Rough Canvas

"Whenever we drive this route, we love to stop here," Mrs. Preston was saying. "I worry every year you won't be here. John says there are just no hardware stores like this anymore. Not like when he was growing up. I tell him you're even more than that.



You're like the general store on those old Michael Landon shows." Celeste gave Mrs. Preston the change for the bag of taffy she'd selected from the oak barrels of various candies in front of the register. "We're always glad to have you back, Mrs. Preston. Careful, now. I think Mr. Preston's wandered into the power tool section.



If he and Rory get together to debate those, you'll never make lunch at Rosa's Deli before the crowd gets there."



"Oh, goodness." Mrs. Preston chuckled and headed in that direction.



Celeste turned her attention to her oldest brother, who was checking an inventory list against the wrench section on aisle one. She'd gotten in last night for her semester break. This morning she'd had to mask her shock at the sight of him. He'd lost the few pounds he'd put on in New York and she was afraid he'd dropped even more.



She had no clue how much sleep he was getting, but she suspected it wasn't much.



He'd been working on those paintings every night, according to Rory. As she watched, her brow furrowing, he did that nervous habit he was doing more and more often, pressing two fingers to his side, as if he was holding something in. As if he was in pain.



When she'd mentioned her concerns to her mother, Elaine had kept her back to her, slicing scallops at the counter. "Christ had to suffer to find faith, Les," she said.



"Fasting, depriving himself of creature comforts. Your brother is in a crisis of faith. We have to help him."



But her voice had broken a little, and Celeste wondered who her mother was trying to convince. She was the youngest child and a girl, and therefore her opinion counted the least. It was something a younger sibling accepted for what it was, but Celeste was starting to get angry at all of them, Thomas included. But especially her mother and Rory.



She didn't know how to make them listen, but she wished she did. She'd head back to college in two weeks, and already the relief she felt about it made her most angry with herself. She knew Thomas needed them in some desperate way, and they were all failing him.



"I'm thinking of taking a semester off," she blurted out abruptly.



Thomas' head lifted. He pinned her with that oldest brother no-bullshit stare that always reminded her uncomfortably of Dad. She squared her shoulders. "You need the help around here."



"No, we don't. Not as much as you need to stay on track with your classes."



"Why does everybody get to have what they want, Thomas? Everybody but you?



Has Mom been spouting the whole Jesus thing so much you think you're supposed to be a martyr?"



Oh geez. Maybe she was more upset about this than she'd known, because she certainly hadn't meant to blurt that out too. Things had gotten quiet over in the power tool aisle.



Thomas looked startled. He closed his mouth, various expressions crossing his face.



"Rory isn't getting what he wants."



"If rolling around feeling sorry for himself and peeing in everyone's cornflakes is what he wants, I beg to differ. In spades."



"Les." He shook his head, ran a hand over his face that was so tired looking. Her brother was beautiful. There was no other way to say it. Growing up, her girlfriends had tried to see him naked in the shower on every sleepover. One or two had told her if he was their brother they'd think about committing a mortal sin. But now he looked so weary, and she was sick of it. "I want to paint. I'm painting now. That's what I want."



"I'm not talking about your painting and you know it." She knew she'd hit the nail on the head by the way his face shuttered closed, like a trap. She almost heard the bones being crushed by the metal jaws.



"We're not doing this, Les. That's none of your business."



"As much as it is for you to tell me I can or can't go back to school when the family needs me. I'm over eighteen. I can make my own choices. And maybe I think the family needs me to make some sacrifices. Maybe that will take away some of the things you're using to keep from doing what you really want to do. Because you're scared. We won't fall apart, Thomas."



"What are you talking about, Les?" Rory came rolling up, his eyes darting between both siblings. "You're scaring customers."



"I'm talking about how it's time for us both to get off our asses and do more.



Thomas shouldn't have to bear it all."



"Well I can't exactly get off my ass, sis," Rory snapped. "And I was trying to let Thomas have a life when this happened, and you were at school."



"Stop it." Thomas slammed the clipboard against his thigh, brought both their heads around. "Enough. Les, you're going back to school. Rory, maybe you should think about whether feeling sorry for yourself your entire life is a good career plan. I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. That's the end of it." He pivoted on his heel and strode back into the stockroom, leaving them both staring after him.



