On the Steamy Side (22 page)

Sitting in Chapel, faffing about and making nice with Wonderful Wes was enough to make Frankie’s hair stand on end. Even more than usual. Definitely the sort of evening that made Frankie long for the halcyon days of his misspent youth, when he’d spent every night off his tits and carefree as a lark.

Bloody rehab. Bloody recovery.

Jess, burdened down with Frankie’s bass case, leaned wearily into him and said, “Need help?”

“I can do it,” Frankie ground out. One last desperate jiggle and the tumblers cranked over. Thank Christ.

They climbed the private back staircase up to the Garret, Frankie brooding the whole time on the many ways Jess and Wes matched up.

Same age. Same drive to succeed, same need to prove themselves. Jess and Wes, he thought with a mental sneer. How sickeningly twee, even their bloody names rhymed.

Conversation, what little they’d managed in the din of the bar, had centered around Jess’s photography club and Wes’s plans for after he graduated from the ACA. No one inquired after Frankie’s future plans, which was a damn good thing since he didn’t have any.

Well, none that went beyond getting Jess inside and out of his clothes as quickly as humanly possible.

Bollocks to that, appeared to be Jess’s feeling on the subject of speed nudity. Frankie watched, saddened but unsurprised, as Jess carefully arranged his precious cargo on the guitar stand in the corner before straightening and regarding Frankie with crossed arms and narrowed eyes.

Which was universal body language for “You’ll not be getting into my knickers tonight,” Frankie had always found.

With a sigh, Frankie kicked off his shoes and padded to the front hall closet. When he opened the door to sling them in, he remembered he’d stashed the new lime-green pillows in that closet. There they were, piled together on the floor, taunting him. They looked cheap and thin now, somehow, the cloth worn threadbare in spots.

“We need to talk,” Jess said from behind him.

Frankie winced and shut the closet door.

“I saw that,” Jess warned darkly. “And I know you hate RDTs, but we’ve put this one off long enough.”

“RDT” was Jess–speak for “relationship-defining talk.” “Aw, Bit, must we break our streak? We’ve gone so long without one, we ought to be well on our way to a world record.” Jess’s mouth twisted in that way that meant he was trying not to smile. “I’m immune to your wheedling ways, Frankie. At least for the next hour or so.”

“The next hour,” Frankie repeated, aghast. “Don’t say that, luv. Fifteen minutes, there’s a lad.”

“Frankie,” Jess said, lips thin and eyes flashing. “We’re having this talk whether you like it or not. Now nut up and take it like a man.”

“Fuck me,” Frankie said. “That’s impressive, Bit. And more than a little sexy.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but even though he caught a flicker of heat in Jess’s gaze, the boy remained firm.

Unfortunately, so did Frankie.

He cleared his throat. “Are there rules that say we have to stand here all blokey and awkward? Or can we maybe make a nest and burrow in for the duration?”

“The bylaws clearly state that snuggling is acceptable.” Jess kicked off his shoes, hesitated, then drew his T-shirt off over his head, too. Blue eyes dark and soft, he sank down into the closest mound of pillows, a lithe pale form amid the deep jewel-toned velvets and silks.

As ever, the sight brought the scratch of something hard and painful to Frankie’s throat. “Come lie with me and be my love,” he quoted softly and followed Jess down to the floor.

The slow-motion wrestle to find the perfect position curled around each other was familiar and comforting. Once they were settled, Frankie tensed up again, but despite his threats, Jess was silent for long minutes.

Long enough to lull Frankie into a nearly comatose state of contentment, reclined on the decadent, softness-strewn floor of his tiny, cramped pasha’s tent of a home, with the world’s warmest, funniest, most delightful man at his side. Jess’s head was on Frankie’s right shoulder, Frankie’s right arm wound round Jess’s naked back, their legs tangled inextricably.

Heaven.

When Jess spoke, his voice was so low and sweet it didn’t break the spell but instead strengthened it.

Frankie floated, finally achieving the peace his music hadn’t afforded him earlier that night.

“I love you, Frankie Boyd. You know I do. You knew it from the first moment I set eyes on you in the kitchen at Market.”

“Mmm,” Frankie agreed, nuzzling the fragrant, silky hair so close to his face. “You were delicious, Bit, all nervy and shy.”

