Michael Finally Grows Up © 2006 by Rowan McBride. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without author's permission.

*****

"Left here."

Michael turned left at the next light. "Who is this person again?"

"Sheldon Ross," I said, staring out the window. Michael always drove. I didn't like to be behind the wheel--most of the time I just couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the road. "Take the next right."

"He's your friend?"

"Something like that."

"When did you two meet?"

It seemed so long ago, but if I remembered him, he sure as hell remembered me. "About a year after I moved to the city."

"You've known him since you were seventeen? You never mentioned him."

"Haven't talked to him in years," I murmured, staring at a neighborhood that was getting more and more familiar. I'd thought seeing the faded brick of the houses and apartment buildings, catching a trace scent of salt in the air, would touch something inside me. But there was nothing. Just a blank canvas.

Michael glanced my way, returned his attention to the road. "How'd you meet?"

"Was laid out and bleeding next to some club. Sheldon found me, patched me up."

He sucked in his breath. "What... What happened?"

I shrugged. "He took me to his place and stitched the wound closed. I think he was a medic in the army or something. Long time ago."

"Avery, that's not what I--"

"Hang a right here and find a place to park."

His mouth snapped shut and he turned, driving halfway down the block before parking. "Here all right?"

"Here's fine," I told him, getting out of the car.

Michael followed suit, locking the door and joining me on the sidewalk. "This doesn't look like the sort of place a high-class tailor would hang his hat," he said as he stared at the rundown buildings lining the street. Here, there were no trendy boutiques or overpriced cafes, just residences. A spot of graffiti here and there.

I thrust my hands into my pockets and started walking. "I know. He's such a freak."

"Do you even like this guy?" he asked, falling into step beside me.

Shrugging again, I climbed the stairs to one of the buildings. I rapped my knuckles against the door and strode inside. Nothing had changed. The toffee wallpaper was still peeling at the edges. The living room was clear except for the low standing pedestal in the middle and a couch against the wall to my right. A three paneled mirror stood in front of the pedestal. The only piece of real color was a splash of red on the wall above the couch--a small painting of roses in a pearl-gray vase. My mouth crooked.

He always did like his flowers.

Michael's voice dropped. "Are you sure it's all right to show up like this?"

"Old man!" I called, knowing he was probably in back. "You have a customer!"

A chair scraped the floor in the other room. "Avery?"

My muscles wanted to tense at the sound of that faint Russian accent. I reminded myself I wasn't a kid anymore. "Yeah."

Seeing him walk into the living room made my breath catch. Little older, little thinner. The salt and pepper hair had given way to pure, polished silver. More wrinkles than I remembered, but I supposed it had been almost ten years since I'd last seen him. "Hey, old man."

Ignoring Michael completely, Shel lifted a hand and cupped my face. Warm, leathery. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Can't say the same for you," I said, looking into blue eyes so pale they nearly matched his hair. I remembered--in the right light or when he was in the right mood--they used to dip into periwinkle.

He grinned, bringing out crow's feet that curved all the way to his cheeks. "Missed that fire," he said, letting his hand fall away from me. "To what do I owe a visit from such a renowned artist?"

"Clothes." I gestured to Michael. "For him."

Shel straightened, noticing Michael for the first time. "You have a new toy."

"First, he's not a toy." My brow furrowed. "And what do you mean, new?"

His gaze drifted back to me. "He doesn't look like the one who's always tagging after you in the photos."

"Photos?" A wicked grin shaped my mouth. "Been following my career?"

Rolling his eyes, he snapped his fingers at Michael and pointed to the pedestal. "You. Up."

Michael fell back a step and glanced down at me.

"You heard the man," I told him, a note of humor in my voice. "Up."

The panic faded from his face and he stepped onto the pedestal. Complete trust, like always.

"Obedient," commented Shel, folding his arms over his chest and looking him over. "What do you want for him, Avery?"

"Don't talk like he's not here. Ask him."

The old man shot me a look, holding my gaze a second, before returning his attention to Michael. "Sorry. What do you want?"

Michael swallowed. "I-I don't know."

Shel threw up his hands in disgust.

I laughed, and Michael stood a little straighter, started to smile.

"Fine," I said, shaking my head. "We're going to one of my shows together, and he wants to look fabulous, but he doesn't want anyone to know that he cares about looking fabulous. Is that right?"

Still smiling, he nodded.

"So I'm thinking blazer, slacks, shirt, maybe a really bright tie." I glanced at Shel. "Doable?"

"Should be," he murmured. "He's got an easy build. Let me take some measurements and I can get something to you by--"

"No good." I took Michael's hand, turned it over so I could look at his watch. "I need it in four hours."

