CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

 

He sat on my papasan chair like a cat in the sun and listened to the vinyl recording of my most favourite album. I sat on the sofa with my laptop, trying to find out what I could on Eli Masterson, but truthfully, I was just watching Andrew.

“So, Eli works eight till four, Monday to Friday?” I asked, trying to get my mind on the job.

“Shush.”

I blinked. He just fucking shushed me. “Really?”

He grinned at me. “You can’t talk while this is playing.” Then he tilted his head a little and listened to Jeff Buckley sing. “Show a little respect to the man.”

“Oh, I respect Mr Buckley.” I threw a cushion at him.

He caught the cushion and sank down a little in the papasan chair as he laughed, curling up all comfortable-like and smiling, still reading over the album cover and looking as though he belonged there. As though I wanted him to belong there. And that realisation startled me.

“What?” he asked. “You look like you swallowed a pill.”

I shook my head. “Nothing. No, it’s all good.” Trying to get my heart rate back to normal, I looked back at the laptop screen, just as the song “Hallelujah” started. And like always, it made me stop. I took a deep breath and just listened.

When I looked over at Andrew, he was smiling at me. “I see what you mean. It’s a great song. I don’t know about perfect—”

“Shush!” I said back to him.

He chuckled again and waited until the song was played out. “Yes, Eli works eight till four, Monday through Friday.”

Right. Eli. Shit. “Does he play any sport on weekends? Soccer, football, tennis?”

Andrew shook his head. “Um, no.”

“I just wondered if there was somewhere else we could just turn up to, that’s all.” I sighed. “Does he have a favourite grocery store? A café? Bookstore? Park?”

Andrew rattled off a few of Eli’s other haunts and what he did in his free time. From what I understood, they rarely did anything together, and Eli seemed rather boring. It was hard to explain, but for all Andrew told me about Eli, the less I knew about him.

“What did you guys used to do on a Sunday afternoon?” I asked. “Didn’t go to a jazz bar with friends?”

He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You love jazz.”

“I guess we never got around to it,” he said with a shrug.

“I think I need to talk to this Eli of yours.”

He froze and his smile was gone. “Why?”

“To tell him to wake up to himself,” I said jokingly, although I wasn’t really joking at all. “Because that’s the first place I’d take you.”

Andrew laughed at that, and his cheeks tinted pink. “God, I thought you meant you were gonna knock on his door or something.”

“Well, no. I wasn’t going to. I mean I could, but I prefer no contact with the target, thanks.”

“The target?”

“Yep.”

“You make it sound like it’s some covert operation or something.”

“It is! We have code words and everything.”

“Code words?”

“Well, phrases, but yes,” I told him. “Like if he approaches you in a bar, I’d say, ‘I’ll just wait outside,’ which is code for good luck. Or if the target is having sex with some other dude in the bathrooms, I’ll say, ‘Shots of tequila are on me,’ which is code for game over.”

He made a face. “I hate tequila.”

I found myself smiling at him. “Me too. But I think you missed the point.”

He laughed again, which told me he didn’t miss the point at all. He turned the LP cover over in his hand. “How did Jeff Buckley die?”

“Um…” Random subject change, but okay. “He drowned. Walked out into the Mississippi, fully clothed, singing Led Zeppelin’s ‘Whole Lotta Love’, and never came out.”

Andrew blinked. “Jeez.”

“Why?”

“I never knew, that’s all.”

Just then, his phone beeped. He fished it out of his pocket and read the screen. “It’s Sarah,” he said.

So while he had a text conversation with his sister, I did another quick Facebook scroll on Eli, his friends, family—anything that might strike me as odd. There was nothing out of the ordinary. There were also no pictures of him with Andrew. Granted, he didn’t post a lot, or often, but still. I’d have thought he would have at least mentioned having a boyfriend, let alone a live-in boyfriend. Not to even mention the fact they were supposed to be engaged. Or even the break-up. People were forever posting break-ups on Facebook for sympathy and to notify their list of friends that they were back on the market. There was no mention of Andrew at all.

So then I looked up Andrew.

Andrew’s timeline was mostly people tagging him in jokes or memes. There were a few posts from Sarah. They seemed like nice people. Nothing religious or political, nothing offensive. Some holiday pictures and, after scrolling a while, I found a picture of Andrew and Sarah. It was an old photo, when Andrew and Sarah were little, in what looked like some family holiday. A happy family, a perfect family even.