"You're not the boss of us." Rory attempted to regain the upper hand.



Thomas put his head back out, glared at him. "Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact. Deal with it. I have to make a grain delivery to the Worthington farm. I'll be back in an hour."



"Or two. The Widow Worthington," Les said.



The tension dissipated as Rory and she exchanged a conspiratorial look, siblings in perfect accord.



Thomas rolled his eyes as he took off the work apron and shrugged into a coat.



"Cut it out."



"Hasn't had a cow or horse on her place in ten years, but wants you to deliver five bags of grain every month. Just so she can see your cute butt in a pair of jeans. She loves the summer... He might just strip off the shirt if she buys a few extra bags." Rory made a suggestive gesture that had Les clapping her hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle.



"Sounds like the widow has good taste."



Thomas had heard the bells and assumed it was a customer. He was so jolted to see Marcus leaning against the display of concrete paver samples he almost felt lightheaded, wondering if he was dreaming. Oh hell, he wasn't going to faint. Neither Rory nor Marcus would let him live that one down.



Rory turned his chair, a scowl crossing his face. But Thomas had laid down the law.



Marcus was managing a good chunk of their potential income during the off months. If he called, he was to be treated with courtesy and respect. Thomas just hadn't expected him to show up.



"Decided I didn't trust a courier service. Wanted to look at them before they were wrapped for transport and take some snapshots for Hans, even though he's already sent me a check, sight unseen."



He could have asked Thomas to email the pictures. Marcus goddamned well knew that.



"Oh, that's marvelous." Les grinned hugely and spun on her heel, looking between Marcus and Thomas. "Someone buying them without even seeing them. Imagine that.



That's so amazing. Thomas, you've just got to be thrilled to your toes." He was, but for reasons that had nothing to do with his work, watching Marcus' attention caught by his sister's exuberance, a slight smile curving his mouth. The bottle wound was barely more than a faint line. He really didn't scar.



"There are people who have seen your brother's work and are willing to pay to stand in line for the next piece."



"As they should." Les sniffed, turning her pert nose in the air. "Just think, before long he'll be so important that he'll do just one piece every year and Donald Trump will bid a million dollars to hang it on the wall of his mansion. You'll become one of those...prima donnas?"



"Diva was what I was thinking," Rory sneered.



"Why don't you get it out of your system?" Marcus eyed him.



"What?" Rory demanded.



"The part where you call me some derogatory name, I call you a bitter cripple and we each feel vindicated."



Rory backed the chair and altered direction. "I would," he flung over his shoulder,



"but if Thomas is willing to be your bitch for a meal ticket, I can keep my mouth shut.



As long as you don't decide we all have to whore for you." Thomas stepped forward. He was going to knock him out of that chair, seize his brother in a headlock and pound him. The way he should have done a long time ago...



"Rory."



Rory wheeled his chair around just as Marcus hefted the fifty pound sack of grain at him. Celeste gasped, but the boy reflexively caught it in the air, even as it knocked his chair back a yard, into Thomas' quick hands to bring him to a halt.



Before anyone could say anything, Marcus nodded. "If you can lift that, catch it the way you just did, you can run this place as well as anyone. And the difference between you and your brother is you want to do it."



"I can't walk. I have to be able to load a truck."



"You have to be able to run a business. A high-school kid earning money for college can load a truck. If you were my brother and you'd just spouted out that bullshit, I would have wrestled you to the floor and sat on you until you screamed like a little girl." He lifted his gaze back to Thomas' troubled expression. "Of course, all you'd have to do is elbow him in the gut and you could break the lock. He's weak there."



"Son of a bitch." Rory thrust the sack off his lap. "You think I wouldn't do it if I could?"



"Yeah. That's exactly what I think." Marcus stepped forward until he was toe-to-toe with the boy. The green in his eyes was ice. "I knew this kid once. We called him Lassiter. He was in a wheelchair. Great scam artist, but not as a panhandler. He was a pickpocket. Got into a fight one night with two guys in an alley. They killed him in the end, but he beat the hell out of both of them first with nothing but guts and the slugger baseball bat he carried."



