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.

*****

We walked into the Levesque Gallery and everyone inside turned their gazes in our direction. Some of the conversation died down, while the rest of the tone...shifted. Talking about me, obviously. I paused just inside the entryway, letting them get their fill. Even though I played my own rules to this game, after all these years promoting myself had become boring as fuck.

How older artists still managed to come out to play was beyond me. Made of stronger stuff, I guess.

Ignoring the stares, I looked around, at my paintings. Black squares against startling white. A long line of jagged silver cut through the darkness I had created, seemed to leap from wall to wall. It caught the eye, then drew the attention to warm, dripping crimson. The way I'd organized them made it all seem like one huge, gruesome vision, but that hadn't been the plan when the first or fifth or final piece was done.

My hand slid into my pocket as my eyes dipped to the trio of paintings in the center of the room. I'd done this. I was responsible.

Shit.

Michael slipped himself behind my body and I turned my head. "What are you doing?" I asked softly.

"N-Nothing."

I blew out a slow breath. "You're hiding, as usual, which is ridiculous because you are not only taller than me now and impossible to hide, you are wearing a suit that you made me buy designed to make sure you are seen." I returned my attention to the center of the room. "Get your ass next to me and don't make me regret dropping thirty grand on you today."

He snapped to attention and rushed to my side, his voice an urgent whisper. "This suit cost thirty thousand dollars?"

My mouth crooked. "Shel's standard fee for a man's suit is ten thousand, and I did offer him triple his standard. Of course, I was asleep most of the time he was working on it so who knows what else he did. I might even owe him more."

"Avery..." Michael shook his head. "I'll pay--"

"Don't worry about it." I looked him over, noted wryly that he was a much better sight than the paintings hanging on the walls, and gave this win to Shel. "It's worth it."

He stared down at me a long moment before straightening, squaring his shoulders. "I'll..."

"Mr. Scott, we're glad to have you back at the Levesque Gallery."

I grinned at the man approaching us. "Avery."

Mario stopped short, then returned my grin. "Avery," he said, handing me a glass.

I took it and held it to my nose, catching a touch of oak. "Scotch?"

"Very good bourbon. I think you'll enjoy it."

Trusting him, I took a sip. Hot, smooth, a trace of sweet. "Nice. I believe I have a new favorite drink."

"I'm glad--and I'll have a bottle sent to your loft tomorrow." He raised the glass in his other hand. "I also have a Sprite for..." His gaze hit Michael and, for the first time since I'd known him, Mario looked honestly thrown off balance. "I apologize," he lowered his head toward mine and softened his voice. "I hadn't realized you weren't bringing Mr. Doherty tonight."

My brow furrowed and I gestured to Michael with my glass. "This is 'Mr. Doherty.'" Shel hadn't recognized him, either. Did he really look that different?

Surprise flickered over Mario's face as he straightened, stared at Michael.

Michael shifted from one foot to the other. "Hi, Mr. Daly."

It was probably that awkwardness, more than anything, that convinced Mario that I wasn't yanking his chain. "Hello, Mr. Doherty." He handed Michael the soda. "Have you been...working out?"

His mouth opened, shut, opened, shut. Christ, he didn't have an answer for that question? What did he tell the people at his law firm?

"Yes, Mario," I said, my voice resigned. "He's been working out. Among other things."

Mario's eyebrows lifted. "Really? Well, it looks very good on you, Mr. Doherty, whatever you're doing."

"Thanks," he said, smoothing a hand down the front of his suit.

"Now," Mario moved closer to me, "I'm afraid I'll have to take Avery away for a bit. You know the routine."

The smile on Michael's mouth was polite, forced. He hated to be alone but it was, after all, the routine. Neither of us had much choice about being separated. "Right."

I followed Mario's lead and headed deeper into the gallery, glancing once over my shoulder. "No hiding."

His smile warmed. "I won't. Promise."