A pang of sadness pierced my chest, and I quickly exited out, just as Andrew put his phone away. Thankful for the distraction, I asked, “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Mom’s invited her to a lunch thing next month and Sarah just gave me the heads up that if she has to go, so do I.”

“Sounds fun.”

He scoffed. “If by fun you mean boring as hell, then you’d be correct.”

He had no idea just how good a family lunch sounded. He stared at me for a long second, then reached over to put the album cover on top of the record player. “Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go.”

I slowly closed my laptop. “Uh, where exactly are we going?”

“You’re going to buy me my first Jeff Buckley album.”

I grinned at him. “Oh, am I?”

“Yes, you are. Unless you want to give me that one.” He pointed to my record player.

“Like hell. That’s my favourite.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, walking to the door. He turned back to look at me—where I hadn’t moved from—and clapped his hands together. “Look alive, Spencer.”

“Alright,” I said, collecting my wallet and keys. I quickly grabbed two bottled waters out of my fridge and handed one to him as we walked out the door. “Are you always so pushy?”

He laughed, and those little lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, and the sun gave a warmth to his skin. He went down the stairs first and waited for me to get to the bottom. I guessed he was unsure of which direction to go. I pointed my thumb to the tattoo shop’s dead bolted door. “Can’t access the shop from the outside, so we’ll have to go around,” I nodded toward the end of the building, and we settled into a comfortable stride next to each other.

“I assume there’s a music store around here somewhere,” he said as we neared the street.

“There’s a few,” I told him. “Did you want a CD or an LP? I could have just downloaded it for you if that would have been easier.”

“LP, for sure.”

“Do you have a record player?”

“Well, no. But I think I’ll have to get one. I would imagine jazz and blues from vinyl would be incredible.”

I grinned at him. “I’ve created a monster!”

“You can’t just play classic vinyl albums to a music lover and not expect him to want it.”

I grinned. “True.”

We walked the two blocks, the banter between us never stopping. He talked with his hands when he explained things, which I found to be rather endearing, and I’m pretty sure I hadn’t stopped smiling since we left my place. We tossed our empty water bottles into a recycling bin before I led him down a side alley off the boulevard and stood in front of the door to the music shop. “Before we go in, you must promise me something.”

He was suddenly serious. “What?”

“This place is special, and thus, must remain a secret.”

“Thus?”

“It’s a word.”

“That no one has used in two hundred years.”

“Not true. I just used it now.”

He laughed. “Okay, so I’m not supposed to tell anyone I came here?”

“Nope. It’s like Vegas.”

“As in ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’? Really?”

“Yes, really.” I nodded. “It’s too awesome to be popular.”

“Isn’t that redundant to their business profitability?”

“Possibly. But it’s completely old-school indie. I think the owner was a pot-smoking surfer from the sixties and has principles against corporations, though I’ve never asked him. Anyway, if too many people know about it, then it becomes mainstream. And that would ruin it.”

He frowned at me. “Then it’s not like Vegas. It’s more like Fight Club.”

I laughed and bowed my head. “Ah, Grasshopper. You have passed the test. You may enter.” He beamed, and I opened the door with a laugh.

He stepped inside. “Okay, wow.”

The music shop was like a tribute to the 70s. Instead of neon lights and flashing digital screens, there were band posters and vintage T-shirts pinned to the walls. And rows and rows of vinyl records.

“Cool, huh?”

He nodded slowly, and still looking at the rows of albums, he said, “Where do I start?”

“This way,” I said, leading him to the folk section. “They’re categorized by genre, then alphabetically.” I found the B section. “Here. Jeff Buckley.”

He flicked through some of the covers. “Which one would I like?” he asked, more to himself than to me.

“His Live from Sin-é album,” I told him. “He covered Billie Holiday and Nina Simone. You’d love it.”

I took over looking through the covers, and when I looked up, he was staring at me. I mean, we were standing shoulder to shoulder, rifling through vintage records, and he was staring right at me. “What?”

He quickly turned back to the album covers. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “You can look through these. I’ll just… check out the record players,” he mumbled so quietly, I barely heard him. And he walked off to look at the old record players and turntables.