There were only a few feet and Rory between them, but he didn't look at Thomas.



Marcus wasn't being polite, he wasn't being sarcastic. He was holding all three of them riveted, the alpha male who'd had enough and was more than capable of snapping the pack back into line.



"The only thing that ever scared him was finding out there was something he couldn't do, so he damn well made sure there wasn't anything he couldn't. You've got it all here. He had nothing. So stop being such a little prick and prove to us you shouldn't have died under that tractor's wheels. Because if this is all you want to be, then that's what should have happened."



Marcus shifted his attention to Thomas, nodding to a speechless Les. "I'd like to see those paintings now."



* * * * *



They walked across the paddock, Kate plodding patiently behind them.



"You think I was too hard on him?" Marcus broke the silence first.



"No." Thomas shook his head. "I should be doing exactly what you just did."



"You know how to handle him, pet." Marcus gave him a glance. "It's all tied up with everything."



Thomas curled his hands loosely at his sides, feeling the sudden hard need to reach out and touch. The shed would be empty, could be locked from the inside. Despite himself, his step quickened. Marcus' heavy-lidded expression told him he knew exactly where his thoughts were going.



"Think scratching your itch is what I came down here to do?" The anger was immediate, given a shove by aching lust and loneliness that was underscored by Marcus' presence. "You didn't come to look at my paintings," Thomas retorted. "You could have done that in New York. So maybe you came down to scratch yours."



"Now why would I do that when I have all that fine ass available to me within walking distance of a Starbuck's?"



Thomas stiffened and Marcus raised a brow. "You're the one who thinks all I need is an excuse to move on to fairer game. I'm just reminding you of that."



"Stop it." Thomas came to a halt, his hands now clenched. "Whatever stupid, fucking, bored urbanite game you're playing, just stop it. I told you I love you, damn it."



"And what do I get with that, Thomas? What's the prize in that Cracker Jack box other than those three words?"



He couldn't match him on these grounds. Marcus was at his verbal best when he was pissed, whereas Thomas couldn't think of the right retort, could think of nothing but walking away before he smashed his fists into the offender's face.



"You're right," he said at last, quietly. He stared across the field, not at Marcus. "It's everything, but it's nothing. The nothing-everything I've got to give, that I only want to give to you and no one else. You're right."



Turning, he walked away toward the shed. He wanted Marcus to see the paintings.



He wanted to stand next to the rug where his Master had brought him to climax with just the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, the imagining of it.



But here they were, in the same old argument. Over and over and over again. God, he was sick of it.



He'd left the shed unlocked so if the courier came when he was on an errand, Les or Rory could let them in to pick up the paintings. He found the door standing open.



His mother was inside, using a Number Three broadstroke brush and a heavy-duty latex to cover the enormous canvas, his tree of life.



It took him a moment to process it, to comprehend that his mother, in her pantsuit and crisp white blouse, her hair sprinkled with paint, was doing what she was doing.



Her countenance was rigid, almost manic as she slapped up and down, fast, so thick the paint was running like curdled milk and dripping in glops on the concrete floor. She'd been at her garden club meeting, he remembered vaguely.



"Son of a - "



Adrenaline surged through him at the sound of the fury in that voice. It woke him out of the paralysis of shock. Thomas was quick enough to grab hold of Marcus, but Marcus elbowed him with pinpoint accuracy in the gut and stormed into the shed, slamming the door back so it hit the wall.



His mother spun around at the sound of Marcus' voice. Shock coursed over her expression, as well as apprehension as he advanced on her. Her son she knew would never harm her. What she faced at the moment Thomas knew was entirely different.



Because of that, he managed to straighten, stumble after Marcus. Since he felt like he'd been stabbed, it was no easy feat. Marcus knocked the brush out of her hand and herded her by the sheer energy of his anger away from the painting, putting himself between it and her.



Thomas' attention was darting around the room. Some of the anxiety eased as he saw none of the others had been harmed. Just that one, the masterpiece of them all, the most explicit and raw work he'd ever done. A couple of the canvases close by had been flecked, but he could fix that.