"Four? Oh, no fucking way I can--"

"Bullshit," I said, cutting him off. Michael's hand jumped in mine, and I brushed my thumb against his skin. "This is me you're talking to, old man. I've seen you do red carpet ball gowns in three."

Shel's eyes narrowed as he stared at our linked hands. "Those were special circumstances."

Letting Michael go, I turned my head and flashed him my most charming smile. "I'll pay you triple."

He sighed and went into the other room. "I'll get my things."

When he was out of earshot, Michael bent over, caught my gaze. "Avery, who is this guy?"

"Believe it or not, probably one of the best designers in the city." I rolled my shoulders, trying to get used to the idea that I was going to be spending four hours here. "Crazy as fuck, though."

"That's not what I meant." He leaned closer, his nose brushing mine. "Who is he to you?"

Slipping my hands into my pockets, I walked away from him to stare at the painting above the couch. Flowers and fabric. They were the only things that ever had any color in this place. Well, that and--

"That's one of yours, isn't it?"

I turned, surprised. "How did you know? I've never painted flowers around you."

He hesitated, looking almost embarrassed. "I can just tell."

Because he knew me. Because he paid attention. "You violate just about every lawyer stereotype out there, Michael."

Blushing again. Seeing it made my chest squeeze tight.

"I lived with Shel for a couple of years," I said finally. "He gave me food, a roof over my head, all that good stuff."

Michael smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I broke his gaze. I'd never been ashamed of my past before, and hell, I'd done what I had to do, but Michael was so damned clean. It made me feel like shit just standing in front of him. "It wasn't a bad deal. More than my body was worth at the time, for sure."

Even though I wasn't looking at him, I could see him piecing it together. "You...traded sex for a home?"

"No." I stopped short, swore under my breath and met his gaze. "Well, sort of. I wouldn't have called this place home, though. Just a place."

Michael jumped down from the pedestal. "Let's go."

Shit, I knew he'd take this the wrong way. "Get back on that pedestal. If you really want to make a splash tonight at my show, Shel's the one who can make it happen."

"I don't care about that anymore," he snapped. "I'll wear one of the suits I got at the mall."

He was really angry, and I'd never seen him lose his temper like this before. "What's gotten in to you?" I asked, every painting I'd done in the last month flashing through my mind.

"What's gotten into me?" He stormed across the room, lowered his head. "What that sick," he shot a dark glance at the hall Shel had disappeared into, "man did to you was illegal, Avery."

Something twisted in my stomach as I stared at him. I couldn't tell if the feeling was caused by Michael's anger, or my own memories. "I was seventeen when I moved in," I told him, my voice level. "That's plenty legal in New York."

Michael closed his eyes, straightened, and blew out a hard breath. "I'm not talking about how old you were." He looked at me, shaking his head. "That guy didn't give you anything. He took your body as payment. He turned you into a whore."

I stiffened, everything inside me going cold. "Don't you ever talk about the old man like that again, you hear me?"

Shock swept the anger from Michael's face. "You're defending him? After what he--"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about." I spread my arms, not even sure why I wanted him to understand. "Look around you, Michael. Shel needs everything exactly in its place, every second of the day. He freaks if the cups in his kitchen cabinets aren't arranged by size and shape."

"I don't see what that has to do with--"

"When he took me in, he cleared out an entire room and let me fill it with art supplies. He looked the other way when I spilled paint on the floor, when I tracked it into other rooms as I tried to clean it up. It had to drive him nuts, but he never said a word." I moved closer, unflinching as I stared Michael down. "He was the first person in my life who made me feel like I meant something, and I paid him back with sex. So what? I did it, Michael. Not him."

His voice dropped. "You..."

"Yeah. I let him play whatever kink games he wanted with me, even if sometimes I wasn't into it." I tried to stop there, I tried to keep the next words from coming out of my mouth, but they came anyway. "But it's not like it would be the last time I'd play fucked up games in bed, right?"

The color drained from his face. "Avery."

God, I wish I hadn't said that. My life with him wasn't anything like the one I'd shared with Shel, he wasn't anything like Shel, but... but...

The old man was important, too. Even if he was an antique from a past I'd managed to forget.

"Just..." I looked away. "Just get back on the pedestal, Michael."

He stood there a few seconds, and I thought he might actually say no. Then he climbed onto the pedestal, and I released a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

If he'd said no... I don't know what I would have done. Or what I could have done.

Shel returned, carrying an armful of supplies. He stopped short when Michael narrowed his eyes, a sly grin curving his mouth as he looked at me. "You told him we used to fuck, didn't you?"

The man had no shame, and a faint grin of my own curved my mouth. "Yeah."

"But he's still on the pedestal," said Shel, putting his stuff on the floor and pulling out a measuring tape. "More obedient than you ever were."

