from
one of those expensive sit-down restaurants neither one of them could afford
except on special occasions.
“This is the good stuff. Did you win the lottery or something?”
“Nope,” Cam snapped, his green eyes flashing with anger. “You can thank your
preening peacock that we’re eating in style tonight. Michael bought all five of
my stylized tags I had up at The Glazed Canvas.”
Cam’s friend from the gallery had called him the minute Michael had left with
his purchases, thinking Cam would be ecstatic over the sale. But the
conversation had taken a dark turn when the guy mentioned Michael’s questions
about Joystyk.
“The bastard’s on to us,” Cam said in between angry bites. “He’s going to troll
every gallery in this city looking for something to crucify us with. We’ve got
to take down everything we’ve got out there, take it all down.”
Daniel sighed but couldn’t seem to find any anger to aim at Michael. The man
had warned him, after all. He’d been completely honest and had freely admitted
he had a new strategy to find Joystyk, and when he gathered the proof, he would
fire the person or persons responsible. The problem was that he hadn’t told
Cameron about Michael’s warning. It was too late now.  They both agreed to
remove everything they had for sale all over the city until things died down,
but he had a feeling it was too little, too late. The damage had already been
done. Michael had enough art in his possession to make the connection, if he
was smart enough and observant enough to find it. Michael was both. They were
screwed.
He ate in wary silence while Cameron impaled his food on the sharp end of his
fork. The chopsticks provided by the restaurant lay unnoticed on the table,
which was probably for the best. They wouldn’t have survived the onslaught of
Cam’s temper. 
When they’d both eaten their fill, he decided to drop the next bombshell. It
was as good a time as any, he supposed. Cameron was already steamed; things
couldn’t get any worse. “Michael invited me over to his house tomorrow just to
hang out. I’m going.”
It was a misjudgment on his part to think Cameron couldn’t get any angrier. His
eyes blazed hot. “Are you fucking insane??! Hang out? He’s running around this
city trying to find a reason to fire us and you think he just wants to hang out
with you? He doesn’t give a shit about you! He’s a manipulative asshole only
looking out for his own interests! And you’re going to go over there and kiss
his arrogant ass anyway just because you have the hots for him?? You’ve lost
your fucking mind!”
He bit back the words he wanted to shout back in return: that Cameron had
gotten them into this mess into the first place because of his vendetta against
GEM, that it was their fault for not staying one step ahead of Michael and
pulling their art long before now, and also that Cameron had had his shot at
love and he just wanted the same opportunity. Was that too fucking much to
ask?? But he choked on the words and kept silent. Cameron was his best friend,
and he knew there were some things he just couldn’t say aloud if he wanted it
to stay that way.
“I know he can be a jerk, and I know you don’t like him,” he said quietly. “But
I do. Maybe if we can become friends, or bond on some level, then it won’t so
easy for him to fire me when the time comes. At this point, I don’t think I
have anything to lose by trying.”
His short burst of temper had run its course. Cam shook his head and sighed.
“Oh, you definitely have something to lose. I know how guys like him operate.
He’s going to use you for whatever purpose he’s got in mind, and then he’s
going to fuck you over when he’s done with you. You’re making a big mistake.”
His independent stubborn streak flared to life. “Maybe I am, but it’s fucking
mine to make!”
Cameron sighed and pushed back from the table. “It’s at this point I would
usually say, ‘It’s your funeral’, but this time you’re going to take me down
with you. And you’re okay with that? That’s how you treat your friends?? You
just throw them under the bus and that’s fine as long as you get what you
want??”
He closed his eyes to Cam’s accusing glare. There was some truth to his words,
and that was bitter pill for him to swallow. When did stubbornness and a
single-minded focus on a goal cross the line and become complete selfishness?
Had he reached that point where his own needs and wants superseded everyone
else’s? Even though he suspected that was becoming the new truth in his
life, he still couldn’t step back from Michael Golland. The pull was too
strong. He didn’t understand it, but he felt it every moment he was away from
Michael. Was it just sexual attraction behind it? Or was it something else?
“Why do you this to yourself?” Cam asked, breaking the strained silence.
Daniel’s eyes snapped open. “Do what?”
Cameron sighed, and he didn’t like the sad sound of it. “I’m your friend and I
love you like a brother, but it’s hard sometimes to sit back and watch you set
yourself up for failure time after time. When it comes to men, you have some
pretty low standards. Every one of your relationships has fallen apart in just
a few weeks. What was the longest one, two months or something? Have you ever
asked yourself why that is?”
He knew why none had lasted: his fucked up childhood. He was a strong,
confident person on the outside, a talented artist with a bright future in his
chosen career. Inside, he was a broken, emotional mess, but no one knew that
but him. He’d gotten very good at hiding it from the world. It got a little
harder to hold all the pieces together when someone was sleeping in the same
bed with him 24/7.
“Maybe this time it’ll be different,” he said weakly, willing himself to
believe his own lie.
Cameron made an angry, frustrated sound. “The man’s a prick. He’s rich, spoiled
and he’s a selfish jerk. And do I need to remind you that he’s STRAIGHT?? That
means he likes pussy, Daniel, in case you’ve forgotten the definition of that
word. What the hell are you thinking? You think you’re going to turn him queer
just with your charm and good looks? There are a lot of nice guys out there—gay
guys—but you don’t even give them a chance.”
What he couldn’t tell Cameron was that the really nice gay guys also had really
high standards, and he would never meet them, even if he wanted to. Not with
his past…
“I’m going over to his place tomorrow.”
Cameron got up from the table, sighing. “You can have the leftovers,” he tossed
over his shoulder as he walked past Daniel and out of the kitchen.
===============================================================================
                                        
“Ingenious.”
Michael tossed the magnifying glass on his desk and relaxed back in his chair,
rubbing his tired eyes and loosening the tightness in his shoulders. After the
sitting with Daniel, he’d gotten some dinner on the fly, then had rushed home
to study the artwork. After a frustrating hour of finding absolutely
nothing, he'd left his library and had sought out Claire. A pleasant hour or so
in her company had been all he’d needed to return to his mission with a fresh
eye and the confidence that he would identify Joystyk before sunrise.
It was nearing four am when he finally discovered just how clever Joystyk
actually was. The proof was there, in all the artwork spread out all over his
desk. Right there, plain as day, if a person knew where to look, and he did. He
now knew Joystyk's true identity.
He closed his eyes and smiled to himself, while his cock strained against his
jeans, begging for release. He gripped it and squeezed, the pressure pushing a
soft moan from his throat. He loved the power surge that always came with
control. The strings were back in his hands once again and he was going to
thoroughly enjoy making that marionette dance.
 
===============================================================================
                                        
The Golland crib was everything Daniel expected it to be: a two-story mansion
that looked big enough to house his entire hometown of Santa Paula. Tall white
columns stood guard over the massive double-doored front entrance. Perfectly
manicured beds filled with exotic flowers hugged the outside bricks and
meandered alongside the artfully arranged stone pathways that curled around the
house. Two reflecting pools flanked the rock sidewalk that led to the
entryway. He figured the money spent on the front lawn alone could have kept
him in pizza and beer for years.
What he didn't expect was Michael’s house. It was small—ridiculously small
compared to the mansion—and covered in ivy. It looked like it'd fallen right
out of the pages of some story book, and accidentally landed smack in the
middle of decadence. Only a few hundred feet of shrubs and small trees
separated it from the main house. It was oddly out of place on the same
property as the mansion, but still beautiful in its own way. He navigated his
way through thick clusters of shrubbery and flowers before reaching the
entrance. Michael met him at the door in those much awaited, and highly
anticipated, two-hundred dollar jeans.
"So that's what two hundred dollar jeans look like," he commented as Michael
ushered him in to the foyer.
"Actually these were three-fifty. The two hundred dollar ones are my handyman
jeans. These are for company."
Daniel didn't laugh, roll his eyes, or even get upset at the smarmy smirk
Michael had on his face. He couldn't because he'd just fallen down the rabbit
hole and landed flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him. What the
fuck is this??  He followed Michael though the small living room—blue velvet,
striped chintz, Persian silk flowers and dainty lace—into the kitchen, which
was an ocean of blue: blue gloss cabinets, blue checked napkins, Blue Willow
china, and frilly curtains with blue accents. Michael gestured to the small
round wooden table in the middle of the room. He had to pull his jaw up off his
feet before he could even sit down.
A pitcher of tea and two glasses appeared on the beige and blue tablecloth.
"Did it pass inspection?" Michael asked as he poured.
"Uh...." He was at a loss for words for once. He didn't know who really lived
here, but it sure as hell wasn't Michael Golland. Michael wasn't a light blue
velvet, striped beige chintz kind of guy. He was dark shadows and vibrant
colors. He was chrome, not country blue. He wasn't miniature paper lampshades
decorated with lace. He was sexy recessed lighting and black satin sheets.
"Claire must have done the decorating, because this is so not you."
He laughed softly, his clear blue eyes dancing, the smirk firmly in place. "Not
Claire. She has other talents besides decorating."
Damn his arrogant ass. He silently cursed Michael for the images that flashed
through his mind: a five-second porno featuring Michael in all his naked glory,
and Claire (who the fuck cared what she looked like), nude on a bed of silk and
fucking each other's brains out. A green haze of jealousy swirled around his
heart.
"Then who? Because this is not your style at all. This is..." Gay, but with way
too much blue to be considered fabulous, he added silently.
"This is my mother's house," Michael answered.
He sipped his tea and listened attentively while Michael talked of his mother's
obsession with English cottages. She'd begged her husband, Michael's father, to
let her design and build one on the grounds of their estate. He'd indulged her,
finally, and the house Michael now lived in was the end result of a year of
planning, design and construction.
"We spent a lot of time in this house, me and her. Reading, cooking, laughing.
I was a stupid, immature teenager, but you wouldn't have known it if you'd
heard the conversations we had about books." He chuckled softly, then his eyes
grew distant. "She was my best friend."
"Was?"
Michael sat back in his chair and cleared his throat, coming back to the
present. "She died when I was sixteen, almost seventeen." He abruptly stood up
and moved to the sink, standing with his back to the table. Daniel became
mesmerized by the muscles moving beneath his form-fitting shirt as he rinsed
out his glass. His eyes strayed south more than once. Michael's ass filled his
jeans to perfection.
He reluctantly stopped drooling and offered his condolences, even though they
were a decade too late. "I'm so sorry. What happened?"
When Michael turned around, his expression was closed, his eyes guarded. "An
accident. At least that's what the police said."
But you don't believe that for a minute, he thought. He managed to keep from
frowning, but couldn't conceal his curiosity. He was dying to ask for details,
but decided to keep his mouth shut. If Michael wanted to tell him more, he
would. They held each other's gaze for a few pointed moments before Michael
finally broke the spell and smoothly changed the subject.
"I suppose Cameron told you I bought some of his artwork yesterday?"
He nodded. "He mentioned it." Understatement of the year.
"I stumbled across them accidentally." Michael shrugged. "They caught my eye
for some reason, so I thought they might provide some clues to the identity of
Joystyk. I went over each one of them with a fine-toothed comb last night."
Michael was playing his cards close to his vest. His usual arrogant smirk was
gone, his eyes intense and focused on Daniel's face. His balls felt half their
size, but Daniel was determined to stay outwardly calm. Never let them see you
sweat. "And what did you discover?"
Michael sighed deeply, relaxed and burrowed his hands in his jeans pockets. "I
discovered that Cameron is certainly talented, but he's not even in your
league."
His jaw dropped at the unexpected praise. "Did you just...compliment me?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of Michael's oh so kissable mouth. "Yes. I
don't think I was being glib...was I?"
Who the hell says 'glib' in a normal conversation?? Luckily, that thought
didn't make it past his filter.
"Well, thanks, but you're wrong about that." Michael frowned, obviously peeved
at being corrected, but what the fuck ever. He adored those little wrinkles in
his forehead almost as much as he loved his almost-smile. "Cameron just has a
different style than me. He's an expressionist, a fauvist. He loves to
experiment with color and illusion. I'm a realist. I paint what I see exactly
as it exists in real life. So, it's not that I'm more talented than him, he's
just a different kind of artist."
Michael left the sink and sank back down into his chair. "But what use is art
if it doesn't convey some kind of truth to the person viewing it?" He shook his
head and frowned. "That abstract stuff of Jackson Pollack's, and Dali's
nonsensical shit, none of that does anything for me. I don't get it and I don't
want to have to take an art course to understand what I'm looking at. But your
work...yours reaches out to me from the canvas; it grabs me with its fist and
won't let go. I like art that wrings emotion out of you whether you want it to
or not, and yours does that."
Michael was looking at him, waiting for a response, but he was so utterly
shocked and flattered that he couldn't do anything but sit there like an idiot
and blush his ass off. Michael loved his art, really loved it, and not just for
any evidence it might give him about Joystyk. It really touched him on a deeper
level. There was no greater compliment for an artist than the one Michael had
just given him.
"I don't know what to say to that, except...thank you," he said softly.
"I'm...uhm...I'm really flattered. Thank you."
Michael nodded and his smile wrapped around Daniel like a warm, fuzzy blanket.
What the fuck is going on? Is he flirting with me or am I imagining things?
Really, just shut up, Daniel. He complimented your work not your damned cock.
He's just being polite. It's you who's reading this totally wrong.
"How's my portrait coming along?"
"It's coming along really well. I'm doing the detail work now. I think you're
going to like it."
Michael smiled again, that sweet, sincere smile Daniel never even knew he had.
"I'm sure I will." Michael scooted his chair out from the table and stood up.
"So, let's do something else."
Daniel looked up and grinned. "Okay. What?"
"There's someone I'd like you to meet, someone very dear to me."
 
MICHAEL'S ENGLISH COTTAGE
 
MICHAEL'S LIVING ROOM
 
MICHAEL'S KITCHEN
 
***** The Barn *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"What is this?" Daniel asked, glancing to his left. Michael was frowning, but
also giving him an Are-You-A-Complete-Idiot look.
"A barn?" Michael answered as if he were talking to a small child or a brain-
dead adult.
Asshole.
"I realize it's not exactly picturesque," Michael continued. "No weathered wood
or faded tobacco ads painted on the side, but it's still a barn."
He gripped the armrest on the door and stared through the windshield at a long,
rectangular metal building straight out of one of his nightmares. His chest
tightened, his heart raced, making him lightheaded and dizzy. He swallowed hard
and fought to stay calm. He was on the verge of having a panic attack right
there in Michael's Jeep in broad daylight.
Michael opened the door on his side. "Come on. There's something I want to show
you."
"I don't do barns." He was barely able to get the whispered words out of his
mouth.
The silence in the vehicle was deafening. He could feel Michael's gaze on him
but he refused to turn and meet it. He stared out the window to his right, at
the trees, so he wouldn't have to look at the metal building.
"What do you mean 'you don't do barns'?"
"It means exactly what I said. I don't do barns!" he snapped, then finally
managed to turn his head and looked at Michael. "Was I being glib?"
Michael's eyes were angry shards of blue ice. He dropped his gaze to avoid
getting ripped to shreds by his stare. He watched the bones in Michael's jaw
flex and clench. He focused on those bones, mesmerized by their movement and
how his anger seemed to sharpen his cheekbones and make them even more
beautiful.
"Correct me if I'm wrong—and I might be, because I have absolutely no
experience at this—but aren't people who are trying to be friends supposed to
share the things they enjoy with the other person? And isn't that other person
supposed to at least try to show some interest in them??"
Shit. Along with the anger, he also heard the unmistakable sound of hurt
in Michael's voice. Maybe Cameron was right, maybe this whole thing had been a
really bad idea. "I'll just wait in the Jeep."
Michael slammed the door so hard it shook the entire vehicle and caused him to
nearly jump out of his skin, which wouldn't have been a hard thing to do. He
wanted nothing more at that moment than to escape his body, crawl into a canvas
and a box of charcoals and not come out until his chest loosened and he could
breathe normally.
This isn't the same barn.
He wished that stupid inner voice of his would just shut the hell up. Of course
it wasn't the same barn. He wasn't completely crazy, only a little fucked up in
the head. This barn was a slightly different color, a lot larger, and in a
completely different city.
And he's not in there waiting for you.
The man's image floated up from the darkness of his childhood memories. He
groaned painfully, squeezed his eyes shut and willed the image away. Of course
the man wasn't in the barn because Michael and his fury was in there waiting
for him. Waiting for his new friend to find his balls.
"You're being a wimp," he said aloud in the stillness. And you're hurting his
feelings, not to mention the guy's really trying to be your friend, and the
first thing you do is shut his ass down because of your childhood baggage?? He
doesn't know how fucked up you are, and you're going to keep it that way.
He took a couple of deep breaths and let them out. Again. Again. He let go of
the arm rest and flexed his fingers, loosening the tightness in the joints and
letting the flutters of panic fade away. He hadn't been in a barn since he was
fourteen years old, but...
I can do this. I can.
He finally opened the door and got out.
===============================================================================
                                        
Daniel didn't know what his subconscious mind had expected, but standing just
inside the oversized doorway, all he saw was an ordinary barn with lots of hay.
The stalls were more spacious than normal, but they were still just plain
wooden stalls. The smell of horse dung was in the air which, surprisingly, only
briefly turned his stomach. In just a few short moments, he was used to it; his
lungs breathed it in and accepted the new odor like it was an old friend,
instead of a distant enemy.
There were two amazing horses, each in its own stall, and a white goat. Wait. A
goat??  Michael was standing at the head of one of the horses—a reddish-brown
bay with an ebony mane and tail—murmuring to it and gently scratching its jaw.
The horse snorted softly and Michael's head lifted, his gaze finding Daniel
standing in the open doorway.
"Come on in," Michael said in a surprisingly pleasant voice. "They won't bite.
Well..." He laughed softly. "...that is unless you hurt them. Then they might
nip a small hole in you."
Five minutes ago Michael had looked ready to rip his head off out in the Jeep.
Now he was smiling, laughing, and talking in a pleasant tone of voice?? Then
suddenly, it felt as if someone had plugged in his brain, and the lights
finally came on. He remembered the things the man had taught him:

"What you must understand about these animals, Daniel, is that they’re all
about body language. They know when you're happy, angry, sad, or anxious. They
see posture, hear tone of voice, and smell whatever weird biological chemical
you happen to be producing today. A horse's attitude is always going to mirror
whatever you're feeling. So, when you walk through those doors, leave all the
crap out there. Let your horse's back become your sanctuary where the bad of
the world can't touch you."

That inner voice wanted to argue with his version of the memory, wanted to
remind him that the man had lied as much as he'd told the truth, but he ignored
that voice. He wasn't going to go there, not now. He was sure he'd relive it
all later, in the vivid technicolor of his nightmares. Right then, all he
longed for was to touch one of those horses. He ached to feel the texture of
their hair against his fingers. So, he calmly stepped inside the barn and
stepped back in time, surprised that he was breathing normally and he wasn't
afraid.
"I just now realized everything I've assumed to know about you has been
completely wrong," he said, shaking his head. "You're a snobby millionaire with
calloused hands. Yes, I noticed. You're not Ivy League. You cook your own
meals. You live in a cottage right out of a fairy tale. You drive a Jeep, and
you have your own goat??"
Michael laughed again. "I'll explain the goat in a minute, and the rest..." He
shrugged. "Sorry I don't fit your stereotype of snobby millionaires. Let's get
the introductions out of the way." He stepped out of the bay's stall and
gestured to the one beside it, which held a golden Palomino with a stark white
mane and tail, that was calmly observing him. "This is Jamie, a gelding—"
"Quarter horse. A Palomino, to be precise," Daniel interjected.
Michael frowned, then the wrinkles disappeared, replaced by the sincerest smile
Daniel had ever seen on his face. "You know horseflesh?"
He nodded. "I ate, lived and breathed horses from the time I was twelve until
we moved to Los Angeles when I was fourteen." He nodded again, this time in the
direction of the other stall. "That one's a bay. A mare."
The familiar smirk danced at the edges of Michael's mouth. "Yes, and she's
mine. Let me introduce you." He left Jamie's stall and returned to the mare.
"Daniel Hart...this is Claire. And Claire...this is the annoying artist I was
telling you about."
His mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. "Claire? 'The most beautiful soul
I've met in this life' Claire??"
That dazzling white smile burst onto Michael's face. "That's the one."
"You asshole!"
Michael snickered at the insult and kept on grinning. He was torn between
wanting to rip the arrogant motherfucker's dick off and stuffing it in his ear,
or dancing a jig the entire length of the barn. Or course, if he ripped his
dick off, he would feel compelled to give it a tender little kiss first, and
maybe even a bit of tongue around the tip. He might even slide the entire thing
into his mouth, just once, before he busted the asshole's fucking eardrum with
it.
He suddenly realized he was being petty when he really should be relieved.
Michael didn't have a girlfriend. He wasn't madly in love with some rich bitch
with plastic tits. Nor was he screwing the blonde out of her hair on a set of
black satin sheets.
"And she really likes the new shoes," Michael said, grinning and pointing at
Claire's hooves. "Thanks for the suggestion."
"Ohhh...." He laughed, shaking his head. "You really are in need of a good ass-
kicking."
Michael's smile disintegrated, replaced by his characteristic smarmy smirk. His
blue stare was calm, but intense, his voice low and even. "Be careful, Daniel.
I'm stronger than I look."
Jesus Fucking Christ! Was the man trying to cure erectile dysfunction with just
his eyes and that voice?? Or was that fuck-hot sexiness purely accidental? He
wondered if he'd just been issued a velvet-coated threat, or an extremely sexy
challenge. He would gladly sacrifice his left nut to find out.
"Why don't you get acquainted while I explain about the goat," Michael said,
his voice back to normal.
He approached Claire first. She was a beautiful animal. After a few moments of
hesitant touching, rubbing and patting, he knew why Michael was so attached to
her. Claire was obviously very intelligent and extremely responsive. She seemed
to understand every word Daniel murmured to her, as odd as that sounded. Her
ears flicked whenever he spoke; she snorted when she wanted his attention.
"My mother bought these horses when I was just ten years old," Michael said.
"Jamie was hers and Claire was mine."
"Unusual names for horses," he commented while giving Claire's neck a little
scratch.
"They're characters from her favorite book. And the goat?" He chuckled, shaking
his head. "We had no choice but to take the goat. Jamie was attached to it. The
owner said they'd been inseparable since the moment Sam was born. Sam...that's
the goat's name."
"Rich people usually have Arabians. Why quarter horses?" he asked, moving to
Jamie's stall.
"My mother wanted me to have something of my own, something my father wouldn't
want anything to do with."
He frowned at Michael's strange answer. Families were supposed to do things
together, share experiences, make memories for the family photo album. "I don't
understand," he said.
Jamie was a little more spirited than Claire, but nothing like the hot-tempered
horse he'd ridden as a boy. He also seemed a little more wary of new faces than
Claire had been, so he welcomed the extra time to get acquainted while he
listened to Michael's explanation of how he'd come to own quarter horses
instead of Arabians.
Michael had been ecstatic at the prospect of having two new friends that
belonged only to him. He hadn't cared about the breed, only that he now had
something interesting to do after school. Only later, when he was much older,
did he learn why his mother had bought quarter horses. She'd bought the horses
with her own money, because she'd known that if she asked her husband for it,
he would have taken over, like he took over everything. She would have been
forced to buy Arabians, and within a few months, a young Michael would have
been forced to show them all over the West Coast, or maybe even breed them to
sell for profit.
"My mother was an angel in human form," Michael said softly. "She knew her
youngest son didn't get along well with people. She saw his loneliness, his
isolation, and she found a way to fix it."
Daniel's fingers stilled their exploration of Jamie's mane. He turned and
locked eyes with Michael, remembering back to how horses had filled an
emptiness in his own heart during those two years. "Horses are easy to love,"
he said.
Michael nodded. "Yes, they are. They don't care whether you failed or succeeded
at something. They don't demand explanations or offer ridicule. They don't care
what you wear, what you think. There's no interrogation."
"All they care about is who you are that day," he said, picking up where
Michael left off. "And you don't have to tell them, either. They already know,
because they know you better than anyone. Your horse's back is a sanctuary,
where the bad of the world can't touch you."
Michael sighed, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's
refreshing to find someone who actually gets it, someone who understands how
freeing it is to be around horses."
He released his fingers from Jamie's mane and stuck out his hand, grinning.
"Hi. I'm Daniel Hart. It's nice to meet you."
And he was stupid enough to think he'd seen the most sincere smile that Michael
Golland possessed. He was wrong. Michael clasped his hand; his eyes were as
warm as a blue summer sky. "I'm Michael Golland, and the pleasure is all mine."
Daniel's pulse quickened; his heart thudded in his chest with the force of a
hundred quarter horses galloping at full speed. Michael dropped his hand way
too soon.
"Did you have a special horse?" Michael asked.
"Yeah, I did. He was a solid black Arabian named Apache. He wasn't
mine...uh...he belonged to our neighbor. Apache was fifteen hands of fire and
brimstone." He chuckled at the memory of their tempestuous relationship. "He
tossed my ass off his back over and over again until I finally got it through
my thick skull who was in charge. Once I understood who wore the pants in that
relationship, we got along fine together."
Michael chuckled and nodded in agreement. "When your horse becomes an extension
of your body, and you both think and move in the same thought, the same
instant, it's a damned good feeling, isn't it?"
"Yes," he answered softly, entranced by the connection forming between him and
Michael. "You feel safe, and you trust each other implicitly."
Michael smiled sadly and sighed. "If only we could trust people like we trust
our horses..."
Suddenly he felt immensely guilty for lying to Michael about Joystyk. He really
was a criminal who had no respect for private property, even if the owner of
said property was a homophobic bastard with an arrogant, but extremely
luscious, snobby son. How could he ever have a true friendship with Michael
with that lie hanging in the air between them?
"I would suggest we take a ride, but it's supposed to rain. Maybe next time?"
"I would love that...next time," Daniel answered sincerely.
As they walked back to the Jeep, he knew he would be drawing bays and
palominos, and even Arabians, the next time his dreams stole away his sleep.
 He would also be drawing sharp cheekbones, full and sexy bottom lips, and
painting eyes with vibrant blue irises.
CLAIRE
JAMIE
 
Chapter End Notes
     Author's Note: This chapter would not have been possible without the
     help of Equivamp. Her knowledge of horses, and her insight into their
     relationships with people, were invaluable.
***** Trespassing *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter contains a domestic violence scene.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
A sexy red Viper with black detailing was parked in Michael’s driveway. “Looks
like you have company. Nice ride,” he commented, pursing his lips in
appreciation and wondering who the owner was.
“I didn’t invite anyone else over,” Michael said brusquely, slamming the
gearshift into park, and exiting the Jeep with a bone-jarring door slam.
Daniel scrambled out and followed him through the front door and into the
living room. Jesus fuck almighty! Who is this?? He wasn’t sexually attracted to
women at all, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate their beauty. The
woman standing in the middle of Michael’s living room was absolutely stunning.
The artist in him did a quick inventory of her physical assets: nearly perfect
proportions—large breasts, tiny waist and full hips—just the right amount of
cheekbone to give her face classic elegance without appearing harsh, stylishly
cut straight blonde hair (natural, no roots) that almost touched her shoulders,
expensive clothes and jewelry, long, slender legs that ended in some very sexy
heels. The package as a whole was understated and elegant. This woman was
refined, a class act if he'd ever seen one. He would love to draw her,
preferably nude. He also couldn’t help but wonder if Michael was doing her.
“Get the fuck out of my house, now.”
Well that certainly answered his unspoken question. He glanced at Michael’s
face and was shocked at the fury he saw in his features. The man who’d joked
and laughed in the barn, and murmured soft endearments to Claire, was gone. The
bones in his jaw were clenched tight and flexing; his cheekbones had gone razor
sharp again. God, the man is beautiful when he’s angry.
“Is that any way to treat a lady?” Her voice was soft and sensual; a smirk
tugged gently at the corners of her mouth.
“Get out of my house.”
A soft laugh bubbled up out of her throat. “It’s my understanding that this
isn’t your house. It was your mother's house.”
He watched the two of them, his eyes flicking from one face to the other,
unsure what he should do. Should he leave? Stay? He decided to introduce
himself.  He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Daniel Hart.”
Her gaze flicked away from Michael’s face and briefly met his. “Would you mind?
This is a private conversation.”
He quickly revised his first impression. She was a bitch, a refined bitch. He
looked to Michael for some guidance, but he was paying no attention to Daniel.
His steely blue gaze was glued to the woman’s face. It was time for the fifth
wheel to roll on out of there.
“I’ll just…uhm… go outside for a bit,” he said, for all the good it did.
Neither one of them seemed to care that he was even in the room. He shut the
front door behind him and stood on the stoop contemplating whether he should
just leave or hang around in case the woman actually listened and left. He and
Michael were supposed to have a light afternoon meal together and,
frankly, he'd been looking forward to it ever since Michael had mentioned it in
the barn. His stubbornness, and his curiosity, finally won out. If Michael had
wanted him to leave, he would have said so. He leaned against the front door
and put his ear to the wood, straining to hear what was being said inside.

“I’m going to tell you one last time to get out of my house. I don’t want to
see you or talk to you. I want nothing to do with you.”
“You embarrassed me in public and I am not going to stand for that. You owe me
an apology, Michael.”
“I don’t owe you SHIT! GET OUT!”

He jumped at the unexpected volume of Michael’s voice and the level of his
anger. This situation had the potential to get really ugly really fast. He put
his hand on the doorknob and waited.

“You don't have to scream at me. I’m not here to fight. I’ve been thinking
about you a lot lately. I miss you, Michael. I don’t like this anger between
us. I want us to be friends.”

There was a short silence, then Michael was screaming again for her to keep her
fucking hands off of him. Before he could even envision what was happening in
his mind, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone getting the shit slapped
out of them, a high-pitched scream, then a loud thud. Shit! He fumbled with the
doorknob and practically fell into the living room as the door gave way and
slammed against the wall. What he saw stunned the hell out of him. The woman
was lying on the floor on her back, her sexy heels kicking at the hardwood
floor, her hands slapping at Michael’s head and body, and she was screaming at
the top of her lungs. Michael was straddling her hips and punching her brutally
in the face.
Daniel swore when he heard the sickening sound of bone crunching; his fight or
flight mechanism kicked in. He grabbed Michael from behind, forcibly dragging
him off the woman and pulling him to the side. Damn, the fucker is strong! It
took all the strength he had to hold Michael in a chokehold. He screamed at the
woman to get out of the room. She scrambled from the floor, blood pouring from
her nose and mouth and ran, sobbing, out of the living room, screaming that she
was going to call the police as her feet pounded up the stairs. He heard an
upstairs door slam and breathed a sigh of relief.  Michael took advantage of
that moment and burst out of his grip, pounding down the short hallway to the
stairs. With a burst of adrenaline, Daniel overtook him and slammed his stupid
ass against the wall and pinned him there. Michael’s entire body was shaking
with fury; his eyes were wild and unfocused. What the fuck is going on??
“Get your god-damned hands off of me!!”
Michael struggled to get out from beneath him, but as strong as he was, Daniel
was stronger, his naturally stocky body built for fighting. Sweating from the
effort of keeping Michael pinned to the wall, he started trying to calm him
down. “You heard her, Michael! She’s calling the police! You need to be calm
when they get here. They don’t need to see you out of control like this. Calm
down, okay? Just relax and take a deep breath for me. Can you do that?”
Through all his desperate pleas to calm down, Michael held his gaze. The
wildness in his eyes finally left; his body no longer trembled with
fury. Michael stared into his eyes and took his advice, breathing deeply and
exhaling when he was told.
Their bodies were pressed close together against the wall, and under different
circumstances, Daniel would have been elated at the close contact and would be
sporting a very respectable boner. Instead, he was emotionally reeling, unable
to reconcile the kind man in the barn with this man staring blankly back at
him, a man who was tender with a horse, but who could hit a woman in the face
multiple times with his fists.
“Let’s go sit down in the living room, okay?”
Michael nodded. He cautiously relaxed his grip on Michael's shoulders and broke
the contact between their bodies. Without showing any resistance, physical or
otherwise, Michael walked back to the living room and he followed, relieved
that the worst seemed to be over.
They sat on the sofa to wait for the police, because, after seeing the
condition of the woman's face, he was pretty sure they were on their way.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Michael finally spoke, and his voice
was back to normal. “I need to get my checkbook…for bail. It’s upstairs.”
Daniel slowly shook his head. “You’re not moving from this sofa.”
The arrogant smirk was back. “I broke the bitch’s nose and probably blacked
both of her eyes. It’ll be awhile before she’s beautiful again, so I’m quite
happy right now. I’m not going to bother her."
Unbelievable! The man had absolutely no remorse for what he’d done; he even
seemed pleased with himself. He shook his head again. “You are not moving from
this sofa, nor are you going upstairs. If you try to, I’ll stop you, and
believe me, I can.”
Michael nodded his head in acceptance. “Okay, then you go upstairs and get it
for me. It’s in the nightstand by my bed. Second drawer.”
He rolled his eyes. “Right. And while I’m gone, you’re going to go straight out
that door.”
Michael actually laughed. “Why would I run? It’s just a misdemeanor battery.
They’re not going to do anything to me.”
He was sickened by the fact that he believed him. Michael was filthy rich, his
father even richer, and everyone knew the wheels of justice turned a lot
differently for people with money and power. He was repulsed by the whole
situation. He should have listened to Cameron.  “Fine. I’ll get it.”
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        

"Are you okay in there? Do you need me to do anything for you? Call an
ambulance maybe?"
"I already did that...and the police," the woman answered, her voice muffled by
the solid wood door separating Michael's bedroom from the master bath. "He's
not going to get away with this."
Daniel had his doubts about that. If he had to bet money on it, he'd say
Michael was going to walk away from this with only a few thousand dollars less
in his pocket for bail and no other consequences.
He backed away from the bathroom door and turned to face Michael's bedroom.
Despite being thoroughly disgusted with the unrepentant man waiting for him
downstairs, he was fascinated by Michael's private space. The beige rail bed
frame, which was definitely feminine and probably bought by his mother, didn't
fit Michael's personality, but the rest of the room certainly did. The
fireplace, rustic hardwood flooring, thick crossbeams that formed the ceiling,
and the exposed rafters of the roof gave the room a more masculine feel.
Neutral colors in the rugs and accessories, along with a deep red coverlet on
the bed, was a refreshing break from all the country blue downstairs. And the
artwork...
He turned in a slow circle, his mouth open in stunned amazement at the number
of pieces in the room: on the walls, the fireplace mantle and any other
available flat surface. He smiled as his eyes quickly scanned every piece,
momentarily forgetting he was utterly repelled by the violence he'd just
witnessed. Michael obviously loved art, and he wasn't the stereotypical rich
guy buying up all the classics he could find, either. Michael's tastes were
eclectic and well off the beaten path. He only recognized one of the prints: a
Seurat.
Wait, what??? Patch of Grass??!! That copyright violating motherfucker! was his
first thought when his gaze landed on the print, which was hung on the wall
above a squat bookshelf. He had repeatedly refused to sell prints of that
painting. Patch of Grass was his soul poured out on a canvas. He'd never
intended to make money from it, and just the idea that Michael had gone behind
his back and had had a print made without his permission, infuriated him. He
and Michael were going to have a serious discussion about intellectual property
rights very soon.
Pushing his anger aside, his eyes returned to the painting hanging on the wall
facing Michael's bed. He'd skimmed over it in his initial sweep of the room,
but something about it drew him back. He moved closer to get a better look,
then stopped in shock; he felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach with
both feet without warning.
"What the hell??" He whispered aloud to the empty room. He'd never seen the
painting before; the artist's name was unfamiliar to him. The piece was
unnerving. The broad brush strokes were crude, furious slashes of purple and
black on the canvas, but the emotion in the picture reached out and grabbed him
by the throat. Chill bumps rose on his skin as he studied it. It was fucking
creepy, no other way to put it. Then he remembered their earlier conversation
in the kitchen. This was the kind of emotional art Michael liked. Despite that,
he wondered what would have ever possessed him to buy such a depressingly
morbid painting, let alone hang it where he could easily see it from his bed.
A short burst of a siren let him know that Michael's ride to city hall had
arrived. He cursed at not having more time to look at all the art in the room.
He hurriedly located the checkbook and closed the bedroom door behind him.
 
DEIDRA (played by Sheridan Smith) 
 
MICHAEL'S BEDROOM
 
THE DISTURBING PAINTING IN MICHAEL'S BEDROOM
 
Chapter End Notes
     You might be feeling some hate toward Michael right now, but I ask
     you to keep in mind that violence, especially the domestic kind,
     nearly always has trauma or abuse as its source.
***** The Business Deal *****
"Bruises, a black eye, broken nose, and a fractured cheek bone." His attorney
laid down the medical report and stared at him across the laminate desk that
separated them. "Tell me what happened."
Michael shrugged. "The cunt was in my house without my permission. That's
trespassing, which is against the law last time I checked. I told her three
times to get out of my house and she paid no attention to me. She tried to kiss
me, so I slapped the fuck out of her and knocked her ass down on the floor.
Then I proceeded to make sure that she'd think twice before touching me again."
"Are you sure you didn't invite her in?" he asked, obviously skeptical.
He wanted to ram his fist in his attorneys mouth. "No, I didn't invite her in.
I hate the bitch. Why would I let her in my house?"
"Why do you hate her?" 
He stared mutely at his hands. A long silence ensued, and finally his attorney
got it through his thick skull that he was done with their conversation.
"Paul is not going to be happy with you."
He looked up and laughed. "So what's new? He's never happy with me."
His attorney frowned, but said nothing. They'd been through this before; he
knew how Paul Golland rolled. "My advice is to plead guilty to misdemeanor
battery. Since this is your second offense, they're not going to let you out on
your own recognizance this time. You're going to have to post bail if you want
to sleep in your own bed tonight. And you're going to volunteer to pay all of
her medical bills." He stopped the official attorney bullshit and leaned
forward, clasping his hands together and acting concerned. "Some counseling
might help you, Michael. I urge you to consider it."
His temper erupted. "I'm not going to a shrink and if you even hint at that in
the hearing I'll fire your ass!"
His attorney sighed and leaned back in his chair. "It would help your case. It
would show the judge you're aware of your anger issues and you want help."
"Don't worry about my case. Daddy will kiss the boo-boo and make it all
better," he said, smirking. "Can't have his problem son publicly embarrassing
the family, now can he?"
His attorney sighed and gathered his papers. "I'm going to go talk to the other
attorney. Sit tight."
Left alone, he stretched out his legs and squirmed to get comfortable in the
cheap plastic chair. His first thought was of Daniel, which annoyed him. He was
acutely aware that any other normal person in his same predicament would be
worrying about his own ass instead of someone else's, but he wasn't.
What is Daniel thinking right now? He cursed softly at the thought, angry that
he even cared. What did it matter what some fag thought of him? It matters
because you respect him. He doesn't take your shit and you like that about
him. He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. He'd finally found someone
who could tolerate his presence for more than five minutes and he'd already
fucked it up, like he fucked up everything in his life. You're going to fire
him anyway, so what does it matter? You're an idiot if you think he's going to
have anything to do with you after you hand him that pink slip.
A sound of disgust erupted from his throat. He'd let his temper overrule his
common sense, and now, because of that one stupid mistake, he'd lost control of
his marionette. He could still fire Daniel, but who would be hurt the most by
that? Daniel, with his incredible talent, could find another job anywhere, but
he might never find another Daniel.  He felt like he was losing control of
everything, and that just pissed him the hell off.
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        

As Daniel sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair staring at the floor—the
pattern in City Hall’s industrial carpeting was more interesting than their
monotonous paneled walls—he wondered why he was there. If the police hadn't
asked him to hang around in case the judge wanted to hear his version of
events, he wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t be home downing a beer and watching TV.
He was that close to cutting all ties with Michael Golland.
Once he’d gotten away from the bedroom with all it’s unusual artwork, once he’d
shut down that part of his brain that insisted on focusing on their time in the
barn, once he’d finally cleared his head of all the sentimental mush and had
stopped thinking about Michael’s physical attractiveness, everything had
suddenly become clearer. Cameron was right. Michael was trouble. No, Daniel,
he’s troubled. Big difference. He huffed derisively at the unbidden thought. So
he was troubled. Okay, fine. But, did he really want to be friends with someone
who obviously had some pretty serious anger management issues and that short of
a fuse?  The woman’s battered and bloody face forced itself into his mind. He
couldn’t forget it, nor could he get rid of the image of Michael pounding his
fists into her face with such fury. He was no wimp by any means—he’d had his
share of bloody fights as a teenager—but he’d never,ever hit a girl. He'd been
raised better than that, but apparently Michael hadn't.
“What are you doing here?”
He looked up to see Michael towering over him, his characteristic arrogance
draped over him like a designer trench coat.
“The police asked me to hang around in case the judge wanted to hear my side of
things, but nobody ever sent for me.”
Michael smirked. “No need. I told them everything, then pleaded guilty to
misdemeanor battery. Donated a few thousand dollars to their coffers and then…”
He smiled arrogantly. “…here I am, free to go. Just like I told you I would
be.”
He fought the anger bubbling up inside of him. Social justice had been one of
the over-riding themes of his childhood, with his father being a lawyer and his
mother heavily involved in charity and volunteer work. You helped people, not
hurt them, and if you fucked up you suffered consequences. Watching Michael
walk away from this without any appreciable punishment went against everything
he'd been taught. Michael's smarmy arrogance didn’t help matters either. He bit
back what he really wanted to say and settled for glaring at him instead.
Suddenly Michael pulled his cell out of his jeans pocket and glanced at the
screen, his lips thinning into an angry line. He turned the phone off and
stuffed it back in his pocket.  “Could I sleep on your sofa tonight?” 
His jaw dropped at the man’s gall. “You have your own house.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “My father is back early. He just touched down at LAX
and he’s throwing a little tantrum. I need to be somewhere else tonight.”
"Get a hotel room," he snapped.
"He'll find me. I need somewhere he'd never think to look."
He thought it might be better for everyone involved if Paul Golland did find
his son tonight. Michael's father didn’t seem like the kind of man who would
tolerate bad behavior without some consequences. Anything good that happened in
this city, Paul Golland was involved in it, so perhaps justice would be
rendered in this case after all—private, family justice. Then he remembered
Cameron telling him at the Christmas party that Michael's father had gotten him
out of the same type of mess once before. So maybe his father was just throwing
a tantrum because he had to fix yet another mess. While Michael stared down at
him, waiting for an answer, he was forced to make a split-second decision.
Silent alarms were going off in his head, but because his parents had done a
very good job ingraining in him the idea of helping those who needed it, he
ignored the warnings.
“Sure. But just this one night.”
Michael nodded, his expression blank and unreadable for once. “Thank you,” he
said simply.
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
Paul wanted to hit something, tear something up, do some damage to someone,
preferably his fuck-up of a son, but indulging in a fit of rage wasn't an
option at the moment. Michael had turned off his phone—too big of a pussy to
face him—and Martin Pierce was sitting across from him, waiting patiently for
their business meeting to commence, watching him, listening. It was imperative
he appear calm on the outside, when in reality, he wanted to choke the life out
of Michael for his juvenile inability to control himself for a mere three
fucking days.
He cleared his throat when he heard the voice of his assistant greeting him
through the phone. "I'm in the middle of a meeting, so I need you to drop
whatever you're doing and locate my son. He's not answering his phone, which is
unusual for him." He added a tremor to his voice, just enough to convince
Pierce that he was a concerned father. "I'm very worried about him. Start with
his penthouse in the city. If he's not there, check the luxury hotels first."
If Michael was anything, he was predictably spoiled; he loved his luxuries and
couldn't go a night without them. Paul seriously doubted he'd be found in a
Super 8 eating pizza from a cardboard box no matter how desperate he was to
avoid his own father. "Call me when you find him, no matter how late."
He disconnected the call and turned his attention to his visitor. "I'm sorry
you had to hear that." He grimaced and sighed. "Being a parent isn't a nine-to-
five job, nor is it always the blessing people say it is."
"Your son's in trouble?" he asked, and Paul heard no judgement in his voice,
only genuine concern.
"Yes, unfortunately. Again. He's very impulsive. He never thinks about the
consequences of his actions. It's a full-time job keeping him in line."
"I understand completely," Pierce commiserated. "In my case, it's my daughter."
They spent a few minutes bonding over the immature acts of their respective
children before finally addressing the issue that was the reason for their
late-night meeting.
"My contact in Boston is even better than I'd hoped. He shares our mutual
desire to preserve the...cultural landscape...of this country."
Pierce laughed softly. "Cultural landscape, indeed. Does his desire extend
beyond the theoretical?"
Paul smiled, nodding. "Far beyond. We've found the perfect location: the
Dominican Republic. It has everything we're looking for: a well-developed
communications infrastructure, a corrupt government, high unemployment, 68% of
the population Roman Catholic, and best of all...it's outside the United
States' legal jurisdiction."
"What about...clients?" Pierce asked.
"My contact already has a few families in Boston, and the surrounding areas,
who are interested, but they want to see results, of course. As you know, my
homeless shelter, Helping Hands, is the largest and busiest one in LA, so we
can certainly tap into those resources in the beginning. Homeless people don't
have nosy families wondering where they are, so it'll be easy to use them to
gather some hard data to show perspective clients our success rate."
Pierce nodded. "Perfect. And is the climate in the Dominican Republic still
favorable for other entrepreneurial opportunities besides saving the cultural
landscape?"
Paul smirked. "It is. The crackdown on the Colombians is just for show. There's
corruption at every level of government. We shouldn't have any difficulties in
that area. So, are you in?"
"I'd like to personally meet your contact, and I want to see a detailed
business plan, along with a budget, of course, but..." He nodded and smiled.
"Yes. I am definitely in."
Paul smiled, rose and offered his hand to Pierce. "Welcome to Casa
Alianza...Covenant House."
Being wealthy and powerful had its perks, but to him, doing God's work was an
aphrodisiac like no other. 
 