Leaving it at that, I focused my attention on Mario. "Any interest in my pieces tonight?"

"You have no idea. Individually, each of these works is," he looked around at the walls, "amazing, but the way you've grouped them has got buyers fighting to buy them in sets. Some are even trying to purchase the entire collection. The whole time I've worked at Levesque, I've never seen anything like it."

Fucking. Hell. I had no idea the sickness inside of me would reach inside and dredge up the sickness in so many other people. "I was thinking of going back to painting landscapes, still-lifes. Those sorts of things for a while."

"I'd worry about you less if you did."

Surprised, I glanced up at him.

"Don't get me wrong. This stuff is," he raised a hand, "brilliant. But it's the polar opposite of your Gold Period and there is so, so much pain." Mario paused, his dark eyes steady as he looked into mine. "Are you all right, Avery?"

My breath caught for the barest of moments. I was used to Mario playing the part of efficient curator, executive assistant, calm mediator. I wasn't used to him looking at me like we were friends. "I'm fine. This phase has already ended."

"Has it? I've never known a faucet like this," his gaze flicked to the paintings in the center of the room, "to turn off easily."

"I'm done," I assured him, my voice firm. I closed my eyes and took a deep drink of bourbon. "Well, except for the one I did today. But that's the last if it kills me."

Mario watched me for a few more seconds before breaking into a grin and slipping back into curator mode. "First, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Deniaud, who's flown in from Paris just to catch this showing. Then we should speak with Mr. Thomas, whom you've met several times yet always seem to manage to forget his face."

I bit back a chuckle. "I'm an asshole."

"That's part of your charm."

God, Mario made these things so much easier. Already I felt more relaxed than I had all day. "Okay, let's get this over with."

"That's the spirit." He called out to a tall woman wearing a figure skimming red dress that matched her wide-brimmed hat. "Mrs. Deniaud! This is Avery Scott. The artist."

The artist. The rockstar. Same thing, really.

My mouth crooked as I held out my hand.

The woman, wrapped in an air of elegance and a sultry French accent, slipped her fingers against mine. "Bonjour."

I let my gaze dip pointedly to the color warming the skin at her neck, her cheeks, before looking into her eyes again. "Pleasure to meet you." She had to be ten years older than me, and there was no mistaking that she was a woman of pleasure and experience. Plus if Mario was introducing me to her, it meant she had to be filthy rich. Yet just touching my hand was making her blush.

Yeah. I was sexy.

We talked for a while; I made a few risqué, sinful little jokes that made her blush even deeper, and then Mario skillfully swept me away to speak with Brandt Thomas. As always, for the life of me I couldn't remember the guy's face, but he only laughed at my blank expression and told me some vaguely familiar story that I'd probably heard every other time we'd met. I swear, the guy liked the fact that I was a bastard. Not that I was complaining. Half the people I knew liked that about me.

Pausing, I scanned the room for Michael. He wasn't huddled in a corner or pressed up against the wall. He stood near the central group of paintings, and he had a small crowd of his own around him. Talking, smiling. Even though traces of awkwardness still clung to him, he definitely looked like he was enjoying the attention.

That made sense. Everyone enjoyed attention. And he looked good right then, all lit up from the inside. It made me wonder what he might be talking about.

Mario placed a light hand between my shoulder blades. "Avery, I'd like you to meet..."

And then I was shaking hands with someone new.

Introductions lasted another half hour. After that Mario left me alone with the gallery patrons to attend his other curator duties. I spoke with them, let them lavish me with compliments on these works and older ones that weren't on display. Sometimes they'd ask me questions.

"Where do you get your inspiration?" was the most common.

"Hell if I know," was the answer I usually used. They'd laugh; I'd smirk and take a drink from my glass.

Michael had been so worried about impressing them, but... they were always the same. Every show. Every party. I had to play because they were my bread and butter, but I didn't understand why he wanted in. Our loft was much more stimulating.