Michael clenched a fist.

Shel didn't notice as he unrolled his tape. "Although truthfully I find the docile ones boring." He glanced over his shoulder at me. "You were a challenge every day you were here. That's what made you special."

The knuckles in Michael's fist turned white, and without thinking I ran forward and hopped onto that pedestal with him. "Michael and I aren't like that," I said softly, lifting my hand to caress his chest, stopping just sort of touching him. "Are we?"

His body shifted--I half expected a fist in my face--but his hand was open, his fingers gentle as they trailed over my cheek. "You're special for a lot of reasons, Avery," he whispered.

I exhaled a subtle sigh of relief. "And you're not boring."

"I'm not?" His face softened into a smile. "Really?"

Part of me had leapt onto this pedestal to protect Shel, to take whatever violence was coming his way. It was some god-awful instinct I'd picked up as a kid. But now, looking into Michael's big brown eyes, I thought that this felt right too. "Really."

His smile pulled wider as he lowered his head.

Shel cleared his throat.

"Right," I said, hopping down to the floor. "Do your thing, old man."

Shel stared at me a long moment before settling into the task of taking Michael's measurements. I watched them for a while, Michael standing stiff and none-to-happy about being touched by the old man, and Shel content to work in complete silence.

This was going to be a fun four hours.

My cellphone rang, and I tried not to look too excited as I answered it. "This is Avery Scott."

"Mr. Scott? This is Mario Daly, from the gallery?"

Mario. He was the one who always picked up my paintings, but every time he called he sounded like he was afraid I wouldn't remember who he was. "Yeah, what's up?"

"There's been a little problem--"

"Are my paintings okay?" I frowned, moving away from Michael and Shel.

"Th-They're fine, Mr. Scott. But we've... We seemed to have misplaced your instructions on how to display them."

"You're telling me this now?" I asked, opening the door to slip outside. "Less than four hours before the show?"

"I'm sorry. Everything was nearly in place when the instructions were lost. Some of our staff tried to complete things from memory, but ended up moving most of the pieces in doing so."

I leaned back against a railing that lined Shel's porch, thinking about all those hideous paintings. "Doesn't matter. Throw them up anywhere."

The other man's shock came through loud and clear. "M-Mr. Scott, I--"

"Avery."

"Avery." He swallowed hard. "You're usually so specific about the placement of your art. Everyone here's saying this is some of the best work you've ever done. Are you sure you want to trust us with it this way?"

My best work? That darkness smeared with red and cut with silver? "I'm telling you, it doesn't mat..." The sentence trailed, and all at once every one of those canvasses flashed through my mind's eye. I saw each of them clearly, and how they worked as part of a greater collection. "Shit, you're right. Got a pen?"

"I have one right here," said Mario, sounding relieved. "Fire away."

"Paintings one, three, nine, twelve, and fourteen need to be hung dead center on the north wall. One and nine on top, three in the middle, twelve and fourteen on the bottom. Got that?"

A long pause before answering, so he seemed serious about writing it down. "Twelve and fourteen on the bottom. Got it."

"Four, six, eight, and eleven on the east wall, in that order, in a straight line. Two, five, fifteen, and ten mirror them on the opposite wall." I frowned, picturing it in my head. "Wait. Switch ten and two."

This time I could actually hear scribbling on the other end of the line. "Sure thing, Avery. What about the last three?"

"Give them each their own stands in the center of the room, with 'Please' facing south. The edges of thirteen and seven should line up with it and with each other, forming a triad. Understand?"

"Yeah," said Mario, his voice soft. "I see what you're doing here." Then, as if remembering I was still on the phone with him, he perked up. "I'll personally make sure everything's done to your specifications, Avery."

"Good. See you in a few hours."

Mario caught me just before I hung up. "Mr. Scott?"

Back to 'Mr. Scott' so soon? He must have more bad news for me. "Yes?"

"I was wondering... Why does only one of your works in this show have a name? I've never known you to number your art before."

Because, in my mind, they were all named 'Please.' But I knew better than to share that piece of information. "Just the way it worked out. Thanks for your help, Mario." Without waiting for him to respond, I hit the end button and shoved the phone into my pocket. Leaning back, I let myself take a long, deep breath.

I figured the mall would be the worst part of my day. Then I found myself in Brighton Beach, asking an old lover for a suit I wouldn't even wear. In around four hours I'd have to stare at sixteen paintings I couldn't wait to get out of my home while making conversation with people I'd never let into it.

Fuck. This was turning out to be an ass suck of a day.

Patting my pockets, I realized I didn't have any cigarettes on me.

Perfect.

Sighing, I walked back into Shel's place. "Hey, old man. Got anything to drink?"