 
***** Therapy *****
Daniel angrily fumbled the key into the lock and pushed through the front door,
stalking down the hallway to his bedroom and leaving Michael to fend for
himself. He needed to get his temper under control before he said or did
something he would regret come Monday morning. He had to remember that he
needed his job, not just to pay the bills, but to pretty up his resume in case
he decided to move on to greener pastures.  He tossed his jacket on the bed,
pried off his shoes and leaned against the door. The cluttered space that was
his bedroom disappeared behind his closed lids, his deep breaths the only
discernible sound. But despite his attempt to calm down and clear the
negativity from his mind, he kept replaying their conversation in the car ride
home: 
 
“What’s the woman’s medical condition? Is she all right?”
Michael snorted and continued looking out the side window. “I don’t give a fuck
what her condition is. In fact, I hope the cunt gets pneumonia and dies. It
would save me from having to fork out my hard-earned money on her whore ass.”
Daniel gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “That’s totally
uncalled for. She’s a human being with a family who loves her. What kind of
asshole wishes someone would die knowing that their death would cause other
people pain??”
Michael chuckled. “Me. I’m that asshole.”
Daniel should have just kept his mouth shut. He knew he was just going to waste
precious oxygen trying to reason with the guy, but his social justice gene just
wouldn’t let him stay silent.   “Cunt is a horrible name to call a woman.”
“Not if it fits.”
He forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and relax his
clenched jaw. “There is no justification for calling any woman that.”
Michael snickered. “Having a vagina is reason enough.”
 
Disgusted and no calmer than when he’d shut the door behind him, he left the
quiet sanctuary of his bedroom and headed down the hall. He had a feeling it
was going to be a long night.
                                        
               -------------------------------------------------
                                        
“GEM pays you better than this.”
The first words out of the jerk’s mouth, a criticism of his house. Yes, it was
going to be a very long night, and he was fresh out of patience. “If you don’t
like the way I live, there’s the door.”
Michael stood in the middle of the hardwood floor, inspecting every inch of the
living room like he was the lead editor for Architectural Digest. “I didn’t
realize they sold houses on eBay,” he said, chuckling.
He lives in a blue-checked chintz nightmare straight out of a bad gay fairy
tale and he’s criticizing my house???  He gritted his teeth. “It’s a Craftsman
Style Bungalow.”
“Don’t you have a spare bedroom?” Michael asked, ignoring his comment and
eyeing the sofa that was obviously much too small to accommodate his height.
“You asked to sleep on my couch.” He pointed to the forest green sofa that was
currently occupied by several messy stacks of art magazines. “There it is.”
“There’s a pile of shit on it,” he observed dryly.
Daniel shot him a wide-eyed look. “Oh wow. You’re right. There is.” He wasn’t
in the mood to be the perfect host and he certainly wasn’t Michael Golland’s
house servant. The man had two hands that worked.
After a few moments of stubborn silence and glares, Michael finally caved and
began to remove the magazines from the sofa, dropping the three stacks of books
onto the floor with a loud thud. He folded his lean body onto the cleared sofa,
stretched his arms out across the back of it and crossed his legs in that
priggish way that annoyed Daniel. They stared at each other, Michael sporting a
self-satisfied smirk and him itching to punch it off his face.
“The air of moral superiority is so thick in this room you could cut it with a
knife,” he said. “Are you perfect, Daniel? Where are your angel wings, or do
you only wear those on special occasions?”
“I’m not perfect, but I don’t hit women.”
Michael grinned. “I don’t hit women either. Just cunts.”
They were back to that word again. His knee-jerk reaction was to counter the
comment with the same argument he’d used in the car, when he suddenly realized
he was being purposely baited. Michael obviously just wanted a fight, and he
was expertly pushing his buttons to get it. Backing down went against his
grain, but he did it anyway.  “You want something to drink? I have milk, orange
juice, water and beer.”
He wanted beer, but of course Natural Light wasn’t good enough for him, calling
it ‘dishwater in a can.’ He told him he could drink it or do without, since
that was what he had and he wasn’t going out to buy something else. Michael
grimaced, but decided he might be able to tolerate one can of dishwater, since
he had no other choice, and his host obviously lacked good taste.
Daniel clenched his jaw and bit back the insult that was just moments from
bursting out of his mouth. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” On
my entirely too small and lumpy thrift shop couch.
Once he entered the kitchen, his mental rant began. The guy has calloused hands
instead of a manicure, he owns a Jeep instead of a Porsche, and he lives in his
mother’s fairy tale cottage instead of a penthouse, yet he still thinks he’s
better than everyone else. Yeah, he likes horses and is good with them, but the
only reason that whole thing works is because they can’t talk back to his
stupid ass. They can’t tell him what they really think, that he’s a snobby
asshole and a first class dick.He suddenly felt sorry for poor Claire. The
ridiculous shit she must have had to listen to from him all these years. It was
a wonder she was still sane enough to put one hoof in front of the other.
Michael Golland was nothing but a spoiled, rich brat and he wondered what in
hell he’d been thinking when he’d decided to try and be the guy’s friend.
You were thinking with your dick, like you always do. Nothing new there.  He
slung open the refrigerator and grabbed two beers, slammed them down on the
counter, opening one and taking a big long drink. He really needed something
stronger to get him through a night with an unrepentant millionaire batterer
with a superiority complex.
You’re not being very professional, Daniel.  That disapproving voice came out
of nowhere, slamming into his head and obliterating all of his childish, petty
thoughts. And once that door flew open, there was nothing to stop the
deluge. You need to take a professional step back and regroup. This isn’t about
you.
“Shit,” he whispered beneath his breath. He was acting like a butt-hurt little
kid just because his unrealistic idea of the perfect man had turned out to be a
major disappointment. A little honest introspection was in order, it
seemed. Take your personal feelings completely out of this, and then analyze
what’s left.
Once he removed his physical attraction to Michael from the equation, and
viewed him objectively as just another stranger off the street, the conclusion
came pretty quickly. His training told him that Michael Golland wasn’t just an
asshole who beat up women for entertainment. He was most likely a victim of
some sort of trauma. Statistics proved time and again that abusers nearly
always found their inspiration in past abuse. Violence was oftentimes passed on
from generation to generation just like the family eye color.
The black eye and bruises on his face: he was still being abused by someone and
continuing to take it.
The violence against this woman: there was too much fury in his blows for it to
be something as simple as a bad breakup. There was something deeper going on
between them.  No friends. No empathy for others. Bullying behavior. He was
kind and gentle with animals, but obviously lacked the basic social skills
necessary to integrate smoothly into society.
If he hadn't been so busy thinking only of himself and drooling over that tight
ass, he would have seen the writing on the wall a long time ago.  He took a
deep, cleansing breath, and for the first time since he’d left Michael’s barn,
he felt completely calm and centered. Michael was manifesting the classic
symptoms of BPS—Battered Person’s Syndrome. He was an emotional grenade just
waiting for the wrong person to accidentally pull the pin.
He knew what he had to do.

              --------------------------------------------------
                                        
Daniel carried a chair from the kitchen into the living room, placing it in
front of the coffee table that separated him from Michael. He handed Michael
his beer and then moved his art junk from the top of the table to the floor,
leaving a single charcoal pencil and a sketch pad in the middle. He could feel
Michael's gaze following his every move.
"What are you doing?" 
He looked Michael straight in those beautiful icy blue eyes, and then
immediately chastised himself for even noticing how beautiful they were. Keep a
professional distance. This is not about you.
"I want to apologize for everything I've said to you, and for the way I've
acted since this happened. I have been judging you, and that was wrong of me. I
was way out of line. I'm sorry."
He hadn't meant to knock him completely off balance with his apology, but
that's what he'd done. Michael seemed to be at a temporary loss for words. No
arrogant, snide remarks. No smirk. He just seemed confused and a little
curious.
"Okay," Michael managed finally, a barely-there frown creasing his forehead.
He had no idea how Michael was going to react to what he was about to say. He
crossed his mental fingers and jumped in with both feet. "You've read my
resume. You know my work history before I came to GEM. We've talked about art
therapy at lunch; you know what it is. You know I'm qualified."
He fully expected those classic cheekbones to turn razor sharp with anger, but
he was surprised to see the corners of Michael's mouth twitch. His
characteristic smirk made a brief appearance just seconds before he smiled
brilliantly and then laughed. "So you want to be my therapist now??"
He was grinning and not taking this seriously at all, but Daniel was. "Yes," he
answered simply.
The smile disappeared in an instant. He watched in fascination as Michael
raised that thick wall of disdain that he'd apparently spent a lifetime
constructing.
"I don't need a therapist," he said, sneering. "And even if I did, I wouldn't
tell you shit. You're an employee, an underling."
He ignored the social status dig; he wasn't going to allow Michael to push any
more of his buttons tonight. "I'm a professional," he stated firmly, and then
added softly, "and I'm your friend, probably the only one you have. I want to
help you."
No sneer. No smirk. Just Michael's intense blue gaze drilling into his face. It
was impossible for him to gauge what was going on behind those eyes. Michael's
practiced blank expression gave nothing away.
"I'm a licensed therapist. I take my oath of confidentiality seriously.
Anything you say to me from this point on will go no further than this room.
You can trust me."
Michael shifted his gaze to some random spot on the coffee table, but said
nothing. The stubborn silence dragged on. He took it as a good sign that
Michael hadn't gotten up and stormed out, so he began the slow and gentle
process of getting this wounded man to open up to him.
"You could start by telling me this woman's name and your relationship to her,"
he suggested gently.
The silence wasn't nearly as long this time. "Deidra Hammond, and I don't have
a relationship with her. She's one of my father's whores."
Paul Golland has whores?? Luckily his filter worked perfectly when he was in
therapist mode, but that didn't stop him from silently speculating on the
accuracy of that statement. Paul Golland was a pillar of the community, a
champion for the homeless, a philanthropist who tirelessly helped immigrants,
not to mention all the public works he did for the Catholic community. The man
was a legend in Los Angeles.
"I can tell by your face that you don't believe me, but I assure you that my
father does indeed have a stable of expensive whores, and that cunt I punched
in the face is one of them."
The method of delivery was so intense and serious that he had no choice but to
accept Michael's statement as truth. "I believe you," he said. "So, what
happened between you and Deidra to cause that level of violence?"
Michael shrugged. "You were there. You saw what happened. She was in my house
without permission and wouldn't leave—"
"No," he interrupted. "I'm not talking about that. Tell me what happened
between the two of you before today."
The smirk was back...in spades. In that defining moment, the clouds parted and
the sun burst through the fog, shining brilliantly and illuminating the man
sitting in front of him. He suddenly realized that Michael's arrogance, his
haughtiness, his rudeness, his smirks, they were all just bits and pieces of
armor created to protect him from having to deal with the messy, emotional part
of life.
"No. I'm not telling you."
Outright refusal to confide in a therapist was common, especially in the early
stages of treatment, but that didn't deter him in the slightest. "Why won't you
tell me?"
A small, knowing smile. "Because you won't believe me."
"You tell me the truth, and I will believe you," he said, holding Michael's
gaze and refusing to look away.
He hadn't gotten that Bug-Under-the-Microscope feeling from anyone else since
that day he'd been called to Michael's office after the Christmas party. He had
it now. Michael was studying him intently, and he could only assume from what
little he knew about him, that he was weighing all of his options. He probably
had a little balance sheet inside his head with two columns: Why I Should Trust
this Fag and Why I Shouldn't Trust This Fag and he was busy adding pros and
cons to it in the tense silence that kept dragging on and on. He did what he'd
been trained to do in these instances: he kept his mouth shut and waited
patiently.  Michael's gaze abruptly shifted to the floor. He took a deep
breath, let it out and then looked back up. A decision had been made.
"She raped me when I was thirteen."
That simple statement slammed into Daniel with the force of a head-on
collision. It wasn't what he'd expected to hear. He fought to keep his
professional mask in place, while his heart tried to pound out of his chest.
The smirk. "Why aren't you laughing?"
He swallowed hard, hoping that when he spoke his voice wouldn't tremble. "Why
would I laugh?"
A snicker. "Because everyone knows that thirteen-year-old boys don't get raped.
They get laid."
This isn't about you. This isn't about you. This isn't about you. The chant was
a new soundtrack playing in the background of his mind as snippets of his own
rape tried to push their way out of the locked room he'd put them in. "Did you
say no?" he asked, holding Michael's gaze.
"More times than I could count. I said no. I screamed no. I fought."
"Then you were raped," he said softly.
That validation seemed to be all Michael needed. The horrible story flooded out
of him in one long deluge. The pain of its telling crashed into Daniel, washing
away his carefully built defenses, dragging him under and stealing his last
breaths. The repressed rage he heard in Michael's narrative was all too
familiar. As Michael described the disgusting sounds of her body coming
together with his, the scrape of her nails on his skin, the sickening softness
of her voice as she crooned endearments to him, his obsession with a small
blemish in the paint on the ceiling, the horror of his own rape escaped its
confines and crushed him in its smothering embrace.  This isn't about you. This
isn't about you. This isn't about you.
"I started to fight. I mean, really fight. I kicked at her and tried to punch
her. He hit me hard enough to knock me out for a few moments. When I came to, I
was tied down."
The narrative continued, the plot so familiar that he could have finished the
story himself. Michael willing himself out of that room. Fighting the nausea.
Feeling the tendrils of a new emotion curling themselves around his mind:
shame. Raging to lash out. Wanting to withdraw. Praying to die. Desperate to
live.
This isn't about you, you selfish motherfucker!!  The soundtrack abruptly
stopped. The door slammed shut on his painful past. His mind was suddenly clear
and lucid, his subconscious latching onto something he'd missed. "Wait. Stop."
Michael obeyed.
"Who is 'he'?" he asked. "You said, 'He hit me.' Who hit you?"
What he now saw in Michael's eyes scared the fuck out of him. In all of his
twenty-six years of living, he'd never seen that level of hatred in anyone's
eyes.
"My father."
He listened in shock as Michael described his father's role in his rape. His
mother was away helping her sister during an illness. Michael was summoned to
his father's bedroom one afternoon where he was given a lecture about how it
was time he was educated in how to deal with women, something the schools would
never teach him. Women were as important as a balanced portfolio, he was told.
And once you acquired a suitable woman, then there were only two things a man
needed to do—and do well—to ensure her continued presence: stay rich and fuck
her senseless on a regular basis. Since he was too young to get a job and start
on the road to riches, he was going to learn to fuck.
"He orchestrated it, and then stayed and watched to make sure it was done
right. When I objected, he ridiculed me." He was a pathetic excuse for a red-
blooded male. It was just his luck to be the only parent with a boy who would
object to getting laid. This was his last chance to prove he was capable of
being a man. Only a boy who was fucked up in the head would hit a woman who was
just trying to educate him in a skill he was going to need as an adult. He
wasn't normal and never had been. He needed to be sent off to find out what was
wrong with him. He was disgusted by the sight of his own son.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Daniel whispered, his filter finally failing.
Unprofessional of him, but he couldn't have stopped the oath if he'd wanted to.
He was horrified at the level of abuse Michael had been subjected to, and at
such a young age. It was no wonder the guy could maul a woman's face with his
fists and feel no remorse. The rape notwithstanding, his own father obviously
viewed women as something less than human, as objects, pretty prizes just to
display on his mantle, and he'd taught his son the same thing.
"I'd never done anything up to that point to make my father proud of me,"
Michael continued. Then, unexpectedly he smiled, and it was anything but
pleasant. "But I did that day. I finally did something to earn his respect. I
was only thirteen. I didn't know anything about sex, so I didn't understand
what had happened. I thought she'd pissed on me; it spewed all over my stomach.
I almost threw up when I saw it. But you'd have thought I'd just single-
handedly orchestrated world peace to see the huge grin on my father's face. He
pronounced me a man right there on the spot, and apparently was so turned on by
my new status that he felt compelled to fuck her himself, right there in front
of me."
His professional distance shattered. This was too much. Too painful. Too raw.
This was worse than anything he'd ever experienced. The gay-boy bullying of his
childhood was nothing. His rape seemed insignificant compared to what Michael
had gone through, and was still going through, if the bruises on his face and
his barely submerged fury were any indication. This isn't about you, Daniel!
 He opened the drawing tablet on the coffee table and offered the charcoal
pencil to Michael. "I'd like for you to do something for me."
"What?"
"Take this charcoal and draw the one thing in your life that is causing you the
most unhappiness."
Michael looked at him like he'd lost his mind and then laughed. "I don't need
to draw it. You already know what it is: my father. I fucking hate the bastard
and wished he would just die already."
So much for the 'art' part of Art Therapy. He sighed, shut the tablet and
tossed the charcoal on top of it. He'd never felt so useless in his entire
life. "Have you had an honest conversation about this with your father?"
"An honest conversation??" Michael shook his head, giving him a look that
plainly said he was as naive as fuck. "You obviously don't know Paul Golland on
anything other than a superficial level. You don't have conversations with my
father. He makes grand pronouncements and then garnishes them with lots of
little clever insults. His punctuation marks are put-downs. I can almost
predict what he'd say if I confronted him about it: 'You were hard enough to
cut diamonds, and then you came. That's not rape, stupid boy, that's called
getting fucked."
"Your father would be wrong, then," he said. "Arousal is more common during
rape than people want to admit. It's something no one wants to talk about, but
the physical body is capable of responding to sexual stimuli, even if the mind
is lagging way behind. Just because you got an erection and then came doesn't
mean you weren't raped. You didn't want this contact with her; you voiced your
objections and they were ignored. That is the definition of rape, and no
justifications he puts forth will change that definition."
Michael shrugged. "This is just one of those deep, dark family secrets that'll
never see the light of day. The Gollands are a perfect and functional family.
That's the image that must be maintained at all times. What happened to me
doesn't matter."
"It does matter," he said softly.
He ignored Daniel's comment. "So, to get back to your original question about
what caused the violence. She wanted to pretend like nothing bad had happened.
I'm pretty effed up, I'll admit that, but having a relationship with my
rapist??" He laughed. "I'm not that fucked up yet. That's totally sick."
Acid churned in his stomach as the memories pushed and prodded at that locked
door in his mind. They wanted out, but he'd spent too many years and invested
too much emotional energy keeping them at bay to just carelessly swing that
door open. Michael was waiting for a response. He frantically searched for the
right words. "Sounds like she's in denial that she did anything wrong," was all
he could come up with.
Michael leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. The challenge in his
arrogant smile was impossible to miss. "So, now that you know all the gory
details of my pathetic life, how are you going to fix me?"
He wasn't going to sugar coat it, not for this guy. Lies would never earn his
respect or his trust. "I can't fix you," he admitted. "All I can do is suggest
some strategies to help you deal with your anger in more constructive ways than
with your fists. The creative process can be very healing, if you give it a
chance. And I can always listen when you need someone to talk to."
Michael rolled his eyes and grinned. "And here I was hoping you could give me
the number of a good hit man." He broke eye contact and stretched out on the
too-short sofa, using his arms for a pillow and with his feet dangling off the
armrest on the other end, effectively ending their conversation.
Daniel suppressed a sigh. "I don't have a spare bedroom. Well, actually, I do,
but there's no bed. I use it to paint in. I'll go get you a pillow and a
blanket."
As he turned to leave the room, Michael spoke softly, "Thanks for trying."
 
DANIEL'S LIVING ROOM
 
 
***** Damage Control *****
Jack stopped what he was doing and watched him, eyes narrowed suspiciously, as
Daniel shuffled to the stool and sat down. “What happened to your face?”
He breathed in the comforting smell of hay and horses. He hadn’t been in the
barn a full minute, but felt better already. “I got in a fight at school,” he
answered. “I’m suspended for nine days, but mom said I could still come and
help with the horses.”
Jack nodded. “That’s good, but why were you fighting?”
He’d lied to the principal, saying it was a disagreement on the basketball
court over a bad call. He’d repeated the same lie to his parents when he’d
gotten home and handed them the suspension letter. He was scared to tell the
truth and so tired of lying, both at the same time. But something told him Jack
wouldn’t judge him. “They called me a faggot and a cock-sucking queer. Then one
of them said I probably suck my own dad’s dick, so I punched him.”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he nodded his approval. “Good for
you. And God, please tell me you broke something.”
“I felt a crunch, and there was a lot of blood, so yeah, I think I might have
broken his nose,” he answered, smirking. “But his friends managed to get in a
few punches of their own before the principal came.”
Jack grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. It felt good to finally tell someone
what he was going through, to let it out and put it on someone else’s plate for
a change.
“Does this happen a lot?” Jack asked softly.
He nodded. School was hell. The bullies never let up. People said that standing
up to them, beating the shit out of them one good time, would stop them, but
that had never worked for him. He knew the boy he’d hit would be back for more
after their suspensions were over.
“Daniel, can I ask you a very personal question? And you can refuse to answer,
that’s okay. I won’t get mad if you don’t want to tell me.”
He had a feeling he knew what the question was going to be. Would he be able to
answer it? Would he actually be able to say the words…out loud?
“Are you homosexual?” Jack asked, his voice gentle and free of any judgments.
“That means you’re attracted to boys—“
“I know what it means,” he interrupted.
“Are you?”
He didn’t even need to think about it. He’d known he was different since
elementary school. He’d never been interested in pulling girls’ ponytails or
looking down their shirts, like his friends had. He’d always been way more
interested in the boys who were doing the pulling and looking.
“Yes,” he answered, and that word came out a lot easier than he expected it
would. And with the truth came a weird kind of relief. Someone else besides him
finally knew the truth. He wasn’t alone with the hurt of it anymore.  Jack
stared at him for way longer than was comfortable. He started to feel like
maybe he should get up and check on Apache’s abscess, see if it needed another
poultice. He decided that was what he’d do, stood up, and was immediately
stopped by Jack’s hand on his arm.
“Wait,” Jack said, gently tugging him back down to the stool. “Is this...I
mean…do you like boys because of what I did to you?”
The question shocked him, and was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever heard
an adult say. The idea that what had happened had caused him to like boys was
just plain dumb. “No. I’ve always been this way. I remember feeling different
way back in elementary school, even before. That had nothing to do with it.”
Jack reached out a lone finger and gently touched the puffy bruise at the crest
of his cheek. “So much violence in your young life,” he commented softly. “And
I was part of that violence. I deeply regret that, and I promise I will never
hurt you again.”
He'd forgiven him for that a long time ago, and Jack had been nothing but kind
to him ever since, teaching him all about horses and just being his friend.
When Jack promised he'd never hurt him again, he believed him.
 
He came out of the dream slow and easy, just drifting upward, then uneventfully
opening his eyes. He blinked in the darkness, not because he was trying to see
the shadowy corners of his room like he usually did when he awoke from one of
his nightmares, but because he was shocked at how calm he felt. No panic. No
frantically searching the darkness for his childhood demons. No sliding to the
floor and crying like a baby. Just peace and a strange sense of serenity.
Because of what Michael had confided in him, he’d fully expected to spend the
rest of his night stumbling through his vast repertoire of nightmares, but it
turned out his subconscious mind was into a new kind of torture: tormenting him
with his pleasant memories instead of his most painful ones. He was completely
surprised to have dreamed about the one moment with Jack that had meant the
most to him. Despite everything weird and bad that had come afterward, that day
in the barn, in which he’d admitted to another human being he was gay, was one
of the happiest of his life. And the person on the receiving end of the news
had been understanding and supportive. He’d never expected that, and he’d never
forget how kind Jack was to him that day.
He knew from experience that if he spent too much time dwelling on the good
parts of his childhood, the bad memories would get jealous of the attention and
push their way back into the conversation. So, he turned them all off, rolled
over and drifted back to sleep.
===============================================================================
                                        
Michael awoke in a state of physical discomfort and emotional disorientation.
The room was dim, its shadows unfamiliar to him until his wakening brain
reminded him he was sacked out on Daniel’s cheap, too-short sofa. He'd slept
more comfortably on a pile of hay in Claire’s stall than on this lumpy pile of
polyester shit shamelessly masquerading as living room furniture. He stretched,
and despite the stiffness in his back, he felt surprisingly refreshed. How long
had it been since he’d woken from a night free from dreams? Maybe there was
something to all that psychobabble that claimed therapy was good for the soul.
He’d dumped the cesspool that was his life right into Daniel’s lap and had
walked away without a care. He’d slept like a baby. He wondered if Daniel had
done the same, or if he’d spent the night reviewing all his notes from
Psychology class and drawing up a therapy plan for his fucked up friend.
You’re nothing but a sentimental idiot. You’ve already lost what little power
you had over him. You might as well just bend over and let him fuck you in the
ass. He’s going to use all that shit against you. You know he is. You would do
the same to him in a heartbeat. That thought was the mental slap to the face
that he needed. He shook his head, silently cursing himself for being so
stupid, for exposing himself that way, for giving Daniel something to hold over
his head. What a fucking idiot he was. So he’d had a good dream-free night’s
sleep. So what? Was he really so desperate for someone to like him, to
understand him, that he’d just blab the disgusting details of his life to
anyone?? The vandalism of GEM’s building was nothing compared to what Daniel
now had on him. He’d lost the advantage. Time to move on to damage control.
His bladder forced him from the sofa and to the bathroom. After quietly taking
care of business, he decided to do a bit of exploring now that the house was
starting to lighten with the coming sunrise. The door at the end of the hall
was ajar. He gently pushed it open just enough so that he could see in without
being seen. He could only assume it was Daniel’s bedroom, but he was only
basing that assumption on the fact that a dark mass of hair was sticking out of
the top of a mummy-looking mass rolled up in a sheet. It was breathing, so it
was safe to assume it was alive. The rest of the room resembled anything but a
bedroom. It looked like someone’s junky attic. There were books and what looked
like his art stuff sitting everywhere, even in the floor. How does he live like
this??
He backed out of the room and headed for the spare bedroom, the one Daniel had
said he used as a make-shift studio. He pushed the door open, and a completely
different Daniel Hart was revealed. The space was immaculate and clean. Two
covered easels sat in the middle of the room with a stool nearby, a
professional light stood in the corner, and neat shelves housed his paints and
other supplies. The room was large, light and airy, so different from the wood
décor in the rest of the house. One huge bay window took up almost the entire
east-facing wall. The sky was lightening; sunrise was imminent. The view
sucked, but he enjoyed it anyway. With the sunrise over, he turned his
attention to the two easels in the middle of the room. The white drapes that
covered them might as well have been a neon sign inviting passers-by to take a
look. He was so curious to see what lay beneath those cloths and felt no guilt
as he slid the first one off.
It was his portrait for his office, but who was that man?? Daniel's artist eye
obviously saw someone entirely different from the man he saw in the mirror
every morning. He actually looked like a respected officer of the company,
which he would never be. Where were the stark lines of his cheekbones that
Daniel was always going on about? Where were those deep shadows that 'defined
the bone structure of his face'? The person on the canvas was him, but at the
same time, it wasn't him. He looked too...innocuous. He wasn't sure he liked
it, but he'd hold up his end of the bargain. He'd pay Daniel's fee, hang it in
his office and hope it irked the fuck out of his father. If it accomplished
that much, it would be worth the money.
He turned to the second easel and pulled off the cover. The shock of it hit him
full force. The image on the canvas was everything the other one wasn't. It
looked as if Daniel had peered into his soul and painted what he'd seen. The
deep shadows were there, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the hard set of his
jaw. His eyes were a clear, icy blue, his gaze piercing. There was anger in
that face, years of pent-up rage in those cold eyes. So, this was the man
everyone saw when they looked at Michael Golland. It was definitely the man he
saw in the mirror every morning. It was unsettling that Daniel knew him so
well, but despite that, he smiled. The painting was perfect and he absolutely
loved it.
He replaced the cloths on both canvases, then swept his eyes over the room one
last time. A pile of drawing tablets, similar to the one that had lain on the
coffee table during their talk, was stacked neatly against the wall. He
couldn't resist. He grabbed the one on top, precariously perched his ass on the
edge of the stool and flipped it open: page after page after page of his face.
Him smiling. Frowning. Laughing. One drawing with his I'm-Being-a-Total-Dick
expression. Another with his Get-Your-Lame-Ass-the-Fuck-Out-of-My-World
expression. One of just his eyes. Just his nose. Just his cheekbones. His
mouth. Jesus. The man is obsessed with you. He didn't know whether he was
supposed to be flattered, offended or freaked out. He'd never been the center
of anyone's attention before, at least not like this. He'd spent his whole life
avoiding attention, from his father, from the whores who wanted to latch onto
his gravy train, and just from people in general. How was he supposed to react
to knowing his face, and maybe even his entire life for all he knew, was the
obsession of another person? He shut the tablet and returned it to the stack,
forcing the whole thing from his mind.
On to the kitchen. He was hungry, in dire need of caffeine, and also curious to
discover if Daniel's cooking space was as cluttered as his bedroom.
===============================================================================
                                        
Daniel awoke to the smell of coffee. The only thing he was sure of after
visiting Michael's house was that he was a certified neat freak. He grinned at
the thought of Michael puttering around in his cluttered kitchen, trying to
find stuff.  He rummaged a pair of sweat pants from the floor, threw on an old
t-shirt, and ambled to the bathroom to wake himself up. What fucking time is
it?? The sun was obviously up, but it felt like the ass-crack of dawn to him.
He instinctively knew he was awake way too early for a Sunday morning.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, he was halfway human. The aroma of
coffee drew him down the hall, through the living room and into the kitchen,
where Michael sat at his table looking more delicious than the food spread out
in front of him. Holy fuck, that stubble! He'd never seen Michael anything
other than clean-shaven. His five o'clock shadow was sexy as hell.
"I couldn't find anything decent to fix for breakfast, and I refuse to drink
liquid shit as a substitute for coffee," Michael said, getting his morning snob
on. "So, I ordered out and had it all delivered."
If Michael was trying to piss him off, it wasn't working. He hadn't been to the
grocery store lately, and he knew his coffee wasn't ground from the most
expensive beans on the tree. He offered his thanks, poured himself a cup of
coffee, then sat down across from Michael to enjoy the view. There were
scrambled eggs, fruit, buttered croissants and jams, not exactly the gourmet
breakfast he'd expected with Michael doing the ordering, but he wasn't going to
complain. He didn't even want to think about how much Michael had had to fork
out to get a restaurant to deliver, and on a Sunday morning, no less. They ate
in companionable silence until his cup runneth dry. He went to the counter for
a refill, scratching an itch on his side as he went, and inadvertently exposing
a small portion of his body to a guy with an annoying eye for detail.
"You have tattoos??" Michael asked.
He let the question hang in the air as he poured himself another cup of the
amazing coffee. He turned to face Michael and smirked. "No, I don't have
tattoos." He waited a beat, pleased to see the puzzled look on Michael's face.
"I have body art, man. Body art. Get it right."
"I want to see."
Four simple words had his heart was racing like he'd run a marathon. Michael
was studying him, waiting patiently for him to strip off his shirt, but he was
too busy trying not to hyperventilate to actually do it.
Michael chuckled. "I'm not going to fire you for having tattoos. As long as
they're hidden, GEM doesn't care."
"It's body art," he repeated weakly. He swallowed nervously and sat his cup on
the counter. He rolled his t-shirt over his head, leaving it dangling from one
hand, exposing his chest to his boss, his friend, and a man he'd kill to go to
bed with. Having those gorgeous eyes on his half-naked body was a dream come
true, but it was also unnerving as hell. He pointed to the tribal design
covering nearly all of his left breast and the top part of his abdomen. "This
was my first one. It took me several months to design it. Got it done when I
was in college."
He followed Michael's gaze as it traveled so slowly over every inch of ink on
his skin. He prayed his cock would behave under the scrutiny of those eyes.
Then he turned around and displayed his back, imagining Michael's eyes
traveling down the length of the design that started on his shoulder and ended
beneath the waistband of his sweats.
"I designed this one, too, and got the ink two years ago."
"How far down does it go?"
"It ends on my ass," he answered, and just the thought of Michael staring at
his ass, even though the design was hidden beneath his sweatpants, was enough
to make his cock roll out of bed. He quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head
and yanked it down before turning back around. He grabbed his coffee and
hustled to the table, hoping Michael wouldn't see the effect his gaze had on
his body.
"You're very talented, and the portraits turned out very well, especially the
dark one. The other one is sort of bland, but the one with all the shadows and
heavy brush strokes, I love that one."
He had a sudden 'oh shit' moment when he realized Michael had been in his
studio, unaccompanied. How much had he seen? He frantically tried to remember
where he'd left that tablet filled with the erotic drawings of Michael's body,
or at least Michael's body as he imagined it in his daydreams. Fuck. I'm toast
if he found those!  "Official portraits aren't supposed to push artistic
boundaries. They're generally very conservative and....yeah...bland is a good
word for it. That was intentional," he explained. "The other one is more
introspective, more artistic, more..." His filter stopped the word from coming
out, but Michael was one step ahead of him.
"Truthful?" Michael suggested. "The bland one is the idealistic me, and the
dark one is the real me. How the world sees me. How you see me."
He nodded.
Michael grinned crookedly. "So, I'm a dick."
When a person could clearly see their own faults and laugh at them, that was
considered a positive trait in the psychology world. Daniel chuckled. "Yes, you
are." But I like you for some fucked-up reason.
The grin vanished in an instant. Michael relaxed back in his chair and crossed
his arms over his chest. He was beginning to learn Michael's numerous defense
mechanisms and this pose was one of them. He only had seconds to brace himself
for whatever was coming.
"I'm your supervisor. My name stamp is on your paycheck. I maintain your
personnel records. If any future employers call GEM for a reference on you,
I'll be the one they talk to. So, if you try to use anything I confided to you
last night against me in any way, I will ruin you. You'll never work in your
field again."
His first reaction was to calmly tell Michael to go fuck his asshole ungrateful
self, just like he'd done at the Christmas party, but he bit back his anger at
the implication that he was unprofessional, that'd he'd actually use
confidential information in such an unethical way. He forced himself to
remember that Michael probably felt very vulnerable after spilling his guts
about something so personal, and people who got off on controlling others
thoroughly disliked feeling vulnerable. This was Michael Golland in damage
control mode.
"I really should throw your ass out of here for that, but I'm not going to," he
said calmly. "I understand how much strength and courage it took for you to
open up to me last night, and if I ever used anything you told me in confidence
to hurt you, I'd deserve to be ruined. But, I would never do that to you, to
anyone. That's not how I roll, professionally or with my friends." He extended
his hand across the table. "You can trust me, Michael."
He was consulting his mental balance sheet again, weighing the pros and cons of
trusting him. It really was interesting to watch Michael Golland make a
decision. He wondered if the man realized how transparent he was to anyone who
paid more than five minutes attention to him.
Michael took his hand and shook, his grasp firm and strong. "I'll trust you to
keep my secrets as closely as you keep your own."
He froze beneath Michael's intent gaze, his heart pounding, his mouth going
dry. How did he know he had secrets?? He knew he'd never let anything slip in
their conversations; his secrets were safely locked away in the past where they
belonged. They no longer tormented him, well, except in his dreams, but he had
that under control. His art was his therapy. It calmed him, kept him centered
and focused on what was really important: his career. He was doing fine now.
So, how did Michael know? He knows because he's a perceptive, detail-oriented
son of a bitch who doesn't miss a thing. You need to be more careful.
Daniel returned the shake and nodded, not sure what to say. He settled on the
'less is more' approach. "Deal."
There was no missing the small gleam of victory in Michael's eyes, but his
gloating lasted only a couple of seconds. He rose from the table and began
cleaning up breakfast. He worked alongside him in silence, pondering this new
dynamic in their relationship. Everything was about power and control with
Michael, and it had been since the first moment they'd met. It was a good thing
Michael was straight, because he didn't know if he had the energy to be in an
intimate relationship with the guy. It would be emotionally exhausting for
anyone stupid enough to attempt it. The man was ungodly beautiful and sexy as
fuck, but he had 'Warning: High Maintenance' written all over him.
When everything was cleaned up and as neat as it was going to get, Michael
thanked him for the use of his sofa. The sentiment was surprisingly heartfelt
considering the guy had just threatened to ruin his life ten minutes ago.
"Time to face the music," he said stoically.
"Your father?"
He nodded.
Daniel walked him to the front door, wishing there was something he could do to
ease his way. What advice should he give him? He quickly ran through the
strategies for dealing with anger in high stress situations. Michael's hand was
on the doorknob. If he was going to say something, he needed to do it
fast. "Don't let him hit you," was what came out. Not exactly an anger
management strategy, but he couldn't get those bruises on Michael's face out of
his mind.
Michael chuckled softly. "I'll be sure to do that."
He grabbed Michael's arm, forcing him to stop and look at him. "I'm serious,
Michael. Do not, under any circumstances, allow him to hit you again."
He pulled his arm away. "And what if he does? Then what?" he asked, smirking
arrogantly.
The boy who'd been bullied his entire life was dying to tell him to just knock
the fucker out, just once, just to show his father the abuse was over. Done.
Finished. But the therapist inside him knew that was the wrong answer. Violence
wasn't the universal problem-solver many people claimed it was. It sometimes
worked, but not always, and especially in situations where the abuse had been
ongoing for years.
"You think I should hit him back?" Michael asked, challenging him, forcing him
to take a stance.
"Have you?"
Michael laughed. "No, and I never will."
He'd never seen anyone display such a cavalier attitude in the face of abuse.
It was as if Michael didn't even care about his own physical safety. "Why
not??" he demanded, the question bursting out of his mouth before he could stop
it.
Michael's good humor abruptly vanished; his gaze turned hard. "If I hit him
once, I wouldn't stop." A car stopped at the curb, horn blowing. "My driver's
here."
And then he was gone.
 