Odd. But, figuring I didn’t exactly know him that well, it was hard to gauge what was weird behaviour or not. I found the album I was after and pulled out the sleeve. The vinyl looked unscratched, so with a smile, I slid the album back into the cover and followed Andrew over to the far wall. “Found it,” I told him.

“Oh, cool, thanks,” he said. He was clearly distracted by the record players, because he didn’t look at me. “Which of these do you think?”

They were only table top units, not whole cabinets like mine. He seemed undecided between two. “I think the black one. It has speakers built in,” I told him. “And it’ll match the frames on your wall and your piano.”

He smiled at me. “True.”

“Now,” I said, looking around. “It’s only fair that you pick an album for me.”

He looked around the store and blinked. “Oh.”

“Not something you’d think I’d like, but something you’d pick for yourself.”

He headed straight for the jazz section. He flipped through covers, pulling faces at some, frowning at others, and some got a look of disgust. But then he pulled out one record, read the back of it for the song list, and he smiled. He held it up for me to see. It was called Jazz Piano: Funk and Fusion. To say I was surprised was an understatement. “The cover looks like a bad 70s porn movie.”

He laughed but quickly looked around to see who might have heard me. “Well, the cover isn’t great, but the songs are.”

He handed it to me, and I read over the names of songs and artists I’d never heard before. “You’d listen to this?” I asked.

“I would.”

“Jazz Piano: Funk and Fusion?”

He chuckled. “Don’t knock it until you hear it.”

I exhaled through puffed out cheeks. “Okay, you’re the boss.”

I took the albums to the counter and the guy there gave an approving nod. His huge afro didn’t move. “Excellent choice,” he said, looking at Andrew’s pick.

“See?” Andrew said, nudging me with his elbow. “Told you it was good.”

I rolled my eyes but then said to the guy behind the counter, “And the black record player, thanks.”

Andrew pulled out his wallet, but I handed the sales guy my card. “I’m paying.”

“You can’t do that!” Andrew objected.

“I just did,” I said. I had no idea why I did. But it felt right. The cashier finalized the sale, handed me back my card and I handed the records to Andrew. “You can carry them,” I told him, picking up the record player.

He was quiet for half the walk back to my place. “I can’t believe you did that,” he said.

“It was no big deal,” I replied.

He made a face I couldn’t interpret, and when we got to the tattoo shop, he stopped. “Thank you,” he said, his hand on the door. “It was very kind, and I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“You didn’t sound ungrateful,” I told him. “More shocked that someone would do something like that for you.”

He bit his lip. “No one has.”

“I really need to speak to this Eli of yours,” I said jokingly. “Because that is a crying shame.”

Without another word, he pushed on the door and held it open for me. I gave him a nod, “Thank you, kind sir.” He rolled his eyes.

“Hey, here they are,” Emilio called. He was leaning over the front counter with a pen in hand, working on some tracing paper. He stood up straight and stretched his back. “Whatcha got there?”

“Record player,” I said. “Andrew didn’t have one.”

Andrew held the two LPs like they were a shield. “Spencer bought it for me.”

Emilio laughed, but there was a curious look in his eyes, which I very astutely ignored. “Well, plug it in and let’s listen,” he said.

I put the record player on the coffee table and took the cord out from the back. “Well, I bought one LP for Andrew and one for me.”

“He got a Jeff Buckley for me,” Andrew said. He was nervous but making an effort.

I plugged the player in. “And Andrew chose some Jazz Piano: Funk and Crap for me.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes at me. “It’s not crap.”

“Oh, is that what I said? I meant to say Jazz Piano: Funk and Fusion. Crap must have just slipped out.”

Grinning, Emilio told Andrew, “He gets away with saying shit like that because of his Australian accent.”

I scoffed. “Like you can talk. You get all suave with your Spanish when you’re sweet talking Daniela.”

Emilio gave me a shit-eating grin, and Daniela called out from the back cubicle. “And it works, every time.”

Emilio replied to her, something in Spanish about tonight and the rest I chose not to follow. But by the way Andrew blushed, I’d say he understood every word. He cleared his throat and handed me the two records. Figuring I’d be polite, I chose the Jazz record and slid the vinyl out of the cover, putting it on the turntable and carefully lowering the tonearm.