He made a notation in a small notebook. "You still like them sweet?"

No, I'd grown out of that years ago. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"There's some Kahlua in the usual cupboard," he said without looking at me. "Cream in the fridge."

Kahlua and cream. The memory made me straighten. "No shit?"

"Your favorite once upon a time, no?"

Michael scowled. "He was out of here before he was twenty-one, wasn't he? Giving alcohol to a minor is--"

I shot him a dark look and he snapped his mouth shut. When I was reasonably sure he wouldn't cause a scene, I left for the kitchen. Kahlua was where I remembered, and I grinned as I stared down at the bottle.

Michael was right. Shel shouldn't have been giving this shit to a kid. But at seventeen I'd already been exposed to much harder stuff, and at the time a little candy flavored liquor seemed like kindness.

Shaking my head, I grabbed a glass from another cabinet and the carton of cream from the fridge. Even though it had been years, mixing the drink was easy and I filled the cup, drained it, and filled it again. The cold of the cream got me first, snaking through my core as I tilted my head back. Then the warmth of the Kahlua, branching out and caressing my body. The heat calmed me, made me smile.

Okay, I wasn't exactly having fun today, but I'd had worse. I could handle this.

I returned the cream to the fridge, the Kahlua to its shelf in the cabinet. Wash the cup, dry the cup, put the cup in its place. Squeeze all the water from the sponge. Wipe down the sink with a paper towel and toss the towel into the trash. Funny how easy all that came back to me.

After giving myself a good stretch, I went into the living room to see how things were progressing. I frowned when I saw Shel holding a book of fabric swatches up to Michael, trying to convince him into choosing bright orange wool for his suit.

"You want to stand out?" asked Shel, tapping the swatch with his finger. "Trust me, this is the one for you."

"I don't know..." said Michael, staring down at the book.

Michael obviously wasn't sold on the idea, but I'd told him that Shel was the best, so he was doubting his own instincts.

"Shel," I said, drawing both their attention. "What are you doing?"

The old man grinned. "Did you clean up?"

"You'd never know I was in your precious kitchen." I grabbed hold of the fabric book. "What the hell is this?"

Shel's smile faded. "I'm making your...boy a suit."

Walking down memory lane, I'd forgotten he could be a vindictive son of a bitch. Fashionistas loved him because Shel was notorious for deliberately getting his clients onto the Worst Dressed lists if they didn't have a strong sense of self. He was a best kept secret, but a dirty one, as well.

I glanced up at Michael, who trusted me. Shel had saved my life once, had put a roof over my head when I had no place to go. But Michael saved me every day, and made our place a home.

If I had to choose, it was no contest.

"Quit screwing around, old man."

"What?" Shel asked innocently. "I'm only trying to help."

Turning my head, I looked into those pale eyes. "I get that you're jealous--I was your favorite fucktoy and I show up after all these years not looking at you the way I used to." I leaned up, spoke into his ear. "But if Michael looks anything less than stunning at my show tonight, then you will be blacklisted by everyone who remotely matters. You do know I can do that now, don't you?"

Shel sucked in his breath.

My mouth crooked. "No more pretty people to dress as you see fit. No more beautiful men and women praising your talent, begging at the altar of you. You'll just be another old man in Brighton Beach."

"You can't--"

"The type of people you like to...service tend to forgive you for behaving badly, I know." I breathed warm air into his ear. "But if they have to choose between your art and mine, they'll pick mine. I guarantee it."

He straightened, his eyes wide and hurt, their irises more blue than gray now. "Avery."

"I brought him to you because you're the best. Don't prove me wrong." I settled back onto my feet. "Please."

I don't know why I said please. Usually I just would've let the threat do its job. Maybe my show was getting to me more than I'd thought.

But that, more than anything, seemed to do the trick. Shel lifted his hand, skimmed his weathered knuckles over my cheek. "All right."

"Good." I handed Shel his book of fabric. "I'm going to crash on your couch for a while."

Both Michael and Shel looked at me in surprise. "You're going to sleep?" they asked in unison.

Great. Now I had two mother hens who watched my every move. "No," I muttered, walking to the other end of the room and flopping down onto the couch. "I'm the one with the show in a few hours, so I'm going to stare at the ceiling for a while and try to relax. Either of you have a problem with that?"

"Sorry, Avery," said Michael, in that voice that always made me feel like I'd kicked a puppy.

"Help yourself to some candy in the kitchen," said Shel, in that dirty old man voice that always made me feel, well, dirty.

I draped an arm over my eyes, already regretting how I'd let my past and present collide this way. "Fuck you both."

Shel chuckled; Michael didn't say anything. In the relative quiet, I tried not to slip into a dark abyss dripping in crimson, flickering with silver.

It didn't work so well.