DANIEL'S CHEST INK
 
***** Confrontation *****
Michael walked in his front door to find his father waiting. He wasn't at all
surprised his driver had ratted him out. In fact, he'd expected it and would
have been hugely disappointed if his arrival home had gone unnoticed.  Daniel's
words kept worming their way into his thoughts. Have you had an honest
conversation about this with him? Don't let him hit you. Do not, under any
circumstances, let him hit you again. It was nice to know there was one person
in this city who cared enough to get involved in his train wreck of a
life—involved enough to give him advice. Not that he was going to take it, but
still, it was a new and strange feeling for him to have someone on his side.
His father rose from the sofa. He looked calm, but Michael knew that look was
deceptive. He was most likely pissed, disappointed, regretting having a son,
blah, blah, blah. He'd heard it all before, and wondered if his father had
managed to conjure up any new insults to tear him down with. The ones he had
were getting a little stale.
"I am fucking tired of fixing your fuck-ups."
He'd heard that one before, too.
"I'd love to wipe that smirk off your face, but I'm beginning to think you like
violence; it obviously has no effect on you. It never has. My attempts to
educate you, to discipline you have all failed. The way you treat those women
in your penthouse? I don't think anyone can fix what's wrong with you."
Michael kept silent. What was there to say in his defense? He did enjoy
violence when he was employing it against one of his father's whores. No
denying that. And despite what Daniel thought, no therapy in the world would
ever be able to fix him. He and his father agreed on two things, at least.
"Deidra has been nothing but kind to you, and you repay her by beating her face
to a pulp??"
Nothing but kind?! His temper ignited, his hands took on a life of their own,
clenching into fists, itching to bridge the distance between him and his father
and stop the lies coming out of his mouth. Daniel's face swam into his mind,
and that was enough to bring him back. He forced his hands open, forced them to
relax, to hang loosely at his side. You are not going to push my buttons.  "She
was in my house without permission," he said calmly. "Tell her to stay away
from me and we'll have no further problems."
"I don't think so. You're not only going to pay Deidra's medical bills, but
you're also going to pay her a visitin person and apologize profusely for your
immature behavior. If you refuse to do that, then the wheels of justice will
turn without my intervention. Your spoiled rotten ass can sit in jail for a
year for all I care."
'Have you had an honest conversation about this with him?' Daniel's words
stirred an unfamiliar emotion in him: courage. "Fine. Let it go to court, and
when they ask me why I beat the hell out of her, I'm going to tell them the
truth: because you arranged for her to rape me when I was only thirteen on the
pretext of educating me about sex. Because of that physical violation,—"
"You lying piece of shit!!"  The blow came so hard and quick he didn't have
time to prepare. A stabbing pain, then blood running into his mouth. He ignored
the pain, wiped his mouth with his forearm and stood his ground.
"I am not lying," he said between gritted teeth. "I voiced my objections, I
screamed them. I said no repeatedly. There was no way you could have missed
that! You purposely ignored it!"
His father's face flushed red with fury. "You were hard as granite and you
came! That's called getting laid!"
Michael's temper ignited and this time he chose to let it burn. "I was raped!!
And you stood there and watched it!!"
His aim went high, smashing into Michael's temple. The room flickered, his head
swam, but he was too angry to fall. He shook it out and kept his feet.  "Go
ahead, hit me again!" He taunted him, grinning, gesturing at his own face.
"Come on, Daddy! Keep hitting me! Come on!! You think that's going to fix
this?? Do it!!"
Apparently his son begging for a beating was enough to throw him completely off
balance. He backed off. Michael fought the overwhelming urge to gloat over his
victory, keeping his expression closed and controlled.
"No one in that courtroom is going to believe a teenage boy would refuse
getting fucked by a beautiful woman!" his father shouted, sneering. "They'll
laugh your stupid ass out of there!"
"Maybe you're right," he snapped. "But in the process of trying to convince
them, I'm going to totally destroy this family's pristine reputation. I'll air
every single piece of our dirty laundry, then let your adoring public decide
whether they believe it or not!"
They were at a standoff, their angry, silent stares a contest of wills that had
no precedent in Michael's memory. He'd never stood up to his father before, not
like this. He had no idea how that was going to go over.  Suddenly, his father
laughed, and that was not what he'd expected. When his laughter ran its course,
he surprised Michael once again by sitting back down on the sofa, completely
toppling the balance of power in the room. Michael swiped at the blood on his
face, and sat down in a chair opposite him.
"Where were you last night?" his father asked, changing the subject, his voice
suspiciously calm again.
"With a friend," he answered.
Raised eyebrows and a snicker. "You have friends?"
Friend. Singular. But he wasn't about to correct him. Instead, he nodded.
"Who are these...friends?"
"None of your business."
"Everything in this family is my business."
"Not my personal life. That belongs to me," he insisted. "And another thing. If
you ever hit me again, I'm going to hit you back. I'm almost thirty years
younger than you, and stronger. I will hurt you." He couldn't believe he'd
actually said that out loud. He held his breath, waiting for his father's
reaction. There was no way it was going to be good.
His father studied him, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Then he laughed softly, and
it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Your friends must have loaned you a pair last
night. Are you actually threatening me, Michael?"
His father had never reacted well to disobedience, to blatant disrespect. He
had to tread lightly or risk losing everything. "No," he answered, careful to
keep his tone respectful. "All I want is for you to keep Deidra away from me.
That's all. If you do that one thing for me, then I'll keep our dirty laundry
secret...for you. And the part about hitting me? That wasn't a threat. It was a
promise."
The laughter, the smirking, it was all an elaborate sham. He knew from years of
experience not to trust his father's smile. He was livid. His eyes were stone
cold rage as they stared him down, silently trying to force him to give ground
and slink away in humiliating defeat, as had happened in the past too many
times to count. Michael held his angry gaze, even as his heart threatened to
explode, it was beating so fast.
"Done," his father said finally, standing up to leave. "But don't think you've
won."
===============================================================================

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to sit down for a week.”
Apparently he hadn’t hit her hard enough. He’d have to remedy that next time.
“That was a compliment, Michael,” she said, smiling at him while he was wishing
she’d just shut the hell up. Why did they always want to talk afterwards??
“You were soooo deliciously brutal tonight. Mmmmm…”
If she was waiting for a ‘thank you’, she was going to have a long wait. Where
the fuck was his driver??
“That stockade was a great investment. I loved how you—“
“Shut up!” he snapped, interrupting her incessant bullshit. “I didn’t bring you
here to have a conversation, so shut up!!”
Anne was one of the few whores strong enough to handle him when he was at his
cruelest. After the confrontation with his father, he’d been in no mood to be
soft, so he’d called Anne and she’d dropped everything to be with him, as he’d
known she would. She was willowy and delicate—a stranger might think her
weak—but she was a mean little bitch who knew exactly how to please him. One
minute she'd be pleasantly obedient, then the next she would suddenly turn
sullen for no reason at all. She’d taunt him, deride him and push him to hit
her harder, to punish her to the outermost boundaries of her tolerance. Her
hair was long, dark and flowing down her back, but it was a wonder she had any
left after tonight. He’d twisted it tightly around and around his fist and had
pulled until she’d screamed and begged him to stop. She hadn’t meant it, of
course; she loved pain. His climax had come hard and fast, with her screams
filling his mind, his senses. She was worth every bit of bling he gave her, but
he was going to have to rethink their relationship if she didn’t shut up with
the kitchen pillow talk.
She leaned against the table and silently studied him. What was it with people
and their stupid stares? Daniel, his father, and now this whore—everyone always
trying to control him, to manipulate him, trying to pin him down and make him
squirm beneath their gaze.  “Do I have something between my teeth?” he asked
snidely.
“Who is Daniel?” she asked softly.
Panic stole his breath, its talons gripping his heart in a tight, angry fist.
How did she know about Daniel? Had he accidentally spoken his name??  “I don’t
know anyone named Daniel,” he answered calmly, despite the panic that was
threatening to completely trash his central nervous system. His heart was
racing, his palms slicked with fear, but he kept it together. Never let them
see you sweat.
“You say a person’s name when you cum, they mean something to you. Who is he?”
Fuck. He frantically searched for a way to shut her up, something he could use
against her to keep her silent. Why was he panicking?? It was patently
obvious. “I don’t think you want the parents of those little third graders to
know that their child’s teacher likes to be tied up and beaten on the weekends.
Do you?”
She sighed. Not the reaction he was hoping for. She crossed the short distance
between them and reached out, like she was going lay a hand against his chest
or his arm.
“Don’t touch me,” he said between clenched teeth.
She dropped her hand and sighed again. “Please don’t threaten me,” she said
softly. “You don’t need to do that. I’m not going to say anything to anyone. I
adore you. Of all the men I do this with, I enjoy you the most. You’re the only
one who isn’t afraid to push me to my limits. All the others, they think
they’re the perfect dominants, but deep down inside, they can’t get past my
being delicate. Oh, they hurt me, sure, but they don’t hurt me enough. Not like
you. Every time I’m with you, you make me sublimely happy and just so thrilled
to be alive. That's what life is all about: being alive and losing yourself in
the joy of pleasure, whatever that pleasure is. I care about you, and more than
anything I want to see you happy, fulfilled. If you want Daniel, whoever he is,
and if he’s available, then you go after him. Do whatever you have to do to be
with him. And if the feeling’s mutual, and he wants to be with you, too…?” She
smiled and shook her head. “You cannot even imagine how much joy that will give
you, how alive you will feel. Don’t deny yourself, even if you think people
won’t approve or will condemn you for it. Please don’t.”
“You don’t understand,” he said bitterly. She hadn’t lived his life, walked in
his shoes. She hadn’t been told since she was a kid that she was disgusting,
perverted and sick, that she was a lost sinner, a tool of Satan, an abomination
that God hated, that the world hated. She didn’t know what it felt like to be
completely "other" in everyone’s eyes, to be nothing, certainly nothing worthy
of love or acceptance.
“Please don’t tell me this is a stupid guy ‘No Homo’ thing, because I reject
that,” she said, her voice strong with conviction. “I totally reject that kind
of close-minded thinking. Our sexuality is not this little round peg that we
can just jam in a square hole and expect it to fit comfortably. I’m a female
who loves men, but I also like being controlled in the bedroom. I like being
hurt. You think my friends, family, co-workers, the people I go to church with
would consider that normal, even though I’m straight?? Hell no. To them I’d be
a weirdo, disgusting, sick, maybe even mentally ill. I like pain, so there must
be something wrong with me, they’d think. But there isn’t anything wrong with
me. This is just what I like. This is my round peg and, by god, I’m making the
conscious decision to put that damned peg in a round hole where it fits me
perfectly and makes me happy. So, I do understand.”
Her words of acceptance and tolerance were totally foreign to him, as was her
confession to caring for him. He’d never once considered that he was making
another person happy by abusing them. Abuse was cruelty, the absence of love.
His father had taught him that. Society preached that. Abuse wasn’t ‘sublime
happiness’ and joy. It was violent and sick, wasn’t it? He was broken, damaged
beyond repair, wasn’t he??
There was no way he could ever have Daniel; only in his fantasies was that
possible. He was a rich, straight, white male; he was acceptable, normal. He'd
spent his whole life building that facade. He'd be stupid to pull out the one
brick guaranteed to bring the whole thing down. He’d lose everything if he
listened to that dreamtastic round peg/round hole nonsense of hers. Not if you
plan it carefully, Michael. You’re smart enough to get what you want and
protect your ass while doing it. You have those files tucked safely away. You
could do it, if you have the balls to.
She chuckled softly. “You’re frowning. So either you don’t believe a word I’ve
said, or I’ve confused the hell out of you. All I ask is that you think about
it. Think about your life. The days are ticking away for all of us. Our time
here is so limited. How much of it are you willing to waste being unhappy?”
His phone vibrated on the counter. “The driver’s here,” he said.
She smiled sadly. “Thank you. I hope you take some time to really think about
what I said.”
He nodded. He would.
 
ANNE MARIE PARRIS (played by Emmy Rossum)
 
 
***** Confession and Penance *****
Chapter Notes
     A HUGE thank you has to go out to a very wonderful and talented
     fandom friend: ClaireBamboozle. Without her invaluable help, the
     first part of this chapter would never have made it out of my files.
     I have absolutely no knowledge of Catholic practices and her advice
     (and pre-reading) saved my life with this one.
He paused on the sidewalk, taking a moment to study the intricate facade of the
building. To a tourist, the church would be an architectural marvel, a shining
modern masterpiece of classical design with a Spanish twist, standing firm amid
the gently swaying palm trees. The ornate bell tower seemed to soar into the
heavens, the cross at its pinnacle promising hope, sanctity and love to all who
entered. But Michael wasn’t fooled, nor was he in awe of the fancy
architecture. He wasn't some wide-eyed visitor from a backwater hick town come
to the big city to see how the fabulously wealthy worshiped. He wasn’t
interested in sneaking a peek up God's robes while no one else was looking. Nor
was he the Prodigal Son returning home to seek redemption. He was a broken
survivor of this place, rejected by all that was supposedly holy.
To him, the church was a symbol of Hell on earth, a monolith from his
childhood, looming large against the LA skyline, casting its oppressive shadow
across his present and his past. He hadn’t been inside those walls in over a
decade, not since his mother’s funeral mass. He remembered taking all the
ritual bullshit he could before stalking out in the middle of the liturgy and
shocking everyone in attendance with his disrespect. But it had been God he’d
been disrespecting, not his mother. She’d been one of the good things in his
life, along with Claire, and she’d been ripped away from him without warning.
God hadn’t lifted a damned finger to prevent it, or to punish the person
responsible. His relationship with God and religion had been permanently
severed the day his mother had left the world. He hadn’t stepped foot across a
church threshold since.
His appointment was for 10:00 AM and it was already ten minutes till. As much
as he loathed lateness in others, he was tempted to loiter on the steps a while
longer and be deliberately late. Make him wait. Keep him off balance. Give him
time to wonder why Michael Golland suddenly wants to see him, after all these
years. He’s got to know I’m not here to confess my sins, but he’ll have no idea
why the meeting. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the time to indulge his control
fantasies. He had to be back at the office in time for lunch with Daniel.
Jogging up the seven steps to the main doorway, a childhood rhyme dogged his
steps:
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
All good children go to heaven.
He snorted bitterly. He didn't believe in Heaven anymore—or Hell either, for
that matter—not in the traditional sense. Hell wasn’t demons with horns and
pitchforks spit-roasting sinners over burning coals. Hell was on Earth. Hell
was this life he was living.
The huge, carved oak doors were opened wide, inviting. Stepping through the
doorway transported him back through the decades. His shadow may not have
fallen on the polished marble floor in years, but the place hadn't changed a
bit: offertory envelopes and church notices, tales of good works and sacrifice
for the benefit of the poor and needy.
His hand hovered over the stoup. To dip or not to dip? That is the question. He
smirked briefly at his own wit, then wiped his face clean of expression. It was
the years of methodical brainwashing that made him put the tip of his middle
finger into the bowl of holy water and bless himself. The simple act once held
meaning for him, but all it meant now was that he had three tiny damp spots on
his suit.
His steps echoed softly in the cavernous space as he moved from the entrance
and along the main aisle. He glanced up at the Stations of the Cross fastened
high on the pillars; the stages of Christ's torment were his companion as he
made his way toward the elaborately carved centerpiece of the church. The
smells of the past filled his senses: recently burned incense, musty paper,
candles and furniture polish. He’d never liked the miasma of scents, but today
it repulsed him.
Almost at the altar, he paused and looked around. One solitary woman was
arranging fresh flowers around feet of the statue of Our Lady, palms opened
out, her benevolent, plaster gaze watching over him. Father Sebastian was
nowhere to be seen. He supposed he could slide into the pews and play the part
of the devout for a few minutes, but he was damned if he was going to bow his
head in prayer. Not him. Never again.
As he waited, he thought about Anne and their conversation the night before.
Her words had stayed with him long after she’d left. He’d lain awake half the
night thinking about “sublime happiness”, trying to imagine what that would
feel like. Our time here is so limited. How much of it are you willing to waste
being unhappy? In the stillness of pre-dawn, he’d decided he was tired of being
miserable. He wanted to experience the things Anne had spoken of. For the first
time in years, he yearned to make a connection with another human being, and
that human being was Daniel Hart.
“Michael.”  Father Sebastian called to him as he entered through a small
doorway. Nothing had changed since his mother’s funeral: the same tall,
confident poise, the same purposeful, grandiose strides. His voice seemed
unnervingly loud in this place of solemn contemplation. Michael acknowledged
his greeting with a slight nod, then stood and reluctantly accepted the
Father’s handshake. Sebastian frowned as his eyes swept over his face,
obviously noticing the bruises—they weren’t hard to miss—but apparently
deciding to ignore them.
“I was surprised to hear from you. Thinking of returning to the fold?” There
was a bit of gray starting to make its way into his thick black hair, but other
than that, Sebastian looked the same. His stark, angular face had hardly
changed, and Michael should know. He’d memorized every wrinkle around that
man’s eyes, every flaw in his complexion, every golden fleck in his green
irises. His smile was friendly enough, but there was suspicious curiosity in
his eyes.
“Hardly,” he answered. “But do we have to have this conversation here?” His
eyes flickered over to the woman who had moved on from arranging flowers, and
who was now busy cleaning the backs of the pews with a fluffy yellow duster.
“I’m sure you remember where the confessional is. Just give me a minute to
prepare and I'll—”
“No. Not there,” he said, cutting him off. “I prefer this to be done face-to-
face.”
Sebastian’s brows lifted slightly. He knew asking for a face-to-face confession
was an unusual request—most people wanted anonymity, preferring to hide their
repugnant shame and guilt behind the security of an opaque screen—but he was
too angry to care about such nonsense.
“The vestry?” Sebastian asked.
He nodded. That would work. More privacy in case his temper got out of hand.
The priest led the way, threading them back around the pews and through the
door he'd entered from.  The room was small and sparsely furnished. Vestments
and robes hung from a row of pegs, and a brass candle snuffer was propped
against the door jamb. Sebastian took a seat at the small wooden table and
motioned for him to sit at an angle, probably trying to make it feel less like
an interview. Over his shoulder was a damaged statue of some saint or other,
the only witness who would hear their words. Sebastian took a deep breath, made
the sign of the cross, then laid his hands out flat on the surface of the
table, preparing to hear Michael’s confession, waiting for him to begin the
ritual.
He crossed himself. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he said, looking
directly in the man’s eyes. “It’s been...” He glanced away, frowning, his mind
quickly trying to calculate how long it had been since he’d said those words.
“Forever?” Sebastian offered with a deadpan expression.
Ha, ha. Funny. His mouth twitched into a brief smile. “Thank you, Father. I’m
afraid that the date of my last confession is one memory from this place I’ve
managed to successfully forget.” He ignored the disapproval in Sebastian’s face
and continued. “It’s been...forever...since my last confession.
“Now my sins...yes, well.” He chuckled softly. “I hope you aren’t in a hurry. I
disrespected my father yesterday, but he disrespected me first when he plowed
his fist into my face, twice. But the disrespect started back when I was
thirteen and he arranged for an older woman to rape me, to try and fuck me
straight. No, actually it started when I was twelve, when you and my father
decided I needed therapy to fix me. Anyway, because of this attempt by you,
this church, God, and my father, to turn me into something I wasn’t, I now
despise women. Oh, but I fornicate with them at least twice a week, because I
have to keep up appearances. We can’t have anyone thinking that Michael
Golland, son of the pious and generous Paul Golland, Sr., might like men. I
also enjoy tying women up and whipping them before I allow them to suck my—“
“Michael, stop!”
The blood was roaring in his ears. He wasn’t about to stop; he was on a fucking
roll. Sebastian was going to listen to his damned confession if he had to pin
him against the wall and make him listen. “You can’t ask me to stop. I’m in the
middle of confessing and I’m not finished.”
“I’m not sensing any contrition in your words, only anger. This is not a good
confession, Michael, and you know it.” His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits.
“Why are you really here?”
The Father was right. He was more concerned with righting a wrong than in
confessing his sins. “Okay. I’m here to let you know that Redemption House is a
scam, and you should sever your relationship with that organization. And I can
prove it’s a scam, because when I walked out those doors for the last time at
seventeen, I was assured by your therapists that I was cured.”
Redemption House hadn’t cured him of anything. All they’d done was break him
into little pieces, then they’d try to fit them back together so he’d be
presentable to the world. The only problem was that the pieces hadn’t fit
exactly right after that; there were a hell of a lot of cracks, and the effort
he’d had to expend to just to hold his shit together all these years had taken
more emotional energy than anyone should expect from a human being.  “You lied
to me. The church lied to me. God lied to me! I’m not cured of anything! All
your therapies, the praying, the fasting, the drugs, none of it worked!”
Sebastian steepled his fingers against his lips and studied him. Several tense
moments of silence passed before he finally spoke. “You haven’t been here since
your mother died, but your father has told me that you’ve dealt with your urges
quite well during that time. So, what has changed in your life to suddenly
cause all this anger to rise to the surface?”
What has changed?? Is it not enough that I’ve lived a lie for fourteen years??
But he didn’t say that out loud. Living a lie meant nothing to the church, as
long as you publicly blended in and followed along in lockstep to everything
they said. “A man. That’s what’s changed. He forced himself into my life, and
I’ve tried everything to force him back out of it. I’ve been rude to him, put
him down, but he’s still there. For some inexplicable reason, he wants to be my
friend.”
“Is he a homosexual?” Sebastian asked, getting right to the point.
“Yes. He’s openly gay, but he hasn’t done or said anything inappropriate with
me.” Except run his warm, coffee-and-cream gaze over my face and body every
single time we meet. “Do you know how many friends I have, Sebastian? None. But
I have one now. He’s an artist. I respect his talent, his ambition, his
honesty. We have things in common, and we have long, interesting conversations
over lunch every day. But right now, we’re just friends. That’s all.”
“And you want more?”
“I think...” He hesitated at first, but then decided there was no use in lying.
“Yes.”
Sebastian sighed. “We had this discussion at Redemption House, if you recall.
But in case you don’t remember the details, it is the church’s stance that no
one can 'cure' your homosexuality, Michael, because it’s not a disease. It is a
sin. To become a child of God by grace you must reject all sin, and homosexual
behaviour is one of those sins. The desires themselves are not sinful—only if
you act upon them. Homosexual desire is something you have to overcome within
yourself, with God’s help. But, if you’ve come to me for advice—“ He sighed.
“—which I seriously doubt is the case—but if you have, then my advice is to
immediately remove this man from your life. He is being used by Satan to tempt
you into sinning even more than you already have. He is a test of your faith
and the commitment you made at seventeen to live your life according to God’s
plan. It is imperative you not give in to these desires.”
He fought not to laugh in the man’s face, and wondered what he’d been thinking
in coming there. He didn’t know everything about Daniel yet, but he was pretty
sure he wasn’t a tool of Satan. Daniel seemed to be a good person inside; he
had to have the soul of a saint just to put up with his shit. And the best
advice Sebastian had for him was to kick Daniel to the curb? The one good thing
that had happened to him since his mother’s death and he was supposed to cut it
out of his life like he was excising a cancerous tumor?? Anne would make a
better priest than this guy. It was sad when a whore had a better understanding
of love and acceptance than an ordained representative of God.
“You’re right. I didn’t come here for your advice. I just wanted you to know
that all that nonsense you do at Redemption House is useless. None of it
worked, and it did more damage to my life than if you’d just left me alone and
done nothing. That is my official testimony, if you want to include it in your
next newsletter.”
Sebastian’s gaze softened. “It didn’t work because you seem to have turned your
back on God. You can't expect a miracle if you've done nothing to deserve one.
God loves you, Michael, but He cannot help you with this unless you first want
help, and then you must ask for His help and truly mean it.”
He hadn’t come to hear the same tired lectures. He didn't want or need God's
help; he’d done what he came to do.
"Might I suggest we start over?" Sebastian asked. Without waiting for a
response, he continued. "With God's good grace, may you make a good
confession."
He thought about just getting up and leaving, but unless he gave a true
confession, Sebastian wouldn't be bound to keep their conversation
confidential. The priest would talk—he and Paul were close friends—then his
father would know that he had feelings for an artist named Daniel. Connecting
the dots would take ten seconds and then Daniel would be on Paul Golland's
radar even more than he already was. If he had to confess a few sins to protect
Daniel, he would.
“I regret my anger of before,” he stated softly. "I would like to confess my
sins."
Sebastian’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but he said nothing, and instead
slipped into the role of compassionate priest as effortlessly as Michael slid
on his socks every morning.
“I've had sex outside of marriage at least twice a week for years. I've been
cruel to the women in my life, physically and emotionally abusing them. I’ve
lied a lot. I’ve ruined quite a few people’s lives because of the decisions
I've made at work. I am disrespectful to my father on a daily basis. I admit to
having thoughts of hurting him, but I can't bring myself to actually do it. I’m
greedy. I love money more than I do most people. I'm selfish and spoiled. I'm
just an all-around bastard with most everyone I meet. I've said horrible things
to people, and I know I've hurt their feelings. I regret that.” Especially with
Daniel. He paused, meeting Sebastian’s gaze. “But I cannot confess the sin of
homosexuality. It's true that I have felt desire for men many times in my life,
but I have never acted upon those desires. I refuse to apologize for who I am,
Father. I disagree with the church on this one issue. My being attracted to men
is not a sin; it's how I was born. God made me this way, and I don't want to
spend my life apologizing for that. But, I am truly sorry for the other sins I
mentioned, and will endeavor not to repeat those sins.”
Sebastian studied him, probably trying to decide upon the sincerity of his
confession, and whether he deserved forgiveness. But what Sebastian would never
know, no matter how long he studied him, was that he would do anything, say
anything to protect Daniel from his father.
"Will you make an Act of Contrition?" Sebastian asked.
He nodded and recited the lines, surprised he could remember them word for word
after all these years.
"You may not believe this now, but you will feel better for having made a good
confession," Sebastian said. "Giving voice to one's sins eases the conscience,
lightens the load upon one's shoulders. God, the Father of mercies, through the
death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent
the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of
the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from the sins
for which you are sorry, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Spirit."
"Thanks be to God," he intoned, strangely relieved.
"Your penance is to do something nice for someone at least once a day. It's not
that difficult, Michael, and it will make a huge difference in your life."
He could do that, and he'd start with Daniel.
===============================================================================
                                        
Daniel glanced at his phone on the table. Ten minutes late. Michael was never
late for lunch, or for anything. Trudy said he had an outside appointment, but
wouldn’t tell him where. An accident? A shiver of fear raced across his skin,
chill bumps rising in its wake. He pushed the thought of Michael lying hurt
somewhere completely out of his mind. The asshole was probably just playing
mind games with him, keeping him waiting, making sure he knew who was boss in
this friendship. He decided he’d wait five more minutes and if he was a no-
show, then screw him. He’d eat alone, down in his claustrophobic cubicle, and
he’d love every minute of it. Right…
Another minute passed. He looked around the office, but there was absolutely
nothing to occupy his bored mind. No family pictures. No interesting books.
None of the weird artwork he knew Michael loved. Nothing. So, the shameless
horn-dog in him decided to pass the time imagining what Michael was wearing.
Which of his designer suits would be lucky enough to be draped over that
luscious body today?  The gray linen that hugged his fine ass like a glove? The
navy blue one? Ugh. He hoped it wasn’t the navy blue one. Those slacks were
having a torrid love affair with Michael’s package; the bulge was like a magnet
drawing his eyes downward. Every. Single. Time. Embarrassing, but that image
had fueled quite a few earth-shattering hand jobs for him. He moved to
underwear. Was it boxers or briefs? Strictly white or would any color do?
Cotton or poly—
The door burst open and the room instantly changed. He felt him even before he
turned to look. When Michael Golland entered a room, he filled it with his
commanding presence. Michael's energy felt like a low-voltage electrical charge
that sent tingles all over his skin.
“Sorry I’m late,” Michael said, his long, lean legs propelling him across the
room in graceful strides. “Traffic. And I had an errand to run.”
He dropped a plastic shopping bag in the floor and elegantly folded himself
into the chair opposite Daniel. Jesus God, no. The navy blue suit. But seconds
later, he no longer cared about the suit or the package inside the slacks.
Michael had been hit. The motherfucker had hit him again, twice if the bruises
were any indication. His temper seethed; he imagined storming into Old Man
Golland’s office and punching his antiquated lights out for marring Michael’s
beautiful face and for hurting his son once again.
“It’s just a small black eye and a busted lip,” Michael said, his voice
surprisingly calm. “Nothing’s broken. I’m fine.”
“That’s not the point!” he snapped, furious that Michael didn’t seem the least
bit angry that he’d been abused at the hands of his father yet again, and
after he had specifically asked him to not let himself be hit.
“I know it’s not,” he answered. Then an arrogant smile tugged at the corners of
his mouth. “But I told him if he ever hit me again, I was going to hit him
back, and I was going to hurt him, because I’m almost thirty years younger than
him. I don’t think he’ll be laying a hand on me anymore.”
Just like that, Daniel’s anger evaporated. If he could carry a tune, he would
have burst out into song. He was so fucking proud of Michael for taking a stand
against his father. He knew from his work with abuse victims, that the amount
of courage that took was off-the-charts impressive.
“Thank you for the loan,” Michael said.
Thank you?? That was the second heartfelt thanks Michael had given him. That
had to be a record. But…
“Loan??”
Michael chuckled softly. “The balls you loaned me Saturday night. Thank you.”
Hearing that word cross Michael’s lips sent a pleasant tingle shivering
across his own balls. Jesus. This guy has sex oozing out of his pores today.
What the hell is going on?? He swallowed hard, and waved off the comment,
chuckling. “You’re welcome. I have an extra pair, so you can keep them however
long you need them.” As long as you run that tongue all over them before you
give them back. And make sure they smell like your cologne.Damn, he needed to
pull himself together.
Thankfully, Michael changed the subject. “What’s for lunch today? I’m starved.”
He unwrapped the subs for Michael’s inspection. He’d spent a greater part of
his evening cooking, trying not to worry about what was happening at the
Golland house. He’d gone to extra lengths to make sure the steak was cut thin
enough and would be tender enough to melt in their mouths. His steak subs were
as kick-ass as his chicken salad.
“I hope you used a decent cut of meat,” Michael said snidely. “I don’t want to
still be chewing it this time tomorrow.”
Daniel stopped what he was doing, and looked up into that gorgeous, patronizing
face. “Fuck you.”
Michael surprised him by laughing. Beautiful white, even teeth. Deep blue eyes
sparkling with warmth for once. The soft, arrogant laugh that he found so
incredibly sexy. The fucker was messing with him, and enjoying it, too.
“It’s ribeye, asshole,” he snapped jokingly, and Michael snickered again, the
insult flowing right off his back.
Someone is in a helluva good mood today. He wondered what had happened to cause
such a change in him. Maybe his appointment had been with some blonde bombshell
with double-D tits and a tight cunt. Nothing like an hour of grinding sex to
lighten somebody’s dour mood. His sack tightened as an image of Michael
pounding some chick from behind burst into his brain. Even though he’d rather
it be Michael on his knees and him topping that fine ass, the idea of Michael
with a woman suddenly sounded kind of hot. Damn. I need to get laid, and soon,
if straight sex is starting to turn me on.
They ate in satisfied silence until Michael commented on how great the subs
tasted and on the tenderness of the steak. He glowed at the compliment. There
were fresh, seedless red grapes for dessert, his favorite healthy snack. A
harmless food. Just little round, flavorful, reddish-purple globes. Totally
harmless. Until Michael picked one up and held it between his long, slender
index finger and his thumb. He has beautiful hands. Even though his palms
weren't rich-boy smooth, his nails were immaculate: perfectly trimmed and
clean. Those long fingers and the things they could do. Yum. But back to the
thumb. Michael’s thumb was an impressive length, and if he remembered
correctly, the length of a guy’s thumb was supposed to be indicative of the
length of his—
“I also took your advice about having an open, honest conversation with my
father,” Michael said, popping a grape in his mouth and interrupting his finger
fantasies. “I confronted him about what happened with Deidra. He accused me of
lying, of course. That’s when he hit me. In his mind, he was just helping me
become a man, and he refused to even acknowledge my version of things.” He
shrugged. “Just as I predicted. But I threatened to blab it all in court if he
didn’t take care of this case, so that shut him up.” He snickered. “And it
pissed him off, too. It was fun to watch my father sit and spin for once.”
“So, what did he do?”
Michael shook his head. “Nothing. But he’s going to do something. You don’t
defy him and get by with it. I have no idea what the punishment will be, but
he’s definitely going to make me pay for standing up to him.”
“Maybe he has a newfound respect for you and he won't do anything,” he
suggested.
A chuckle. “No. That’s not how he operates.”
They finished the meal without further conversation. Lunch was almost over, at
least for him, and as he cleaned up their mess, he mulled over what he wanted
to say before he left. Michael had made some amazing progress literally
overnight, and he needed to know someone had noticed it.  “I’m really proud of
you,” he said softly. “Standing up to him took a lot of courage. It doesn’t
matter if he denies the truth. What matters is that you confronted him and you
got this all out in the open. You’ve taken a big first step in healing. That’s
huge, man. I’m proud of you.”
Daniel extended his fist across the coffee table. Michael frowned, hesitated a
few moments, then finally managed a small, uncertain smile, bumping his
knuckles against Daniel’s. He looked uncomfortable, off-balance, like he didn’t
know what to say. “Thank you,” he said simply.
That makes three. Was this really Michael Golland sitting across from him, or
some host body with an alien living inside it?
“So, do I have steak sauce on my suit, or what?” Michael said, adroitly
changing the subject once again. “You’ve been staring at it the whole time.”
Busted. He swallowed, searching frantically for a plausible reason. There
wasn’t one. “Uhm…that’s a nice suit. I was just noticing how nice it is, and
how nice it looks on you.”
A crooked grin. “For nineteen hundred dollars it better look nice on me, or
else Armani is giving me a refund. So…purple now?”
What?? He was slow today. It took him an interminable ten or more seconds to
get it: his Converse. They were purple.
“How many of those do you own again?” Michael asked, staring thoughtfully
at his canvassed feet.
He shrugged. He’d never counted them, but he was pretty sure he had every color
they made. “A lot.”
“So, people actually like those things??” Michael asked, frowning. “Maybe I
need to check out their stock.” And before he could get a smart-assed comeback
past his filter, Michael changed the subject yet again. “Oh, before I forget. I
bought you something. That was the main reason I was late.” He picked up the
plastic bag from the floor and sat it on the coffee table. “Open it.”
Surprised, he dug in and pulled out a small burlap bag. 100% Jamaican Blue
Mountain Coffee, read the words on the front. His first impulse was to get down
on his knees and lick Michael's shiny black shoes. Then his pride kicked in. He
looked up at Michael; his expression was unreadable for the first time since
he’d walked in the room. “This stuff is hugely expensive.”
Michael nodded. “Fifty-three dollars a pound, and five extra dollars to grind
the beans.” A smirk. “That’s the kind of money I keep in the ashtray in my
car.”
“But...,” he started, then stopped. If his mother were here, she would have
already smacked the side of his head for his bad manners. You never questioned
a gift or the reason it was given.
“You like it,” Michael answered, reading his mind. “I know it’s expensive and
it’s not something you’d buy for yourself, so I bought it for you.”
He finally found his manners and smiled, thanking him over and over again for
the amazing gift. For a single guy like himself, good coffee was the next best
thing to getting a blow job first thing in the morning.
In the middle of the thankfest, Michael started, reaching inside his jacket for
his phone. He glanced at the screen and frowned, pursing his lips into a
delectable, but unhappy, pout. “And so the other shoe drops,” he said. “I’ve
been summoned to appear in my father’s home office tonight. For my punishment,
no doubt.” He cursed softly. “There goes my X-Box.”
He snickered at Michael’s perfect delivery, deadpan expression and all. There
was no way this sophisticated specimen of intellect and culture lounged around
on his bed playing video games. “Probably your phone, too,” he added, smirking
and joining in on the joke.
Michael sighed. “Yeah. And I can forget hanging out at the mall with my friends
this weekend.”
“You’re going to be grounded forEVER, dude,” Daniel added, chuckling.
"If only I'd get off that easy."
The humor had left the building. All joking aside, Michael looked seriously
worried. Short of killing him, what in the world could his father do? He had no
idea, but he believed what he saw in Michael's eyes. "It's going to be bad," he
said softly.
Michael nodded. "Very."
 
MICHAEL'S NAVY BLUE SUIT (or as close to navy as I could get it in Photoshop.) 
 