The familiar crackle sounded, then a piano intro played. It reminded me of those old movies of a Ray Charles type, sitting in a dive bar in New Orleans. I was intrigued. Then a double bass thrummed in, followed by what sounded like a whole brass section. “Hey this isn’t bad,” I told him.

Andrew looked a little smug and a lot cute, so I pretended to be grossly interested in the album cover. And when I looked up again, Andrew was standing over near the counter, watching Emilio draw.

It was easy to forget, with one being tattooed and a little rough around the edges and the other being clean cut and Ivy League that they were both artists.

I should have realised that they would have a lot in common.

I left the music playing and joined them at the counter. Andrew was just watching as Emilio drew waves and the sun, and after a while Emilio looked up at him. “It’s very good,” Andrew said.

Emilio shrugged the compliment off. “Thanks.”

“Andrew’s an artist too,” I reminded him.

Emilio looked at Andrew, like he’d forgotten that too. “Cool. What do you draw?”

“Character story boards,” he said like it wasn’t remarkable. He couldn’t take his eyes off the stencil paper. “Your freehand technique is incredible.”

“Freehand is what I do,” Emilio said. “It’s easier on paper than on skin, but sometimes to get the rise and fall of the body, I need to freehand directly onto the skin.”

“Jesus,” Andrew whispered. “I couldn’t ever do that.”

“Character story boards sounds pretty cool though,” Emilio said. He grabbed a slip of tracing paper and pushed a pen to him. “Show me what you can do.”

Andrew looked at me, the corners of his lips pulled down. Then he smiled and put pen to paper. In what was seriously no more than a few swipes of the pen and an endearing pout as he drew, he pushed the piece of paper out. It was very simplistic but equally identifiable. It was the head and shoulders of a guy, cartoon-like from a movie, but this guy had his hair styled up, short on the sides, and stubble on his jaw. But it was the suspenders I wore on the day I met him that gave it away.

He’d drawn me.

Emilio burst out laughing and offered Andrew his hand in a brother’s type of handshake.

I scowled at them, feigning offense, when really it was pretty freakin’ cool. “Oh, look! It’s the guy from page four of Trendy Living.”

Andrew laughed and snatched back the paper, and above the little guy he drew the words Trendy Living, like it was a magazine cover. He wrote Spencer Cohen underneath it. “There. Now he’s on the cover.”

I laughed, and before I could snatch up the drawing, Emilio took it. “This is going on our Wall of Fame.” He pinned it among the other photos of tattoos.

Just then the door opened and two women came in and smiled at Emilio. “Just finishing up the drawing now,” he told them. “Take a seat. Won’t be a minute.”

One of the ladies bopped her head. “Cool music!”

Andrew whacked my arm. “Told you.”

I laughed but said, “Come on. We’d better leave Emilio to it.”

“You can stay if you like,” one of the ladies said suggestively. She looked between me and Andrew. “You both can.”

Figuring it was a good time to test him on public displays of affection, I slid my arm around Andrew’s waist. “Sorry, ladies. We have things that need doing.”

Andrew blushed, and he might have held his breath, but he didn’t flinch.

“Oh,” she said, getting the point. “Shame.”

“Not for me,” Andrew said, shocking the hell outta me.

I burst out laughing just as Daniela came out from the back. She looked at me with a weird smile on her face, and as Andrew and I collected the record player and the two LPs, I noticed Daniela give Emilio a questioning look. I ignored it, and thankfully neither one of them said anything. Not in front of Andrew anyway. I knew I’d probably get roasted later.

Andrew really was a surprising man. His appearance said he should be straight-laced, a good all-American boy, mild mannered, shy, and even a bit nerdy. But his sense of humour, his taste in movies and music, and his intelligence made him intriguing to me. He would come out with the least expected comments and lines, and I was really starting to think that Eli must be fucking crazy to have walked away from him.

“Aren’t we going this way?” Andrew asked, nodding toward the back of the shop.

I walked to the front door. “Nope. We’re going to your place. Buses are this way.”

Andrew shrugged but didn’t move. “Well, you can catch the bus if you want, but I drove. My car is this way.” He pointed to the back of the store.

Emilio laughed, and I flipped him off. Raising my chin, I walked past Andrew. “This way then.”