God. Wasn't this over yet?

I glanced at Michael. He didn't seem to see what I saw, and it looked like he was having fun. With the way I'd been treating him, he deserved a good time. Although it was strange to watch him focus on anyone but me.

One of the men next to him reached up and patted his upper arm. Michael stopped short, grinned as he nodded at something the guy said. Then he raised his hand and flexed for him, pulling the material of his suit jacket taut around his biceps.

I lifted an eyebrow.

"Mr. Scott."

Reluctantly I turned to look at someone I would never, ever let call me Avery. "Yeah, Clay?"

He cleared his throat, smoothing a manicured hand down his perfectly knotted tie before briefly touching his fingers to his dark, meticulously styled hair. "It's Clayton, Mr. Scott. Clayton Levesque."

Man, he was easy to rile. "Yeah."

A muscle ticked at his jaw. "One would think you'd have more respect, considering that this gallery is in large part responsible for your fame and...comfortable lifestyle."

I had to laugh at that. "Come on," I said, grinning as I placed my empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. "Don't you think you have that backwards?"

For a second, the tic at his jaw was joined by a throbbing vein in the center of his forehead. Then he exhaled, and everything went calm. Shame. This was part of the routine, too, and I could never push him beyond that point.

"Mr. Scott," he said, his voice level, "due to our mutually beneficial business arrangement, I would like to invite you to hold another," he looked around at my paintings, his appraisal casual and disinterested, "Cauchemar Incontournable showing at Levesque."

"Cauchemar Incontournable?" My French was limited to hello, goodbye, and let's fuck. "What does that mean?"

His cool eyes drifted to mine. "Inescapable Nightmare."

The blood in my veins went cold. "Why the hell would you call it that?"

"Not me, Mr. Scott. It is what the patrons and the press have dubbed this phase of yours."

Inescapable Nightmare? No, that wasn't right. I wasn't... I wasn't trapped. I turned my head, my gaze resting on a painting in the center of the room, before sliding down to the small plaque beneath it.

Something cracked inside of me.

Clayton kept talking, and I tried to focus on his words--anything to get away from...from this.

"Levesque didn't host your Gold Period, so I'm not privy to exactly how much money you were able to draw in from that, but what's happening tonight is quite," he gave me a faint nod, "extraordinary. If you're able to create more of these, I believe a second collection would be even more popular than the first."

The thought of what I'd have to go through to create a second collection sent nausea roiling into my stomach. The past weeks had been the worst I'd lived in years and I needed it over. "Actually, I only have one more painting from this phase, and I'm seriously considering setting it on fire."

Clayton smiled. Cool. Collected. "Ever the temperamental artist."

"It's worked for me so far."

"It won't work for you forever. You should consider the business side of things more often."

I wouldn't even be here if I didn't consider the 'business side of things.' But he had to know that showing up was basically a favor I did for the gallery and for the patrons. I already had more money than I knew what to do with. If I didn't make a habit of buying thirty-thousand dollar suits, I was set for life, which meant I didn't have to let other people dictate the strokes of my brush anymore. "It's about the art."

"They always say that. Until the money dries up. Or the fame begins to fade." His gaze flicked to a spot behind me. "Or the lovers lose their interest."

Did he just glance at Michael? It didn't matter; there was no point in giving Clay the satisfaction of turning to check. Michael had been with my 'temperamental' ass for five years. No way was he leaving me.

He'd sought me out because he'd seen one of my paintings. Hell, he'd probably fallen in love with my art long before he fell for me. Who did he really see when we were together? Avery? Or the Artist?

Who did I let him see?

Clayton lowered his head. "I've seen artists like you come and go, Mr. Scott. My advice can help you stay relevant."

"Relevant." I didn't care about being relevant. I just wanted to paint my goddamned pictures. The only other thing I cared about was...