***** The Punishment *****
Michael's closet lay open before him, a yawning space that took up almost one
entire wall of his bedroom. What to wear? What was considered the appropriate
attire for getting his ass handed to him on a platter by his father?
Remembering his confession, and how he was supposed to be sorry for all of his
bad behavior and try not to repeat it, an inner voice told him he should
probably put the navy blue suit back on. Fuck that. If he was going to be
treated like a teenager, he was going to dress like one. He rummaged through
the hangars in the casual side of his closet until he found the perfect thing:
his three hundred and fifty dollar designer jeans with the holes ripped down
the front legs. It annoyed his father every single time he wore them, and
always led to his bemoaning the idiocy of a generation who considered wearing
tattered rags to be trendy. He wished he had an offensive t-shirt to go with
it—maybe something with a pot leaf on the front—but had to settle for one of
his plain white v-necked undershirts instead. Showing up in what his father
would consider underwear? Yeah, it didn’t get any more disrespectful than that.
“And this is why I suck at being a good Catholic,” he said aloud to his empty
bedroom.
But if God was paying attention, He should have given him brownie points for
doing his good deed for the day and not mentioning Daniel’s atrocious taste in
clothes during their lunch. Not in any universe—Bohemian, gay, or otherwise—did
purple shoes go with Army-green cargo pants. That minute lavender stripe in his
button-down shirt was no justification for those shoes. Daniel was a fashion
disaster from top to bottom.
But isn’t that part of his charm? As he studied himself in the full-length
mirror, he realized that even at his most disrespectful—holey jeans and an
undershirt—he still looked uninteresting and bland. Daniel made a bold personal
statement with his wardrobe; his screamed conformity. And that’s what attracts
you to him. He’s ballsy and confident, eclectic and interesting. Everything
you’re not.
He checked the time. He only had five minutes to present himself in his
father’s office. He was tempted to be purposely late, but since this was
essentially his funeral, tardiness would be pointless. He was already being
juvenile enough with his clothes. His fate was already decided. Delaying it
wouldn’t change a thing. He sighed and left the room.
===============================================================================
 
The dancing flames in the stone fireplace were supposed to make the room more
cozy, their warmth holding the dampness of a cold LA night at bay. The effect
was lost on Michael. He’d hated his father’s home office as far back as he
could remember. He’d nicknamed it “The Throne Room” during one of his many
short-lived teenage rebellious phases, and the name had stuck, at least in his
mind.
His father was all about presentation, projecting an illusion that masked
reality. His office was one such illusion, a study in testosterone-driven
masculinity: a dark wood-paneled ceiling that gave the room a pressing,
claustrophobic feel; sturdy leather furniture; hardwood flooring; a claw-footed
desk surrounded by shelves of books that had probably never been read. The only
thing missing that would complete the stereotypical façade would be if a
massive rhino head were mounted over the fireplace. For some odd reason, his
father wasn’t a hunter, at least not of animals. He preferred, instead, to hone
his stalking, predatory skills on his own son.
He was careful to keep his expression wiped clean of any arrogance, but inside
he was gloating over the deep disapproval on his father’s face at his juvenile
choice of clothing—a small victory, and likely the only one he would take away
from this meeting.
He was ordered to sit in the only leather arm chair in the room, which faced
his father's desk—the Inquisitional Chair as he'd dubbed it a long time ago.
All that was missing to make it a medieval torture device was the carpet of
spikes under the victim’s feet. Every time he'd sat in that chair, he’d come
away from the experience with another scar.
“When I was your age, I’d already been married three years, and Paul, Jr. was
on the way,” his father stated, using his patronizing voice.
Jesus Fuck Almighty. Not this again. How many times should a child have to
listen to the When-I-Was-Your-Age story before it could be called child abuse?
Keeping his expression neutral, he put his brain on autopilot as his father
rambled on and on about how he was already on the road to success at age
twenty-six, with an emerging and successful business, a lovely wife who knew
her place—which was a few steps behind him, instead of by his side, he added
silently—a child on the way, and good standing in the community. He was active
in the church and in local charities. Blah, blah, blah.
“And what have you accomplished at twenty-six?” Here it comes, the list of all
my failures and fuck-ups. “You work at a job I gave you. You live in your
mother’s house. The only things you own are your horses, a Jeep, and a
perverted penthouse in the city. And you have to pay women to get them to go
there with you. You've been arrested twice on domestic battery charges. You’re
hated by nearly everyone at GEM, and you refuse to go to church. You have zero
respectability in this town, Michael, and that's going to change."
He did a mental eye roll, but said nothing in his defense. It was all true,
after all.
His father sat back in his cushy leather chair and studied him. "You think
you're good at controlling people—" A small, smug smile. "—but you're a
lightweight." He leaned forward again, focusing his cold gaze on Michael's
face. "In order to effectively control another person, you must first discover
their weakness—the one thing they absolutely cannot live without. When you find
that one thing, you own them."
His mouth suddenly went dry. There were only two things in this world he
couldn't live without. Which one was going on the chopping block?
Relaxing back in his chair, his father smirked. "Your thirtieth birthday is
just around the corner. I'm sure you remember what that means."
Of course he remembered. At age eighteen, he'd received the first installment
from a trust fund established by his grandfather—a modest six figures, which
he'd wisely invested, turning six figures into a comfortable seven in just a
couple of years. His second installment would be disbursed on his 30th
birthday.
"It'seight figures this time," his father teased. "Enough to buy you a
respectable life: a house of your own, a business, investments in the
community. There are a lot of things—productive things—you could do with that
kind of money. What you don't know is that your grandfather left me in complete
control of those trust funds. I can do all kinds of things with them. For
example, I can disperse them early, under certain emergency circumstances. Or,
if by some unfortunate turn of events, one of my children turned out to be a
drug addict, I could freeze the trust altogether and not disburse any funds
until they got clean. I can even change the terms of the disbursements, which
is what I've decided to do with yours."
A sense of dread, of impending doom, crept into the room and wound itself
around his body like an illicit lover, squeezing his pounding heart in its
fist, stealing the breath from his lungs, tenderly suffocating him in his own
skin. He was a spoiled brat; money was his weakness. This was going to hurt.
"In order for you to receive the second disbursement on your 30th birthday, you
must have been legally married for a full two years before that date, and you
must have continually resided in the same house with your spouse during those
two years. No farce marriage allowed." He chuckled. "I wanted to add a baby in
there for good measure, but my attorney wisely pointed out that women's
reproductive organs are notoriously unpredictable. So, no children, but
marriage is now a requirement."
Fingers digging into the leather upholstery, he fought to contain his rage.
"I'm not interested in getting married!"
"I don't give a shit what you're interested in!" his father snapped. "You're
going to get with the program and become a respectable member of this family
one way or the other. You've had seven years to do something productive with
your life, yet you chose to do nothing of substance. Your chances are over."
"You can't force me to get married!!" he shouted, his temper finally erupting.
"No one's forcing you to do anything, Michael. You don't have to get married.
You can stay single as long as you want." A smirk. "But of course, if you do,
you won't get all that beautiful money to play with."
He had never hated his father as much as he did at that moment. He had to get
out of that room before he did something that would land his ass in jail. He
shot up out of the chair and jabbed his fists into his jeans pockets before
they found their way to his father's arrogant face.  "Is that all?"
A chuckle. "Wasn't that enough? Oh, and one other thing. I'm leaving the
country tomorrow. I'll be gone for seven days. Needless to say, I am done
fixing your fuck-ups, so try to control yourself while I'm away."
Leaving the country?? His curiosity momentarily quashed his anger. "Where are
you going?"
His father hesitated. Strange. 
"The Dominican Republic. I'm meeting some investors there." He pretended
disinterest, despite the fact that every cell in his body was screaming a
silent alarm. "I won't be here for Christmas," his father continued. "But
considering we haven't celebrated it since your mother died, that doesn't
really matter, does it?"
It was a rhetorical question—or a dig—because he despised Christmas and his
father knew it. He started for the door, but that pompous voice stopped him.
"If you need help finding a wife, I can certainly offer some suggestions. I
have some business associates who have some very lovely daughters. I can make
the introductions."
Hell would freeze over first. Without answering, he stalked from the room.
===============================================================================
 
As soon as Michael stepped foot out of his father's house, his temper ignited
in a conflagration unlike any he'd experienced before. He desperately needed to
hit someone, or tear something to shreds with his bare hands. He couldn't go
home, not in his present state of mind. He could certainly be immature and
impulsive when the situation called for it, but destroying his mother's legacy
to him was not something he was willing to do. She'd worked hard on that house,
and had left it to him in her will. He would disrespect his father all day
long, but not his mother. So, there was only one place left to go.
Stampeding into the barn like a raging bull would upset Claire, so he stood
outside in the damp cold and forced himself to calm down. It took longer than
it should have, but when he finally pushed open the barn doors, he was settled,
centered. He was still angry, but he had it under control.
It was said that breathing in the scent of lavender could lower the heart rate
and blood pressure, but he would take the smell of fresh hay, and even the
pungency of manure, over lavender any day. The warmth inside the barn was
comforting, unlike the heat from the flames that had burned in his father's
fireplace. This warmth was like chicken soup when you had a cold, like being
bundled up in your favorite blanket and sleeping on your mother's lap when you
were sick. This barn, and Claire, had saved his emotional life countless times
during his childhood, and he was confident they would save him again tonight.
Claire welcomed him with a soft snort. He brushed her, even though she didn't
need it, and gave her an extra portion of oats, just because. He mucked out her
stall, replacing the soiled contents with a fresh bed of hay. He combed her
tail, her mane, and through it all, he talked softly to her. He told her his
predicament, and how his life was nothing but a chess piece to be moved around
at his father's whim. As he talked, his mind was busy working it out, searching
for an escape route, or at the very least, an acceptable detour on the road to
a forced marriage.
The thought of living with a woman 24/7 made him sick to his stomach: the
selfish demands she would make on his coveted free time; the constant talking
that women always seemed to want to do; having to take her to functions,
parties, charity events all the time, and the inane social niceties that went
with all of that; the incessant sexual rituals and PDA required, which he
loathed (kissing, cuddling, holding hands, acting like he gave a shit about the
person standing next to him); disgustingly normal sex and the logical next
step: a brat of his own to abuse. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He
liked his current life—fucked up as it was—just fine.
But the money. His father had pushed the right button. As soon as he'd heard
the words "eight figures" he'd started thinking about which investments he
could dump and which he could beef up to maximize his yield. His father had
been right about one thing, at least: there was a hell of a lot he could do
with that kind of money. He didn't give one big fuck about buying
respectability with it; he was going to buy his independence. That money would
enable him to finally slice the steel umbilical cord that held him to his
father, while still living in the style and luxury to which he'd become
accustomed. And all I have to do to get it is marry some money-grubbing cunt,
live with her for two straight years, and negotiate the mother of all prenups
first.
Claire was staring at him with her huge soft eyes, and there was definitely an
intelligence behind that deep brown gaze. Not for the first time, he wondered
what was going on inside her head. What did she think of this stupid human who
obviously cared for her and provided her everything she needed, but who also
whined and complained to her all the time? If she suddenly got the gift of
speech, he wondered what wise words she would have for him at that very moment.
"I know," he said to her. "You think I'm selling out, and I am." He chuckled
softly. "I'm a greedy bastard, Claire. We both know that about me. But this is
more complicated than just money. This is a power struggle, a war, between me
and my father. This confrontation has been building since I was a kid, and the
time has finally come for me to decide whether I'm going to continue to take
his bullshit or if I'm going to fight him."
As he stroked her soft coat, he felt the final, angry chords of hate and
violence leave him. He felt serene, at peace, much like the feeling he always
got during a magnificent sunrise. His thoughts were clear, his mind focused.
The details started to fall into place. His father's first mistake was thinking
his fuck-up of a son lacked the intelligence and/or balls to take him on. That
was the first lesson of warfare: never underestimate your enemy.
Every successful war had the big, glorious battles that were splashed all over
the newspapers, the battles that could shift the balance of power literally
overnight. But there were also the numerous, and seemingly unimportant
skirmishes, whose sole intent was just to annoy the hell out of the enemy, to
provoke them into making a stupid mistake. He smiled as one possible scenario
drifted into his mind, a small skirmish that would have very little impact on
the outcome of their war, but one that would please the hell out of him, and
irritate the ever-loving fuck out of his father. It involved Daniel, a bit of
ironic icing on that revenge cake. Perfect! He would work on making that happen
tomorrow, during lunch.
It was at that point that the annoying little chihuahua that had continually
nipped at his ankles while he'd been working, finally bit a chunk out of his
leg and got his attention. The Dominican Republic. The Dominican Fucking
Republic, of all places! What was his father doing down in that hell hole? As
far as he knew, GEM didn't have any financial interests in that country, but
perhaps he should take a second look at their corporate holdings to make sure.
Who were these investors, and why were they interested in throwing their money
down a "developing nation" rat hole with a huge drug and corruption problem?
He had no answers, but the good news was that his pater familias was going to
be out of the way for seven blissful days, plenty of time for him to snoop
around GEM and add to those files he had secretly tucked away in a safe deposit
box. Plenty of time to solidify his fall-back position in this newly-declared
war.
Also plenty of time to hang out with Daniel. Maybe he'd get another opinion on
his looming nuptials—a unique, Bohemian approach to wiggling oneself out of a
forced marriage. It was worth a try.
PAUL GOLLAND'S OFFICE
 
***** Joystyk *****
“Well this is something new,” Cameron drawled, gazing around the elaborate
décor in wonder. “Firing your employees in the private dining room of a five-
star restaurant. I guess we won’t be getting reimbursed for the outrageous
valet parking fee, huh?”
Daniel tried to tune out Cam’s negativity, but he was catching that shit faster
than the common cold. Word had been sent to him via Trudy that their usual
lunch in Michael’s office was cancelled, and he and Cam were to report to this
fancy-pants restaurant at precisely noon. She’d hadn’t known why the change,
but unfortunately, he had a pretty good idea: the confrontation over the
identity of Joystyk had finally arrived.
“And of course the prick is late,” Cam said. “Gotta make sure the hired help
knows who has the bigger dick.”
He rolled his eyes and managed to restrain himself from telling Cam to just
shut up and drink his complimentary water, but he was right. Despite the fact
that Michael had actually behaved like a normal human being the past couple of
days, he still liked his little power plays. Keep us waiting, wondering.
Classic control freak behavior.
“…aaand our country club peacock has arrived,” Cameron murmured softly under
his breath.
He turned to look as Michael strode confidently into the small dining room,
briefcase in hand. He poured his fuck-hot sexy self into a chair opposite him
and Cam, and placed the case on the table. Black suit, black shirt and a
patterned red tie. Sizzle.
“Sorry I’m late. Unavoidable,” Michael said, scooting in his chair and
unbuttoning his jacket. And of course, no reason for his unavoidable lateness
was forthcoming. He nodded a silent welcome to Cam and very adeptly avoided
Daniel’s probing gaze with just a brushing glance. “I hope you’re not starving
because I’ve instructed the waiter not to disturb us for at least half an
hour.”
As if either one of them could enjoy a meal with their jobs hanging in limbo.
"So what's this about?" Cam asked, defensiveness already creeping into his
voice and the meeting hadn't even begun.
In answer, Michael snapped open the latches on his briefcase and laid an 8x10
glossy on the table. "Daniel's mural he did in San Francisco, with the
signature portion enlarged." He finally met Daniel's eyes. "Your signature
isn't an actual name. You use a design that is unique to you, and you use it on
every piece of street art you do."
Daniel swallowed but there was nothing to go down; his mouth felt like it was
full of sawdust.
Michael pulled another sheet from his case and laid it beside the first one,
turning his focus to Cam. "A print of your stylized tag I purchased at The
Glazed Canvas, with the signature portion enlarged. You also use a design for
your signature instead of your name." Then two color transparencies made their
way out of the case and onto the table. "I had overlays made of each of your
signatures. Lay the two on top of one another—" Which he did, then whipped out
yet another glossy image. "—and, voila, you have Joystyk's signature, which
appears on this enlarged image of the pornographic mural painted on GEM's
building. Joystyk is Daniel Hart and Cameron Scott, painting together to
protect each other from discovery." A small, satisfied smile. "Pretty
ingenious, actually."
The silence in the room was deafening, the blood roaring in his ears
thunderous. He hazarded a glance at Cam, dismayed to see a distinct tightness
in his jaw. His friend was pissed and on the verge of throwing a very loud
tantrum in a very swanky restaurant.
"Cam...," he warned softly.
Michael relaxed back in his seat, his gaze flicking from one of them to the
other. "At first I didn't care about the reason behind the vandalism. I just
wanted to catch who did it. But, now I do care. Tell me why you went to all
this expense and risk with nothing to show for it."
He opened his mouth to answer, but Cam cut him off. "I own this, not Daniel,"
he answered, his chin raised in defiance. "I came up with the idea, planned it,
designed the mural, and I bought the majority of the supplies. So you talk
tome."
Michael nodded. "All right. Why did you do it?"
"I paint for Devon," Cam answered proudly. "Devon Stafford. Remember him?"
A bone flexed sharply beneath the skin of Michael's clean-shaven jaw. That told
Daniel the answer before he even opened his mouth. Oh yes, he remembers.
"He was in Accounts Receivable," Michael said, then added in an all-business
tone, "We let him go for missing an excessive number of days of work without
approved excuses."
Cam shot up out of his seat and slammed his palms down on the table in fury.
"He was sick! He had AIDS, you fucking heartless bastard!!"
Daniel jumped up, sending his own chair crashing to the floor, grabbing Cam in
a bear hug before he could launch himself across the table at Michael. He
talked him down, reminding him that they were in a nice restaurant, and this
was not the time or place to have a screaming, knock-down drag-out fight.
Nothing would be gained from that. "We need to talk about this like adults,
Cam," he reasoned. When he felt Cam relax in his arms, he let go, righted his
chair and they both cautiously sat back down. Michael gave him a silent look of
thanks, although he had no idea why. Michael was slender, but his looks were
deceiving. He was strong enough to flatten Cam into a road pizza if he wanted
to.
"Tell me about Devon," Michael said softly. Daniel was surprised at the
gentleness of the command—none of his usual arrogance—but Cam looked absolutely
stunned. It apparently took a few moments to process the unexpected sincerity
he'd heard in Michael's voice.
"He was my friend, my lover, the other half of my soul," Cam answered, his
voice hushed.
Of course, Daniel already knew the story of Cam and Devon, so while Cam
explained, he watched Michael's face.
Neither one of them had known Devon had been exposed to HIV when they'd entered
into a relationship together. It was only when Devon had been bitten by a
spider, and the wound had continued to worsen instead of getting better, that
it was discovered the virus had lain dormant in him for years. It had picked
that inopportune moment to rear it's ugly head in the form of full-blown AIDS.
"We were devastated at first," Cam said. "But then we tried to put a positive
spin on it. With all the advances in treatment, hardly anyone died of AIDS
anymore, so everything was going to work out okay for us."
It didn't turn out that way. Devon's immune system was so weak he stayed
continually sick, visiting the doctor multiple times a month, and racking up
astronomical medical bills, even with his insurance. He tried to stay
productive at GEM, but it was hard when he had to bring nausea, diarrhea and
extreme fatigue to work with him every day.
"I don't blame you for Devon's death," Cam said, looking squarely into
Michael's eyes. To his credit, Michael didn't flinch or look away. "After
awhile, it became obvious to both of us his body wasn't up to the fight. But
what I do blame you for, what I blame GEM for, is shortening the already
limited time I had left with him. If you hadn't fired him, he wouldn't have
lost his insurance, and that's what changed everything. He was a proud guy. He
didn't want to leave this world with huge medical bills his only legacy, and he
didn't want me to spend the rest of my life paying them off. So, without
insurance, he refused to go to the doctor unless it was unavoidable. His
condition worsened much quicker than it would have. He ended up in hospice,
where he died in my arms."
Michael's jaw clenched and he swallowed hard. He was bothered by what he was
hearing. Good. It was about time someone from GEM finally got an up-close and
personal look at the real-life consequences of their bigotry.
"When you fired him, he lost more than just his job," Cam said, his voice
trembling. "He lost his dignity, his self-worth. He needed to feel like he was
still being productive, and you took that from him. You could have moved him
into another position, or maybe allowed him to work from home at his own pace,
but you didn't even try to make any accommodations for him." Cam's voice
hardened. "And I know for a fact you've made allowances in the past for other
employees in similar situations. The difference with Devon was that he was gay
and he had AIDS. Your company hates the LGBT community and discriminates
against them with no conscience. That's why I defaced your precious building.
It was my way of saying 'Fuck you. We're here and we're not going away, so just
fucking deal with it.'"
Cam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, a rare,
arrogant smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He was silently challenging
Michael: So now you know why I did it. Now, what bullshit excuse are you going
to roll out to justify the pain you've caused?
Michael's eyes shifted briefly to his. Like that day in his office, when
Michael had given his interpretation of Patch of Grass, Daniel saw a great
sadness in those blue depths; he saw loss and profound grief. Michael turned
back to Cam. "No matter what you may think of me, I do know what it feels like
to lose someone who means more to you than life itself. I'm very sorry for your
loss."
A heartfelt expression of sympathy from Michael Golland was definitely a holy
shit moment. He was stunned; Cameron was in shock. He'd dropped his arms and
was staring stupidly back at Michael, obviously trying to reconcile the
arrogant prick in his mind with this new and improved version who actually had
empathy for other people.
"I don't have the final say in decisions like the one with Devon. For the
record, I vehemently argued against his firing. Like you said, we'd made
allowances for other employees before. Any two-bit ambulance chaser could have
found that out, sued the ass off us, and we would have lost. But I was
overruled." Then a small frown creased Michael's forehead. "I'm curious, why
didn't he sue? He certainly had a strong case."
"Why didn't he sue??" Cam chuckled derisively. "He was too sick to sue, and I
had no legal standing to file suit for him. Ever heard of Proposition 8? We
would have loved to have gotten married before he died, but that was never an
option for us, not with Prop 8 on the books. Same sex marriage became illegal
in California again, thanks to our great citizens and their arrogant notion
that they get to decide through the ballot box who I spend my life with. To the
state, I was just his live-in fuck buddy, nothing special."
"He could have given you power of attorney, and then you could have sued on his
behalf," Michael said.
"He didn't want to fight you," Cam said, sighing. "No matter how much I tried
to convince him, he refused."
"What about his family?"
"His family??" Cam laughed bitterly. "His religious nut-job family completely
disowned him when he came out to them at sixteen. They threw him onto the
streets and told him not to come back until he'd quit 'living a perverted
lifestyle and found God'. There was no one to stand for him, and he wouldn't
let me do it. In the end, he said he just didn't want to spend his last days on
earth in court."
Michael looked at Daniel again, and this time his eyes were filled with a blue-
cold anger. Curious.
"Is there anything I can do?" Michael asked Cam.
For the second time, Cam's mouth dropped open, but he recovered a little
quicker that time. "There's nothing anyone can do."
"Actually, there is something," Daniel interjected, ignoring Cam's pointed
stare. "If you really mean it, if you really want to do something helpful, then
you can pay off Devon's medical bills."
He didn't even hesitate. "Done," Michael said. "Send them all to me and they'll
be paid in full."
"Why would you do that?" Cam asked, frowning in confused disbelief.
"I didn't know about Devon's circumstances. We knew he had AIDS, but I didn't
know the details of his personal life, his past history, or that he'd passed.
It's the least I can do to fix something that should have never happened in the
first place," Michael answered.
"That's the trouble with painting a whole group of people with a broad brush,
Michael," he said. "You miss the stories like Devon's. Stereotyping allows you
to ignore the fact that these are human beings you're hurting, people with the
same hopes, dreams and feelings as you. It has to stop."
Michael said nothing in response, but he saw a flicker of acknowledgment—or
perhaps agreement—in his eyes.
 
===============================================================================
 
The waiter finally came, and in between deciding what to order and the salad
course, nothing much of substance was said between them. Cam was mostly silent,
apparently still trying to process the fact that Michael wasn't the horrible
man he'd thought him to be. Daniel was just plain nervous. Despite Michael's
sudden personality reversal, he couldn't forget his promise that he would fire
whoever had vandalized GEM's building no matter who they were, or how important
they were to the company. When the food arrived, he decided it was then or
never. Someone had to ask THE question that was on both their minds.
"So, are you going to fire us or what?" he asked in between bites of steak. Cam
snapped to attention, fork poised in the air, waiting for his answer.
"No, I'm not," Michael said. "I've spoken to your supervisor and he only has
good things to say about both of you. I'd be an idiot to fire you. And no
matter what other things I may be, I am not an idiot, not when it comes to
business." He smiled at Daniel. "You're still in the asset column."
He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well, color me skeptical," Cam murmured, obviously not buying what Michael was
selling.
With a sigh, Michael opened his briefcase again and pulled out all of the
images of their artwork he'd used to identify Joystyk. He stacked them neatly,
then pushed the entire pile across the table to Cam.
"They're yours," Michael said. "Dispose of them however you want. Come to my
office in the morning and I'll give you back all five of your tags I bought;
you keep the money. And Daniel, you can remove the mural from your sample
portfolio and replace it with something else. As of this moment, I've just
become the most bumbling vandalism investigator in the history of crime
fighting." He smirked. "I have no clue who painted that mural, and no viable
leads. It's a dead end."
He wasn't sure which he wanted to do first, kick Michael's ass or wring his
neck. "So, all those pictures and the transparencies, putting this on top of
that, and 'voila!', was just you showing off??"
Michael nodded, grinning. "Yes."
"You asshole," he sneered.
Michael chuckled softly. "You've called me that so many times I'm beginning to
think I should change the nameplate on my desk."
Cam interrupted their banter before he could deliver a smart-assed comeback.
"So, let me get this straight. We deface your building—which is a crime last
time I checked—and you have the evidence to prove it, and yet you're going to
do nothing to us?? There has to be some fine print somewhere that we're
missing."
"You don't believe me," Michael said, sighing.
"No, it's that I don't trust you," Cam retorted.
"Then maybe this will convince you I can be trusted: I want to hire Joystyk to
do a little redecorating at Redemption House."
He was completely blind-sided by Michael's pronouncement, but it appeared that
Cam's doubts and suspicions had suddenly evaporated; his eyes were vivid green
and gleaming with excitement. They'd had a hard-on for Redemption House since
Joystyk's birth. "That place is a medieval torture chamber," Daniel said,
practically snarling.
"That's an understatement," Michael said. Despite the smoothness of the
delivery, he saw raw hatred in Michael's face. What the hell?? Suddenly, he had
this strange feeling he'd missed something important, because a faint alarm,
much like the soft peal of a distant bell in heavy fog, was ringing in his
brain.
"We'd love to help you out," Cam said, sighing. "But we wrote off Redemption
House a long time ago. Those plate glass windows in front are just begging for
paint, but there's too much exposure. It would be impossible to pull off
without getting caught, even in the dead of night. Too much light, and there
are cameras at the entrance." Then Cam's eyes narrowed. "What have you got
against Redemption House anyway? They've destroyed the lives of countless gays
and lesbians through the years. I'd think someone like you would be one of
their strongest supporters."
So it wasn't just him. Cam noticed it, too. Something was off. Michael's lips
tightened. It didn't look like he was too happy with Cam's comment but, as he'd
seen him do many times before, Michael held onto his temper and deliberately
swallowed his anger.
"In the extreme right rear of the building there's a small chapel," Michael
said. "The only way you can tell it's a chapel is by the six arched windows on
the side and back of the building. The rest of the windows are normal."
"Stained glass?" Cam asked.
Michael shook his head. "No. Just tinted gold. The three on the right look out
onto a service alley that runs along the side of the building. The three on the
back look out onto another alley, the service entrance where they unload
supplies for the center. There's also a warehouse facing those back windows
that's used for storage by another company. There are no cameras back there,
and the lights are just simple floodlights. Unscrew them and you're completely
in the dark."
Daniel glanced at Cam. He was staring down at the table, deep in thought.Fuck.
The idiot was actually considering it! No way was he going to let Cam make that
decision for both of them. They were going talk it out—in private—before they
gave Michael an answer.
And, not only that, but that distant bell in his brain was getting a whole lot
louder, like the fog was gradually lifting. How the hell does Michael know so
much about Redemption House? It almost sounded like he'd been inside it.Maybe
he just got a floor plan off the Internet, or maybe he owns a bazillion shares
of stock in the fucking place. He IS a first-class homophobe, remember. Then
suddenly someone flipped the switch. The light came on in his brain, blinding
him with the truth and exposing him for the self-centered moron he was. The
clues came flooding in. He remembered Michael's explanation of the rape and how
his father had ridiculed him for fighting it: 'This was his last chance to
prove he was capable of being a man. He wasn't normal and never had been. He
needed to be sent off to find out what was wrong with him. He was disgusted by
the sight of his own son.' Add in his angry reaction to Devon's back history,
the fact that Michael was head of personnel and heavily complicit in the
discriminatory firings, his obvious hatred of homosexuals, the promiscuity with
women, the abuse, the violence...
Michael Golland is living in the closet. The thought slammed into his brain
like a sledgehammer, and nearly took his breath away. How had he missed the
signs??? Michael was gay, or at the very least bi, and he was silently
suffering.
"You're missing one important thing," Cam said finally. "The back half of the
building is fenced, with a locked gate. There's probably an alarm on it, too.
It's impossible."
Daniel forced his mind back into focus, and back into the conversation at the
table. He'd think about Michael's personal situation later when he was alone
and could meticulously go back through every one of their conversations for
more clues. He had to be absolutely sure before he could even think of
approaching him about his sexuality.
"There is no alarm," Michael stated with a smug smile. "And the fence isn't
made to keep people out. It's there to keep them in."
Cam's eyes flicked to Daniel's face. So, he's picking up what Michael is
putting down, too. It was good to know it wasn't just wishful thinking on his
part.
"My father is on the board of directors of Redemption House. He's their biggest
financial supporter," Michael continued. "He's currently out of the country for
an entire week. He has a key to that gate and I know where he keeps it. I can
get you a copy of it."
Cam stared at Michael with that mischievous expression on his face that,
unfortunately, he knew all too well. "I'll say one thing for you," Cam said,
grinning. "You sure do know how to give an angry gay boy with an agenda a
massive boner."
"So does that mean you'll do it?" Michael asked.
He interrupted before Cam could open his mouth and get them both in deeper shit
than they'd ever been in. "It means we're going to talk about it," he said,
glaring pointedly at his partner in crime. "We're going to go back to
Redemption House and check things out, then we're going to go back home and
talk about it some more. We'll give you an answer in a couple of days."
"There are no budget limitations for this. Whatever you need, you'll get it,"
Michael said, a bit of his arrogance making an appearance again. "I'll just
crack open one of my piggy banks from first grade. That should take care of
it."
Daniel shook his head and grinned. "You're a shameless snobby millionaire."
Michael chuckled and tipped his imaginary hat. "At your service."
He could feel Cam's gaze on his face, but refused to look his way. If his
suspicions were correct, and Michael was a closeted gay man, then the whole
dynamic of their relationship would change. If it was true, then Michael needed
his help. He needed a friend, someone who'd lived in that closet the greater
part of his childhood, someone who understood the damage that dark room could
do to a person's soul, someone who could help him come out, help him heal. He
finally came face-to-face with his own hard truth, right there in the middle of
a fancy-pants restaurant over a half-eaten steak: he'd fallen for the guy, and
fallen hard. He was in love with Michael Golland. Shit.
"Cameron, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with Daniel alone," Michael
said, surprising him for what felt like the millionth time. "It's personal.
Perhaps you can take Daniel's car back to work? I'll give him a ride back."
Cam looked to him for a signal on whether his leaving would be a good idea. He
nodded his okay and dug out his keys. Cam thanked Michael for the meal, and he
sounded truly sincere. Michael had somehow managed to win him over, and
considering how much Cam had despised him, that was saying something.
After Cam left, Michael shifted in his chair to face him. "I wanted to talk to
you about my punishment. I need some ideas on how to get my X-Box back."
 
***** Beard *****
"You are fucking kidding me! He's trying to force you to get married?? Does he
think this is the 10th Century??"
"My father would consider the 10th Century the Age of Enlightenment. So, any
suggestions?"
He'd been asked for advice many times by his friends, but he couldn't recall
ever being asked how to get someone out of a forced marriage. He felt like he'd
just stepped out of a time machine. What kind of asshole parent would do that
to his kid in this day and age??  "The way I see it, you only have three
choices," he answered. "One: don't take the money. Then you can stay single for
as long as you want."
"Not an option," Michael stated emphatically. "One thing you need to know is
that I'm a greedy SOB and I'm spoiled. I want that money."
Daniel could tell he wasn't going to budge a millimeter on that one. "Okay,
then option number two is find yourself a nice girl and fall madly in love."
He sputtered a laugh. "You can forget that one, too. I'm never going to get
tangled up with some air-headed, gold digging cunt, let alone marry one."
They were back to that word again. He suppressed a frustrated sigh and moved
on. "Okay, then your only remaining option is to get a beard."
It was apparent he had no idea what a beard was, other than the obvious facial
hair, so Daniel educated him, explaining that closeted gay men who had too much
at stake to come out often "dated" lesbians to give the appearance they were
straight, while continuing to discreetly see men.
"You being straight..." He hesitated, letting the "s" word hang in the air,
hoping for a nibble, but Michael didn't bite. "...shouldn't make any difference
to a beard. You just need to make sure you choose someone you can trust
implicitly, and who has no romantic feelings toward you. The last thing you
need is for your beard to fall in love with you. I could put out some feelers
to some lesbians I know, but I'm not sure any of them are going to want to
sacrifice almost three years of their life for you, at least not for free. It
could get expensive."
Michael dismissed the money issue as easily as someone swatting an annoying
fly. He sat back and watched Michael reason his way through it, wishing he
could get inside his head and know what he was really thinking and feeling. If
he was gay and in the closet, then being forced into a sham marriage just to
please his father would be the worst thing that could happen to him
emotionally. He could easily see Michael becoming depressed and even more
violent if that happened. What the hell was his idiot father thinking by
forcing the issue??
"So, do they draw up some kind of contract?" Michael asked. "I can't see just
trusting someone's word they'll be discreet. You'd have to have some sort
of...uhm..." He frowned. "...beard prenup." A chuckle. "Is there such a thing?"
He shrugged. "It's your money and your happiness on the line, so I don't see
any problem with spelling out the terms of the arrangement up front so you both
know what's expected of you. If they don't want to sign on the dotted line,
then just find someone else who will. Think of it as a business deal."
Michael nodded, smiling arrogantly. Oh boy. That smile does not bode well for
whoever is stupid (or desperate) enough to take him up on his offer. He
suddenly pitied the poor woman who ended up signing that contract and
pretending to like Michael Golland enough to marry him.
"Do you want me to ask around, see if anyone is interested?" he asked, while
fervently praying Michael would say no. He didn't know if he could, in good
conscience, ask any of his friends to get involved in this mess.
"I don't think that'll be necessary. I actually know someone who might be
interested. I just need to make sure she can be trusted. Right now that's kind
of up in the air."
Whoever she was, he hoped she had a huge pair of titanium lady-balls. She was
going to need them.
Michael smiled and extended his hand across the table. "I was hoping you'd come
up with some unique idea I hadn't thought of. Thank you. I think you've just
saved my life and my investment portfolio."
He expressed his fervent hope that everything would work out for Michael, then
switched gears to a topic that had been worrying a hole in his brain the past
couple of days. "What are your plans for Christmas?"
Michael looked surprised, almost as if he'd forgotten that Christmas was only
three days away.  "I'll probably read, maybe clean out the junk drawer in the
kitchen, swim a few laps if it isn't too cold." He shrugged. "I don't really
like Christmas; it's just a regular day to me. What about you?"
Daniel couldn't even imagine not celebrating Christmas. His parents went all
out with the tree, the outside lights, the decorations all over the house, the
food, the drinks, and especially the presents. Spending Christmas cleaning out
a junk drawer was completely unacceptable in his world.  "We spend the holidays
in Santa Paula. We still have the old house I grew up in. My mom gets nostalgic
this time of year, so we tend to go overboard with the whole Christmas thing,
but it's fun." He hesitated, wondering if he should—his dad would probably
disown him—but then decided 'to fuck with it'. "Want to come down and hang out
with us this weekend?"
A smirk. "Oh, I'm sure your father would love that. Me and him could sit by the
fire together and read all the complaints against GEM. Cozy, but no thanks. I
really do hate Christmas, Daniel. I'd just ruin everyone's holiday if I came."
 He slid his phone out of an inner jacket pocket and checked the screen. "We'd
better get you back to GEM before that snobby asshole in personnel decides to
write you up for taking an excessively long lunch."
"Wow, self-deprecating humor," he observed, snickering. "I think I like it."
Michael laughed softly and tossed two one-hundred dollar bills on the table.
"Back to work."
 
===============================================================================
 
After work, Cam had driven directly to his house, only stopping for beer and
take out. Planning how to break the law without getting caught entailed a lot
of back and forth debate, along with copious amounts of food and drink. They
hadn't even started the discussion before Cam announced his decision.
"I think we should do it."
Daniel gritted his teeth at Cam's obstinate tunnel vision. It was true that
Redemption House had been their second target—after GEM—but they'd both agreed
a long time ago it was too risky. Having a key to the gate wasn't enough to
change his mind. "I think we should talk about it first."
Cam pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay. Let's talk about it. Let's talk about
the fact that Michael Golland is so far in the closet he isn't ever coming out.
Yeah, trust me, it shocked the shit out of me, too."
He sighed. "It kind of explains a lot of things, doesn't it?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Cam agreed. "Closeted self-haters on the anti-gay
warpath. I've seen more of those in my lifetime than I care to. That man's got
a bigger boner for Redemption House than we do. So the way I see it, they've
messed him up and he wants to use us to get even, and I'm okay with that. We
can kill two birds with one stone here, Daniel. Help out one of our own and
piss off a whole bunch of misinformed religious bigots who think they can pray
away the gay. Win/win."
He thought it was a bit premature to label Michael as absolutely, positively,
most assuredly gay. There were a lot of clues supporting that theory, but
still, you could never be absolutely sure unless you outright asked. He could
not even envision how to bring that topic up in a conversation: So, just wanted
to ask you something. It's really personal and absolutely none of my business,
but I'm kind of nosy that way. So...are you gay? That definitely wasn't the way
to approach someone who was obviously hurting and unable to deal with their
true sexuality in a healthy way. Talk about pulling the pin on a grenade...
"Michael and his father do not get along...at all. It may be that he's doing
this to get back at him for something." He immediately thought of the way his
father was forcing Michael to marry for appearances sake. "Or maybe to
embarrass him publicly, or damage his reputation. Family dysfunction can run
deep and be very complicated. It's hard to tell what his motives are, but I'm
not sure we can assume with 100% certainty he's gay."
Cam grinned crookedly. "Oh, but you really want him to be, don't you?"
Fuck yeah was his first thought, but then reality blasted that sentiment into
smithereens. It was one thing to flirt your ass off with a straight guy when
you knew you had a snowball's chance in hell of it going anywhere. Things
changed when the object of your lust and affection suddenly switched teams in
the middle of the game.
"Of course I do, but he's way out of my league. Snobby, sophisticated Armani
millionaire falls in love with starving, smart-assed American Eagle/Wal-Mart
artist? Riiiight. Now, there's a match made in heaven," he said, voice dripping
with sarcasm. "And a fucking cliche, too." 
The truth was that no matter how messed up Michael was, he was worse. He had
enough childhood baggage to take a trip around the world. The last thing
Michael needed was an emotionally fucked up boyfriend on top of all the other
bullshit he was going through.
"There you go again, putting yourself down." Cam shot him a disapproving glare.
"Any guy would be lucky to snag you. You'd be the best thing that ever happened
to that man."
"Maybe."
Quickly changing the subject, he suggested they head out and do a drive-by of
Redemption House and check out the service alleys. Then they'd come back and
decide whether they should put their asses on the line for Michael Golland.
***** Christmas Eve *****
He hated Christmas, the sounds of it, the smells, and especially the fake
cheeriness. He wanted to scream at the world to just leave him alone and stop
trying to force him to be part of it.
He finally managed to pry himself away from the festivities at work, exhausted
by the endless hours of false smiles and pretending he was enjoying himself. He
also managed to block it all out on the ride home by reading his latest stock
report, not daring to look out the car windows lest a stray billboard remind
him he had less than twenty-four hours to buy a gift from a store he would
never set foot in on an ordinary day. He hadn’t always hated the holidays. He
had fond memories of Christmases past spent with his mother in the cottage, but
those days were gone. What was the point of the holiday when he had no family
to celebrate it with, when the one person who had loved him without condition
was dead?
He arrived home to a blissfully quiet house, sat his one lone gift from Trudy
on the coffee table, then promptly forgot it. He was thankful for one thing at
least: his father was out of the country, so he’d be spared his snide
commentary on his son’s disappointing lack of holiday spirit.
Michael pushed away the negative thoughts while he swiftly changed out of his
suit and into a comfortable pair of jeans. He pulled on a thick pair of socks
for his cold feet, then his favorite long-sleeved sweatshirt to knock off the
chill of a dreary December afternoon. Finally, after a long day of pretending
to be in the holiday spirit, he was ready to indulge in a pleasant evening of
solitary reading. The rest of the city could celebrate to its heart’s content
now that he was locked away in his cottage for the night.
Two cups of hot tea and six interesting chapters into his book later, he heard
the distant chime of the doorbell downstairs. Angrily, he slammed the book shut
and fumed. Could no one leave him the hell alone for even one fucking night??
Then his anger gave way to curiosity. Who had managed to get through the gate
without being announced? The bell rang again as he hurried down the stairs.
Whoever it was, they were persistent. He peeked through the peep hole in his
front door and was surprised at who he saw standing on the other side.
He slung open the door and exchanged pointed stares with his smiling, uninvited
visitor. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "You're supposed to be with your
family. And how did you get past the gate without being announced??"
Daniel gave him a sheepish look. "Your gate guy is a Lakers fan, and I am, too.
We talked ball for awhile, and..." He shrugged. "...he remembered me from the
last time. I sort of lied and told him you were expecting me. Now that I'm
here, can I come in?"
For a brief moment he actually thought about telling him to go away; if it were
anyone else but Daniel, he would have. But for some reason, he found himself
suddenly feeling grateful for the company. He stepped aside and motioned for
Daniel to come in.
"So you ditched your family?" he asked, not bothering to hide his disapproval.
“That's not a very nice thing to do.”
Daniel set a shopping bag in the floor and shrugged off his jacket, handing it
to him. "When I told them one of my friends was spending the holidays alone,
they understood." He looked around the room and frowned. "No tree?”
“No,” he answered.
“We could always go get one,” Daniel suggested. “The stores are still open.”
“I don’t want a tree. Drop it.” He could tolerate company and conversation,
but he drew the line there. The last thing he wanted to do was drag his
memories out of the attic and put them on display in his living room, forcing
him to relive them, ornament by ornament.
Daniel sighed, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine. No tree.”
He asked Daniel what was in the festive red shopping bag in the floor. Daniel
reached in and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped gift. “Here. I bought you
something for Christmas.” Surprised, he thanked him and took the unexpected
gift, placing it on the coffee table beside Trudy’s. “I also stopped by the
store on the way over and picked up a couple of steaks. I thought we could cook
dinner, and then, you know, hang out and talk. Maybe drink a few beers.”
Daniel couldn’t have picked a better reason for coming over uninvited. He loved
to cook, especially when there was someone else to cook with. “I hope you
bought a decent cut of steak,” he said, visibly grimacing at the thought of
eating cheap shoe leather for dinner.
“I paid a small fortune for them because I know how picky you are, so yeah,
they’re a decent cut…asshole,” Daniel said, smirking and shaking his head.
Michael enjoyed teasing him, and couldn’t help but smile at being called an
‘asshole’ yet again. Perhaps this would turn out to be an enjoyable evening
after all.
 