“But I couldn’t stay away, no matter how shy I was, or how many times I told myself you’d never be interested in someone like me.”

Frankie made a protesting noise, and Jess amended, “Or at least, not interested for longer than a single night.”

Buggering hell, was Jess ever turned around on that one. Frankie roused himself to say, “That’s not entirely the way I remember it.”

There was a pause. Then Jess’s voice, cautious. “Frankie. Even after we got together that first time, you didn’t let me spend the night here until my sister caught us making out and wigged over the whole gay thing.”

Miranda had indeed wigged, although again, Frankie remembered the event a little differently: i.e., that Big Sis was less upset about the gay thing than she had been about Jess being with Frankie—older, wilder, nasty rep . . . in short, a bad, bad man.

“You were living with her,” Frankie pointed out. “If you’d stayed over, you would’ve had to deal with being catapulted out of the closet that much sooner.”

“True. But I don’t think that’s why you used to kiss me good night and send me back uptown.” Frankie fought not to stiffen, knowing that in their current position, Jess couldn’t help but read and interpret every minute physical shift.

The conversation was skating disconcertingly close to one of the fault lines that ran jagged through Frankie’s messed-up psyche. He had no interest in spelunking into the depths tonight.

Or ever, really.

“Is this actually what you wanted to talk about? Seems a bit like ancient history to me. After all, you’re living here with me now, all snug and cozy, no late-night cab rides back to Big Sister’s place.”

“Maybe it’s a tangent, maybe not,” Jess said. Christ, Frankie hated it when he got cryptic. Bloody Americans, brought up on Yoda. “I wanted to talk about what happened after the show tonight, when we hung out with Wes.”

Bugger. No power on earth was going to keep Frankie from tensing up in an obvious and easily detectable way at the mention of Wonder Wes. In the Garret, no less! In their nest!

Frankie did not like it.

Abruptly needing to be not quite so well cuddled, Frankie rolled away from Jess and got to his feet. He camouflaged the strategic retreat with a hunt for the pack of Dunhill’s wedged into his back pocket.

Frankie lit up and took a deep, bracing drag before saying, “Yeah? What about it?” Jess hadn’t moved, apparently unfazed by Frankie’s defection from the nest. “You were charming. You made us laugh. Wes thinks you’re the king of awesome.”

“So where’s the bad?” He didn’t mean to come over all truculent, but there it was.

Jess leveled him with a look. “You hated every second of it. What I want to know is why.” The Bit was going to keep pushing, Frankie could see that. “Wes is a wanker. Stuck-up little tosspot thinks he knows better than everyone in the kitchen.” He paused, weighed his words, and decided fuck it. “An’ I don’t fancy the way he looks at you.”

That brought Jess up onto his elbows, eyes flashing. “I thought it was going to be some load of crap like that.”

“Crap?” Frankie was honestly offended. Here he was, sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings, and Jess called it shite? He stuffed down the voice that reminded him he was absolutely skimming over the real issue.

“Yes, crap,” Jess retorted. “First of all, anyone who’s seen the way I look at you knows I can’t see anyone but you. And secondly, Wes is completely hung up on this chemistry professor of his back at the Academy. Who happens to be a woman, thank you very much. And anyway, jealousy over Wes is not what’s got you so ticked.”

Frankie pulled a mouthful of burning smoke into his lungs and held it there until his eyes watered. “Tell me, then, if you’re so clever. What am I on about?”

Jess appeared to make an effort to collect himself. “I don’t know. That’s what this conversation is about.” He smiled, but it was more of a grimacing twist of his lips. “You’ll be happy to hear you’re as much of an enigma to me as ever. Being in love with you hasn’t suddenly rendered me capable of peering directly into your head to see what’s going on.”

That actually was quite comforting. “So you admit you can’t tell for sure. Because I am jealous, Bit.

Chartreuse with it. Fucking Wes.”

“Oh, I believe you don’t like Wes,” Jess said. “I also believe there’s more going on here than only that.

Because I refuse to believe that after everything we’ve been through—everything I went through just to be with you—that you wouldn’t trust me.”

Direct hit. Game over, and Frankie knew it. When Jess’s voice got small and quiet like that, Frankie’s battleship was good and sunk because it meant he’d succeeded in actually hurting Jess.

Unacceptable.