“Bye, boys,” Daniela said. “Lola said she’d call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I said, giving her a smirk on the way out. I held the back door open for Andrew. “You could have just said you drove.”

He smiled as he walked out into the sunshine and over to a BMW parked in the lot behind the row of shops, where we’d walked past earlier. “You didn’t even say ‘Hey, that’s my car’ when we walked right by it.”

He unlocked it and opened the driver’s door. “Can’t go telling you all my secrets in two days, can I?”

“The fact you drive a car isn’t exactly a secret.” I put the record player on the backseat, and got in the front passenger seat of his immaculately clean car.

“Well, you never asked me if I drove,” he said, shifting the gearstick into reverse. “What if Eli had asked you about my car? You’d have failed.”

“I would have told him I was too busy letting you fuck me in the backseat to notice what kind of car it was.”

He grinded the gears, and his mouth fell open.

I burst out laughing. “Just kidding. We’d never fit back there. Reverse cowboy on this seat, however…”

He narrowed his eyes at me, put the car into first, and swung it around neatly. “Do you always go for the shock value?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just funny. Like now.”

He shook his head at me and pulled the car out onto the street. “Was that funny?”

“Yep. And it also told me something without having to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t correct me when I assumed you’d top me,” I said, going for casual, though my dick wasn’t casual about it at all.

“Ah, veto.” He cleared his throat and blushed a palette of reds. “Veto, veto, veto.”

I laughed. “Fair enough. But I can tell you’re totally imagining it right now.”

He glared at me.

I pointed to the road. “Watch the road. Jesus!”

He did, thankfully. “Would you like to drive?”

I snorted. “Hell no. Wrong side of the car, wrong side of the road for me.”

He grumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘Freakin’ Australians’ as he weaved in and out of traffic. I had to admit. He was a good driver. And his car was very nice.

“I haven’t driven a car since I got here,” I admitted.

“Not at all?”

“Nope. I either bus it or walk. I live central to everywhere I want to be. I kinda miss it though, to be honest.”

He considered this for a while. “I was only joking before, but I could pull over if you want to actually drive?”

“No,” I said, smiling at him. “I’d rather not crash your car on our second date.”

“Date?”

“Well, you know what I mean. For all intents and purposes, and if Eli asks, then yes. It’s a date.” This seemed to shock him, so I added, “Don’t panic though, I don’t expect you to put out on the second date.”

He shook his head at me. “You are insufferable.”

I hummed contentedly. “Thank you. You did well back there, by the way. When I put my arm around you. You played it cool.”

“I uh, I wasn’t expecting it.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to tell that lady it wasn’t a shame for you that I was gay.”

He checked his rear vision mirror and changed lanes. “Yeah well, that annoys me. Saying it’s a shame someone is gay.” He scowled. “It’s disrespectful.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“I hope Emilio didn’t mind me saying that to his customers.”

“Not at all. Emilio has no qualms with putting rude people in their place.”

“He’s very good at drawing freehand,” he said. “It just surprised me. I guess I’ve never thought of tattoo artists as artists.”

“He sure is. Except his drawing board is the human body.”

That made him smile. “What are we doing back at my place anyway?” he asked. “Aren’t we supposed to be going out tonight?”

“Yep, we sure are. We need to get your record player all set up because you haven’t listened to Jeff Buckley sing Nina Simone.”

He pulled the car into a spot not far from his house, and he just sat there for a second like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he should. In the end, he said, “Sounds good.”

He was a bit reserved after that. Kinda like he was the very first day I met him in the café. God, was that really just two days ago? He seemed to have a defensive wall up now, the kind that made his smile not quite right and his conversation a little stilted. He put the record player on his dining table. “Wanna plug it in?” I asked.

He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Maybe later. Want a bottle of water?”

“Uh, sure.” I gave him my best smile. I don’t know why that bothered me so much and why I wanted more than anything to right whatever I did that was wrong. He offered me a drink but genuinely looked upset by something. I wanted to ask him if he was okay, but I didn’t want him to tell me the whole deal was off. I didn’t want to stop spending time with him. So I pretended there was nothing wrong and charted the mood back into safer waters. “Have any movies?”

What the fuck was I doing? My brain was telling me to leave. My stupid heart was telling my stupid feet to stay right where they were and telling my stupid mouth to ask him stupid questions.