===============================================================================
 
Daniel was sprawled out on the sofa, full of good food and basking in the
afterglow of helping prepare a meal alongside Michael. He was an amazing cook,
chopping and dicing like one of those chefs on television. He'd spent more time
watching him than actually learning anything about cooking. He’d been
enthralled with Michael’s hands, his long fingers, and how expertly he used
them. He’d soaked up every detail of the man so he could savor each of them
later: Michael’s low, soft voice as he’d explained what he was doing, the faint
spicy scent of his cologne, the cute cowlick and how it bobbled when he moved
his head, how down-to-earth sexy he looked in his faded jeans and sweatshirt—so
different from the Armani image he projected at work. Michael seemed to think
he had no talent, but what he’d created from just two slabs of raw, bloody meat
had not only tasted fabulous, but it’d looked like a work of art sitting on
their plates—almost too pretty to eat.
Daniel sighed in contentment, which elicited a knowing smile from Michael, who
was similarly relaxing in an armchair next to the sofa, his long legs extended,
socked feet crossed at the ankles, and a glass of wine in his beautiful hand.
It was probably the wine’s fault the cheesy romantic in him was coming out, or
the good food, or the sexy scenery, but whatever the reason, he was in Seventh
Heaven. He wasn’t feeling one iota of guilt for ditching his parents on
Christmas.
“So, are you going to do it? Redemption House?” Michael’s unexpected question
yanked him out of his romantic fantasies and slammed him back into the real
world.
“Cameron’s all for it,” he answered. “It’s me you’re going to have to convince.
If I’m going to put my ass on the line for you, I need a good reason why.”
Michael looked affronted at his legitimate need for elaboration. “I’m going to
pay you a small fortune. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Joystyk doesn’t paint for money. We paint for people, Michael. People who've
been wronged, but who have no voice. If you want us to do this for you, you've
got to have a good reason.”
A bone in Michael's jaw clenched; he focused his gaze on his wine glass.
Silence overtook the room, growing exponentially larger and more uncomfortable
as the seconds ticked by. Daniel decided to wait him out. He patiently watched
with interest while Michael worked his way through his familiar decision-making
process. It was taking much longer this time. Must be something pretty bad.
“This conversation has to be confidential,” Michael finally stated, looking up
from his wine glass and meeting his gaze. The decision had been made; Michael
was going to share.
He nodded his agreement. "Of course. Nothing leaves this room unless you give
me permission to share it."
Michael pulled his long legs in, sat his wine glass down and scooted forward in
his chair, clasping his hands together, trying to convey a sense of comfort
where there wasn't any. He could read that body language like a billboard.
Michael was extremely tense and trying not to show it. He experienced a brief
moment of regret at insisting upon an explanation, but he pushed it away. His
and Cam's asses could land in jail for vandalism, and they would be fired if
Daddy Golland found out who did it. They had to have justification for the
risk.
"My father put me in Redemption House for the first time when I was twelve."
That softly spoken sentence sent Daniel into a rage, but he quickly contained
it, clamped it down, and called upon every bit of his professional training to
keep him from opening his big mouth and going on a rant. His job wasn't to
voice an opinion, no matter how abhorrent the subject matter. His
responsibility was to let his 'patient' talk it through unimpeded.
"Go on," he urged gently, confident that none of his fury showed in his voice
or his demeanor.
"There was this illegal Mexican boy named Dari.."
Daniel listened to an all-too-familiar story of a young boy in the middle of
his sexual awakening who'd engaged in a bit of exploration. They'd gotten
caught. His father's reaction was no surprise, now that he knew what kind of
man Paul Golland really was. He fought back his emotions, his intense feelings
of empathy for what Michael had endured. He'd undergone his own share of
beatings, although they'd been at the hands of his peers, rather than his
father. The slurs, the disgust that had looked back at him from a stranger's
eyes had been bad enough. Daniel couldn't imagine that coming from his own
father.
"I was in there for three days and two nights," Michael said, his monologue
continuing in the soft voice of a dispassionate narrator. "They starved me the
whole time." He laughed softly. "Of course, if you pray while withholding food,
it's called fasting. That makes it okay. But I was a twelve-year-old boy who
always hungry. To me, it was starvation.
"They forced me to recite Bible verses, pray with them, attend these ridiculous
therapy sessions with both a counselor and a Catholic priest. They only let me
sleep for twenty minute periods at a time, then they'd wake me up and start all
over again. Looking back, it was like one of those extreme interventions you
hear about, or like interrogating a suspected terrorist. All I heard for three
solid days was that I was fucked up, but it could all be fixed if I just asked
God for help. When I left, the only difference in me was I was angry, and I
also left determined no one would ever find out I so messed up inside even God
couldn't fix me."
He saw the defensiveness in Michael's eyes. He was silently challenging him to
say something, to either justify or condemn what had happened to him at such a
vulnerable age. He had to stay professional, no matter how disgusted he felt.
"The American Psychiatric Association has stated there isn't enough scientific
or empirical evidence to support the use of conversion therapy."
"I don't care what the APA thinks," Michael said. "What do you think?"
"My opinion is it's vile and inhumane the way they treat people in those
places, and it's especially cruel to subject children to that stupid shit." He
grimaced at letting a little of his outrage to seep into his answer. His
opinion had no relevance when it came to helping people deal with their
personal issues.
"Good to know." Michael smiled. "But I think my father looked at it like
preventative medicine. You know, the same way women get mammograms every year
to catch the cancer early and cure it. He sent me every summer for a whole
week, the same way other boys went to camp. When I walked out of that place for
the last time at seventeen, I had a bottle of antidepressants in one hand, and
anti-anxiety meds in the other. I flushed them down the toilet when I got home,
and told my father to shove Redemption House up his ass." Michael snickered.
"He knocked me around a little, then grounded me for the rest of the summer,
but it was worth it."
Michael added nothing else to his explanation, and was now waiting for him to
give an answer. Were they going to vandalize Redemption House for him? He'd
already made his decision, but when he opened his mouth, that wasn't what came
out.
"So, are you gay?" He immediately wanted to bust his own lip and do some
permanent damage to his filter, which refused to function the way it was
supposed to. It was such an impertinent question, and totally uncalled for in
this situation, but he was just so damned curious. He had to know.
Michael didn't seem upset at the question, nor did he answer immediately. He
took his good old time, actually giving it some thoughtful consideration, and
when he answered, Daniel knew it was with complete honesty.
"I don't know what I am," he said softly.
His first instinct was to ask him how he could not know his own sexual
orientation, but his filter kept that one where it belonged. Considering all
that Michael had been through with the rape and then Redemption House, it was
understandable he might be a little confused, although he couldn't even imagine
that kind of uncertainty. He'd known he was different in elementary school. It
wasn't much of an answer, but he'd have to take what he could get.
"So, are you going to do it?" Michael asked again.
He nodded. "Joystyk is going to paint for Michael Golland."
===============================================================================
After their heavy conversation, another bottle of wine had made it's way out of
Michael's wine cooler, and was now sitting, nearly empty, on the coffee
table. He was pleasantly drunk—not sloppy, slobbering, falling down drunk—but
he felt lighter than air. He was pretty sure Michael wasn't far behind him.
"Aren't you going to open them?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the two
festively wrapped boxes sitting untouched on the coffee table.
Michael shrugged, disinterested.
"You're going to love them both, especially mine," he said, smirking. "But
Trudy's is a close second. She got everyone the same thing. Open hers first."
Michael grimaced, like he'd just been asked to clean the toilets in an army
barracks with a toothbrush. He ripped off the wrappings, stared at the square
tin box in his hands like it had explosives inside it. When he finally pried
the lid off, his disappointment at its contents was clearly evident in his
disgusted sigh. "Candy and cookies. Exactly what I wanted," he said with
dripping sarcasm.
"Quit being a dick," Daniel chided. "Trudy's homemade goodies are the shit."
"Do you have to be so crude?"
He shrugged. "Do you have to be so snobby? Taste one, and then we'll talk."
Michael tentatively picked a moon-shaped one smothered in white confectioners
sugar, stared at it for a moment or two, brought it to his nose to sniff it,
then finally popped it into his mouth, licking the excess sugar off his
fingers, which sent Daniel's sex-starved libido into overdrive. After a few
seconds of chewing, he made his pronouncement—"Not bad."—which was Michael's
tight-ass way of saying Trudy's cookies were the shit. Daniel's smug level rose
ten notches and he was sure it showed on his face.
"And what did you get her?" Daniel asked.
Michael frowned, staring off into the distance, searching for the answer
amongst the important intellectual flotsam that he suspected filled this man's
brain to near capacity. Christmas gifts were obviously way down on his list of
things he cared about.
"A gift card...I think?" he said uncertainly, then shrugged. "I don't know
which store, though. I had my driver buy it for me."
Daniel slowly shook his head in disapproval, which deepened Michael's frown
even more. "You do realize you have the best secretary in that building, right?
She totally kicks ass. She puts up with your shit every day, and all you can
get her is a gift card?? I think you should give her a day off, with pay,
sometime soon, and tell her how much you appreciate her hard work and
dedication. That's how a good supervisor rewards his best employees, and God
knows you could use some good PR."
"So, you're asking me to be nice." Michael stared at him a few moments more,
then finally rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine. I'll give her a day off next
week. Happy?"
He nodded and smiled. Michael had no idea he'd just been oh-so-gently nudged by
his personal therapist into taking one small step toward joining the human
race. The only way to become a kind person was to be kind to others. He just
hoped Trudy didn't suffer a massive coronary when Michael broke the news to
her.
"Now, open mine."
Michael grinned crookedly. "I'm actually interested in this one. I'm curious to
see whatever it is inside you think I need, or want, for that matter." He
picked up the gift and shook it, gently at first, then a bit harder when it
failed to make any noise. He stared at it a while longer, pursed his lips, then
shook it closer to his ear, listening for any minute sounds he might have
missed before. "It's a gadget of some sort," he said thoughtfully. "Probably
one of those silly things a person doesn't really need, but it looks
interesting sitting on your desk."
Daniel said nothing, happier to let him go on being totally wrong.
"I have no clue what this is," he said finally, frowning, then proceeded to rip
the paper off, revealing a solid white box with absolutely no hints as to what
was inside it, or what company made it. He glanced Daniel's way. "You're
enjoying this, aren't you?"
His smug grinned widened a little more. He definitely got some small
satisfaction from watching Mr. Control Freak step outside his comfort zone. He
would have to think about the psychological implications of that guilty
pleasure later on, when he wasn't distracted by the buzz of excellent wine and
extreme horniness.
Michael pried the lid open and pulled out the gift, which was completely
swaddled in thick layers of white tissue paper. Sighing, he ripped and yanked
and sighed some more, before finally tossing the tissue aside and revealing his
gift. "Oh, wow. Just what I needed: another coffee cup." He read aloud the
writing on the front of the mug, then snorted sarcastically. "Have a nice day'.
Really, Daniel? You spent your hard-earned money on this??"
"Let's take it over to that mirror," he said, nodding toward the front
entryway.
He wobbled a bit when he stood, and noticed Michael wasn't striding across the
floor with his usual bold, arrogant steps either. When they were both standing
in front of the small mirror, Daniel instructed him to pretend like he was
drinking from the cup, but to watch himself in the mirror while doing it.
Michael raised a snooty eyebrow, but obeyed. The instant he saw what was on the
bottom of the mug, his haughty demeanor instantly vanished. A wide, white, and
beautiful smile took over his face, transforming him from a brooding Armani
millionaire into a light-hearted boy. Soft chuckles bubbled up out of his
throat, finally morphing into all-out joyous laughter he'd never heard coming
from Michael's body. He glowed with pleasure at the knowledge that he'd brought
some small bit of happiness into Michael's life with a $15 coffee mug.
"This. Is. Amazing!" Michael blurted out, still chuckling as he looked at the
image on the bottom of the cup again: a raised middle finger. Whenever Michael
took a drink from this cup, he would flip the bird to whoever happened to be
sitting across from him. "Oh, I cannot wait until the next board meeting," he
said, winking at Daniel and grinning. "Thank you. This was a fantastic gift."
A blinding white smile and full-throated laughter, all in the space of a
minute. Definitely worth the fifteen dollars.
===============================================================================
 
Another half-bottle of wine was gone. Oh yeah, we're definitely shit-faced, he
thought as he looked at Michael lounging lazily across from him in his soft
chair, his long legs all stretched out in front of him, socked feet crossed at
the ankles, a calm, happy expression on his face. He looked more relaxed than
Daniel had ever saw him.
"I'm an asshole." That proclamation came out of nowhere and interrupted the
drunken and contented silence that had settled over them since opening the
gifts. "I didn't get you anything for Christmas," Michael added softly. "You
got me that fucking amazing gift and I didn't get you shit."
He smiled at Michael's profanity-laced confession. He hated loud-mouth drunks
who only wanted to fight when they got loaded, so he was pleased to find that
his arrogant, sometimes asshole-ish, friend was a nice, friendly drunk. A
little foul-mouthed, but he found that to be cute. He's so sweet. He'd had this
idea in his head that a drunk Michael would be an even more arrogant and nasty
version of everyday Michael. He'd been wrong. The more he learned about his
friend, the more he was forced to let go of his preconceived notions about him.
"Christmas is about giving, not receiving," Daniel said.
"Bullshit," came the soft reply. Michael scooted himself into a sitting
position, and he wondered where he found the motivation to do it. He never
wanted to move from this sofa. In fact, the thing was calling his name and
begging him to stretch out on it and call it a night. "I have something I can
give you," Michael said. "I own a private suite at the Staples Center. We use
it to entertain out-of-town executives, reward people in the company for what
the fuck ever, I don't know. It has a wet bar, comfortable chairs, a good view
of the court, huge-ass monitors all over the walls. You and seventeen of your
closest friends can watch the Lakers the next time they're in town. I'll check
to see when it's available and I'll let you know."
Daniel's mouth dropped open at the extravagance of the gift. Those private
suites were for the elite in Los Angeles. Never in a million years did he ever
see himself having enough money to buy one, or even rent one for a night.
"Jesus Fucking Christ on a cross, thank you!" he said, stunned. "It's too
damned extravagant, but shit, if you're offering, I'll take it."
Michael grinned. "You're welcome."
Jesus. He was a goner, a fucking goner. He was eyeball-deep in love with this
man, and not because he was filthy rich or because he was drop-dead
gorgeous. He was enthralled by the complexity of him, by the many layers of
Michael Golland he was slowly discovering as he got to know him. But sometimes
he wondered if he would ever truly know him.
"I have a favor to ask."
Daniel mustered up enough energy to raise an eyebrow in curiosity. "A favor?
From me??"
Michael sighed. "I hate to have to ask, but I need a recommendation for a good
attorney. I thought your father could help me out."
He sensed the seriousness of his request, despite his current drunken state,
since the normal-speaking Michael had returned, sans profanity. Regardless, a
sarcastic chuckle escaped before he could stop it. "My dad pretty much can't
stand you, Michael. I don't foresee him helping you with anything except
picking out curtains for your jail cell." Fuck, did I really just say that??
Damned fucking defective filter!
"Jail cells don't have curtains," he countered, chuckling. "I know that first-
hand, remember? But I was hoping your father would have enough personal and
professional integrity to put aside his feelings for me and assist me in
finding suitable counsel. I don't trust any of GEM's attorneys. I need one who
won't get down on his knees and suck my father's dick at the drop of a hat. I
need someone with impeccable ethics who is immune to bribery and intimidation.
In other words, I need an attorney who hates my father as much as I do. I
figured your dad would know plenty of people who feel the same way." Michael
fixed his gaze on his face, and he looked stone-cold sober to him. "This is
important, Daniel. You have no idea how important, and unfortunately, I can't
give you any of the details."
He hadn't been joking. His dad despised Michael, even though he'd never met
him. It was going to take a hell of a lot of persuasion and manipulation on his
part to get him to even consider helping out a man who took up a huge chunk of
space in his filing cabinet at work. But, this obviously was extremely
important to Michael, so he'd give it his best shot.
"I'll see what I can do," Daniel assured him.
"Thank you." Then just as suddenly as it had appeared, the seriousness was
gone. "You're fucking drunk," Michael added, smirking. "Your ass is sleeping in
my guest room tonight."
No way he could make it up those stairs. "I'm fine right where I'm at. Just get
me a blanket and I'm good to go."
Michael unsteadily rose from the chair, and Daniel wondered if he would make it
up the stairs. He didn't have the energy or the motivation to turn around and
find out. A few minutes later, a soft, fuzzy blanket billowed down out of the
air and settled over him. He was drunk, content, and blissfully happy now that
he was warm and cozy on Michael's comfortable couch.
"I wanted to thank you for having the balls to lie your way past my gate man,"
Michael said softly, towering over him and regarding him kindly, despite the
reminder of how he'd deceitfully finagled his way into Michael's evening.
"Christmas was actually enjoyable for once. Thank you."
He smiled sleepily. "And I wanted to thank you for getting me drunk enough to
agree to ask my dad to help you find an attorney. Well played, Michael. Merry
Christmas."
Michael nodded, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Merry
Christmas to you, too."
 
MICHAEL'S NEW COFFEE MUG
 
 
 
***** Defiance *****
“You’re a little distracted today. Is something bothering you?”
Not something, but someone, I thought. I shrugged in answer, not sure whether I
should share this new thing with Jack.
“Remember how I told you horses can sense when something is wrong with you? You
don’t want to get on Apache’s back today if you’ve got something weighing on
your mind.”
I squirmed. This was something totally new for me. It felt strange just
thinking about it, let alone telling someone else. But if I were to be
completely honest, there was no one else I could even think of telling, except
for Jack—certainly not my parents or the one lone boy at school who still
talked to me from time to time.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
I knew that. I’d told Jack I liked boys, after all, and he’d been completely
cool about it. Truth was, I was itching to tell someone who would understand. 
“There’s a new boy at school. His name is Chris,” I said, hesitant to continue.
Jack gave me a knowing look. “And you like him…a lot?”
I nodded, feeling my cheeks reddening.
“Does he like you the same way?” Jack asked, and I heard nothing but curiosity
in his question. No judgments, no disapproval, no indication a lecture was
coming.
I shrugged again. “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to even talk to him
yet. We only have one class together, and—“ I stopped. Now that I’d said it out
loud, I realized how stupid I sounded. I was crushing on a boy who hadn’t even
noticed I was alive, and who apparently couldn’t be bothered with a simple
hello, even though we sat right beside each other in English class.
“And what?” Jack asked.
I shook my head, suddenly feeling depressed. “And nothing. He probably likes
girls, like they all do at my school.”
I often lay in bed at night wondering if I was destined to be the only gay boy
in my class. With nearly two hundred kids in a building, surely one of them
would be like me. But if such a boy existed, I’d yet to find him. In my
daydreams, this new boy, Chris, was just like me, and was just as lonely,
wanting nothing more than to make a new friend at his new school, a new friend
who would accept him for who he really was inside. I longed to be that friend.
I imagined telling him I was gay, too, just before he kissed me.
I squirmed under Jack’s thoughtful stare. When he finally spoke, he gave me
some very good advice, and I was glad I’d opened up to him. He said the only
way to find out was for me to just talk to Chris, but he warned that the
discovery process had to be handled very carefully. Like I didn’t know that
already?? I’d been on the receiving end of an angry fist. I had no desire to
incite this new boy to violence. Jack advised opening the conversation with
safe topics: Where did he live before moving here? Does he play sports? Does he
like the Lakers? Is he interested in horses?
Jack winked, with a sly grin. “And if he’s interested in horses, then you can
bring him with you one Saturday and you two can ride.”
My mouth dropped open in shock; my heart beat wildly with excitement. I was
going to rub raw places on my knees from all the praying I was going to do,
praying that Chris loved horses and would eagerly accept my invitation to come
ride with me. And if he didn’t know anything about horses, but was curious, I
would teach him, just like Jack had taught me. I smiled at the thought.
“Okay, so have you thought ahead to what you’re going to do if you find out he
is gay? Do you have a plan on how to proceed from there?”
Plan?? Hell no, I didn’t have a plan. I supposed we’d hang out, talk about
stuff, maybe shoot ball, all the things that regular boys do together. But
you’re not a regular boy, that annoying voice inside my head pointed out very
wisely. You’re different, a very different boy.  “I guess we’ll just hang out
and do normal guy stuff,” I answered, shrugging.
“Hanging out is not what I’m talking about, Daniel. I’m talking about two
hormonal boys who really like each other.” Jack chuckled. “Just playing ball or
riding horses isn’t going to be enough, know what I mean?”
Oh no. Was Jack actually going to make me sit through a birds-and-the-bees
talk?? I thought he was more chill than that.
“I can tell by the look on your face you want me to shut up right now, but I’m
going to pretend I didn’t see it.” The amusement disappeared from his
expression. He squatted down until he was eye-level with me. “I’m not going to
give you a lecture about sex.” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “I was a
hormonal boy once and I know how that feels. I know what goes through your mind
at night. What I’m talking about is…”
He hesitated, chewed his cheek, like he was unsure whether he should finish his
thought.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m talking about…” He sighed and then grimaced. “…technique. Skills.”
I narrowed my eyes and frowned in confusion. Technique? Skills??
“Okay, take these horses for instance.” He gestured to where Apache was
standing, happily eating his oats and oblivious to the potentially embarrassing
conversation taking place just a few yards from his swishing tail. “ You didn’t
know a thing about them when you first came here. Of course, you knew they
could be ridden, and in your imagination you felt you already knew how to ride.
But imagining something is quite a bit different from actually doing it,
especially if you don’t possess the necessary skills. You had to learn how to
ride, then you practiced until you got really good at it, which you have.” He
ruffled my hair. “I’m very proud of the progress you’ve made, by the way.
You’re an excellent equestrian for such a young fellow.”
I glowed from the compliment, but at the same time wondered what that had to do
with whatever point he was trying to make. “I’d like to ride Apache sometime
today, so could you maybe hurry this along a little?” I suggested, letting a
bit of teenage attitude seep into my voice.
He gave me a warning look, but I knew he wasn’t really angry. “Okay. I’m just
going to come right out and ask. Have you ever kissed anyone? Not on the cheek,
I mean on the lips.”
I felt a blush creep up my neck, but still, what a stupid question. Who was I
going to kiss? It wasn’t like I had a whole slew of willing candidates lined up
for the chance. Kissing was something I dreamed about doing, probably like
every other boy, but instinctively I knew it would be a very long time before I
actually did it. Hell, I was lucky if I managed to sneak a look at a boy’s ass
in the gym locker room. That was the riskiest thing I’d ever attempted, and I
would have gotten beaten into a bloody pulp if I’d gotten caught.
“If Chris does happen to be gay, or if you ever do happen to be in a situation
where things might start to get a little heavy, then you don’t want to mess it
up, do you? Kissing is a skill, Daniel, just like tack and riding are skills.
You can learn to do both of those very well, if you’re taught properly. I know
that to you I probably seem pretty ancient, a guy with one foot already in the
grave, but I know about this, just like I know all about horses. Just like I’ve
taught you how to ride, I can also teach you how to kiss…if you want to learn.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. He was a lot older than me, and some small
part of me felt I should be creeped out by his suggestion, but strangely, I
wasn’t. I was curious. I should tell him no, but I didn't want to.  I guess he
took my hesitation to mean I was okay with it, because before I knew what was
happening, his lips touched mine, and it didn't feel anything like I'd
imagined. It felt a whole lot better.
 
Daniel awoke with a start, his heart pounding and feeling shaky all over, his
cock hard enough to cut diamonds.
“Fuck you,” he hissed angrily into the darkness, as if Jack could really hear
him, like the asshole might actually be wounded by the sound of his fury, which
was ridiculous. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Jack in twelve years. He didn’t
know if he was dead or alive. All he knew was he no longer lived next door to
their home in Santa Paula.
This particular childhood nightmare always left him feeling dirty, and with an
ache between his legs that shamed him to the core. Why the fuck did he wake up
aroused from that dream every single fucking time? It wasn’t like he was even
remotely attracted to the lying prick, so why did his body insist on betraying
him like this?? He violently ripped the sheet off, shot up from the bed, and
stormed to the shower. He needed the water to be as icy cold as he could stand
it. That was the only way to get rid of the boner, as well as the filthy
remnants of the dream. But even then, even after he’d emerge from the shower,
his dick limp, his body shaking relentlessly from the chill, even then, the
lingering shame would haunt him for days afterwards.
First the shower, he told himself. Then wrap up in a blanket until the shaking
stops. Then stay up and draw as long as it takes. You’ve done this before. You
can get through this.
 
===============================================================================
 
The 27th of December: his own personal D-Day. Michael sighed, knowing he was
being juvenile and overly dramatic, but the past seven days without his father
breathing down his neck had been something close to paradise. He’d felt free
and more relaxed than he had in a long time. He supposed that Daniel had a
little to do with his newfound serenity. Despite the mild hangover, Christmas
had actually been pleasant this year. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a
single reason why he should be glad about his father’s return. When he arrived
home from work that night, Michael found him sitting on his sofa, uninvited,
and reading one of his books.
"The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People," his father said, chuckling and
tossing the self-help book on the coffee table. "Complete nonsense. You're
wasting your time reading this tripe because you lack the self-discipline to
master even one measly habit." He smiled. "You'll never make it to seven."
A week out of the country wasn't nearly long enough, he thought as he hung up
his coat and thought about how to respond. "I didn't get arrested while you
were gone, so that's an improvement, right?" He plastered his best fake smile
on his face and sat down in the armchair across from his father. There was a
reason for this unannounced visit, and he knew it wasn't to inquire after his
health.
His father's smile vanished. "No, you didn't get arrested, but you had that
queer over here on my property while I was gone. That's just as bad. What was
he doing here?”
Enough was enough. He was twenty-six years old and he was damned if he was
going to let his father continue to try and choose his friends like he had when
he was little. “Your property?” he said softly. “Surely I don’t need to remind
you of the terms of mother’s will. I have an easement, and Daniel was never on
your property the entire time he was here.”
His mother had willed him her cottage, the stables and the surrounding fifteen
acres, and because she’d apparently known what a dickhead her husband was,
she’d insisted on an easement, too. It allowed him free use of the road
entering the grounds of their estate. His father had no authority to stop
Daniel—or anyone else—from visiting him at his home or the stables.
“What was he doing here?” 
“Christmas Eve,” he answered. “We made dinner, then got drunk. He passed out on
my couch and left the next morning. Anything else you want to know?”
His father never took smart-mouthed defiance very well. “Have I not made myself
clear?” He sat forward, drilling his angry gaze into Michael’s eyes. “I want
him out of my company, but I can’t seem to accomplish that because you can’t do
your damned job. So, instead, I want him to stay the hell away from me, the
hell away from my property, and the hell away from you.”
Michael was through with this absurd conversation; he was through being made to
feel like a teenager asking permission to have an overnight. “Number one: he is
never around you. Number two: he was nowhere near your property. And Number
three: I’m an adult, and you no longer have the authority to choose who I hang
out with.” He stood up. “I have to change and see to Claire. You can let
yourself out.”
He turned and walked away knowing he’d just made things more difficult for
himself, but he really didn’t give one big shit about it. Daniel was his friend
now. His father was just going to have to get the fuck over it.
 
===============================================================================
 
After his time in the stables with Claire, he felt calmer than he had all day.
Back at the cottage, he phoned Daniel and they chatted about their
“redecorating project”. He and Cam had decided to vandalize Redemption House on
New Year’s Eve, sometime after midnight. Daniel reasoned that law enforcement
would be focusing on DUI road patrols and monitoring the gazillion bars in Los
Angeles, and that a religious counseling center would be way down on their list
of places to watch. It made sense, but he still worried.
“Just don’t get caught,” he said into the phone.
He heard a chuckle on the other end. “We never get caught.”
Michael laughed at his joke and their conversation continued for many more
minutes. He found it odd he now enjoyed talking on the phone, when he’d always
hated it before. In fact, he found a lot of things odd these days—the oddest of
all was that he had a friend, a true friend, for the first time in his life.
 
===============================================================================

He had one last phone call to make before he called it a night. He punched in
the number and waited, smiling smugly at how quickly she answered. She never
let him ring more than twice because she knew what he wanted, and she wanted it
just as badly. Except this time, she was going to get something completely
unexpected.
“Anne? I need to see you.”
 
***** The Contract *****
Chapter Notes
     Anne Marie Parris is being played by Emmy Rossum.
Now that all the Christmas nonsense was out of the way, Michael could finally
get down to business. His future was at stake; everything was riding on his
ability to swallow his pride (and his nausea) and convince Anne it was in her
best financial interests to be his fake girlfriend.
He rolled his eyes to an empty room and chuckled sarcastically at how absurd
that sounded. He might as well laugh about it. Otherwise, the fury at being
out-maneuvered by his father would send him into a rage capable of tearing the
hardwood planks off his living room floor with his bare hands. To win this
battle of wills he had to stay calm and focused. Whatever he had to endure to
get that trust fund, he would do it. He might have to have some major dental
work done afterwards to repair the damage from grinding his teeth, but eight
figures could buy him one hell of a brand new smile.
He took another gulp of wine to steady his nerves and fuel his courage. He
rarely ever drank alcohol this late in the evening, but these were desperate
times. The thought of a woman basically taking over his life for the next three
and a half years was horrifying, but if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he’d
sink into a defeated depression and his father would win.
The sound of the doorbell jerked him into reality. He took a deep, cleansing
breath—which did nothing to dispel the hard knot of anxiety in the pit of his
stomach—and opened the door to his future.
He raised a critical eyebrow as she smiled and swept past him. Her long,
flowing dark hair—one of her best assets—was now pulled back into an
unattractive ponytail, a style more fitting a teenager. She was wearing minimal
makeup, which gave her the appearance of a corpse-in-waiting. Plus, he’d never
seen her dressed so casually before: skin tight jeans with a see-through shirt
barely covering her stomach, layered under a one-size-too-small cheap sweater
that looked like it came off the rack at Target. If Anne was going to be his
girlfriend she was going to have to turn her fashion sense up a considerable
number of notches.
“What?” she asked, apparently noticing his look of distaste. “You said we
weren’t going out or doing a scene, and not to dress up. I’m comfortable.”
It was true he’d specified this wasn’t a formal date, but surely the woman had
a nice pair of slacks and a silk blouse hanging somewhere in her closet. Pick
your battles, Michael. He sighed at the wisdom of that inner voice and
swallowed down the sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue. “It’s fine,” he
said, gesturing to the sofa. “Have a seat. I have a business proposition for
you.”
She settled into one corner of the sofa, legs crossed at the knee, one foot
bouncing out a rhythm to a song only she could hear. He was about to launch
into his spiel when he noticed her shoes. Good god. Was it his destiny to be
surrounded by people with absolutely no taste in footwear?? She was wearing
black Converse—the same kitschy shoes Daniel favored. Was the God of Wall
Street trying to tell him something? Perhaps he should get over his fashion
outrage and just check out their stock like he’d been promising himself he
would.
“A business proposition?” She raised a curious eyebrow. “This sounds like it
might take a while.” She slid the Converse off her feet and tucked her legs
beneath her like a pretzel, which conjured up some very interesting scenarios
in his mind for their next scene together. Perhaps it was time to purchase a
hog-tie system. Focus, Michael.
He settled on the sofa opposite her, a glass coffee table separating them.
“Before we get into that, I have to ask you something, and if you lie to me
about this, we’re through.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Okay.”
He was somewhat confident he already knew what her answer would be, but this
was too important to take on faith. He needed to watch her eyes, her
expression, her body language to assure himself, without any doubt, that she
was telling the truth.
“Have you had sex with my father? And oral sex counts.”
Her jaw dropped; her shock looked real. “Are you serious?”
He held her gaze and nodded. “Very.”
“No, I have never had sex with your father,” she answered in a firm, steady
voice. “Of course I know who he is—everyone in LA knows who he is—but I’ve
never met him in person.”
He studied her, taking note of her body language, her steady gaze, the absence
of nervous tics, and decided she was telling the truth. After all, it wasn’t
like she ran in the same social circles as his father. The idea of his
billionaire Bible-thumping daddy hooking up with an elementary public school
teacher who liked to be tied up and whipped was pretty farfetched. Even his
father had limits.
“And no offense to your dad,” she continued with a smirk. “—because he’s an
amazing person who’s done a lot of good things for this community—but he’s an
old man, and wrinkly dicks just don’t do a thing for me.” She winked. “I like
‘em young, hung and rough, in that order.”
He was surprised to feel the heat of a blush creep up his neck, which confused
and angered him. He didn’t give a shit what any woman thought about him, Anne
included; he only wanted them to submit to him and keep their useless opinions
to themselves while doing so. Also, her idea that his father was an amazing
person needed to be addressed, but he decided to leave that until later,
dependent upon whether she agreed to sign on the dotted line.
“Okay. I believe you.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Uncertainty around a woman was
unfamiliar territory for him; he’d always issued commands, demanded adherence,
and tolerated no differences of opinion. The women in his life either obeyed
him or they got dumped on their gold digger asses. Trudy was the only woman who
got a pass from him on disobedience and that was only because the EEOC wouldn’t
allow him to fire her just for having tits and a vagina. Suddenly, he wanted to
run out of his penthouse and back to his cottage and the safety of Claire’s
stall—that, or crash through his patio doors and jump off the roof. This
situation was testing the limits of his patience and undermining his
confidence, which pissed him the hell off. Eight figures, Michael! EIGHT
FIGURES!! Stay focused!
He’d rehearsed what he was going to say, but now that he was sitting in front
of her, he couldn’t help but wonder what her reaction would be. If she told him
to shove his absurd idea up his ass and stormed out, he was destined to live
the rest of his life in poverty, because he couldn’t even imagine spending the
next three and a half years with any of the other whores he knew. Anne was his
first, last, and only, choice.
He decided bluntness was the best approach. “Here’s the proposition: I need a
fake girlfriend.”
She was trying not to laugh, so before she busted out into hysterics he filled
her in on the details of his trust fund and the new conditions his father had
imposed upon it.
Her mouth dropped open again. “This is a joke, right?”
“Unfortunately, no. My father is determined I become a respected member of the
community and this is his twisted way of accomplishing that. If I want that
money, I have to do this, and I really want that money, Anne. I need it.”
He was perilously close to sounding like a spoiled, whiny child begging his
mommy for a piece of candy, so he shut up and gave her some quiet time to
gather her thoughts. She was staring across the room, but her gaze wasn’t
focused on his furnishings—she was thoughtfully considering her decision. The
lengthening silence irritated him. He loathed the fact that his entire future
depended on this woman sitting across from him. If she refused him, he briefly
considered violence—or perhaps even blackmail—to get what he wanted, but
quickly ruled them both out. His stockade wouldn’t fit in a 6x8 concrete cell.
Finally, she looked his way. “You have a ton of beautiful, wealthy women at
your beck and call. Why me?”
Her question took him by surprise. His desperation to accumulate a massive
amount of wealth—and consequently his freedom from beneath his father’s
boot—was his main motivation but, instinctively he knew he had to come up with
a more compelling reason than his need to weed out the gold digging cunts. He
sensed her decision was contingent upon the depth and sincerity of his answer.
In the end, there’d been only one factor he’d considered when deciding who to
choose.
“You said I made you sublimely happy. No one has ever said that to me before. I
felt it would be a good starting point.”
She smiled, her eyes softening to a sappy brown. “I’m interested.” In an
instant, the heavy ball of lead in his stomach disappeared. “But. . .I need a
lot more details before I agree to this.”
“Of course. We can draw up a tentative contract and enter into negotiations to
ensure we both get what we want out of this—just like a business deal. When we
get something we both can live with, we sign it, and it’s official.”
“What if we don’t get something we can both live with? Will I still be part of
your life if I ultimately decide against this?” She smiled apologetically. “I
need to know where I stand with you before we go any further, Michael.”
Despite his irritation, he felt a small sliver of admiration for her. He sensed
she wasn’t going to be as easy to manipulate as his other whores, but he felt
confident that once they entered into negotiations, his superior business
acumen would win the day. He could afford a little generosity.
“Despite the outcome of this conversation we will continue to see each other.”
She smiled and unfolded her legs, sitting up straight, rubbing her hands
together in anticipation, her expression eager. “Great. Let’s get started.”
He wished he could muster up the same level of enthusiasm. Instead, he rose and
went to the kitchen, bringing back a piece of paper and two pens—red and black
ink—from his junk drawer. He laid everything on the glass coffee table
between them. She scooted forward to the edge of the sofa, ready to begin. He
turned the paper so it was oriented landscape, like on a printer, and drew a
dividing line down the center of it—one half for his demands, the other half
for hers.
“I’ll go first.” He chose the black pen and wrote a shortened version of his
first demand. “I insist upon complete discretion. No one—your family, friends,
co-workers, no one—can know this is not a legitimate relationship. If we’re
going to fool my father, we have to fool everyone. Daniel is the only one who
knows, and that’s because it was his idea. But we can trust him. He knows how
important this is to me. He won’t tell anyone.”
She nodded. “I agree to that. And if you trust Daniel, then I trust him, too.”
He handed her the red pen, instructed her to write the word ‘Agree’ and then
initial it. He signed his initials beside hers.
“Your turn,” he said.
She grinned and winked. “The sex. I want it to continue.”
He was surprised, but pleased. He needed the physical and emotional release he
got from bondage like he needed air to breathe. “I agree whole-heartedly.” He
wrote the word ‘Agree’ and initialed it. She did the same.
His turn. After seeing her first demand, he decided his preconceived list
needed some tweaking. “Since the sex is going to continue, I will be the only
man you have it with from now on.”
A soft chuckle. “You’re the only man worthy enough to beat my ass. Agreed.” He
tried to ignore the small gleam of pleasure her words gave him as they both
signed and initialed their agreement.
“And since we’re on that topic,” she said, “I insist you stop having sex with
those airhead bimbos you parade around town all the time. I will be your main
squeeze from now on.”
He tried not to think of the years of mind-numbing monogamy that lay ahead as
he agreed and initialed. 
Number three. “You’ll have to attend public and private events with me,” he
said, “so you have to be available whenever I need you. The more we’re seen
together, the better.”
She bit her lip and frowned. “I agree with that last part, but the problem is
I’m a teacher. Sometimes I have parent conferences after school, or I have to
stay late for meetings or other stuff going on. It’s just not realistic to
expect me to drop whatever I’m doing. So, maybe I should get some excused
absences. Maybe two a month? Is that reasonable?”
He bristled, but decided that loosening up his time requirements was a small
price to pay for his financial freedom. She added it to her side; he agreed and
initialed.
“I feel it’s only fair that if you get two excused absences, then I get two, as
well,” he said. She agreed to his impromptu fifth demand and initialed.
“Your turn,” he said. “Number four.”
He watched her hesitate, take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Silent
alarms went off inside his head.
“I want you to improve your skills in the bedroom so you can become an even
better dominant.”
His first instinct was to go on the attack. He was incensed that she had the
nerve to criticize him. Behind his bedroom doors, he was in charge; their
scenes together were always done his way, and she knew this. Besides, he
thought he made her “sublimely happy”, so what was there to improve?
“You’re already amazing, but there’s some room for improvement, Michael. For
instance, we don’t use safe words, and we should. That’s for your protection as
well as mine. You also don’t provide aftercare for me, and I want that. I want
to give you aftercare, too.”
He sat back, fuming. This was the first major snag and he wasn’t sure they
could get past it. Asking him to change the way he did things was just her
trying to dictate how their scenes should go—basically, his submissive was
issuing orders, and that was not acceptable. And the aftercare shit sounded way
too intimate for his comfort. The thought of having to touch her in that way
made him queasy.
“I don’t agree to that,” he said.
She laid her pen down on the table with a sigh. “Then we have nothing further
to negotiate.”
He glared at her as she slipped her feet into her tacky Converse and prepared
to leave. The bitch had him by the balls and she knew it. He had no choice but
to give her what she wanted. He was so incredibly fucked, because they still
hadn’t negotiated a price for her services. He had a feeling this was going to
get expensive.
“Wait,” he said as she rose from the sofa. “I’ll agree.”
She sat back down. He expected her to gloat over her victory but, surprisingly,
she didn’t. She simply nodded, wrote out her demand, and pushed the paper to
him so he could agree and initial. He added the words “under duress” in
parentheses, but she scribbled them out, chuckling softly.
“I’m not twisting your arm, Michael. There’s no duress here.”
Fine, bitch. Now it’s my turn to tighten the screws. “You will sign an NDA—a
non-disclosure agreement—stating that if you ever breathe a word of my private
affairs to anyone, I will sue your ass so hard you’ll have nothing left but the
clothes on your back.”
She sighed his name. “Michael. You don’t have to threaten me. I would never
violate your privacy, but I understand your need to be sure. I’d feel the same
way if I were in your position. I’ll be happy to sign one.”
After they agreed and initialed she wrote number five on her side of the paper.
“You will not try to control my life outside the bedroom. I go where I want
when I want. I eat what I want. I dress how I want—however I will accept your
input when I’m going to an event with you. I talk to whomever I want to talk
to, and you will not be that jealous fake boyfriend who throws a temper tantrum
over it. I will give you the same considerations, of course.”
Like he had time to micromanage every minute of her life. As long as she obeyed
him as his submissive and managed to convince his father, and all of LA, that
she was head-over-heels in love with him, he didn’t give a shit what she did
the rest of the time. In fact, he’d be quite happy if she’d leave him the hell
alone as much as possible. He agreed and initialed.
Now they were down to the final consideration, the most important clause of the
contract: compensation. Michael had tried to prepare himself—gold digging
whores were ruthless and without conscience. He knew this was going to hurt. .
. a lot. He drew in a breath and mentally prepared himself for a brutal battle.
He was going to err on the side of optimism and start small.
“I’m prepared to give you 1% of my trust fund in payment for your services. I
don’t know the exact amount I’m getting, but I know it’s eight figures. That
means you’ll get a nice six figure sum for this.”  He put pen to paper, but
before he could even write the number six she gripped his hand and stopped him.
“I don’t want your money.”
His jaw hit the floor. Not literally, of course, but he was completely stunned
by her refusal. All of the other women he knew would have demanded more than
1%. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “That’s crazy! No one
would do this for free.”
She smiled and released his hand. “I guess I’m crazy then, because I will not
accept any payment for this.”
“Why not?” It was a stupid question, and even as he asked it, he wondered why
he cared. He should be jumping for joy this wasn’t going to cost him as much as
he’d thought it would.
“Duh. I’m a public servant. There’s no way I could explain that kind of income
to the IRS, not on a teacher’s salary.” She snickered. “They’d think I was
selling crack or turning tricks on the side.”
She had a point. “I could set up a bank account in my name then, and just give
you the bank card to it.” Shut up, Michael! She doesn’t want your money, so
just let it go!
She shook her head. “I’m fine, really. I don’t need any payment except maybe
for the clothes I’ll have to wear if we go to some fancy party or something.
You could pay for that, I guess.”
Still in a state of shock, he nevertheless managed to help hammer out the
specific expenses he would be responsible for. They decided he would pay for
clothes, jewelry, shoes, purses, manicures and hairstyling whenever he needed
her to attend a formal event with him. He suggested $2,000 per event, which she
vehemently nixed, insisting that $500 was plenty. He snidely pointed out
Michael Golland’s girlfriend wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress that cost under
$500, so that figure was way too low. They finally compromised on $1,500 per
event—item number six on his side of the contract.
On her side, she stated she wouldn’t accept any payment except for clothes.
Still reeling at the idea that she didn’t seem to care about his money, he
agreed and initialed it.
“Anything else?” he asked. As far as he was concerned, they were done.
Everything important to him had been addressed and agreed to.
“Well. . .” She hesitated, which roused his curiosity. “There is one other
thing.”
“What?”
She wrote the answer on her side of the contract as item number seven and
turned it around so he could read it: 7. What about Daniel?
The question was a punch to the gut. He’d confessed to Father Sebastian he
wanted more than friendship from Daniel, but deep down he knew that could never
happen. Too much was at stake for him to risk his father discovering him in a
compromising situation. He’d lose everything if he gave in to his urges. It
hurt to do it, but he drew a line through her sentence and added his own in red
ink: Daniel has no relevance to this contract.
Her features softened; he sensed a lecture coming. “He is relevant. You have
feelings for him, Michael.”
“We’re just friends.”
“You’re more than that.”
“No, we’re not more than that. We’re just friends, Anne, and that’s all we’re
ever going to be, so drop it.”
She sighed as she agreed and signed her initials. She also added “under duress”
in parentheses, but he quickly marked that out, smugly reminding her he wasn’t
twisting her arm either.
“Anything else?”
She shook her head.
“Because of the secrecy involved, we can’t have this notarized. We’re just
going to have to trust each other’s word,” he said.
“I trust you implicitly.”
Her faith in him was admirable, but he wondered if he was going to make it
through three and a half years of this shit. He added a final paragraph stating
that if either one of them broke the rules of the contract it would be null and
void. She gave her final approval; they both added their signatures to the
document and it was done. He sat back, staring silently at a woman who was
going to become a huge part of his life starting now. What the hell have you
done??
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we start getting to know each other, I suppose.” He shrugged. “Maybe we
can come up with some questions, exchange answers and memorize them.”
“Memorization is the least effective method of learning new content,” she said.
“I have a better idea. Invite me over to your other house after New Year’s and
we’ll get to know each other the old-fashioned way: by spending time together.”
And so it begins. . .
 