Stubbing out the cig in the chipped china plate reserved for that purpose, Frankie tugged his shirt off and dove back into the nest on top of Jess. He wanted to be skin to skin, needed the connection like never before.

“I do trust you, Bit. It’s him I don’t trust.”

It’s me I don’t trust.

Generous soul that he was, Jess immediately took Frankie’s weight and melted warmly into him, arms and heart open in the way that made Frankie desperate to shield Jess from the harsh realities of the world.

But his Jess was no fragile flower in need of protection. “It’s still crap,” Jess said, crooned, really, into Frankie’s ear. Frankie shivered, not sure if it was a reaction to Jess’s heated breath on his temple or the fact that Jess knew him so well. “But it’s okay. You’re not ready to talk about it yet. I get it. But Frankie?”

“Yeah, luv?” Hoarse, damn it, he sounded like he’d smoked the whole blasted pack of cigs instead of half of one.

Jess got one hand on Frankie’s chin and turned his face so they were forehead to forehead, close enough that Frankie could only focus on one bright blue orb without going cross-eyed.

“You should know. I’m not going to let you keep me at arms’ length forever,” Jess said.

The calm promise in his voice sent another shudder through Frankie, that old, familiar mixture of dizzy elation at how much Jess loved him—and terror at the thought of how much that love could cost them both.

Anticipation warred with amusement in Lilah’s mind. Devon, it transpired, was a particularly affable drunk—cuddly without being handsy, chatty without babbling incessantly.

Although that might be because he wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as Christian had made out. Either that or the drive uptown was sobering him up, because there were moments when Lilah could clearly see lucidity in Devon’s hooded gaze.

Hence the anticipation. Because something was happening between them, building with every brush of hand on arm and every shared glance.

Lilah shifted on the smooth leather seat and caught Paolo’s eye in the rearview mirror. She’d asked him to drop her at Chapel and go on home, intending to take a cab back to Devon’s, but Paolo refused to hear of it. He’d told her in no uncertain terms that his standing orders were to drive her where she needed to go and wait for her, so wait he would. Lilah had to admit she was glad of it; when she and Devon had reeled out of the bar and up to the car, it had been nice to have help maneuvering Devon into the backseat without bashing him in the head or rolling him in the gutter.

Now, though, Paolo was a constant, silent presence in the front of the car while Devon lolled indolently across the spacious backseat, taking up a considerable amount of room. Lilah couldn’t quite pretend, even to herself, that she minded the way he listed against her, his hard, sculpted body a solid line of warm muscle sliding against her.

Devon tipped his head back to rest on the seat, his eyes closed. Lilah studied his profile in the light of the passing traffic. He looked peaceful, more serene than he ever seemed when his eyes were open and shooting bolts of energy and charisma every which way. And the lines of his face . . . sweet, fancy Moses.

One of the first things Lilah had done when she moved to Manhattan was to shell out for membership at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The place was too big, too comprehensive, to ever be truly seen and appreciated in a single visit.

With that member card in her hot little hand, Lilah felt free to wander one hall at a time, spend half an hour gazing at Tiffany glass or medieval tapestries and leave the rest for another day.

Looking at Devon in repose now, all Lilah could think about were the marble statues in the Greek and Roman hallway. He embodied the classical ideal of male perfection in a way that was truly unfair, and more than a little intimidating.

Lilah traced with her eyes the broad, straight forehead, the sloping nose, the strong chin, the high cheekbones. He could almost be too handsome, verging on the beautiful androgyny favored by the Greek masters, but there was a sharpness to the lines of his face that rendered them indisputably masculine.

And then there was his mouth.

Hellfire and damnation, but Devon Sparks had a mouth shaped to tempt a woman to sin.

Lilah reached a stealthy hand to the rear-controlled air vents. Surely there was a higher setting they could be on.

In a display of the sort of awareness of his surroundings that made Lilah think Devon was sobering right up, he opened his eyes at the exact moment she started fumbling with the A/C.

“Feeling a tad overheated?” he said in a lazy, bourbon-soaked voice. His eyes, though, were intent and hot as a touch on her skin.

Lilah snatched her hand back from the vent. “I’m fine. How much longer till we get home?” Devon’s eyes darkened to molten silver, something like satisfaction flickering through his expression, but all he said was, “I think we’re almost there. Right, Paolo?”