"That wasn't artwork." She clasped her hands in tight balls, and Thomas could see she was trying not to shake, even as she blurted out the words. She'd been crying while she was painting, her mascara blotching the shadows under her eyes that suggested she'd been having some sleepless nights of her own.



She was getting over her initial fright. Whatever great emotion had propelled her to this moment was now ready to engage in battle. Thomas could almost see her on a burro, drawing a stick as her weapon, while Marcus, fully armored, peered distastefully down at her from atop a warhorse. "It was...sodomy. Unnatural. Sinful, unclean. Like you."



Because Thomas loved his mother, he managed to propel himself, despite the sharp pain in his gut, between her and Marcus. Marcus' face briefly flashed with that level of violence he'd seen in the parking lot of the diner. The room was heavy with heat, and more than one demon. He felt them swirling around Marcus, saw them in the way his hands tightened into fists that could easily break his mother's face and limbs. Marcus looked at his mother as if he was looking at someone else, someone he had wanted to hurt that way.



"What -  What is he doing here?" Her voice was shrill.



"Claiming my property," Marcus snapped. Thomas had a moment to feel the shock of the double meaning before Marcus swept an arm in a gesture around him. "I've contracted for this work that you just deliberately vandalized. Which, if you weren't related to the artist and dependent on him for your wasted, narrow-minded life, I would take out of your bank accounts, your house. Every fucking thing you own."



"Don't you dare curse at - "



He stepped forward, his expression robbing her of the words. Thomas put up his hands to block him. Marcus didn't advance, just pressed against Thomas, his eyes leveled on his mother. Thomas felt the heat of Marcus' body as if he had emerged from hell in truth. "Don't you dare tell me what to do."



"Marcus." Thomas knew words wouldn't diffuse this, so he changed tactics. "Mom, you need to leave."



"I won't - "



"Now," he ordered. He glanced over his shoulder. "Now, Mom. Just... You need to leave."



A muscle twitched in her cheek, a spasm of nerves, her eyes suddenly bright with new tears of frustration. She was still shaking. Something hurt so badly in him he was afraid he was going to rupture. She looked frail, alone. And his paintings were arranged in the backdrop behind her, two choices of his life side by side, and the most important one pressed hard against him. In a way, he wished he could just close his eyes and make it all disappear, stop feeling at all.



She left. The door made a quiet thump, the wood hitting the latch and open padlock hung upon it. Thomas curled his fingers into Marcus' shirt, suddenly aware of how close together they were, Marcus' thigh pressed against him, his chest under Thomas' hands.



Closing his eyes, Thomas inhaled Marcus to try to make the moment into something different, knowing it was likely lost. But his body was aware of how temporary this moment could be, such that it could override almost any distraction to make the most of it.



Behind Marcus, the paint dripped off the canvas. Until now, Thomas had kept the door locked except when he was in here, to make this room about his art and everything inside him that drove it. But he hadn't barricaded it enough.



"Thomas."



"Don't. Just...don't." Thomas opened his eyes, turned his head so the brilliant green eyes were close, close enough to make him dizzy. "All the bullshit aside. Did you miss me?"



In answer, Marcus kissed him. Raw, angry, teeth scraping, his hands shoving Thomas' away to grab the front of his shirt and yank him harder against him. He pushed his thigh between Thomas' legs, backing him up to the counter, unleashing a brutal strength that didn't feel as if there was anything controlling it. Thomas knew he was a strong man, but he'd never gone full out hand to hand with Marcus.



Marcus hooked his hand in the back of Thomas' jeans, hauled him hard up against him, his thigh pressed in tight on his balls, making Thomas feel the steel length of him.



Then Marcus moved his hand to the front, opened Thomas' jeans and reached in, gripped him.



"Les...Rory..." Thomas managed to tear his mouth away and gasp. "They might come check..."



"Then you better let me fuck you with no arguments to slow us down," Marcus growled. He pulled at Thomas' shirt, simply tore it open and shoved him to the floor, making him stumble and fall, roll to his back. Marcus was down on him in an instant, his hand gripping Thomas' throat, holding him flat to the floor in an instant as his mouth and teeth closed over Thomas' nipple.