Mario stepped into my line of sight. "Avery," he said, grinning broadly, "Mrs. Deniaud was quite charmed by you and has asked that you speak with her again." He glanced at Clayton, his tone still light, still friendly. "I'm sure Mr. Levesque won't mind the interruption, considering she's one of our most valued patrons."

"Of course." He pulled a phone from his pocket and turned away as he checked the screen. "Please proceed."

Placing one hand lightly on my back, Mario swept the other in the opposite direction of Clayton Levesque. "This way, Avery."

I let myself release the tension I'd been holding on a faint breath. "Mrs. Deniaud must really have it bad for me."

"She does." His grin pulled wider as his voice dipped. "But she didn't send me over to fetch you."

My brow furrowed in confusion. "Oh?"

"You looked like you were about to clock Clayton just now, so I figured I'd step in to intervene on your behalf."

A low chuckle escaped me and I started to forget about that 'Inescapable Nightmare' shit. "I don't think I would have punched him."

"You didn't see the expression on your face." He slid his hands into his pockets and stopped walking. "Whatever he said, don't let it get to you." The smile faded from his mouth as he shook his head. "I don't even think he likes art."

Could be true, but he knew this world. Maybe better than I did. I'd only really been on the scene for five years, after all. "As a kid, I always dreamed of being a painter. Even when I was sketching portraits for pocket change, I knew someday I was going to paint what was really inside of me and someone was going to notice." Sliding my hands into my pockets, I watched the people around me notice my art. Yet I still felt...disconnected. "Never thought it would be like this."

Mario's face was serious, a little concerned. "This collection really got to you, didn't it?"

"Yeah." I ran a slow hand through my hair. "Hey, do you think I could get a few minutes to myself?"

"Sure," he said softly. "I'll cover for you." Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a slim silver case. "Would you like a cigarette?"

I nearly groaned with pleasure as I took one from the case. "Mario, you are a fucking saint."

"I'm an enabler, but thank you." He took a gold plated lighter out of his pocket and handed it to me.

"Greatest. Curator. Ever."

He chuckled. The sound was warm and weirdly sad. "I don't know about that. I just wanted to make sure tonight went smoothly for you." He hesitated, took a step closer. "It's my last night at Levesque."

Anger had me forgetting all about sneaking out. "What? Why?" My hand gripped tight on the lighter he'd given me. "Did that bastard fire you?"

Grinning, he shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I'm leaving to start my own gallery. Smaller than this one, but with room for expansion if I can make it work."

Leaving. I couldn't imagine this place without Mario. Just considering today--the phone calls, the bourbon, the blessedly brief introductions. And when I was about to lose it in front of Clayton he'd stepped in and made sure I held it together.

"I'm coming with you."

He straightened, obviously surprised by the statement. "That...is not a wise idea."

I frowned. "Why not?"

"Because I have no name, no established reputation, and limited resources. I can't give you what Levesque gives you, and coming with me would hurt your career."

Even Mario thought about the business side of things more than I did. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm a mess. I can't do this without you."

His face softened. "Avery, you were a master at this long before Levesque sent you its first invitation. You don't need me."

All at once, I understood what this was about. Mario was my friend, and I hadn't realized it until tonight. I didn't have any other friends. Or maybe I did, and didn't know it. Just like I hadn't known Shel had loved me.

I looked around at the gallery patrons as they admired my paintings. My fucking horrifying, inescapable nightmare paintings. The art I created always reflected how I saw the world, and I was only now realizing I wasn't seeing it through clear lenses.

I needed to get my head on straight.

"You're the only reason I've bothered to stay with Levesque for so long. Where you go, I go."

"Avery--"

"And having me as one of your artists would definitely bring in patrons, right? If I'm in your first show, you'd be in all the art rags."

The gentle expression on his face never wavered. "Don't worry about me, Avery."

I wasn't worrying about him. Selfish bastard that I was, I was worrying about me. "You care about art. You care about me more than you care about art." I thought about Michael and how he'd tracked me down. I thought about Clayton's shitty words about lovers. I thought about what I'd been feeling every time I lost myself in creating one of these paintings. "I think... I think I need that right now."