“Ah, sure,” he called out from the kitchen. “In the cabinet underneath the TV. Or there’s Netflix.”

I opened the cabinet, wanting to see what his movie collection said about him. I smiled when I saw the first DVD. How to Train Your Dragon. I pulled it out and held it up as he walked back into the room.

He smiled a genuine smile. “The second one’s in there too,” he said. “I thought you said you’ve seen the first, not the second.”

I opened the case and slid the disc into the machine. “I have seen this one. But we need to watch them in order.”

He chuckled and plonked himself on the sofa, looking more relaxed. Whatever was bothering him just moments ago seemed forgotten and that made me happier than it probably should have. I collected the remote controls from their neat little row underneath the large flat screen and handed them to him when I sat at the other end of the sofa. I was going to plant myself right next to him but figured I wouldn’t risk him freaking out on me again. He gave me the bottled water. “Thanks.”

He pressed some buttons and the movie started, but then he did something to his end of the sofa, and it slowly leaned back, becoming a recliner. “Hey,” I said. “How do I do that?”

His lips curved upwards at the bottle he was drinking from. “There’s a button on the side.”

I found the button and the footrest slowly came up, and the back automatically reclined. “Oh man, I need to get me one of these.”

“My sister told me it was a waste of money. But it was the best decision ever.”

“I can see why.” God it was comfy. “Okay, so you have to tell me about anything in the movie that you’ve drawn for promo work.”

He smiled. “Okay.”

“What’s your favourite to work on?” I asked. “The humans or the dragons?”

“Dragons.”

“Which one?”

“Toothless.”

“Of course.”

“Is that a problem?”

I laughed. “No. There’d be something wrong if he wasn’t. He’s the cutest, for sure.”

Andrew laughed at that. “He is. He’s very cat-like to draw.”

We watched in silence for a while. “Have you worked on anything so far?” I asked. “I want to see your work.”

He tossed the DVD cover at me and flicked up one eyebrow before turning back to the movie. I looked at the cover, not quite getting what his point was. Then it hit me. Oh my God. “You drew the cover?”

“I was thinking I was going to have to hit you over the head with it,” he said with a laugh. “I worked on it, yes. It’s not just my work. It takes a huge team of people.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You worked on the freakin’ cover? That is so cool! You should totally own that. How come you don’t tell everyone?”

“Because I’m not a dick about it.”

I snorted. “I would so be a dick about it.”

He laughed at that. “Well, there are enough name droppers and celebrity wannabes in this city without me adding to them.”

“And you know what?” I asked. “That’s what I like about you.”

His lips twitched as he fought a smile. “Thanks.” He looked back to the movie. “And you too. You’re not some social-ladder climber either. It’s nice to find that in this town.”

His words made my heart trip over, which caught me off guard. Kinda like being smashed side-on by a front-row forward in a rugby match.

He looked at me and bit his lip, and I could almost see his mind ticking over. Then he smiled. “I want to show you something.” He jumped off the sofa and waited for me to press the button so the automatic recliner got back into position. He raised one eyebrow at me. “You could just climb off, you know.”

“No way,” I said. “I still have the scars from my Nanna’s boot up my arse for jumping off her recliner when I was about six. I have dutifully righted every reclining chair I’ve ever sat in before getting up off it since.”

He let out a laugh but nodded toward the stairs. “Come on, it’s up here.”

I followed him, gaining an awesome view of his arse on the way. He stopped at the end doorway, but I could see inside. His bed, a high queen-size with a solid wooden frame, was perfectly made. The cover and matching pillows were black and gold, and I knew without touching them they were expensive. And soft. “If you just wanted me in your bedroom, you only had to ask,” I joked.

Only I wasn’t really joking. I wouldn’t mind spending some time in his room.

He walked in, over to another door. “In my closet actually.”

“You want me in your walk-in robe?”

He stared at me, confused. “My what?”

Bloody Australianisms still tripped me up. “Ugh. Closet. Walk-in robe. Same thing. Seriously, you need to learn Australian to speak to me. And anyway, you really want to take me in your closet?” I shrugged. “I’m okay with kink.”

He stopped with his hand on the door. “I don’t have any kinks,” he said. “Is it always about sex with you?”

“Not always,” I admitted. “I’m rather partial to food and music too.”