Thomas bucked, thrust against Marcus, but his knee firmly anchored him and Thomas couldn't dislodge him, even though he gave it his full strength, suddenly fueled by his own delayed reaction to the intensity of what had just almost happened here, what it all meant.



Marcus was terrifyingly invincible when he was furious. And Thomas wanted it so badly he could come from the power of that anger alone.



She'd destroyed it...but she couldn't destroy this, could she? He shoved it from his mind, the idea of Marcus being painted out of his life by slaps of thick white paint. He tried to rear up again and Marcus slammed him back down by that hold on his throat so Thomas could only latch onto his hip with one hand, clinging, pulling, digging in, seeking some sense he was in control.



Marcus worked him in the other hand now, his touch rough, sure, jerking him off with no intent but to prove he could bring it out of him whenever he chose.



"Marcus - " he had to gasp around the hold on his throat, but Marcus was relentless, releasing him only for a moment to pull him over, shove him back down on his stomach, yanking up his hips so Thomas had to scrabble for purchase on the throw rug before Marcus was jerking down his jeans, still fisting his cock, his mouth on his bare spine while Thomas shattered, unable to get a rhythm, unable to do anything but go along on the ride.



He savored every brutal touch, even as he knew this was being taken by force, no choices in truth. Marcus fully intended to fuck him whether he said no or not. His fury and violence had to go somewhere other that breaking his mother's neck, and apparently this was the channel for it.



Thomas welcomed it. Needed it.



Marcus plunged his fingers into his ass, working him with those clever fingertips.



Thomas spurted, shouting out hoarsely despite himself.



While he was still jetting milky fluid into the rug, Marcus rammed home deep, hard, ruthless. This wasn't making love, or having sex. Or even fucking. This was ripping Thomas' soul out of his body through his cock. It had all the vicious brutality of rape, every touch intended to punish, to prove Marcus had power over him. Yet, because they couldn't stop being themselves, all Thomas wanted was more. He tightened his ass muscles, moved back against Marcus and earned a snarl, but he kept doing it.



Marcus seized Thomas' hair and yanked his head, holding it at a savage angle, letting Thomas feel his strength, his ability to snap his spine, his life in his hands.



Thomas knew he could do anything to him. But that sword, like his life, could have two edges. He worked Marcus' cock inside him, squeezing, stroking as Marcus pumped.



Felt triumph when hot seed flooded him, going deep and then overflowing, leaking down his buttocks, his quivering thighs.



Silence brought disquieting thoughts, the smell of fresh paint. Thomas closed his eyes. Marcus sat up on his haunches and abruptly yanked Thomas up by the shoulders, collaring him. He held him back against his body, still embedded in his ass, making him face the painting.



"Is that what you want? Are you going to wait until she whitewashes your whole fucking life?"



Thomas stared at it. A part of the tree still remained, and behind the paint he saw faint traces of limbs, both of the tree and the bodies. As if knowing what the most painful and tempting part of the painting had been, his mother had painted the lovers entwined under the tree first, obliterated them entirely. He put his hand up to Marcus' on his throat, laid his fingers over his long ones.



Stroking the knuckles, Thomas stared at it some more. Moved up to Marcus' hair, the feathering at the forehead, feeling him, working backward in his awkward position down to where Thomas could grip the shoulder of Marcus' shirt and hold on, gripping tightly enough to strain the seams.



Marcus let out a sigh, pressed his lips to Thomas' throat. Bit hard, suckled the skin past the point of pain while Thomas stayed still, trembling. Marcus' hand slid over his pubic area, gently took his semi-erect cock and began to manipulate it, fondle it, making Thomas jerk at the hypersensitivity of its post-climactic state.



"Christ, you drive me crazy. Can you fix it?"



Thomas nodded. "I took photos of all of them," he said thickly, though he shuddered at the idea of another night like the one when he finished it. "Kept the sketches. I can recreate it. I'll just change the lock and make sure she can't get in. You can take the rest and I'll ship it up to you next week." Marcus nodded. "All right." He took a deep breath, his chest expanding against Thomas' back. "I'm not here just for that, pet. Get dressed. I bought a piece of property.



The Hill farm right down the road. I want you to go look at it with me."