ANNE PARRIS (Played by Emmy Rossum)
 
MICHAEL'S PENTHOUSE LIVING ROOM, WHERE THE CONTRACT WAS NEGOTIATED
 
THE CONTRACT (I came up with the contract FIRST, and then wrote the chapter
around it. lol) 
 
A BOOK COVER I CREATED OF MICHAEL AND ANNE USING PHOTOSHOP CC 2015
 
***** Humiliation *****
The office was small and cramped, the chair hard and uncomfortable. I hoped
whatever this was didn’t take long, because it was already hurting my back,
plus my stomach was empty and cramping.
I heard the door open and shut behind me. The priest sat down across from me in
a soft wing-backed chair, instead of behind his desk. Our legs were only about
a foot from touching. He had a folder and pen in his hand. I sighed aloud, not
caring whether I was reprimanded for my teenage attitude. I hated this place
with its priests and their stupid prayers. I wanted to go home to Claire.
“Hello, Michael.”
I said nothing and refused to smile. I recognized this priest from the first
day I arrived—hard to forget someone with red hair that bright. Father Mullen.
He was one of the priests who’d prayed over me as I’d laid on the floor of the
sanctuary. He’d repeatedly shouted that I was lost, but God could help me find
the right path if I only asked. I didn’t like him, but then again, I didn’t
like any of the people in this place.
“I have some questions for you.”
He opened the folder and shuffled around some papers. We were sitting close
enough that I could almost read what was written on the top one. He glanced at
me, frowned, and immediately got up and moved his chair a couple of feet
farther away. When he was settled again, he crossed his legs and cleared his
throat.
“These questions will help determine the level of spiritual counseling required
to help you get better.”
Get better? I wasn’t sick.
“Some of the questions may feel a bit personal, a bit uncomfortable even, but
it’s important you answer honestly. We need to determine just how far you’ve
strayed from God’s path so we’ll know how best to help you.”
He looked right at my face. His eyes were green—almost as bright as his hair—
but his stare made me squirm. I looked down at my lap.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked.
I looked up in shock.
“And by that we mean have you had sexual contact in which any of your body
parts have penetrated any openings on another person’s body—their mouth, vagina
or anus?”
I didn’t know what to say. Did what happened with Dari mean I wasn’t a virgin
anymore??
“I know about the incident that resulted in your admittance here,” he said.
“Your father feels you were. . .influenced. . .by the boy. There was no actual
consummation of the act; you were just experimenting, exploring. Is that
correct?”
“Actual consummation?” I asked, confused.
“That means neither one of you ejaculated, neither one of you came.”
I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. “Yes, that’s correct,” I
mumbled.
He nodded and wrote something on his paper. “Besides this incident, have you
had any other sexual contact like I described?”
“No.”
He wrote a little more. “Do you masturbate?”
I felt the heat of a blush creep up my neck and face. I suddenly felt sick to
my stomach. I wanted out of this room.
“Answer the question honestly.”
I swallowed nervously. “Yes.”
“How often?”
“A couple or three times a week,” I answered, shrugging.
“Where do you masturbate?”
What did that have to do with anything? I clenched my teeth and stared at the
floor.
“Are you hungry, Michael?”
I nodded. I was starving.
“Answer the questions and you can have some dinner. Where do you masturbate?”
“The shower or in my bed.”
“Do you view images of nude women or men while masturbating?”
I didn’t want to answer, but I knew I had no choice if I wanted to eat. “No.”
“What do you use for lubrication?”
My mouth dropped open and I spoke before I thought. “Why do you need to know
that??”
His lips thinned; his stare hardened. Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to
describe what I was feeling. I needed to get out of this room.
“Answer the question.”
I swallowed and clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking. “Soap in
the shower. Lotion in the bed.”
He wrote a little, then stared at me in silence for an uncomfortably long time.
Finally, he asked softly, “What do you think about when you jack off?”
“I want to leave now,” I said, trying to hide my growing panic.
“Do you think about boys?”
“I’m not answering any more of your questions.”  I was ashamed to hear fear in
my voice.
“Do you ever slide your fingers inside your ass while you’re doing it?”
I shot up out the chair, shocked and scared. “My father would not approve of
these questions!” I was on the verge of running from the room. There had to be
a public phone somewhere in this place.
“Sit down!” he ordered. “Your father has complete faith in Redemption House and
its staff. Now, sit down or I’ll recommend another week’s stay.”
He had the power to make that happen. I couldn’t survive another week in this
place. I slowly sat back down.
He smiled at me; I felt sick to my stomach. He leaned forward. “You should try
it next time,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “A little Vaseline and your
finger slides right in. Wiggle it around a little while you’re jacking off. It
feels good. And, I’d really like it if you’d think of me when you do it.”
He was waiting for me to say something. I swallowed, fought the urge to cry,
and told him what I thought he wanted to hear, because I had to get out of
there. “I will.”
His smile disappeared in an instant. He settled back in his chair; he was all
priest, all business, now. “Masturbation is extremely dangerous, Michael,” he
said. 
He leaned forward again and drilled his green gaze right into my face. I wanted
to look away, but couldn’t.
“It might be pleasurable for the moment, but it has serious mental, physical
and spiritual consequences. When you masturbate, you reject and twist what God
intended to happen only between a husband and wife. You must stop immediately.
There are proven methods to help you refrain from committing this particular
sin in the future. I’ll make the recommendation to your counselor.”
Yeah, whatever. I just wanted him to shut up and let me leave.
“If you ever want to…talk—” he said, smiling again. “—I’m always available.”
I’d kill myself first.
He shut the folder, tucked it under his arm and stood. I looked up. His dick
was hard and poking against his robe.
“You are not to speak of this conversation with anyone. If you do, I will deny
it. I will also present my notes from this interview, which will clearly show
you’re a very disturbed little boy who needs long-term, and intense, counseling
to find God again.”
He let the threat hang in the air a few moments, before saying, “You may
leave.”
I almost tripped over my own feet as I ran for the door.
“Enjoy your dinner, Michael,” he called.
 

“Hey, what up?”
Daniel’s voice jerked him back to the present, like a bucket of ice water to
the face. He turned away from his office windows—it wasn’t like he’d been
enjoying the view anyway—and attempted to push the memories from Redemption
House out of his mind.
He managed a small smile and acknowledged his friend, still mystified he’d
somehow managed to acquire one after all these years. He pushed that puzzle out
of his mind, too, and focused on Daniel’s outfit. He was making another
questionable fashion statement today, with his snug-fitting (this time) khakis,
navy blue winter sweater and matching blue Converse. If only he’d stopped
there, he might have approved.
“Your shirt’s hanging out of the bottom of your sweater.”
Daniel was already seated and pulling food from his ridiculous superhero lunch
bags. He looked up, one eyebrow arched. “I know. It’s supposed to hang out.”
Michael settled down in the chair opposite him and proceeded to school his
misinformed friend in the fine art of fashion. “Daniel, it’s common knowledge
that when a shirt has a rounded bottom it’s supposed to be tucked into your
trousers.”
He smirked. “Says who?”
“Everyone.”
Daniel shrugged. “Well, everyone is wrong. This is the style right now.”
Sloppiness may be the new style, but it was unacceptable in his world. “So,
you’re just a faddist, then.”
Daniel went blank, obviously searching his limited cache of knowledge for a
definition. After a few moments, he grinned. “Sounds like I need to invest in a
good set of handcuffs and a whip.”
Daniel snickered at his own joke while he luxuriated in the unexpected, but
welcomed, throb in his groin. If he’d been alone, he would have indulged
himself in a few stolen moments of bondage fantasy: Daniel tied up and at his
mercy, the flesh on his ass red from the thrashing, his legs spread w—
Stop! You can never have him that way, so just stop thinking about it. You’re
just torturing yourself.The thought depressed him as he remembered the contract
with Anne and his promise to be monogamous. Even though he’d finally admitted
to himself that a relationship with Daniel was out of the question, he couldn’t
seem to stop his imagination from creating an entirely different—and possibly
happy?—ending to his pathetic life story.
He choked back a sigh and changed the subject. “What’s for lunch today?”
“Steak subs and salad,” Daniel said.
He was still a little nauseous from his earlier trip down memory lane, but he
would force himself to eat, since Daniel’s steak subs were exceptional. Despite
their brief exchange over Daniel’s unsuitable wardrobe, he wasn’t really in the
mood for small talk. For the majority of their lunch he was quiet while Daniel
filled the awkward silences with mundane chatter about his painting, his
workout at the gym last night, and the latest water-cooler gossip. He wondered
how one person could find so much to talk about, but that was one of the things
he liked about Daniel. The guy could talk to anyone about anything, and never
seemed ill at ease. He envied Daniel's confidence and warmth—two personality
traits he’d probably never cultivate even if he lived to be a hundred.
“You’ve been a little quiet. You all right?” Daniel asked, looking concerned.
He decided to ignore the question. He wasn’t all right, and he was never going
to be. Talking about it was a waste of time. “How’s the redecorating project
coming along?”
Daniel hesitated before answering. Michael imagined he was debating with his
inner therapist on whether to let the change of subject slide. The therapist
lost.
“The design is sketched out. Got the supplies. We just need to…” Daniel stopped
and lowered his voice.  “Should we even be talking about this here?”
“I had my office swept for bugs this past Friday. It’s clean.”
Daniel laughed. When he realized Michael wasn’t laughing with him, his smile
faded.  “That was a joke, right?”
“No.”
Daniel’s mouth gaped open. “What the fuck? He bugs your office??”
“I’m not sure, but my father has an uncanny way of knowing things. I’m just
being cautious.”
Daniel shook his head. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
He shrugged. He didn’t either. His relationship with his father was beyond
rational explanation, which was why he rarely wasted time analyzing it. It was
what it was.
Daniel sighed, but continued, “Do you want to know what design we finally
settled on?”
He shook his head. “The less I know the better. Just as long as it’s
sacrilegious, I’m good.”
Daniel grinned crookedly. “Oh, it definitely is.”
The memories from Redemption House were still lingering despite his attempt to
forget them. He wondered what Father Mullen would think when he saw Joystyk’s
artwork on his precious chapel windows. Probably get a boner and rush to the
bathroom to whack off.  He smiled inside, because he suddenly had an inspired
idea.
“Is it too late to make a small change to the design?”
“No,” Daniel answered. “Whatever you want, we’ll do it.”
He fought against his anger as the image of that prick formed in his mind. “If
there’s a priest in it, could you make sure he has bright red hair?”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. 
“Father Patrick Mullen,” he said, answering his unspoken question.
Daniel studied him for a few moments, obviously debating with his inner
therapist again on whether to ask for details. He was starting to recognize the
signs—those times in normal conversation when Daniel yearned to whip out his
pen and paper and direct his fucked up friend to a therapy couch so he could
fix him. He silently willed Daniel to just drop it and move on. The therapist
won this time.

“Do you want to talk about Father Mullen?” Daniel asked softly.
“No,” he answered firmly. “But I want him humiliated.”  Like he humiliated me.
He saw anger in Daniel’s eyes. “Consider it done."
“Thank you.” He could hardly wait until the new year. His father was going to
be livid, and one of those pathetic excuses for a priest was going to be
stumbling all over himself doing damage control. It wouldn’t change what had
happened to him, but it was going to be fun to watch them all squirm.
“Do you want to expose this redecorating project to a wider audience?” Daniel
asked, his brief bout of anger now submerged beneath his characteristic smirk.
“Because Joystyk can make that happen. We can get this out to the media, if you
want.”
“How can you do that without getting caught?” he asked, curious.
The smirk widened into a cocky grin. “Buy a flip phone—it’s called a
burner—activate it at some public phone far away from your neighborhood, call
in the vandalism, wipe the data and fingerprints from the phone, then beat that
motherfucker into a million pieces with a sledgehammer, and throw it all into
the Pacific.”
Michael filed that interesting tidbit of information away to think about later,
then studied Daniel with his smug smile and unwavering confidence. “I find it a
little disturbing that you know how to do something like that, considering your
father’s an attorney.”
Daniel snickered. “Well, what dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
The idea of Redemption House being publicly disgraced on a wide scale was
extremely tempting but, in the end, he decided the risk to Daniel and Cameron
wasn’t worth it. “I appreciate the offer, but let’s just keep this local.”
Daniel nodded and began cleaning up lunch.
“So, have you had a chance to talk to your dad about that attorney?”
Daniel grimaced. “Not yet, but I’m heading over there tonight for dinner.
Hopefully, I’ll have a name for you tomorrow.”
Michael nodded, but he wasn’t very optimistic. He knew he was pretty close to
the top of David Hart’s list of people who shouldn’t be walking around
breathing the air of freedom, but he had nothing to lose by trying. He’d done
his research after discovering who he was, and had found that David Hart was
one of LA’s most effective civil rights attorneys, and was praised by his peers
for his principles, determination, patience, and especially his intuitiveness.
It was that last trait he was placing all his bets on.
With the end of their lunch looming, he was debating whether to bring up the
fact that he now had a fake girlfriend, when Daniel suddenly beat him to it.
“Found the love of your life yet?” Daniel asked, grinning crookedly.
He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
Daniel’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Wow. That was fast.”
“Well, you know how love is,” he said, shrugging. “One minute you’re just
walking down the street minding your own business, and the next thing you know
some random cunt falls madly in love with you.”
Daniel glared at him. “Michael. . .”
He grinned at Daniel’s outrage. Teasing him was almost as much fun as
fantasizing about him. “I’ve known her for a while; she’s probably one of the
few women I could tolerate for three years without wanting to strangle her.” As
long as she stays the hell away from me as much as possible, he silently added.
“Anyone I know?”
“Anne Parris. She’s an elementary school teacher.”
Daniel shook his head. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s respectable. I think she’ll pass muster with my father.”
He hoped. What he didn’t say aloud was that, to his father, a public school
teacher was practically a peasant. They were barely hanging on to the bottom
rung of the social climbing ladder by their fingernails. But Anne had a clean
background—he’d checked—so there was nothing his father could do about it. Anne
was his only choice, and he was determined to make this work. Nothing or no one
was going to stand in the way of his trust fund disbursement, not even his dick
of a father and his class snobbery.
Daniel stood, preparing to go back to work. “You know my plans for New Year’s
Eve, so what’s yours?” A snicker. “Cleaning out another junk drawer?”
This time he sighed aloud. “I wish. But, unfortunately, I have this event I’m
required to attend, a sort of family tradition thing, I guess you could call
it.”
“Is your brother and sister coming in for a visit?”
Like that would ever happen. It’d been over three years since he’d spoken to
Cassandra, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a civil
conversation with his brother, Paul.
“No, it’s a business affair,” he clarified. “A bunch of high rollers getting
together, rubbing elbows and greasing palms. That sort of thing. We do it every
year.”
Daniel grimaced. “Sounds boring.”
Boring wasn’t the right adjective to describe these get-togethers, but
Michael didn’t correct him. The truth was much too disturbing for the average,
moral person—a person like Daniel—to digest. His father’s annual New Year’s Eve
party was a hedonistic cock-fest, an orgy of wealth, power, alcohol and sex,
disguised as a legitimate holiday business party for a few of his closest
associates. He was dreading it.
“Good luck with your dad tonight,” he said, as Daniel made his way to the
doors.
He looked back over his shoulder, and he wasn’t grinning. “Thanks. I’m going to
need it.”
After Daniel left, he made his way back to his office windows. He wasn’t a
religious man, but today was one of those days he wished he was. He would have
had a lot to pray about: that Daniel and Cameron wouldn’t get caught, that
Daniel’s dad would put his dislike of him aside long enough to help him, that
he could manage to get through the next three years without ditching—or
choking—Anne, which would sink him into poverty and, finally, that he could
make it through this year’s New Year’s Eve party without wanting to slit his
own throat.
***** "Watch Your Back." *****
Daniel sat in his car, impatiently calling Cam’s number for the umpteenth time.
Pick up, you punk ass!He was running late, and his mom had already peeked out
the window once to make sure the car idling in her driveway wasn’t some
friendly neighborhood criminal up to no good.
“What’s up?”
He blew out a sigh of relief at finally hearing Cam’s voice. “Where have you
been??  I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon!”
“After my dentist appointment, I went home and turned off my phone to paint.
Should I go sit in the time-out corner now, mommy?”
Normally he would have engaged in a little back-and-forth good-natured arguing
with Cam—one of their favorite pastimes—but he had other things on his mind.
“We need to talk about that project. The design needs some last minute tweaks.”
“I’m listening.”
“The focal point needs to have bright red hair, and for accuracy’s sake, we
need to add another design element: a pre-teen boy.”
A deafening silence on Cam’s end was finally followed by a soft curse. He heard
anger in Cam’s voice and knew it wasn’t because of the last-minute changes.
“Did this request come from the client?”
“Yes. Over lunch. The word ‘humiliation’ was mentioned.”
Another barrage of curses poured into his ear. “I’ll get to work on that right
now.”
“I’ve got dinner with my parents first, then I’ll come over after.” They said
their goodbyes and disconnected.
With that problem out of the way, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly,
hoping the tension he’d carried around with him all day would leave with it. No
such luck. Normally, the warm glow behind the windows of his childhood home
would have felt welcoming. Not tonight. He had a lot of new secrets nestled
uncomfortably inside him, and his mother was quite adept at getting them out of
him when she put her mind to it. He had to be very careful what he said. He
also had a major favor to ask on Michael’s behalf, and he was going to have to
lie his ass off to his father in the process. 
But, he was extremely good at lying—to both of them—because he’d been doing it
most of his life.
 
===============================================================================
  
Daniel lingered just inside the kitchen door and silently watched his mom
prepare dinner. She was humming some nameless tune, pausing occasionally to
push a section of her short blonde hair behind her ear. Like all kids, he’d
taken his mother’s presence in his life for granted. But after getting to know
Michael, he’d developed a newfound appreciation for both his parents. He was
incredibly lucky. He smiled and coughed softly.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, turning around and giving him a playful glare.
“I thought I was going to have to bring your dinner out to your car.”
He laughed and delivered a kiss to her cheek. Her familiar perfume filtered up
his nose and wound its way around his heart, tugging at his conscience and
making him wish he could be completely honest with her about Michael, and
everything else. “I was talking to Cam. . . about work.” The first lie. One of
many he would tell tonight. He looked over the ingredients set out on the
counter. “Lasagna?”
She nodded. “Want to help?”
Normally he would. He’d always enjoyed working side-by-side with his mom in the
kitchen, but that culinary camaraderie was her secret weapon, her way of trying
to get inside his heart and nudge him into blabbing everything that was
bothering him. Throughout the years, he’d allowed her some limited success with
that technique, but there were some secrets her motherly charms would never get
out of him. His feelings for Michael, for instance. He wasn’t ready to confess
that to his family, plus the man hadn’t even accepted his own sexuality yet. It
was impossible to know whether Michael would even be receptive to a romantic
relationship with him. The whole situation depressed him if he dwelled on it
for too long, so he pushed it out of his mind.
“I can’t. I really have to talk to Dad. It’s important, and it might take a
while.”
He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. “Wait! We haven’t even caught up
yet. How was your Christmas with your friend?”
He swallowed a frustrated sigh, because his mom would pick up on that in a
heartbeat. “It was nice. I think I helped make his holiday more enjoyable.”
A sly smile. “His? Is this man important to you?”
“No, Mom. He’s just a friend. He was going to be alone for Christmas. I felt
sorry for him.”
An understanding look stole into her eyes. “He has a broken wing?”
He chuckled softly. His mother knew him better than anyone else. He had a long
history of nursing broken things back to health. When he was younger, it was
animals. As an adult, it was people. “Two, actually.”
Her eyes filled with the love he’d taken for granted so many times. She smiled
fondly and sighed. “Bless his heart. You have so much kindness in you, Daniel.
I hope this friend knows how lucky he is to have you in his life.”
He shrugged, embarrassed to feel a blush steal up his neck. Trying to fix the
broken parts of people wasn’t something he did for praise. It was a necessity.
Helping others was the glue that held his ownbroken pieces together.
“I really need to talk to Dad. Yell when dinner is ready.” He backed away,
looking to make a quick exit before his mom could say anything else, because he
could tell by her expression that she didn’t believe a word he’d said about
Michael being just a friend.  Shit.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
He stood outside his dad’s office door and steeled himself for what was coming.
Truth was an attorney’s lifeblood. Lying to a lawyer was a stupid thing to do
in any circumstance, but lying to a lawyer who was also your dad was taking
that stupidity to a whole different level. He was there, but he wasn’t entirely
defenseless. Being in the closet for most of his life had taught him to be a
very convincing liar. You can do this. Just remember it’s for a good cause.
Michael needs you.He knocked gently and was immediately given permission to
enter.
The first thing he noticed was his dad was chilling, not working. Maybe this
won’t be so bad after all. He was sitting behind his desk, but he was in jeans
and a polo, his socked feet propped up on the corner of it. His laptop was
closed. Another good sign.
“Are you busy?”
He pulled his feet off his desk and grimaced. “Supposed to be, but I got
sidetracked.” He gestured to the sofa adjacent to his desk.
Daniel settled in and forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. That was one
lesson about lying he’d learned pretty quickly as a kid: look them straight in
the eyes and blink as little as possible.  “I just wanted to let you know
what’s happening at GEM.” His dad’s eyebrow raised slightly; he was paying
close attention. “The cat’s out of the bag. They know you’re my father.”
He snickered. “It took them long enough. Who figured it out?”
Let the lying begin. . .
“I was introduced to Michael Golland at the company Christmas party. He
realized he hadn’t interviewed me, so I imagine he ran to his fancy databases
as soon as he got the chance. He called me into his office the next day and
accused me of being your spy.”
His dad snickered again. “I’m not surprised it was him, although it wouldn’t
take a rocket scientist to figure out you were a plant. Have you seen
anything?”
His heart rate quickened. “I’ve kept my eyes and ears open, but I’m getting
nothing. No firings, no suspensions, no write-ups, not even water cooler
gossip. I suspect they want to get rid of Cameron—and me, of course—but they’ve
got nothing on us. We’re the perfect employees.” Except for Joystyk. . .
His dad fell silent, thinking. Daniel patiently waited, pondering how to best
introduce Michael’s request into their conversation.
“Michael Golland.” The name fell softly from his dad’s lips, which was
surprising considering how much he hated him. “What did you think of him?”
He’s a beautifully flawed asshole. Sexy as fuck. Intelligent. Funny. Violent.
Wildly handsome. Lonely. Sarcastic. Generous. Arrogant. Broken.He could ponder
the complexity of the man for hours, and be quite happy while doing so, but his
father was waiting for an answer. “He’s a little bit of a jerk, and a whole lot
of arrogant.”
His dad waved his hand in dismissal and sneered. “Eh. That’s all window
dressing designed to keep you from seeing who he really is.”  He leaned forward
and drilled his steely attorney-gaze into Daniel’s eyes, making him feel like
he was being cross-examined in a courtroom. “A word of warning: watch your back
with him, Daniel.”
“Why?” 
“Because he’s smart, and he’s a sneaky little shit. Don’t ever trust him.”
Well, that ship has already sailed. He didn’t know how to respond, so he chose
to stay silent.
“Do you know anything about his background?”
Oh, he knew a lot about Michael’s family—probably more than his dad did—but he
shook his head. “Not really. I just know he’s the youngest of three children,
and they’re filthy stinking rich. That’s it.”
His dad leaned back in his office chair, steepling his fingers together, a
mannerism carried over from his courtroom litigation days. “I know way more
about the Gollands than I should, but that’s because I need to know first what
motivates people. Then I can figure out why they do the things they do. Paul
Golland Senior is a real piece of work, Daniel. He’s power hungry and ruthless.
Between you and me, I think he’s the driving force behind every shady thing
that has happened in that company. He puts on a good show for the public, but
most people don’t really know him. Michael is his clone, just without all the
power.”
Daniel disagreed about the clone part, but he listened patiently, and with
pretended interest, while his father summarized what he already knew about
Michael’s introduction to GEM at fifteen as a minimum wage employee. He nodded,
acting impressed, when told that Michael’s older brother, Paul, was a Yale
graduate and practicing attorney, while his sister, Cassandra, was a Dartmouth
gal who also practiced law. What he hadn’t known was the details of their
respective lives. Paul Jr. lived in Seattle and was a cut-throat divorce
attorney. Married, no children. Cassandra practiced in San Francisco, and was a
Family Law attorney specializing in child abuse. Single. Hmmm. Child abuse.
That’s interesting.
“And guess who didn’t go to college.”
He pretended to be shocked. “Really? Michael isn’t Ivy League??”
His dad smiled knowingly. “Nope. Obviously his father had other plans for his
youngest. He’s been grooming Michael for the CEO chair his whole life. It’s a
time-honored tradition in these kinds of families. Choose the most talented of
your children to carry on your legacy, make them learn the business from the
ground up, force them to interact on a personal level with the employees they
will eventually lead, then sit back and watch how they handle it all. Seven
years ago, Michael was promoted to head of personnel and that was the end of
that. There’s been no movement upward, laterally or even downward during that
entire seven years. Think about that for a minute, Daniel. What does that tell
you about Michael Golland? About Paul Golland??”
Trying to figure out what made people tick was his passion in life, along with
his art. But, he had to admit, he’d not spent any time analyzing Michael’s
experiences within the company, focusing instead on his personal life. True,
he’d thought it odd that Michael wasn’t an officer in the company, but he
wasn’t an expert on corporate personnel structures, so he’d not even given that
any serious consideration.
“Maybe Michael’s father realized he wasn’t CEO material?”
His dad barked a laugh. “Hardly. Michael is smart enough to have been an
attorney himself. That boy has a dangerous eye for detail. No, with a little
bit of mentoring, he could easily run that company.”
A dangerous eye for detail. A chill raced up his back at hearing those words
from his dad’s mouth.
“Think, Daniel. Why has Paul Golland thrown up a brick wall in front of his own
son, the son he’s been grooming to take over the helm since age fifteen?”
If it wasn’t Michael’s lack of intelligence, or business savvy, then that could
only mean. . . holy shit! A crucial piece of the puzzle suddenly slid into
place. At that moment, Daniel wanted to smack himself in the head for being so
dense. “He’s afraid of him,” he said softly, shocked at the realization.
“Because he’s too smart.”
His dad jabbed a finger in his direction and grinned. “Bingo. The way I see it,
Paul Senior is terrified of his son gaining any power in that company, so he’s
sabotaging him by forcing him to be complicit in these discrimination cases.
He’s also weakening his credibility as a potential leader of the company by
denying him a position of authority on the board. These are just my personal
theories, of course, but they make perfect sense. The real question is. . . why
is he so afraid of him? Is it some kind of illogical jealousy, or is there a
more compelling reason?”
Now they’d moved into his territory. Analyzing psychological motivations was
his lifeblood; he could do this in his sleep. “Psychologically speaking,
there’s several possibilities. One, dad’s not ready to retire. He loves the
power and senses Michael could easily fill his shoes, so he’s stalling.”
“But that doesn’t explain why he’s not been promoted in seven years, or at
least given a seat on the board,” his dad interjected. Daniel shrugged, because
he had no explanation for that either.
“Two, there could be some sort of family dysfunction that is affecting the
trust between them.”  Family dysfunction. The phrase was laughable, and
completely inadequate to describe the personal dynamics in the Golland family.
His dad nodded, but offered no additional comment.
“Or, three—” He hesitated, remembering their conversation during the sitting,
and wondering if what he was about to say was breaking confidentiality. To be
safe, he decided to err on the side of vague. “— he’s afraid Michael might find
out something he shouldn’t, so he’s limiting his access to any sensitive
information.”
A predatory smile appeared on his dad’s face. “I love the sound of that last
one, but they’re all plausible explanations. That’s a damned good analysis,
son.” He chuckled. “Too bad you can’t get Baby Golland onto a therapist couch
and shrink him until we get some real answers.”
He laughed, pretending to go along with the joke, but inside he was emotionally
shaken. Oh, Dad. If only you knew what I know. You’d understand Michael a lot
better and not be so quick to condemn him.But despite being a snitch for his
dad, he drew the line at breaking his oath of confidentiality. Not even in the
interest of justice would he betray Michael’s trust.
His dad glanced at the clock. “Almost time for dinner.”  He started to get up,
but Daniel stopped him.
“Dad, wait. There’s something else we need to talk about.” He relaxed back into
his cushy office chair, waiting. Daniel swallowed nervously, worried about his
reaction. “First off, don’t shoot the messenger, okay? This was not my idea.”
He frowned. “This sounds ominous.”
“Michael called me into his office the other day and asked a favor of me.” A
total lie, but he wasn’t about to admit he’d gotten drunk with “Baby Golland”
Christmas Eve, and then had spent the night at his house.
His dad suddenly sat up at attention, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “A
favor?? What kind of favor?”
“He wanted me to ask if you could recommend a good attorney for him.”
Instead of getting angry like he'd expected, his dad’s mouth dropped open for a
few moments, then he laughed. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”
He shook his head. “It was a serious request, Dad.”
The humor dropped off his dad’s face in an instant; he was all business now.
“First off, GEM has their own attorneys. And second, why ask me?  He’s bound to
know how I feel about him.”
“He said he doesn’t trust GEM’s attorneys, and he needs someone who is immune
to bribery and intimidation. Knowing him, he probably researched the shit out
of you and found out you’ve got a reputation for being fair and ethical. I
guess he’s hoping you can rise above the animosity and be professional about
this.”
He got up and strode to the window overlooking their back yard. His dad had
always thought better on his feet, also a carryover from his time spent in the
courtroom. Daniel waited patiently. He was still surprised at his reaction; so
far, no yelling.
Without turning around, he asked, “Did he tell you why he needs this attorney?”
“No. He just said it was very important.”
After a few more moments of thoughtful silence, he left the window and settled
back down into his chair. A slow smile spread across his face. Definitely not
the reaction Daniel had been expecting. “That sneaky little shit is up to
something.”
Mystified, Daniel asked what that something could possibly be.
“I have no idea, but he’s definitely sending me a message.”
“A message??”  He was completely lost now.
“Of all the attorneys in Los Angeles he could have asked for advice, he chose
the one who is trying to find enough evidence to put his ass in jail. That was
not a coincidence, Daniel. I told you, this man is smart. There’s a reason he
asked me. I just need to figure out what it is.”
He couldn’t offer any hypotheses. The motivation behind Michael’s request was
as much as mystery to him as it was to his dad. Regardless, the tension he’d
been carrying around since Christmas Eve was finally gone. This had turned out
a lot better than he’d thought it would. “I gotta say, I’m surprised at your
reaction. I thought you’d be mad as hell.”
“Oh no, I’m not mad.” His dad smirked, and gave him the side-eye. “I’m
intrigued. So, I’m going to give him the name of the best attorney I know.
Someone who has the ethics of a saint and who will fight to the metaphorical
death for him, if that’s what it takes.”
He plucked a business card from off his desk, flipped it over and scribbled
something on the back. He accepted the card, and took a quick glance at the
name before putting it in his billfold.
Jesus Fucking Christ on a cross.The tension in his gut was back in spades. He
was pretty sure this was not going to work. Not at all. But he had no way of
telling his dad that without giving away the depth of his friendship with
Michael. As far as his father knew, they were just co-workers. So, it would be
a little hard to explain how he knew beforehand that Michael was probably going
to go ape-shit when he saw the name on that card.
“You’re positive about this?”
With a confident nod, his dad reassured him. “Trust me. She’s the best.”
 
DANIEL AND HIS MOTHER, TRISHA HART (This is Channing Tatum's real mom. You can
definitely see the resemblance!)
 
DANIEL'S FATHER, DAVID HART (This is NOT Channing Tatum's real dad! lol) 
***** New Year's Eve *****
Chapter Notes
     It's been awhile since I updated, I know. Sorry. Real life has been
     consuming my spare time.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Michael leaned against the kitchen counter, trying unsuccessfully to be
invisible. The help continuously slid him annoyed glances as they scurried
around with their drink and hors d’oeuvre trays. A man in a tux, with his hands
idly in his pockets, was definitely in their way—like he gave a shit. This was
his home; they’d just have to walk around him. This kitchen was once his
sanctuary—the one safe place his father rarely ventured into, which was why he
was currently using it as a temporary hiding place. In this room, he felt
closer to his mother than anywhere else in the house. If only he could lean
against the counter for the rest of the night and just live inside his
memories. . .
He sighed and glanced at his watch. Only eight o’clock. Five more hours of this
useless shit, if he was lucky. He wanted to be home, stretched out on his sofa
with a good book and waiting for the call from Daniel to tell him that
Redemption House had a new and improved look. He was antsy; his nerves wouldn’t
settle until he knew for sure they were successful and home safe.
He chuckled softly, which earned him yet another annoyed look from the wait
staff. They probably thought he was laughing at them, but in actuality he was
amused at the idea of his being worried about Daniel’s safety tonight, when
only a day before he’d wanted to wring his stupid neck, and his dad’s, too:
“No offense, but your dad’s a prick.”
If Daniel was a porcupine, his quills would have been standing straight up.
“You know when you start a sentence off with ‘no offense’ you’re getting ready
to offend someone, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
The corner of Daniel’s mouth twitched. His signature lip-curl—a sign that he
was getting his ass out of joint over something—was just moments away from
appearing. “My dad is not a prick. He’s a top-notch attorney who kicks ass at
what he does, and if he says she’s the best, then she’s the best.”
The name scribbled on the back of the business card was Alana Pareja. Michael
had never heard of her. Probably because she’d just climbed over the nearest
border fence a month ago. “So, you’re telling me that of all the attorneys in
Los Angeles, a wetback cunt is the best he could come up with? Is she even
legal??” 
Daniel’s mouth dropped open, then slammed shut, his lips skipping the curl step
and going straight to the thin-angry-slash-across–his–face. “So, you’re a
misogynist and a racist now?? God, you’re a piece of work. If you weren’t going
to take his advice, then why did you even ask for it??  You know what? Fuck
you! You can find your own damned lawyer!”
He stuffed his leftover lunch into his superhero bag and stood, ready to storm
out of the office. Daniel’s sporadic theatrics were irritating, but also
entertaining. Michael executed a gargantuan eye roll and sighed. “Sit down.” He
hesitated and then added, “Please?”
Daniel narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but dropped back down into his chair and
glared.
“Okay, your dad’s not a prick, but you can’t blame me for being skeptical. For
all I know, he could be setting me up with the worst attorney in LA, while he
sits back and laughs when I crash and burn. The man hates me.”
Surprisingly, Daniel’s glare abruptly vanished. “He doesn’t hate you. He
respects your intelligence and attention to detail, and he actually said that
with a little mentoring—“ Daniel pointed a finger at the ceiling, looked up,
then dropped his gaze again, smiling. “—you could be up there, in the big
chair.”
It was his turn to mouth-drop. Him the CEO of GEM? The juvenile delinquent
fuck-up son who could draw the floor plan of the county jail from memory??
Michael almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. His father would commit
infanticide before he’d allow that to happen.
“I stand corrected.” He snorted softly. “Your father isn’t a prick; he’s a top-
notch fool. I’ll never sit in that CEO chair.”
Their conversation went downhill from there. He was forced to sit through a
Daniel-lecture that would have made a Catholic nun proud. First it was a Don’t-
Talk-Shit-About-My-Family tirade that quickly moved on to address his misogyny.
He needed to understand there were smart women out there who knew their shit
and behaved professionally and who weren’t after his money, his status, or his
dick. Yeah. Uh-huh. Right. Then Daniel expounded, once again, on the
inappropriateness of the word ‘cunt’ in civil, adult conversation, promising to
walk out of the room the very next time he heard it. Yawn. Then he effortlessly
inserted some nonsensical bullshit from his psychology book into it, something
about classical conditioning and its debilitating impact on the freedom of the
human spirit. He tuned out after the first couple of sentences. When the phrase
‘judgmental, racist, sexist, xenophobic, arrogant bastard’ made an appearance,
he’d finally heard enough. Daniel was either going to shut up or he was going
to choke him until his face matched his tacky purple Converse.
“I don’t need a fucking mother,” he snarled, interrupting Daniel’s tirade. He
was surprised at the anger simmering in his gut. Who the fuck did he think he
was, lecturing him, ordering him around like he was a child?? “I already had
one of those—an excellent one, in fact. So, if you’re trying to take her place,
just fucking stop, because you’re a piss-poor substitute, Daniel!”
In the stunned silence that followed his outburst, his pounding heart felt like
the loudest sound in the room. He was furious that he’d lost his temper,
allowing Daniel to get underneath his skin and poke a well-placed needle into
his emotional wounds. It seemed that wall he’d spent years building around
himself was as useless as the energy he’d expended guarding it.
Daniel slowly sat back in his chair, raking a hand through his hair and
dropping his gaze to the floor. When he finally looked up, his eyes were full
of sincere remorse.  “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he cursed softly. “I’m sorry. It’s
just that, when I care deeply about someone my first instinct is to help them.
I can’t stop it, and I get a little intense, especially when I’m trying to
help, but instead I end up making things worse, and then I get frustrated with
myself for being such an incompetent ass—and frustrated with the person I’m
trying to help because they refuse to listen—and it all just goes to shit,
which pisses me off, so then I end up saying stupid, hurtful shit instead of
just keeping my mouth shut like any normal person would do.” He stopped,
sighed, and shook his head. “That didn’t make any sense.”
He smiled, his anger suddenly gone. It made perfect sense to him. “You just
summed up your entire personality in one huge run-on sentence.”
Daniel laughed. “Damn. You’re right.”
They exchanged apologies: Daniel promising to tone down the know-it-all side of
his personality, while he promised never again to insult Daniel’s family.
Daniel nodded, accepting his apology, but saying nothing. There was a strange
look in his eyes that Michael couldn’t interpret.
“You have to trust me,” Daniel said softly. “You do trust me, right?”
He nodded. “I trust you. And I’ll call Ms. Pareja after the holidays and set up
an appointment. Thank you for being the messenger. I know that couldn’t have
been easy. And thank your dad for helping me. He made a wise decision that I
guarantee you he won’t regret.”
A tiny frown creased Daniel’s forehead, but he said nothing. As for him, he
suddenly felt uplifted, as if the dark storm cloud that was his life had
suddenly parted, allowing the sun to burst through. Someone ‘cared deeply’
about him. He didn’t really know what to do with that, but he liked how it
felt.
 