“In any particular order?”

“Nope. I like to change it up a little. Keep ’em guessing, ya know?”

He rolled his eyes and turned to the door. “I haven’t really showed anyone these, but I think you might appreciate them.”

I remembered how excited he was downstairs when he obviously decided he wanted me to see whatever was inside, so I was curious as to what on earth it could be. He opened the door, and on the right side of the long walk-in closet were shelves and neatly hanging clothes. But on the left side was just a bare wall. Except it wasn’t just a wall. There was a long, thin horizontal window above my head which was great for natural light, but covering the wall were frames of story boards. Boards he’d obviously drawn; some were black and white, some were coloured. Some were fully complete, some were outlines only.

“Oh wow,” I whispered. Characters I recognised immediately from movies I’d seen, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. “Andrew, they’re incredible.”

He grinned, almost with relief it seemed. Did he honestly think I wouldn’t like them? “They’re pretty cool.”

“Cool?” I repeated. “They’re amazing. You’re amazing. I can’t believe you drew these!” Embarrassment crept over his cheeks, but there was a dash of pride too. “Why aren’t these on your living room wall with the Dragon ones?”

He looked them over and sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want my work to stare at me every day. It’s not all that I am,” he said quietly.

“Fair enough,” I replied. “I can see your point. But seriously? These are incredible! Not even on your bedroom wall?”

He snorted out a laugh. “Not sure grown men would appreciate having cartoon characters looking.” He cleared his throat. “If you know what I mean.”

I scoffed at that. “Then you’re clearly bringing the wrong guys home.” I meant it as an off the cuff remark, but it made me wonder. “Did Eli like them?”

“Yeah. But I think he was kind of glad they were hidden. Like I said, no one’s seen these.”

“Well, I am impressed.” I looked them over again. “Which is your favourite?”

His face lit up. “This one.” He pointed to a full colour one of Marty, the zebra with a rainbow coloured afro from Madagascar. “He was fun to draw. Which one do you like?”

I pointed to one in particular of the two main characters from Kung Fu Panda. “The way it’s just half an outline, with general body shapes. We can see who they are, but…”

“But what?”

“I like how it’s open for interpretation. It could be them with their backs to us, walking off as a goodbye, or it could be them coming to life. You know, just the beginning.”

When he didn’t answer, I looked at him to find he was staring at me. He opened his mouth but then shook his head and decided not to say whatever it was he was struggling to say.

“Does that make sense?” I asked. “Or did I get it wrong?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes never left mine, and his voice was just a whisper. “Perfect sense. Thank you.”

Suddenly the air in that walk-in closet was static. I wanted to reach out and touch him, to kiss him. God, I wanted to taste his mouth. But that’s not what this was. I was here to help him get his ex back. Thankful for the reminder of what I was actually doing there, I looked up at the window and saw the colour of the sky. “It’s uh—” I took a breath to collect myself. “it’s getting late. We should eat before we go out, yeah?”

He took a step back and breathed out slowly. Which told me I wasn’t imagining the electricity between us. “Uh yeah.”

I turned around to face the clothes side of his wardrobe. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more neatly organised closet.” Even the folded clothes were done to perfection.

He touched a random hanging shirt. “It’s not like I haven’t had a lot of spare time lately.”

Oh right. Eli. And again, it came back to him. I was starting to hate the guy, and I’d never even laid eyes on him. “Are any of these clothes his?”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “No.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping he might have left a shirt behind or something?”

“Why?”

“So I can wear it,” I told him. “Just something else he might notice. We want to get a reaction from him, right?”

“I guess,” he answered. Then he picked out a knitted vest, in the same argyle pattern as the sweater he was wearing, only it was blue and grey not blue and red. He held it up on the hanger. “He bought me this.”

“Even better,” I said with a smile. “Can I wear it?”

He blinked in surprise. “Okay.”

I held it up to my shirt. “Does it match?”

“Um, not really.”

He was right. It was a different shade of blue. I pulled a white long-sleeved, button-down shirt out by the hanger. “This’ll fit me.”

We were roughly the same height, but completely different builds. I was lean, he was solid, and from what I felt of his abs earlier, I’d say he was pretty damn fit. It was a shame he chose to cover it up with sweaters, no matter how cute they made him look.