“Hiding in the kitchen? I should have known.” His father’s words were coated
with the oily film of disgust. “We have guests, unless you’ve forgotten.
Importantguests. Your presence is expected.” He snatched a glass of champagne
from a passing tray and smiled. “Oh, and I have some people I’d like you to
meet. Importantpeople. So, I expect your best behavior. Clear?”
Fuck this party. But Michael nodded, plastering on a fake smile and following
his father out of the kitchen and into holiday hell.
                             ********************
The important people he was supposed to meet turned out to be an older
man—about his father’s age—in a business suit instead of a tux, and a young
woman with long hair so bright red it almost looked orange. A quote from one of
his favorite BDSM books popped into his head: “I love redheads. It’s not the
hair color, it’s the crazy.” He wondered if she practiced the lifestyle,
because he had a sudden urge to wipe that arrogant smirk off her face. The
welts he’d leave on her ass afterwards would just be icing on the cake.
His father made the introductions. “Michael, this is Martin Pierce, a business
associate from Boston. Martin, this is my son. Michael.”
He reluctantly shook the man’s hand, noting that his palms were dry, his clasp
strong and confident. As the man murmured a polite greeting, Michael wondered
what business he was in, but his father’s introduction conveniently left out
those details.
“And this is Martin’s daughter, Miranda.”
He wasn’t about to shake her hand, so he gave her a rude up-nod which was sure
to piss off his father. Her glittering green gaze quickly swept over him, a
head-to-toe appraisal that left him feeling like he’d failed to measure up to
some invisible standard. Cunt.
His father dusted off his rarely used I’m-So-Proud-of-My-Son smile. “Michael is
head of personnel at GEM. He has a very bright future ahead of him with the
company.”
He fought the urge to laugh. He didn’t have a “very bright future ahead of him”
in anything,let alone GEM. While he was recovering from his father’s fake show
of paternal pride, Mr. Pierce picked up the bragging ball and ran down the
field with it. Apparently, Miss Orange Hair held a Bachelor’s Degree from
Parsons (wherever the hell that was) in Fashion Design, and was currently
finishing up her second degree in London. Graduating in June.  As if I care. He
was so proud of her accomplishments at such a young age, blah, blah, blah.
He was searching for a fuck to give when the cunt finally opened her mouth and
spoke. “I have a wide pelvis, too. My gyno says I would have made an amazing
pioneer woman. I could drop a baby in the field and get up ten minutes later
and start plowing again.”
She gave him a mischievous wink. Maybe he’d been a little harsh in his initial
assessment. It was obvious their respective parents were trying to hook them
up. She wasn’t having any of it, and neither was he.
“Well that’ll certainly come in handy on my 500-acre farm,” he quipped
sarcastically, smiling when he saw his father’s silent glare in his peripheral
vision.
“And I can embroider the shit out of pillowcases, too,” she added, nodding and
grinning.
Michael’s eyes widened, as if he were hugely impressed. His father’s frown
deepened. “Even better, because I have a huge farmhouse full of pillows. It’s
almost like we were meant to be together.”
She laughed, his father scowled, and Martin Pierce chuckled. “I have to say,
Paul, I really like your son. Perhaps you could keep Miranda company, Michael,
while your father and I talk some business?”
Before he could open his mouth to refuse, they were gone, heads together,
probably plotting to take over the world. He looked down at Miranda. The top of
her orange head was almost level with his chest. She looked up at him with
those appraising, judgmental eyes of hers. What the hell was he supposed to say
now?? Polite small talk was not in his skill set, not unless it included
insults, which he could whip off the tongue at supersonic speed.
It was her who broke the awkward silence. She folded her arms over her chest
and made a grand pronouncement. “Let’s get some things straight from the get-
go. Number one: call me Randee. Number two: I’m not a vapid fashion designer;
I’m a highly trained fashion consultant. And number three: I am NOT going to
marry you.”
He smiled. Two could play that game. “Number one, that’s a stupid dyke name.
Number two, I don’t care. And number three, I wouldn’t marry you if you were
the last whore on earth.”
She dropped her arms; her gaze hardened into shards of green ice. “Well, aren’t
you just the little cunt-muffin. And a poorly dressed one at that.”
To his surprise, he laughed. She was an arrogant bitch in need of a serious
ego-trim but, on second thought, trading insults with Miss Orange Hair might
just be what he needed to get him through this hellish New Year’s Eve party.
 “So, how about I show you around this dump while our fathers discuss whether
to buy Boardwalk or Park Place.”
He knew she probably wanted to kick him in the nuts right then, but she settled
for another icy glare. Then she followed him. Women are so fucking predictable.
----------------------


After a cursory tour of the pretentious mansion he’d been forced to call home
for seventeen years, they ended up in the sunroom, surrounded by flowers, and
sitting as far apart from each other as they could get. Conversation had once
again thudded to stop. Awkward. At that moment, he loathed Martin Pierce for
dumping his annoying daughter into his lap for the evening to babysit. Might as
well entertain myself while I lose brain cells.
“So, what exactly is a cunt-muffin?”
Without looking at him, she answered, “A man who has the potential to be
incredibly sexy, but he’s too much of a fucking cunt to actually pull it off.”
That shoe fit, so he was going to wear it with pride. “Okay, I’ll concede that,
but poorly dressed?” He chuckled arrogantly. “If I had to guess, my tux cost
ten times more than that I-Want-to-Slash-My-Wrists dress you’re wearing. Plus,
my clothes are tailor made to fit the contours of my body. I don’t buy off-the-
rack.”
She snorted a laugh, then finally looked at him. “Well, good for you, Mr. La
Dee Da. But the difference between you and me is that my clothing is a truthful
presentation of who I am, while yours is just a façade. You’re hiding behind
expensive tailored fabrics, which is pretty cowardly, if you ask me. What are
you afraid of, Michael?”
Her criticism hit him like an unexpected punch to the gut, leaving him
breathless and floundering. Because she was right, which pissed him the hell
off. But he was damned if he’d let her see it. He kept his face carefully blank
and asked, “What makes you think I’m afraid of anything?”
She turned her entire body to face him, kicking her heels off, tucking her legs
up underneath her and pushing her mane of wavy hair over her shoulder. At that
moment, she reminded him of Anne just before they’d negotiated their contract:
completely at ease, confident, and way too ballsy to suit him.
“Think of it like advertising. Your clothing is your personal billboard—your
first impression with everyone you meet. A man like you—tall, slim,
attractive—should turn heads when he walks into a room, not look like everyone
else. You’re blending, Michael, and a man with a ‘very bright future ahead of
him’ should not be blending.”
He wasn’t going to debate his nonexistent ‘very bright future’ or his wardrobe
choices with her. Even though he abhorred banal small talk, it was definitely
time for a change of subject.
“What are you studying in London?”  He couldn’t care less, of course, but
people seemed to love to talk about themselves. She immediately brightened. So
predictable.
“I started out in New York in a fashion design program. Everyone in the fashion
industry has to learn the basics. I breezed through that program with no
problem, and graduated early. Now I’m working on my Master’s Degree in London.
Applied Psychology in Fashion. It’s the study of how human behavior relates to
fashion and business. It’s my passion, actually.”
Applied Psychology?? Good god. Another Daniel, but with tits.The last thing he
needed in his life was yet another head-shrinker who analyzed every single word
he uttered. “That sounds interesting.”  Not even remotely. “What business is
your father in? I wasn’t clear on that during our introductions.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Do we have to talk about that?”
“I’m curious. Our fathers seem to be rather…close.” One perfectly plucked
eyebrow rose suggestively. “I meant close, as in business associates close, of
course.”
“Of course that’s what you meant.” She snickered. “Daddy fancies himself a
business magnate, an investor, a philanthropist. He worships Warren Buffett and
wants to be just like him when he grows up.”
Interesting. Why was his father courting an investor? There were no
acquisitions in the works at GEM, not that he knew of anyway. Perhaps it was
time to drop the attitude and massage some information out of little Randee.
“Do you know anything about what kind of business they’re discussing right
now?”
She groaned. “Oh god, I try very hard not to know. Daddy’s business is so very
boring. He’s gone all the time.” An annoyed furrow suddenly appeared across her
forehead. “In fact, he went to the Dominican Republic for seven days during
Christmas. Who in their right mind wants to spend Christmas in a third world
country?? He abandoned me to celebrate all alone. That’s just so—”
She rattled off a Woe-Is-Me monologue about her horrible holiday, but he wasn’t
listening. Martin Pierce had been in the Dominican Republic at the same time as
hisfather. It was highly unlikely that was an innocent coincidence. His father
was up to something—if his secrecy was any indication—and he wanted to find out
exactly what that something was.
“Randee,” he snapped, a little more rudely than he’d intended. She stopped her
whine-fest and glared at him. “My father was in the Dominican Republic during
Christmas, too.”
Her green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Really?” Then she giggled. “Maybe they
were hooking up. Stranger things have happened.”
He didn’t know Martin Pierce’s sexual preferences, but pigs would fly before
his Bible-thumping father would suck a dick. “I seriously doubt that. It sounds
to me like they’re exploring some kind of business deal. Maybe you could keep
your eyes and ears open and try to find out what they’re up to?”
She silently considered him; he refused to squirm under the scrutiny of her
gaze. “Maybe I could, but then again—“ She smiled slyly. “—I’m not motivated
enough to care.”
Unbeknownst to her, she’d just waltzed right into his comfort zone; he was an
expert at negotiating with gold-digging cunts. “I could make it worth your
while. Enough…motivation…to fill your closet with a small fortune in Versace
products.”
She twirled a strand of orange between her fingers and chuckled. “Well, the
thing is, Michael, I have this itty-bitty little trust fund thingie, so I don’t
need your money.”
Miss Miranda Pierce was playing hard to get. Well, no matter; he wasn’t
deterred. There was always something women like her wanted. It was just a
matter of discovering what it was. Stock shares, maybe? He quickly ran some
figures in his head. How many shares could he sell off without taking too large
of a hit?
“But, there is one thing that might motivate me,” she said softly, innocently
batting her eyelashes at him like some B-rate Hollywood starlet. “You could
help me with my Master’s Project this semester and, in return, I could open up
my cute little ears and even snoop around in Daddy’s home office when he’s out
of town.”
Master’s Project?? Helping others was not in his social skill set either but,
despite that, he was infinitesimally intrigued. “What does helping you with
this project entail exactly?”
After listening to her explanation, he wasn’t sure it was worth it. He would
have to submit to three interviews with her, discussing his self-perceptions,
wardrobe choices, and what criteria he used when choosing his clothing. They
sounded like Daniel’s impromptu therapy sessions with a heavy dose of stupid
thrown in. How could anyone build an entire profession around someone’s
“feelings” about their clothes?? If he could find anything out on his own, he
would tell her what to do with her fashion psychobabble, but his father wasn’t
sharing, and he’d been unable to surreptitiously find anything useful laying
around in his study.
Jesus Fucking Christ, as Daniel would say. He resisted the urge to sigh deeply
and roll his eyes. “Okay, I’ll help you out, but information exchange is going
to be on a one-to-one ratio: you’ll get an interview when Iget something useful
about what they’re up to. Deal?”
She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
They shook on it and exchanged contact information. Like with his deal with
Anne, he wondered what madness he’d just gotten himself involved in.
Thankfully, a vibration from her phone saved him from having to continue
awkward small talk with her. Mr. Pierce was ready to leave and wanted her to
meet him in the foyer. Apparently he wasn’t interested in staying for the
midnight fuck-fest, or perhaps it was because his daughter was with him that he
was leaving early. Regardless of the reason, his respect for the man rose
several notches. After Randee left, he slipped out the sunroom doors and headed
home. His father was going to be pissed—and he’d have to suffer through a
lecture tomorrow about it—but he had more important things on his mind tonight
than strippers and whores.
----------------------------------------------------
He was in bed reading by lamplight when, at the stroke of midnight, Daniel
finally called. His first words were, “Happy New Year, Michael!”,followed by a
squawk from one of those cheap noisemakers that almost blew out his eardrum.
“Yeah, whatever,” he said. He hated most holidays just because. “So, did
everything go okay?”
“Yep. We finished the project with no problems, and got home in time to knock
back a few in celebration. I think the client is going to be really happy with
the results.”
He smiled. Redemption House had a new paint job, and Daniel and Cam were home
safe. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. His father’s meltdown was going to be
epic—the perfect beginning to what might end up being a pretty decent year.
----------------------------------------------
KATHERINE MCNAMARA AS "MIRANDA PIERCE"  (wearing her I-Want-To-Slash-My-Wrists
dress, as Michael called it. lol) 
 
ELIA COMETTI (AKA "MICHAEL GOLLAND") IN A TUX. UGH. THE MAN IS BEAUTIFUL!!  
Chapter End Notes
     Some readers have the opinion that adding pictures with a story is
     lazy writing, that readers are supposed to form an image of the
     characters solely by the author's descriptions. I totally agree with
     that statement 100%, but I still like including pictures of the
     people who INSPIRE me to create particular characters.
***** If You Fail *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the long delay. Real life and all that. I would love it if
     you commented and let me know you're reading. Reviews help me stay
     motivated to write. Love to you all for supporting original works.
     It's an uphill struggle to be an original story swimming in a sea of
     fanfiction, so each and every one of my subscribers, bookmarkers, and
     commenters are so appreciated!
Daniel opened his eyes, groaned, then immediately closed them again. This New
Year’s Eve hangover was mild compared to the monster ones from his college
days, but he was still annoyed with himself. He’d planned on peacefully
painting away the entire day, but a stupid game of Battle Shots with Cam had
put a damper on that idea. At least there’d been no nightmares; that was always
a plus. And speaking of Cam…
He carefully turned his head. Cam was dead asleep beside him and softly
snoring. A glance at the clock told him it was almost ten a.m.—way too early to
be awake after a night of breaking the law and losing the cheap wine version of
Battleship. He stifled a sigh and eased out of bed. Cam’s peaceful snoring
continued unabated.
After a hot shower to wake him up, two Ibuprofen for his headache, and a cup of
coffee just because, he was halfway dressed and finally lucid enough to start
planning his day. A commissioned portrait was three quarters of the way
finished. He could knock that out in a couple of focused hours and still have
time left over to indulge himself in a few risqué sketches of his favorite
millionaire.
As he shoveled some cold cereal into his hollow stomach, he revisited the
stimulating memory of Michael in a tux at the Christmas party. Imagining the
treasures that lay beneath those expensive clothes could keep him occupied for
an embarrassingly long time but, unfortunately, sexual fantasies wouldn’t get
that portrait finished any faster, nor that much-needed check in the mail. He
needed to get it in gear.
The doorbell interrupted his internal debate on whether to get his lazy ass up
and start painting or just sit at the table and fantasize the hours away.
“Somebody doesn’t know what day it is,” he muttered, reluctantly shuffling to
the door after the second chime of the bell. Annoyed, he swung it open without
even bothering to check the peep hole. It could have been an axe murderer going
door-to-door to fill his quota. Instead, he fought to keep his jaw off the
floor—and the drool in his mouth—when he laid eyes on his unexpected visitor.
“What are you doing here? It’s New Year’s Day.”
Michael shrugged. “Bored.”  He held up a large brown bag. “I brought New York
bagels.”
Too late, he realized he should have chosen his Lounging-Around-The-House-On-
His-Day-Off outfit a little more carefully. The sweatpants were a week dirty
and hung way too low on his hips—not his fault the dryer had eaten the
drawstring—and his t-shirt was still lying on the bedroom floor because he’d
needed to cool off after the hot shower. To top it all off, he’d foregone
shaving this morning; he was even more stubbly than usual. Michael’s gaze
traveled slowly over his half-naked body, causing a pleasant tingle in one
particular attention-starved extremity. 
Michael looked up and smirked. “Is this a bad time?"
He pulled himself together, secretly pleased to see Michael despite his own
state of slobby dishevelment. “Nope. Come on in.”
He stepped aside, allowing Michael to brush past him into the foyer, his
distinctive cologne trailing after him and making wild, passionate love to
Daniel’s olfactory nerve. Today, Michael was a walking denim advertisement, but
he was rocking it: distressed jeans, denim button-up shirt with a dark blue
wife-beater peeking out from underneath, and a black leather jacket, which gave
him an attractive bad boy vibe. His hair was a mess of every-which-way gelled
spikes, so different from the smooth style he usually wore during work hours.
Pointing Michael toward the kitchen, he beat a hasty retreat down the hall.
“I’m going to put on a shirt. It’s gotten a little chilly in here.”
Cam’s side of the bed was empty and the shower was going again. He snatched his
t-shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head as he hurried back to the
kitchen. The bagels were set out on the table and Michael was draped over the
chair like a luscious piece of blue silk. He slid into the chair opposite him,
thanked him for the food, then pounced on those bagels like a starving street
urchin.
“New hairdo?” he asked in between mouthfuls of warm, chewy dough.
Michael rolled his eyes and bemoaned the unfairness of being born with an out-
of-control cowlick. Apparently he’d had an I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck moment and had
just stuck half a can of hair gel in it in an act of petty revenge.
Daniel liked his new messy locks. A lot. “It suits you. You should wear it that
way more often.”
He was surprised to see Michael blush. Inwardly amused, he scarfed down another
bagel while Michael watched. Instead of being awkward, the silence between them
felt comfortable, like they were just a couple of old friends who had long
since moved past the need for meaningless chatter.
“I’m assuming you survived your father’s fury, since you’re sitting across from
me and breathing.”
Michael chuckled. “Oh, he was seriously pissed. Cursing, pacing back and forth
with his teeth clenched. Fists balled up and dying to hit something. But he
didn’t have a target. I professed complete ignorance when he tried to connect
GEM’s vandalism with Redemption House. I told him you spray painting people
protect each other and it was a dead end. He didn’t take it well.” Michael’s
brilliant white smile lit up the room. “Watching him get his Frigos in a wad
totally made my year.”
He stopped chewing. “Frigos?”
Michael’s eyebrow rose a snobby fraction, his voice taking on the seductive
tone often heard in sultry commercials. “Underwear for the sophisticated,
athletic male.” Then he snickered sarcastically. “If you count fucking whores
as athletic or sophisticated. One hundred dollars a pair. He has several
drawers full of them in a wide variety of colors.”
He grimaced. “TMI, dude.”
Imagining Old Man Golland in sexy undies was one thing, but imagining them on
Michael’s sleek, tight ass was a whole other horny ball game. He needed to see
what these hundred dollar Frigos actually looked like. And while he was at it,
he needed to get laid before he started humping some random dude’s leg.
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Michael started, but before he could finish
his thought, Cam burst into the kitchen in all his towel-around-the-waist,
post-shower glory.
“Your mattress is a piece of shit, Danny Boy. My back is killing me.”
Michael’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze sweeping over Cam’s half-naked body,
then settling on his elaborate chest piece. A tiny frown suddenly rippled
across his brow.
Cam tried to look chagrined at his dishabille, but failed miserably. “Oh,
sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Hey Michael.”
Pleasantries were exchanged, more bagels were eaten, and all the while Michael
cast surreptitious glances at Cam’s chest whenever he could. Michael was a
detail man, which made him wonder what it was about Cam’s body art that had
caught his eye.
Cam finally got up to get dressed and leave but Michael stopped him. “Before
you go, I wanted to thank you both for what you did for me last night. It was
worth every penny I paid you, but that was just for goods and services. I’d
like to give you both something extra for customer satisfaction.” He pulled out
his wallet and dug out a folded envelope. “The Lakers are playing at the
Staples Center this weekend. This will get you, and a bunch of your friends,
free entrance into GEM’s private suite. Food and drink included.”
Cam’s mouth dropped open, but Daniel was grinning from ear-to-ear. He plucked
that envelope out of Michael’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you!! Are you coming
with us?”
Michael’s pleasant expression fizzled. “I’m sorry, no. I already have plans for
this weekend.”
Gauging Michael’s body language and the look on his face, he imagined his plans
to be the slow killing and dismemberment of newborn ponies. Maybe he could get
the details out of him after Cam left.
After another round of gushing gratitude over Michael’s gift, Cam retreated
down the hall to get dressed, but not before sending him a wink, along with a
suggestive glance Michael’s way. Daniel glared at him. Luckily Michael missed
the entire exchange; he was staring down at the leftover bagels like the truths
of the universe were written on their crusts, an infinitesimal frown still
lingering on his brow.
After Cam left, an uncomfortable silence suddenly descended upon his less than
tidy kitchen. He focused on finishing up his coffee while Michael occupied
himself with being preoccupied. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer; he
broke the awkward silence.
“I saw you staring at Cam’s chest piece…”
Michael looked up, a strange expression on his face. “It’s very…busy…wouldn’t
you say?”
Busy was an understatement. Cam’s chest piece was the body art version of
Where’s Waldo. A person could lose themselves for hours trying to follow—and
make sense out of—all the swirling lines, dots, and merging colors.
“I told you, Cam’s a fauvist. He loves experimenting with color and shapes. It
took him several months to design it and, I agree, it is pretty overwhelming
the first time you see it.”
Michael’s blue gaze had deepened, honing in on his face like a bird of prey on
a rabbit. “What does it mean?”
“Sometimes these marks on people’s skin are intensely personal, and they have
meaning only to them.”
Michael arched an eyebrow. “You don’t know what his means?”
“If I did know, I wouldn’t tell you, because sharing the meaning of the art on
our bodies is a personal choice, based on trust.”
“So, is that a yes or a no?”
His therapist radar switched on. Why was Michael being so persistent about
this? It was just a tattoo. An elaborate one, yes, but still…
“Why are you so interested?”
Michael shrugged. “Just curious.”
Just curious, my ass.If there was one thing he'd learned about Michael in the
short time he’d known him, it was that he rarely, if ever, engaged in
meaningless small talk. There was an underlying motive for his curiosity, he
was sure of it.  He told Michael if he wanted to know, he should just ask Cam
himself, but he could tell by Michael’s noncommittal grunt that he probably
wouldn’t. Maybe it was just a passing curiosity after all.
Daniel cleared away the remnants of their brunch and did a pretty good
impression of tidying up the kitchen. What he actually did was just move the
clutter from one place to another. Michael was still preoccupied and absent-
mindedly tapping his finger on the table, which meant he was either angry about
something or feeling a little off-balance. Since his cheekbones weren’t
currently sharp enough to etch glass, he ruled out anger. He was just about to
ask when Michael finally spoke.
“So, Cam slept in your bed last night?”
He made his way back to the table and plopped down in the chair. “Yeah. He
kicked my ass at Battle Shots, so he was too trashed to drive.”
Michael’s finger went still, his face a blank slate. Daniel couldn’t figure out
what the man was thinking, which frustrated him. 
“Battle shots?”
“It’s a drinking game. Battleship with beer, wine, or liquor. Something idiots
like to do when they’re massively bored.” Daniel chuckled. Michael gave him a
long, blank look in return. “You know, Battleship. The board game? You’ve
played that before, right?”
Michael shook his head, and from the look on his face, he wasn’t interested in
learning to play it in the future, either.
“Does Cam kick your ass at Battle Shots often?”
“Every. Single. Time. Let me tell you, that queen can drink an elephant under
the table.” He snorted a laugh, then realized Michael wasn’t laughing with him.
It took a few moments for his grey matter to kick in, and when it did he was
stunned.
“Wait, are you—?” he hesitated, unsure if he was reading Michael’s signals
correctly. “—are you thinking that Cam and I are. . . hooking up???”
Another blank, blue stare.
“Because we’re not. We’re just friends. I don’t have a spare bedroom, remember?
And you know first-hand how uncomfortable my couch is. I mean, Cam’s right, my
mattress is not much better, but. . .” Shut up, Daniel. You’re babbling like
you’re guilty of something, which you aren’t. And by the way, is he jealous? Is
that what this is about??
He was suddenly conflicted. Obviously, the thought of him in bed with someone
else had turned Michael a bit green around the gonads. And as a therapist, he
would be the first to point out that jealousy was a very unattractive trait,
and a destructive force in any relationship. But, on the other hand, the horn-
dog side of him was jumping up and down with joy. Green was not Michael’s best
color but, shit, at this point he would take what he could get.
Just the tiniest hint of a noncommittal smile clung to the edges of Michael’s
luscious mouth. He couldn’t figure out the emotion behind it, which frustrated
him yet again. Was Michael just being his normal dick self or what??
Then, Michael's smile morphed into the smug, arrogant grin he knew so well.
“I wasn’t implying anything. I was just asking how often he beat you.”
Uh huh. Sure you were.
As much as he wanted to explore Michael’s newfound feelings of jealousy, he
decided it was probably best to change the subject.  When asked if he’d made
any New Year’s resolutions, Michael derisively rolled his eyes. He then went on
to arrogantly proclaim that resolutions were massively stupid because no one
ever followed through with them.
“I do,” Daniel said defensively. “I’ve followed through with every single one
I’ve made through the years. The secret is to set an attainable goal with
detailed steps on how to reach it.”
Michael sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. “Okay. What’s your New
Year’s resolution, then?”
To slowly peel those designer clothes off you and explore that gorgeous body.
To wake up next to you every morning and watch you fall asleep every night. To
paint you nude. To tell you I love you, and hear you say it back.But he said
none of that, of course, because Satan would be shitting snow cones before any
of those wishes would come true.
Instead he said, “I’m going to focus on my art this year. I want a gallery
opening. I’ve never had one and I think it’s time. So, to get there I first
have to build a substantial body of work—new stuff that’s never been shown
anywhere before. I’ll need to complete at least two pieces of art a month for
about a year before any gallery worth anything will even talk to me. But I can
do it if I stay focused and draw up a detailed plan, which I’m going to do this
weekend.”
And part of that detailed plan included a sharp decrease in the amount of time
he spent drawing Michael in various deliciously erotic poses. He stifled a
sigh. This goal was going to take way more self-discipline than all his others
combined.
Michael nodded, eyebrows raised. “That’s impressive.”
“Thanks. And I think you should make a resolution, too.”
Michael fell silent a few moments, thinking. “Okay. How about I stop using the
word ‘cunt’ in conversation? I figure I can start out by cutting back to three
cunts a week for a month, then each successive month cut back a little more
until I’m totally cunt-free. I think I could do it by June. . . if I stay
focused.”
Michael grinned and waited for his response. You are so full of yourself,
Michael Golland, but you’re completely adorable. He snickered, which widened
Michael’s grin even more. “That’s actually a pretty good one, but I was
thinking more along the lines of planning what you need to do to get that CEO
chair.”
Michael’s grin instantly faded; his blue gaze hardened. “You said the goal
needed to be attainable. My father will never allow me to become CEO of GEM.”
He leaned forward and forced himself to meet Michael’s stubborn gaze. “Who
cares whether he would allow it or not. I’m not an expert on corporate stuff by
any means, but even Iknow that CEOs are forcibly removed from their positions
all the time. . . for various reasons.”
In the tense silence that fell between them, he wondered if Michael was
remembering their conversation during his first sitting. After working in GEM’s
accounting department for a year, he’d said that numbers were ‘slippery’. To
him, slippery numbers could only mean one thing: some funny-money shit was
going on in that company. That wasn’t even counting his father forcing him to
be complicit in the discriminatory firings. As Michael stared down at the table
deep in thought, he wondered just how much shadiness those compelling blue eyes
had seen at GEM throughout the years, and also what it would take for Michael
to act on that information. His dad was right: Michael was smart enough to run
GEM, but was he brave enough to try?Daniel thought maybe he could help him with
that.
“All I’m asking is for you to just think about it.”
Michael looked up and Daniel was surprised to see a glimmer of fear in his
eyes. “Believe it or not, I have thought about it. But the truth is, if I try
and I fail, I lose everything: my job, my inheritance, my business contacts and
reputation. Everything.”
He shook his head. “Not everything. If you fail, I’ll still be here.”
Michael seemed momentarily stunned at his words, but he pressed on. “Back when
I was doing counseling—before I came to GEM—a lot of unhappy people came
through my door. And they all had one thing in common: fear. All of us fear
something—failure, rejection, judgment, vulnerability, loneliness, death—and
those fears prevent us from realizing our full potential. They stop us from
being truly happy.”
He'd never revealed to anyone what he was about to tell Michael. That inner
voice was screaming at him to keep his mouth shut because, like his dad had
said, maybe he couldn’t trust the man sitting across from him. But he also knew
that that inner voice was just his fear talking. And his fear was one extremely
strong son of a bitch. But, sharing his own insecurities might help Michael
silence that voice in his head that fed his fears.
“That’s why I made this resolution, you know. Because deep down inside I have
this fear that I suck, that I have no appreciable talent.” Michael started to
protest, but he stopped him. “It doesn’t matter if you say I’m the most
talented person you’ve ever known. It doesn’t matter what anyone says, because
that fear comes from in here.” He touched his chest, just over his heart. “I’m
the one who has to face it and overcome it. So, I’m forcing the issue this
year. If I can get a showing at a gallery, then I’ll know that my art is not
just some weekend hobby. This is just something I have to prove to myself.”
Michael nodded, and by his expression Daniel could tell he understood. He
imagined that Michael had a shit ton of internalized fears that were holding
him back from becoming the beautiful human being Daniel knew he could be. He
just needed encouragement and a good example to follow. He was determined to be
that example, for himself and for Michael. 
“If you fail, I’ll still be here, too,” Michael said quietly.
Their eyes met across the table and it took every ounce of self-control he had
not to blurt out his feelings for him: I love you, Michael Golland. You’re
broken, but I don’t care, because I’m broken, too.They could help each other
glue the pieces back together, if only he could bring himself to trust another
person enough to confess his messed up past.  
Daniel extended his hand across the table. “Thank you for the support. It means
a lot.”
Michael’s genuine smile as they shook hands gave him hope. The man was fucked
up emotionally, but he definitely had potential.
Michael stood. “Well, I guess I should head out. I know I said was bored, but
actually I have a ton of stuff to do. I just don’t want to do it.”
They headed out of the kitchen, Daniel following him to the front door. With
his back to him, Daniel had the rare luxury of being able to stare directly at
that exquisite ass without the fear of getting caught. Yum.  
“What kind of stuff?”
Michael turned, tucked both hands into his pockets, looked down at the floor,
and suddenly transformed into an awkward teenager who wasn’t quite sure how to
go about asking his crush to the prom. That level of vulnerability, especially
coming from Michael, was like a fucking siren song to Daniel. He wanted to pull
Michael into his arms and hold him, tell him everything was going to be all
right, or he’d die trying to make it so. He looked up, and Daniel saw a flash
of that vulnerability in the blue depths of his eyes before it abruptly
vanished. Michael’s emotional armor snapped back into place.
“I have to spend all day Saturday with Anne, my fake girlfriend. I’m already
starting to regret this.” His gaze hardened; his cheekbones grew more
pronounced with his barely controlled anger. “I don’t want her in my house,
touching my things, making judgments about me and the way I live. Small talk is
not one of my skills.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “What the
fuck am I saying? I don’t even have any social skills. And I fucking hate the
idea of a woman invading my personal space.”
He hurriedly searched through his mental file cabinet for a quick therapeutic
method of helping Michael navigate through the murky depths of his completely
understandable, but still utterly repellent, misogyny. But there was no easy
fix for this. Michael desperately needed several years on a skilled therapist’s
couch to even make a dent. But there was one thing that might get him through
one Saturday. . .
“She’s basically applying for a job, so just treat Saturday like an interview.
You’ve done a ton of those in seven years, and you’re very good at them.” He
shrugged. “Ask her pertinent questions, listen to her answers, seek
clarification if you don’t understand something. Cook her one of those kick-ass
gourmet meals you’re so good at. Take her out to meet Claire and Jamie. Show
her your library, your pool, your art. Hell, take her over to the S.C. and give
her the grand tour. That’ll eat up a ton of time.”
An adorable frown wrinkled its way across Michael’s brow. “The S.C.? What’s
that?”
“The Starter Castle.”
Michael laughed out loud, his teeth flashing brilliant white, his eyes
sparkling, vividly blue. Daniel went along for the ride, laughing with him, and
reveling in the deep sense of satisfaction that Michael’s joy gave him. Making
him smile was wonderful, but he lived for that moment when something he’d said
or done brought out Michael’s delightful, full-throated laugh.
“I can’t wait to use that in conversation, and my father is going to totally
hate it.” A lingering smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That’s
one of the things I really like about you, Daniel. You have a very unique view
of the world. It’s so different from mine, and so refreshing. I never even
thought of the interview thing. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, and good luck.”
Michael’s hand was on the door knob, but he’d yet to turn it. Probably, like
him, he didn’t want to return to stupid real life stuff when they could just
hang out together all day and work on strengthening the connection that was
slowly blossoming between them.
“It’s your turn for lunch tomorrow.”
Fuck.Suddenly, he wanted to forget all about his New Year’s resolution.  “I’m
not going to be at work tomorrow. Sorry. I took a personal day. This fabulous
artist in Atlanta is hosting an online painting seminar. It costs an ass load
of money, but it’ll help me brush up on my skills. You know, the whole New
Year’s resolution thing.”
Michael smiled and nodded. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a sign that the
control freak in him was annoyed at their routine being interrupted. Not even a
frown. Michael was evolving—slowly—and it was a fascinating thing to watch
unfold.
“I’ll see you Monday, then.”
Michael finally turned the knob and the damp, cold air from outside rushed in
and effectively burst the warm bubble of contentment in his heart.
“If you want to, you can call me this weekend and let me know how things went
with the F.G.”
Michael hesitated on the threshold, smirked, then snickered. “The Fake
Girlfriend?”
He nodded. They both laughed. Then Michael was gone.
He leaned his back against the door, closed his eyes and thought about heading
to his studio and knocking out a quick watercolor of what he imagined Michael
looked like in the shower. Then he remembered the unfinished portrait, along
with his quickly dwindling bank account, and sighed.
Fuck that bitch named Real Life. . .
 
MICHAEL ROCKING DENIM, BLACK LEATHER & MESSY HAIR
 
***** Saturday With Anne *****
Chapter Notes
     This is a long one, almost 6,000 words, but it would have broken the
     flow to divide it into two parts. (Of course, I could always try not
     being such a word whore, but that ship has already sailed long ago.
     lol) Hope you enjoy! I'd love to hear your thoughts!
“In a large enameled cast-iron casserole, heat the oil. Add half of the ground
beef and brown over moderately high heat, about 2 minutes. Transfer the meat to
a plate. Repeat with the remaining ground beef.” 
If his mother was watching right now, Michael was sure her delicate brow would
be furrowed in deep disapproval. Recipes are for amateurs, Michael. Of course,
they have their uses—to learn the basic techniques of food preparation is the
main one—but a skilled chef, like a skilled pianist, doesn’t need written
instructions to create a masterpiece. 
“Sorry Mother,” he murmured, hoping she was able to hear his apology, but
knowing in his heart that she couldn’t, that she was gone from his life
forever.
As he patiently pushed the sizzling beef around in the casserole, he pondered
what was going to happen in four and a half hours. A woman was about to enter
his home, his life, and change it forever. Anne had been tolerable as long as
he’d only had to put up with her a few times a month, at his penthouse, and on
his terms. But, despite her words, he was sure she would eventually show her
true colors—just like all the women he’d ever known—and morph into a demanding,
selfish, gold-digging shrew who wanted to control every minute of his life. But
he needed that money, so . . . 
Money doesn’t nurture your soul. Money simply allows you to be physically
comfortable in your misery.  
“Easy for you to say, Mother,” he said. “You don’t have to live with that
bastard controlling your every move anymore. And I don’t expect this money to
make me happy. It’s going to buy my freedom. Then, I’ll be happy.” 
Happiness comes not from things, but from caring for others, from giving our
unconditional love and acceptance to someone else without expecting anything in
return. Happiness is connecting with another human being with the same depth
that you connect with Claire. It will happen for you, Michael, but you have to
meet it halfway.  
He seriously doubted he would ever experience the kind of happiness his mother
had spoken of. He seemed to be missing the requisite genes for forming
meaningful bonds with people—even with Daniel, who seemed determined to look
the other way or forgive him every time he violated one of the basic rules of
human interaction. He’d let loose the reins on his temper, deliberately made
hurtful comments during their conversations, opened the door to his entire
wardrobe of filthy laundry for Daniel to see, hoping he’d see what a mess his
new friend was and run as far away from him as possible. Despite all that,
Daniel was still sticking around, which mystified him. His tried-and-true
methods of preserving his introverted existence didn’t seem to be working
anymore. 
“In a heatproof bowl, cover the chiles with boiling water and let stand until
softened, 15 minutes; drain. Stem and seed the chiles and transfer to a
blender. Add the coriander, cumin, mustard seeds, thyme, garlic cloves and one-
third of the tomatoes; puree.”
As he worked, his mind wandered away from his mother’s words and off to that
fantasy world which only existed in his imagination: a place where Daniel was
that deep connection she’d spoken of, that unconditional love that would accept
him as he was, broken pieces and all.
If you fail, I’ll still be here.Not since his mother’s death had he heard any
words of encouragement or support from his immediate family. One of his uncles,
who lived clear across the country in Florida, and whom he hadn’t known from
Adam, had approached him after the funeral, offering his address and phone
number if he ever needed anything. He’d taken the piece of paper with the
knowledge that he’d never call or write, and he never had. He wanted nothing to
do with his father’s relatives, especially if they were anything like him.
But to get support from a total stranger like Daniel, whom he’d only known less
than a month, was a complete anomaly in his world. He’d been nothing but a
total dick since he’d met Daniel, certainly not the kind of behavior to deserve
the level of loyalty the guy was offering him. It didn’t make any sense.
You want it to make sense, though. That’s why you gave him the same support in
return. You want what Daniel is offering. You want that connection, and you
want it to evolve into something more, something physical.
Images flooded his mind of shirtless Daniel, those loose sweat pants hanging
tantalizingly low, exposing the tip of yet another tattoo running along his
hipbone. In a brief moment of insanity, he’d had to fight the urge to reach out
and slowly slide them off his hips, just so he could see the rest of the
design, along with everything else hidden beneath that cheap cotton. Daniel’s
physique was so different from his own—chiseled, muscular and covered with
designs that he couldn’t even begin to fathom the meaning of. Daniel’s body was
like the art in a museum, and he suspected he’d need an entire night of slow
exploration to even begin to understand its story, which was never going to
happen. He sighed aloud to an empty room.
As he selected the spices and checked their freshness, he forcibly pushed
Daniel from his thoughts, reminding himself that a man with a full-time fake
girlfriend—whom he’d foolishly promised to be physically faithful to, in
writing—could kiss a relationship with anyone else, let alone a man, good-bye.
Why did every single thing he wanted in life always seem to be just out of his
reach?
“Shit.”
The thyme was expired—two months over the freshness date. He didn’t have the
patience today for this nonsense. A part of him thought of just using it
anyway; Anne, like most people, probably wouldn’t even notice. If you’re not
going to use the freshest ingredients in your dishes, then you might as well
eat Taco Bell and be done with it.Despite his annoyance, he chuckled softly at
the memory of his mother imparting those words of wisdom with her mischievous
smile.
The perfectionist inside him wouldn’t stand for mediocrity, especially when it
came to cooking. He glanced at the clock. Almost 6 a.m. If he was lucky, his
father would still be in bed, or at least in the shower and not downstairs yet.
He could sneak in, borrow a bottle of fresh thyme from his kitchen, and sneak
out again without having to interact with him. He grabbed a jacket, the keys to
the Starter Castle—snickering once again at Daniel’s nickname for his
pretentious childhood home—and headed out into the cool early dawn.
             -----------------------------------------------------
The foyer and living room were silent and dark. From the looks of things, his
father had yet to rise from his gilded coffin upstairs. So far, so good.He
turned the corner and was dismayed to see a warm glow in the kitchen coming
from the light over the stove. His father was awake—damn it all—and sucking up
his morning supply of caffeine, strengthening himself for another long day of
making everyone around him suck his dick and obey his every command. Get in,
get the thyme, get out. Simple.He steeled himself for whatever soul-crushing
put-downs that were about to be thrown at him, then strode purposefully into
the kitchen.
He stopped, surprised, when his gaze landed on a figure that was definitely not
his father. A teenage girl was sitting at the table, dressed all in black, a
black baseball cap turned around backwards on her head, her hands wrapped
around a glass of orange juice. She looked up, startled, gaping in shock at his
sudden appearance in the room. The feeling was mutual.
“Who are you?” He knew she wasn’t part of the housekeeping staff, because they
didn’t arrive until noon on Saturdays.
The girl shook her head. Bitch, I didn’t ask you a yes or no question.He
studied her more closely: long, straight brown hair, large dark eyes looking at
him with a mixture of curiosity and caution, and dusky skin the same hue as
Dari’s, his three-day friend from childhood.
 
“¿Habla Inglés?”

The girl shook her head again. “Español.”
His Spanish vocabulary was as limited as his social skills. Except for coarse
words like tito and puta, and the standard one-word greetings, the only phrase
he knew was how to state his name. “Mi nombre es Michael Golland. Tu?”  With
that sentence, he’d just reached the bottom of his Spanish Language Barrel.
“Carlotta.”
Then she gibbered some long explanation that he had no hope in hell of ever
understanding. Since she wasn’t wielding a gun, and didn’t appear to pose any
physical threat to him, he tuned her out and went to the pantry, quickly
locating the thyme and hoping to make a quick exit before his father’s
appearance. He made it out of the kitchen and just around the corner before he
was intercepted by his Sperm Donor calmly strolling across the living room in
his half-open Cucinelli bathrobe, his antiquated junk peeking out from between
the folds.
He stopped and, thankfully, cinched the belt around his waist a little tighter.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
Michael smirked and pulled yet another arrow out of his Sarcasm Quiver. “I’ve
heard of the concept, but I’ve never actually seen it employed.”
His father’s sense of humor was grossly underdeveloped most of the time, but
before he’d had his morning coffee it was completely nonexistent. “What are you
doing here?”
He held up the bottle of thyme. “Mine’s expired, and I’m making a pot of chili
today. I’ll replace it the next time I order groceries.”
His dear old dad uttered a disinterested grunt, then headed off toward the
kitchen.
“Have you hired a new girl for housekeeping?”
His father stopped and slowly turned around, his I’m-Hiding-Something
expression firmly in place. “No. She’s in a bad spot and I’m helping her out.”
He knew his father like the back of his hand. ‘Bad spot’ could mean anything,
but ‘helping her out’ meant fucking her. “Is she legal?”
“Her immigration status isn’t important,” he answered. “Helping her is.”
Her immigration status wasn’t important??? He wanted to laugh at loud at that
blatant lie. His father secretly loathed the legal and illegal wetbacks he so
fervently—and publicly— supported at his Tax-Write-Off homeless shelter and
numerous fundraising soirees. He had the entire population of Los Angeles
fooled. Since he was acting all innocent, that was a sure sign he was anything
but. “I wasn’t talking about her citizenship status. How old is she?”
His father’s gaze turned a steely gray. “She’s old enough. Now, go back to your
kitchen like a good little girl and mind your own business.”
Michael also knew his father well enough to know when he was being issued a
serious threat, even if the actual words weren’t spoken. Whatever he was up to,
Michael wanted no part of it. He had enough problems of his own to deal with.
His father banging a barely legal girl was not one of them.
            -------------------------------------------------------
Ten o’clock on the dot. Normally he admired punctuality in a person, but it
wouldn’t have hurt his feelings a bit if she’d been a few hours late. He barged
down the stairs, then waited impatiently at his front door for her arrival, his
temper simmering like the chili on the stove. Minutes passed, long enough for
her to have made it through the gate, parked her car, and walked up the stone
path at a leisurely pace…three times. What was keeping her? The sooner they got
this day started, the sooner it would be over with and he could get back to his
normal routine.
Just treat Saturday like an interview.Daniel’s words were like aloe on a
sunburn, calming and restorative, and he was right. Michael was good at
interrogating people and keeping them off balance while he gleaned important
details from their nervous, unscripted comments.
The doorbell rang. His heart rate spiked; his pulse quickened. Right from the
start, his inability to even control his own body angered him. He waited a few
moments, forcing himself to relax, before calmly opening the door.
In direct contrast to his grumpiness, Anne was all smiles. She breezed past him
and into the room, fanning the flames of his resentment even more with her
over-the-top cheeriness.
“I thought I was going to have to send out a search party.”
She dropped her purse onto the nearest chair, shed her black leather jacket,
then held it out for him to take. He lived in an English cottage. Did she think
he had a hat-check room stashed away somewhere in a corner? He grudgingly took
her coat and hung it on one of the plainly visible hooks by the door.
“I was admiring your winter flower garden. It’s lovely. The pinks are
stunning.”
He reluctantly murmured his thanks. The front flower garden was his pride and
joy and no one’s hands but his ever touched it.

While her gaze traveled slowly over every inch of his living room, he took
inventory of her:jeans tight enough for Daniel to have painted them on, a long-
sleeved blue and white striped sweater, (he didn’t need a ‘highly-trained
fashion consultant’ to know that horizontal stripes were only appropriate for
emaciated runway models), and black ankle boots. Her outfit screamed Middle
Class, but it was her hair that caught his attention. No ugly pony tail today;
she was wearing it long and loose. Since he only touched her hair during their
scenes together—wrapping it around his fist and pulling until she begged him to
stop—he found it odd that he suddenly wanted to run his fingers through it.
“Your home is beautiful,” she said softly, turning in slow circle, her eyes
sweeping over every piece of décor. “So different from your penthouse. Did you
decorate it yourself?”
He had no choice but to answer truthfully. “This was my mother’s home. She
designed it from the ground up and personally chose all the furnishings.”
Anne stopped her appraisal and turned to him, her dark eyes probing, reminding
him of Daniel in therapy mode. “Was?”
He ground his teeth. Two minutes into this visit and he was already telling her
things he never wanted her to know. In an emotionless voice, he answered, “She
died when I was sixteen and left this house to me. I haven’t changed anything
in it and I never will.”
Her gaze softened. “You were very close.” Before he could ask her how in the
world she could possibly know that, she continued. “It must be comforting for
you to live here, like she has her arms wrapped around you all the time.”
Stunned, he struggled to keep his emotional balance. She understood why he
lived in a sea of Eighties Blue, English lace, and chintz and loved every
minute of it. He wasn’t even sure if Daniel understood—though he’d never said a
single unkind word about the décor during his visits—but Anne totally got it.
Her intuitiveness instantly made him wary. Time to change the subject.
“What does yourhouse look like inside?”
She smiled mischievously. “Today is about you, Michael. You’ll find out about
my house next Saturday.” He opened his mouth to object. What if he had plans
next Saturday? He didn’t, of course, but he was sure he could find something to
use as an excuse. Before he could speak a word, she closed her eyes and
inhaled. “What is that amazing smell?”
“Three-Chile Beef Chili,” he answered. “Our lunch.”
Her eyes widened in appreciation and she smiled. “Yum. But it’s a little early
for lunch. Why don’t you show me around?”
He gritted his teeth again, but gave her the first floor tour: the blue
kitchen, the beige and blue laundry room, the two solid beige guest bedrooms,
and the downstairs bath. Exciting stuff.She exclaimed several times that his
home felt so authentic, that if she didn’t already know she was in Los Angeles,
she would think she was in Oxfordshire. In an attempt at small talk, he asked
her if she’d ever visited Oxfordshire. She admitted she hadn’t, but she loved
England and would sacrifice her right tit to go there. He could only assume a
right tit was as valuable as a left nut, as he had no interest in her tits, no
matter their position on her chest. But he kept that observation to himself.
Next came his four-lane lap pool, with its small pool house. She admired it,
but admitted she was terrified of water and had never learned to swim. Strike
One. But at least he’d never have to share it with her. He floated the idea of
an early lunch, but she nixed it yet again. “What about the upstairs?”
The way things were going, he would soon have to wear his dental night guard
during the daytime, especially when in her company for any length of time. The
upstairs was his private space, where every important refuge in his life—except
for the barn—was located. Daniel had invaded it once because he’d had to go
there to get his checkbook for bail, but just letting Anne stroll into his
sanctuary and pass judgment on his things infuriated him. Eight figures,
Michael. To get it you have to play nice, remember?Suppressing a sigh, he
gestured toward the stairs, allowing her to go first.
          -----------------------------------------------------------
“Oh my God.” Her eyes roved over every inch of his library, her fingers
tenderly brushing along the leather and paper spines. Finally, she turned her
gaze his way, her eyes sparkling. “You love the written word.”
“Yes.” His love of reading had been birthed and nurtured by his mother. While
other children had been drowning in a sea of mindless toys, he had spent his
youth immersed in literature.
Anne sighed and lowered her voice. “It angers me sometimes, that life is so
short. There are so many books out there I haven’t read. Do you ever feel that
way?”
He nodded. “All the time. Sometimes I think about building an addition to house
a larger library.” The room was small, but it was packed from floor to ceiling
with their favorite books. The two chairs they’d lounged on while they’d read
were worn and needed replacing, but he couldn’t bear to let go of them. Each
time he considered the idea he’d eventually dismissed it.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” she said softly, mirroring his thoughts.
“No,” he agreed, a little uneasy at her ability to see inside his head. In that
regard, she was too much like Daniel for his comfort.
“Have you read them all?” she asked.
“All but those.” He pointed to his TBR shelf, which contained twelve full
length novels, four nonfiction titles, and one short novella.
She chuckled. “My To-Be-Read pile is about the same size, too, and growing a
little more every day. So, what about your bedroom?” A seductive smile. “I’m
very interested in seeing that.”
He made a mental note to spank her a lot harder during their next scene. She
was going to pay dearly for this intrusion into his personal life. He could
hardly wait to feel the sting.

            -------------------------------------------------------
 
He stood in the doorway and watched uncomfortably as she slowly made her way
around his bedroom, taking her time, drinking in every single piece of artwork
on the walls. She’d made no comment about his obviously feminine rail bed. No
mention of the porcelain what-nots of his mother’s that still dotted the
surfaces of the furniture.
She stopped in front of the Seurat, his favorite painting. “La Grande Jatte. I
wrote a paper on this for my Art Ed class in college.” She turned to him and
giggled. “Want to hear something funny?” Without waiting for his answer—which
was a definitive no—she continued. “When I was a little girl, I was totally in
awe of that woman’s ass. She’s wearing a bustle, of course, but back then I
didn’t know that. I just knew I wanted an ass like that when I grew up.”
He didn’t even know how to respond to that comment. This was probably one of
those times when he was expected to insert a meaningless reassurance into the
conversation that her ass looked just fine to him as long as he got to whip it
with a riding crop every now and then. He attempted a half-hearted chuckle and
left it at that.
Next she stopped in front of Silent Scream—a morbid painting if there ever was
one, but he absolutely loved it, which was why it was directly opposite his
bed, so it was the first thing he saw upon awakening every morning. That
painting was his biography on canvas. It reassured him to know that someone
else on this earth could relate to his pain, that he wasn’t alone in his
misery.
“What a profound statement,” she said softly. “Beautiful.”
He was surprised at her assessment. His father loathed it, which made him love
it even more than he already did.
She moved on, slowly making her way across the room to Daniel’s painting. He
had to admit, he couldn’t wait to see her reaction to it. After silently
admiring a grouping of Audubon prints, she was finally standing in front of
Patch of Grass.
“What a disturbing image,” she said, reaching out to touch it, even though it
was encased in glass. “It looks so real.” She pulled her hand back, then
shivered. “It gives me chills.”
“That’s Daniel’s work.”
She turned, her eyes wide with surprise. “Daniel’s an artist??”
He nodded. “He works at GEM, in our marketing department. Logos and things like
that.” He moved to join her, until they were standing side-by-side in front of
Daniel’s masterpiece.
“Damn,” she swore softly. “The guy has some serious talent. Do you know what
inspired this?”
He wished he knew. He’d spent an entire sleepless night staring at that
painting and trying to figure it out. He still didn’t have a definitive answer.
“No idea. What do you think is happening in it?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Trauma. Look at the hand. The knuckles are white.
Whoever this person is, he’s experiencing horrendous physical pain.”
Michael swallowed hard, hoping that Daniel’s painting wasn’t also a biography
on canvas, even though his instincts were screaming at him that it was.
“And the ants,” she continued. “Look at how the subject is focusing so closely
on them. That signifies emotional trauma, our mind’s way of helping us deal.
He’s zeroing in on something immediate—the ants—as a way to block his mind from
thinking about what’s happening to him.”
“And what is happening to him?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “And I’m not sure I want
to know.”
But he did. He desperately wanted to know the story behind this painting. He
needed to know it. Because if what he suspected was true, then Daniel was
silently suffering, too.
She backed away from the painting and sighed, rubbing her arms to warm them. “I
think I’m ready for that chili now.”
           --------------------------------------------------------
“You really made this all by yourself? Like, you actually put all the
ingredients together in a pot and cooked it on the stove? You don’t employ a
cook?”
“Employ a cook??” He was offended at the very thought of someone else preparing
the food he put into his body, which was why he hated dining out. “No, I cook
my own meals, Anne.  I usually make everything from scratch, but I was forced
to use a recipe today because I was short on time.”
“You cook your own meals,” she repeated.
Was she hard of hearing? “I’m actually a gourmet cook. My mother taught me so I
wouldn’t grow up to be a helpless man who just takes up space in front of the
television. Her words, not mine.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re a gourmet cook??”
Maybe he should talk slower. Instead, he just nodded.
After she got over her shock, he discovered that she hated cooking, and only
did the minimal amount necessary to keep from starving to death. Strike two.But
at least he wouldn’t have to share his kitchen with her.
She went on to proclaim that if it weren’t for fast food franchises, she would
probably already be dead. Good god. Strike three, four, five and six.How could
he possibly fake-date someone who actually liked fast food?? This was a
disaster in the making. If he didn’t bring his own food to her house next week,
he would probably be eating frozen pizza out of a box.
“I’ll make us some lobster salad for next Saturday.” He couldn’t believe he’d
said those words without grimacing. He wasn’t looking forward to going to her
house, at all, but at least he’d have something good to eat while he was trying
to keep from slitting his own throat.
She plopped her elbows on the table (note: no table manners), cradled her chin
in her hands, and gave him one of those ridiculous dreamy smiles that women so
often employed to get their way. “I think I’m in love,” she said, sighing
dramatically, then she snorted a laugh. “I have an idea! I think we should
fake-date, then get fake-engaged, then get fake-married! What do you think?”
Surprisingly, he laughed at her joke. It was either that or cry.
“Let’s go outside,” he said, pushing away from the table. “I have something I
want you to see.”
She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Ooh, sounds mysterious.”
         ------------------------------------------------------------
“What is this?”
They were sitting in his Jeep; the sky was overcast. A feeling of déjà vu
suddenly swept over him.
“It’s a barn.”
She made a soft sound, like a groan or something. “Cows live in barns.” She
grimaced. “I don’t really like cows…or barns, Michael.”
The déjà vu intensified. It could have been Daniel sitting beside him instead
of this woman who was terrified of water, didn’t like to cook, and now didn’t
like barns, or cows. (Who didn’t like cows??). He was starting to wonder if the
money was worth it. Shit. Who was he kidding? He was a pathetically
materialistic and greedy bastard. Money was the only thing that made his fucked
up shit of a life worth it. He suppressed a sigh.
“I don’t own any cows. Just horses.”
She shivered. “Worse. I don’t like horses either. They scare me.”
Cunt. His temper ignited. He was on the verge of telling her to go fuck herself
and just get out of his Jeep. Horses were the purest souls on this earth and it
was massively stupid to be afraid of them. To hell with this. He’d find someone
else to take Anne’s place. He quickly ran down the depressingly short list:
There was Trudy. She was short a man and had a disabled son who needed a fake
daddy; he could sweeten the deal by agreeing to pay the kid’s doctor bills. Or
maybe that girl who brewed the coffee in the break room. Her name escaped him
and always would, but she had a menial job and would jump at the chance to
latch onto a millionaire. She might even make a halfway decent submissive. She
was terrified of him and darted away like a cockroach every time he walked into
the room. Or maybe Randee. She could spend a few years of her ‘highly trained
fashion consultant’ life fixing everything that was wrong with his wardrobe
while he ignored her twenty-three hours out of the day. It could work.    
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, jerking him out of his ridiculous thoughts.
“I’m being a bitch, aren’t I? It’s just that I had an unfortunate incident with
a pony at a state fair when I was little. It scarred me for life.”
Her explanation was so absurd he laughed before he remembered he was supposed
to be pissed and kicking her out of his Jeep and his life.
“I know,” she said, chuckling with him. “It’s sounds completely ridiculous, but
you have to understand. I was just a tiny little thing, and that pony looked
like a brown and white Godzilla to me. I slid off the damned thing—no saddle,
which was crazy; my mom should have sued—and I landed in the mud flat on my
back. And that asshole pony just walked right over top of me, like I wasn’t
even there! He stepped on my calf, twice, before anyone could get me out of the
way. I had a bruise the size of a small country for weeks. So, I’m not buying
that whole Horsies-Are-So-Cute-and-Cuddly thing, Michael. It’s a lie.”
He laughed even harder. She glared at him for a few moments, then eventually
joined in. His best and strongest submissive—the one woman in his stable of
whores who could handle him at his cruelest, and even beg for more—was afraid
of ponies. When he was finally able to stop laughing, he gave her a short
lesson on horses. They rarely ever deliberately hurt anyone, only inflicting
injury when they were extremely stressed, afraid, or unable to avoid it.
“Your fair pony was attached to those rods that made sure they walked in a
circle. It was an accident, Anne. The ponies they use at those fairs are
extremely mild tempered. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. You weren’t being attacked;
he just couldn’t sidestep you because of the restraints. I’m sure he was just
as upset over it as you were.”
She shot him a skeptical look, but didn’t argue. “You’re going to make me go in
there, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’m going to introduce you to Claire, and if she gives you her
stamp of approval then you’re officially a good person.”
“Why does this suddenly feel like an interview,” she mumbled under her breath.
But he heard, and he smiled. After an entire morning of feeling completely off
balance in her presence, he was finally standing on solid ground again,
confident and in charge. Claire was the best judge of character he’d ever met
in his life, and if Anne didn’t pass her smell test, then she was out on her
ass. He’d tear up that contract in a heartbeat and start all over from scratch.
She sighed. “Okay, let’s do this.”
     --------------------------------------------------------------------
                                        
Trying to balance Anne’s fear with a horse's natural ability to sense that fear
and suddenly turn skittish wasn’t easy, but he was in his comfort zone in that
barn. He knew what he was doing, and he knew the three creatures who lived
there better than his own family. Before long, he managed to get Anne to
actually stand beside Claire without freaking out, after repeated warnings to
not ever walk behind a horse because some were unpredictably ill-tempered, like
a child. She tentatively stroked Claire’s neck, gingerly ran her fingers
through her thick mane, and eventually was comfortable enough to feed her some
carrots. She was a long way from getting on her back for a ride, but he was
secretly pleased that Anne was brave enough to face her fears. She possessed an
inner strength that he admired and wished he had himself. As did Daniel…
Jamie was a different story, though. He advised Anne to keep a safe distance
from him, not because he would purposely hurt her—he wouldn’t; Jamie wasn’t a
spiteful creature—but because he was a different soul. He reminded Michael of
himself sometimes: slow to warm up to strangers and always wary of everyone’s
motives.
Surprisingly, Anne immediately bonded with Sam, the goat. Michael watched,
amused, as she stooped down and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a bear
hug that most animals wouldn’t tolerate for a second. But, Sam was an affable
soul; he bleated a little in half-hearted protest, stamped his feet a couple of
times in fake outrage, but he was also an attention whore. He secretly loved
Anne’s hugs and childish little coos about how adorable and precious he was.
Sam ate that shit up with zero shame.
“Sam’s just like those little rugrats in my class,” she observed, smiling. “All
they want is a hug to let them know someone cares.”  She stood up and brushed
the hay from her jeans. “So, did I pass muster with Claire?”
“She didn’t bite your hand off like the last fake-girlfriend I brought here, so
I think you’re approved.”
She laughed. He smiled. This day hadn’t turned out the way he’d thought it
would. Despite his moments of discomfort and fleeting anger, he’d actually had
fun overall, which he found strange.
“When do I get a tour of that mansion in your back yard?”
“Maybe next time. My father has company this weekend.” The last thing she
needed to see was the live-action version of Daddy Does Carlotta. Then she’d be
the one tearing up their contract and running for the hills. He’d had his
entire life to become accustomed to the moral dysfunction in his family.
Someone like Anne—or even Daniel, despite everything he already knew—wasn’t
ready for the full-length, uncensored version.
“What about a ride in the Lambo? Us gold-diggers have a reputation to uphold,
you know.” She sniffed haughtily, unknowingly reminding him of Cunt Camilla. “I
can’t be seen out in public in a raggedy old Jeep.”
He smirked, amused at her impersonation, and fairly confident now that she
probably wasn’t a brainless gold digger. “Sorry. I don’t own a Lambo, a
Porsche, or a Ferrari. You’re stuck with my Jeep or Claire’s back.”
“You’re the weirdest millionaire I’ve ever met.”
And you’re quite possibly the nicest woman I’ve ever met.But he didn’t say that
aloud. It was too soon to declare her human just yet. The women he’d known were
notoriously good at hiding their true natures in the beginning, but eventually
they’d all shown their true colors. So, he wasn’t going to let one halfway
enjoyable day with Anne cloud his judgment. Like Jamie, he was wary and
cautious, so he needed to exercise patience and keep an emotional distance
until the final verdict was in.
“I’m free the rest of the night,” she said softly, catching his eye for a split
second, then dropping her gaze to the ground in a move that always gave him a
control rush.
It had been way too long since he’d felt the pleasurable sting of inflicting
pain. He needed to have physical power over another person to stay sane. He
needed Anne tonight.
“We’re going to my penthouse and you’re going to stay overnight.”
He’d never demanded that of her before—spending an entire night with one of his
whores was his idea of a living nightmare—but he had a lot of pent-up
frustration that needed a safe outlet. It was going take him much longer
tonight to find his equilibrium again.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
 
ANNE'S "MIDDLE CLASS" OUTFIT
 
SATURDAY AFTERNOON ON THE ISLAND OF LA GRANDE JATTE by Georges Seurat

SILENT SCREAM  by Diana Dobson Barton (2002)
 
MICHAEL'S HOME LIBRARY 
***** Benefits *****
Chapter Notes
     You will meet a new character in this chapter. Like Miranda Pierce
     (Randee), he will play a small, but IMPORTANT, role in Michael and
     Daniel's life.
“Daniel.”
Someone was speaking, calling his name, totally effing up the amazing dream he
was having. Leave me alone.Then that same someone was shaking him, causing his
head to loll from side-to-side like he was a rag doll.
“Daniel…sugar…wake up.”
Go away.
“You gotta rise and shine, Sweet T. It’s past noon.”
Reluctantly, he floated to the surface and opened his eyes. He was confused at
first, wondering why he wasn’t still on the beach. And who had painted his
ceiling light purple while he’d been sunbathing in Hawaii? A few moments
passed, then coherence slowly returned; he remembered, or at least he
remembered most of it. He wasn’t at home in his own bed because he’d spent the
night with Jarrod in his Drag-Queen-Lavender bedroom.
He grimaced, then moaned at the dull throb in his head. Jarrod was sitting on
the side of the bed staring at him with sympathy in his hazel eyes. He looked
hot as hell—as he always did, even on his worst mornings—with his sex-tousled
blonde hair and high cheekbones. They weren’t as sharp and beautiful as
Michael’s but, unfortunately, they were still quite boner-worthy. Daniel
stifled a sigh at his ridiculous lack of self-control.
“How bad?” Jarrod asked.
He tested the waters by lifting his head. Only a brief flash of pain stabbed
his temple, then it was gone. He propped himself up on his elbows; the
throbbing intensified but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. His stomach
was a little queasy, but he was a long way from blowing chunks. “I’m good.
Nothing a couple of Alleves won’t fix.”
Jarrod shook his head. “You crossfaded last night. You’re dehydrated. You need
water worse than you need pills. Here.”
An ice cold Dasani found its way into his hand.
“Make yourself presentable, sugar, then meet me in the kitchen.” Jarrod threw
him one of his signature We’re-Definitely-Going-to-Talk-About-This looks over
his shoulder as he left the room.

He downed half the bottle of water in one go, then steeled himself. Sighing
aloud this time, he gingerly dragged himself out of bed and plodded to the
adjoining bathroom; the eyes of Jarrod’s numerous wig-heads seemed to follow
him in disapproval as he went. He pissed out the Long Islands from last night
at the Lakers game, washed his hands, then stared at himself in the mirror over
the sink. 
For someone who’d spent the previous night in Dysregulated Behavior Mode, he
looked pretty damned good. He always did after a night of self-destructive
acting out, which was how he’d managed to hide his emotional dysfunction from
the world at large his entire life.  Smoking weed at his house first, then
following that up with rum, gin, vodka and tequila at the Staples Center should
have at least given him two bleary, bloodshot eyes and a compelling need to hug
Jarrod’s toilet. Instead, his gaze was clear, he’d slept like a baby with no
nightmares, his head was hurting—but that was to be expected—and his stomach
was only roiling a little. Regardless of the fact that he’d emerged from the
ordeal relatively unscathed, he made a silent promise to the man staring back
at him that his night of punishing himself for his inadequacies was a one-off
that would never happen again.
Your promise is just empty words and not supported by research. You will repeat
the destructive behavior because it gives you temporary relief from the pain in
your life that you’re refusing to deal with.
How many times had he said those very words to someone who was struggling with
addictive behaviors, self-harm or chronic avoidance? Who was he to think he
could help others, including Michael, when he couldn’t even fix his own fucked
up life?
“Do as I say, not as I do,” he murmured softly to his reflection. There were
actual statistics to back up the fact that many therapists were as fucked up as
their patients. He’d been one of those statistics. Still was.
Cursing himself, he broke eye contact with his reflection, splashed water on
his face, toweled off, then headed back to the bedroom to check his phone. One
missed call from Cam; he’d deal with that later. No call or text from his tall,
dark and delicious friend who’d been about to emotionally fall apart Thursday
at the very idea of a female invading the sanctity of his English cottage.
Since he hadn’t heard from him, Daniel assumed his fake girlfriend had either
murdered him or Michael had somehow ended up enjoying her company. He couldn’t
decide which of those scenarios was worse.
Sighing yet again, he dressed, tucked his phone into his back pocket, and
headed to the kitchen, mentally preparing to face Jarrod and the consequences
of his stupid behavior.
 
===============================================================================
 
He slowly pushed the plate of scrambled eggs to the farthest reaches of the
table where his stomach couldn’t see them. Jarrod slowly pushed them back,
insisting he needed the amino acids in them to break down the acetaldehyde that
was causing his headache. Thank you, Mother Jarrod.
“Well, the amino acids won’t do me any good if I barf them back up into your
lap.”
Jarrod chuckled. “Point taken.”
While Jarrod ate he tried not to watch and, instead, concentrated on finishing
his water. In between shoveling eggs, Jarrod eyed him occasionally, his
gorgeous eyes gleaming with amused curiosity. Stop with the gorgeous eyes shit,
he admonished himself, and figure out how you’re going to explain your juvenile
melt down last night.
Finally, the guy came up for air. “So, who’d you have to blow to score that
sweet set-up at the Staples Center last night?”
If only.“It wasn’t like that. I did a big favor for someone and they were
grateful.”
Jarrod’s eyes widened; he whistled his appreciation for whatever big favor that
must have been. Thankfully, he didn’t ask for details, and returned to his
breakfast.  
Just to have something to do while Jarrod ate—and to take his mind off those
distracting cheekbones—he cautiously slid a grape into his mouth, hoping his
stomach wouldn’t take offense, and wondering how to gracefully extricate
himself from this awkward situation. To very loosely paraphrase one of his
mom’s wise sayings: “When all else fails, just don’t be a douche.”  That seemed
the best course of action.
“Thanks for having my back last night, and not letting me get behind the
wheel.”
Jarrod nodded. “Welcome. Cam and one his friends drove your car to your house.”
Now for the awkward part.“And about the other…I really needed that. It’s been
awhile. So, uhm, thanks for that, too.”
He held his breath, embarrassed at admitting his utter failure at upholding the
Gay-Men-Fuck-Everything-Moving stereotype, but also hoping it would garner him
some sympathy.
Jarrod chuckled. “What good is an ex-boyfriend if you can’t get a few benefits
every now and then? It’s all good, Sweet T. Everything else between us might
have been shit, but the sex was always mind-blowing.”
He smiled in agreement because it was the polite thing to do but, truthfully,
he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had mind-blowing sex. Well, actually he
could, but... Don’t go there! Wasn’t last night punishment enough??He forcibly
slammed shut the door to his past which seemed a little too loose on its hinges
lately. The physical part of his relationships had always felt off because he
just hadn’t found the right person yet. Yes, that’s all it is.But of course, he
also was an expert at chronic avoidance when it came to his own issues. In
actuality, he hadn’t been with anyone since he and Jarrod had broken up nearly
a year ago, which was all kinds of pathetic. It might not have been mind-
blowing, but at least last night had taken the edge off a little. Hopefully his
constant compulsion to throw Michael down on the floor, rip off his tailor made
designer slacks, and fuck him until he begged for mercy would ease up some now.
Jarrod finally pushed his plate to the side and honed in on him like a hawk on
a rabbit, his striking hazel eyes turning beady and probing.  “What’s going on
with you, Daniel.”
Jarrod was one of those people who assigned nicknames to everyone in his life.
If he didn’t give someone a nickname he didn’t like them. As soon as Jarrod had
discovered that Tobias was his middle name, he’d immediately dubbed him ‘Sweet
T’. He only called him ‘Daniel’ when shit was about to get real.
“Nothing’s going on.”
Jarrod gave him a Cut-the-Bullshit look. “Cam said you were already high when
you got to the game, and then you started in on the alcohol after that. Spill
it.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Jarrod shook his head, sat back in his chair and sighed. “See? This is why we
only lasted two months. These sharing issues of yours drove me crazy. Still
do.”
What could he say? Unlike Jarrod, he couldn’t just hop onto that Confess-
Everything-to-Everyone bus and ride. Jarrod was an open book; everyone in Los
Angeles knew his whole life story. If a pimple so much as popped up on his ass,
Jarrod had to tell somebody about it. That was just how the guy rolled, and
over-sharing could drive a person crazy, too. Water under the bridge, though.
He wasn’t trying to bring up all their relationship baggage again. Sleeping
with him last night had been mistake enough.
“I hope you don’t take last night the wrong way,” he blurted out before he
thought. Shit. He sounded like an egotistical ass who thought he was God’s gift
to the queer world.
To his surprise, Jarrod laughed. “Sugar, my momma always said people come into
your life for a reason, to teach you something. You taught me that sexy,
brooding artists are creatures best observed from afar. All that time you spent
communing with your muse. Ugh. Last night was great, honey, but I’m not
sniffing around your panties anymore. I’m not the torch-carrying kind of guy.”
That was a relief. “And you taught me that ADHD drag queens who moonlight as
accountants and tattoo artists are best observed from afar, too.”  He chuckled.
“It was fun for a while but, damn, you wore my ass out, dude.”
Laughing at the knowledge that they were much better apart than together, they
gently bumped fists. He was finally able to relax and not beat himself up so
much over his horny lapse in judgment.
“How are things going with you?” he asked, hoping to permanently steer the
conversation away from his behavior last night.
“Well, if you ever showed your face at Napoleon’s anymore you’d know the answer
to that.” Jarrod puffed out his chest with pride. “You’re looking at the new
headliner. Selena Sugar is now the club’s premier attraction.”
He was genuinely pleased that Jarrod had finally attained one of his life’s
goals. “That’s great, man. Congratulations!”
The fact that Jarrod was a drag queen had been one of the things that had
attracted him in the first place. Well, that and the guy’s amazing cheekbones.
The psychology behind the drag scene had always fascinated him. He’d given a
thoroughly researched presentation on the subject in one of his college Psych
courses and had received a gush of praise—and an A—from his professor for his
efforts.
“I see those little shrink-wheels turning in your brain,” Jarrod said with a
soft chuckle. “Give it up, honey. I don’t have an ounce of psychopathy in my
body. I do drag because I love dressing up in women’s clothes, and I’m an
attention-starved hussy. Period. It’s fun, and pays good, too.” He winked. ”In
cash and trade.”
He wasn’t kidding about the trade part. Jarrod was well-known in the local gay
community for his exceptional BJ skills, which he freely shared with his loyal
groupies. He promised Jarrod he’d get to Napoleon’s as soon as he could to
catch the new show. Maybe he could convince Michael to tag along, too. It would
do him good to see openly gay men dancing, socializing and just having fun like
everyone else. Maybe it would help ease him out of his closet just a little.
Baby steps.
It was time to put a punctuation mark on this disastrous weekend. “I really
need to get home. Things to do…”
Jarrod sat back in his chair, showing zero interest in getting up and driving
his hungover—and emotionally drained—ex-boyfriend home. He shifted his gaze to
Jarrod’s forearm skull tat to avoid the penetrating stare burning a hole in him
from across the table. Jarrod was easy going most of the time, but when he got
it into his head that someone he cared about was in trouble, there was no
distracting him.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. Your behavior
last night was not the Daniel I know. Something’s up.”
“Fine. I’ll call Cam. He can take me home,” he snapped in frustration.
Jarrod smiled smugly. “Cam crashed with Aaron last night. I imagine shuttling
your ass home is pretty low down on his list of things to do right about now.
Talk to me.”
Arrogant asshole.Suddenly, it occurred to him that Jarrod’s resemblance to
Michael was about way more than just his beautiful cheekbones—although he had a
long way to go until he reached Michael’s Master Level of Class Snobbery and
Know-It-All-Ism.
They had a stare-down moment across the table, one that could have gone on for
record-breaking time except that he really wanted to get home and try to
salvage what little was left of this crap weekend.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “I made this stupid New Year’s resolution. I
decided I should have a gallery opening next year, since I’m supposedly wildly
talented and all that bullshit.” He grimaced at the raw bitterness in his
voice. “But when I sat down in front of a canvas yesterday morning, I couldn’t
do anything. I stared at that easel forever, and got absolutely nothing.
Finally, I did manage to get some sketches out, but they were pure shit. I
trashed them all, gave up, and got high instead.”
Jesus.He sounded like the whiniest pothead loser on the planet. His urge to
crawl under the kitchen table and hide his overheated face was overwhelming.
Jarrod chuckled. “If I got high every time I created a pile of steaming shit,
I’d be able to score the lead role in a Cheech & Chong remake with just my
fumes.” Then with a sympathetic look, his voice softened. “All us creative
types have our dry spells, and you’re no exception. You’re too hard on yourself
sometimes. So you hit a wall yesterday. So what? It happens. Forget about it
and move on. And if you ask me, you should ditch that whole New Year’s
resolution thing and just hang out with your muse a little more. No one ever
follows through with those dumb things anyway; they’re a total waste of time.”
It was becoming disturbingly uncanny just how much Jarrod and Michael were
alike, which shouldn’t have surprised him, considering that, psychologically,
humans tended to gravitate toward certain ‘types’ over the course of their
mating lives. But thinking of Michael, and trying to figure out why he hadn’t
called or texted about his afternoon with the FG, only made him more
frustrated. He was obsessing over the guy like a preteen girl over her first
crush, which was most likely why his muse was on vacation at the moment.
“Yeah, I think I’ll take that advice and just ditch the resolution.” Even
though he’d said it just so Jarrod would hurry up and drive him home, he
suddenly felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He rose
from the table, ready to leave.
“Uhm, not so fast, Sweet T,” Jarrod said with a small, sly grin, nodding toward
the table and silently commanding him to sit back down. He gave up and obeyed,
since Jarrod currently had possession of the only car and its keys. “Tell me
about him.”
Shit.“About who?”
A disappointed head shake. “Come on now. Don’t play that game with me. There’s
a hot guy in this mess somewhere.” Then Jarrod smiled sweetly and batted his
eyelashes, instantly transforming into his female alter ego; he was totally
believable even without the dress, wig, and makeup. “Tell Selena Sugar all
about it, dahlin’. Your deep, dark, and…decadent…secrets are always safe with
me.”
He chuckled softly because, the truth was, he was head-over-heels in love with
Selena Sugar. (He didn’t even want to think about the psychology behind that
weirdness, and had purposely avoided doing so during the entirety of their
relationship.) It was Jarrod Donahey, the man, and his unpredictable,
hyperactive lifestyle that had worn him out and ultimately led to their
breakup.
“He’s a work of art,” he observed softly, even though that description couldn’t
even begin to accurately describe the complex beauty of Michael Golland.
Jarrod instantly fell out of his drag persona and gaped in silence for a few
shocked moments. “Wow. This is serious.”
He nodded. He’d never been so thoroughly obsessed with anyone in his entire
life. The psychologist side of his brain understood that that kind of obsession
was emotionally unhealthy, but he seemed powerless to stop it.
“Okaaay,” Jarrod said, slowly dragging out the word. “It’s obvious there’s a
complication, so what is it?”
A defeated sigh slid out of his throat. “He’s closeted. Just for
clarification’s sake, I asked him point blank if he was gay, and his answer
was: ‘I don’t know what I am.’”
Jarrod visibly flinched. “Ouch.”
“Yeah,” he agreed softly. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “And he has a
girlfriend.”  Of course, she was a fake girlfriend, but he couldn’t tell Jarrod
that. And besides, after this weekend, was she still fake or had she moved into
the Real Girlfriend category? Michael’s continued silence worried him.
“This is a bad situation for you, Daniel. You need to cut your losses and move
on. Closeted men are the worst. You know this.”
Yeah, he knew, but that knowledge didn’t change anything. “You can’t help who
you love, right?” It was a stupid platitude, but also his only defense against
what was probably going to be yet another failed relationship to add to his
collection.
Jarrod gave him a sympathetic look that spoke volumes, then he sighed. “No
truer words, man. So, if he’s the boy you want, then I say go after him. Forget
about The Good Sportsmanship Award and just do whatever you have to do to bring
him over to our side. Life’s too short to play fair when it comes to love.”
He acknowledged Jarrod’s sage advice with a distracted nod. His mind was
racing, latching onto that ‘do whatever you have to do’ part like a drowning
man clinging desperately to a quickly deflating life raft. He felt like his
optimum window of opportunity was shrinking with every passing moment,
especially since this ‘fake girlfriend’ had suddenly moved into the picture. He
needed to step up his game, and fast.
“On the other hand, it’s a delicate operation coaxing a closet case out into
the open,” Jarrod continued softly, his expression suddenly serious. “You need
to be very careful how you go about this, Daniel. Remember Matthew. . .”
He nodded. Remember Matthew.How could he forget? The circumstances surrounding
Matthew Shepard’s murder were permanently etched into the mind of every living
gay man he knew, forever painting gay-straight social interactions with a
justifiably paranoid brush. But despite the fact that Michael had exhibited
violent tendencies when angered, he could honestly say he’d never felt
physically unsafe in his presence. Besides, he’d openly flirted with Michael at
the Christmas party and also during his faux-interview the following morning,
and he’d lived to tell about both. From a psychological standpoint, it was
apparent that Michael’s short fuse seemed to burn hot and fast only for women.
At least he hoped it did.
Before he agreed to drive him home, Jarrod made him pinky swear that he’d
proceed with caution and, above all else, make his physical safety the number
one priority.
“I can’t tap that fine, sexy ass if it’s laid up in the hospital.” Jarrod
snickered at his own light-hearted joke but he knew that deep down Jarrod’s
concern for his safety was heartfelt and real.
After a promise that he’d be careful, he made a beeline for the door with
Jarrod trailing behind him, car keys in hand. He just wanted to go home and
vegetate for the rest of the day. No art. No television. No music. No pressure.
Just blessed quiet and solitude so he could think without distractions. But
before he could even open the door, Jarrod grabbed his arm.
“Hold up a minute.”
He turned to find Jarrod all up in his personal space, their bodies inches
apart. He started to back away but, before he could, Jarrod touched his face,
lightly tracing the contour of his jawline with a lone finger. Then he dropped
his hand.
“Just because you’re not the right man for me doesn’t mean I don’t recognize
good boyfriend material when I see it. You’re one of the good guys, Daniel.
You’re going to make some lucky man one hell of a fabulous life-partner.”
If only that were true. . .
A hazel glare. “I see that look—and I know what you’re thinking—but it’s true.”
It seemed like Jarrod wanted to say more but, thankfully, he left it at that. A
spontaneous Front-Door-Conversation wasn’t nearly enough time to wade through
all his emotional and relationship baggage. He immediately gave himself a
mental kick to the shins. If he was going to win Michael over to the fabulous
side, he couldn’t let himself get sucked down into the self-recriminations
swamp.
“And if you ever need anything, you call me,“ Jarrod continued. “Don’t even
hesitate. If you need your taxes done, some new ink, a place to crash and burn
without judgment—” He grinned crookedly. “Maybe some benefits now and then,
whatever. I’m here.”
He nodded, touched at Jarrod’s soulless generosity, despite the fact that he’d
made the guy miserable during their brief relationship. Jarrod was definitely
good boyfriend material, too, just not for him.
Jarrod’s gentle goodbye kiss caught him by surprise. There was no heat in it,
no promise of more of the urgent sex they’d engaged in last night. It was
simply a soft reminder that Jarrod’s heart was a place of refuge if he ever
needed it.
All things considered, he couldn’t have asked for a better ex.
 
JARROD DONAHEY aka SELENA SUGAR 
 
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