I started to unbutton my shirt. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Well, I can’t wear your shirt over the top of mine.” I got the last button undone and shucked out of it. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay to have them dry cleaned.”

“It’s not that,” he said and cleared his throat. He tried not to look at me, but he seemed unable to help himself. I had no problems with him looking. “Your chest is bare.”

“Hey,” I said, deeply offended. “I have some chest hair.” I patted down the fine fuzz.

He laughed, but he was blushing so hard even his ears turned pink. “No, I mean you don’t have tattoos on your chest.”

“Nope. Sleeves only.” I looked down at my shoulders, where the ink stopped and bare skin started. “What? Does that surprise you?”

“Well, yeah. I just assumed you’d have them, well, everywhere.” He was still blushing, and trying not to ogle me, and trying not to smile.

“Nah, not yet. Maybe one day. They’re kind of addictive, but I like what I have so far.” I slipped on his shirt and started to do the buttons up. “If I found the right one, I probably would.”

He considered this, but didn’t say anything.

When I had the shirt on, I lifted both arms out. “This fits me pretty well, actually. You have good taste in clothes.”

He granted me a small smile. “Thanks.”

I started to roll up the sleeve, but stopped. “Sleeves up or down?” I asked. “Do you want him to see them or not?”

“It’s up to you,” he said.

“Well, no, it’s up to you actually. You said before he wouldn’t ever think you’d go out with a guy with tattoos, so I can leave them down. It’s no problem.”

His eyes met mine, and he shook his head. “Up. Don’t be someone you’re not.”

I scoffed out a laugh, though it was hardly funny. “Well, that’s exactly what I am. Actually, that’s what I get paid to be.”

He looked away, like the individual threads on his clothes were the most fascinating things ever. “Yeah, I guess.”

“But thank you,” I said. “For wanting me to be me.” He had no idea what those simple words could possibly mean to someone like me.

He gave me a tight smile, then he pulled his sweater off by the hem and hung it back up straight away. Then he undid his shirt, and without a word, he slipped it off. He raked through his clothes, not finding what he wanted, then he went for his folded shirts. He plucked out a grey one, but before he could put it on, I said, “Stop.”

He spun to look at me. “What?”

There I was, without one lick of shame, staring at his body. His very perfectly toned, perfectly defined chest and abs. “Fuck, Andrew.”

“Oh,” he said, and I almost groaned when his blush crept down his neck and over his chest. He fumbled with his shirt.

“Feel free not to wear that,” I offered. “Because, Jesus.”

“I told you I work out,” he said, pulling the shirt on regardless of my almost begging him not to.

“Yeah, but you didn’t say you were fucking hot.”

He totally laughed me off, disregarding every compliment I could give him. Andrew was such a mixed bag. He was shy and a little meek even, yet so forthright in other ways. I could usually pick a top or bottom, but he left me utterly confused.

“Okay, personal question time,” I announced.

He hung his head. “Oh, no.”

His reaction made me smile. “Remember, you can veto me at any time.”

“Sounds ominous,” he mumbled but looked at me expectantly. Waiting, dreading…

“Eli. Did you top him, or did he top you?” I really had no business knowing. Sure, it told me the relationship dynamics between them, but I’d never asked any other of my clients anything so personal. But with Andrew, I needed to know. I wanted to know what he was like in bed.

He was shocked at first—that much was clear—and his clothes were suddenly fascinating again. His brows furrowed for a moment, and I thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he shrugged. “Both. Though it was…”

Both. God, he just kept on getting better. “Though it was, what?”

“Infrequent.”

Infrequent? What the fucking hell was wrong with this Eli?  Something definitely didn’t add up with him. “I have serious concerns about Eli’s state of mind.”

He ignored my comment but stared right into my eyes. “Personal question,” he repeated. He took my hand and inspected the tattoos on my arm, more specifically, he traced his finger along the biggest of the four blackbirds, and my heart just about stopped. I wasn’t ready for this kind of personal. “What do these mean?”

I swallowed down the lump in my throat, not sure what to answer. Not sure I could. My tattoos, like most people’s, were reminders, badges of personal experiences. Yes, I might wear them on my skin for the world to see, but their meaning was a little too personal. In the end, I shook my head. My voice was just a whisper. “Veto.”