Mario stared at me a long, intent moment. Lifting his hand, he reached for me, paused, then used the tips of his fingers to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Okay. I'll attach my contact information to that bottle of bourbon I'm sending you tomorrow."

"Good." My voice went gruff and I held up my cigarette. "I'm gonna take that break now."

He smiled. "The usual door's unlocked for you. Best duck out while Clayton's back is turned."

I didn't need any more than that.

Outside, I walked onto the loading dock, took a set of stairs down to street level. I paced for a while, trying to settle, before giving up and leaning back against a wall. Remembering the lighter I held in a death grip, I flipped it open and lit my cigarette, taking in a deep drag and tilting my head back as I blew out a blessed cloud of smoke.

Most of my major shows had been at Levesque for the past... what? Two, three years? A long time. Now I was switching galleries. But that was better than losing Mario.

I didn't even know what I was going to paint next. Well, flowers for Shel. An old man I hadn't seen in ten years who'd up and announced he'd loved me today when all I'd wanted was a fucking suit--

Shit. Things were changing too much, too fast. Even at home.

Michael had argued with me today. As I thought about it, I couldn't help but chuckle. Where the hell had that come from? He never argued...

My smile slipped. Except that day he hadn't wanted to go to the doctor. Back when he first started changing. Since then I'd seen an unfamiliar, wild sort of arousal in him. And jealousy. I'd seen jealousy.

His new face came to mind. His brand new clothes. Not for the first time, I wondered if all that added up to a new man.

A flash of silver streaked across my vision and I blocked it out. I swore I was never going to do another of those paintings and I meant it.

Faint laughter drifted over my skin, raising goosebumps on my forearms. God, everyone inside was having so much fun and I was out here brooding. I used to get high off these things. When had that stopped?

I bowed my head, took another drag from my cigarette. A long time ago, I figured. But I'd scraped myself raw with this last set of paintings, and now I felt like I was sensitive to everything.

For the last weeks, whenever I put brush to canvas, what had I been thinking about? Death? Dying? The memories, the emotions, skimmed along the edges of my consciousness. While I was painting I understood--clearly, painfully. But after I stopped I could never hold on, bring them into focus. I'd wondered once or twice if I was writing some elaborate suicide note, but dismissed the idea because every time I finished I wanted to start another one.

More laughter drifted over from inside the gallery.

Although I supposed if I were dead I wouldn't have to show up to these things anymore.

I cocked an eyebrow.

Now that was an idea. I wouldn't have to be here, the value of my art would skyrocket, and even more people would come to the gallery to see my stuff. This could be a plan.

Chuckling, I brought the cigarette to my mouth. As appealing as the idea had seemed for a split second, I knew death was out of the question. Couldn't paint if I was dead.

Plus, Michael would probably cry. That'd suck.

A door opened and closed. Mario, coming to coax me back in. Or Clayton, with some lecture on responsibility.

"Avery?"

I lifted my head. "What are you doing here?" I asked softly, feeling instantly guilty about imagining him in tears.

"Saw you slip out." Hands in his pockets, Michael walked toward me. "Are you okay?"

My gaze followed the drape of his jacket, making his shoulders look broad and solid while tapering in subtly at the waist. Long legs brought him over to me quickly and I glanced away to take another drag from my cigarette. "I'm fine. You know I always sneak off eventually."

"Never this early."

Frowning, I blew out a stream of smoke. When had he started paying such close attention? "It's been a long day."

His fingers found their way into my hair, just above my ear, and I brushed them off.

"Anything I can do?"

I stared out at the loading dock, tried to imagine my paintings as they were carted through here. "Nah."

He touched my hair again and this time I knocked his hand away. "Quit that," I said, irritated now.

"Does it tickle?" Lowering his head, he brushed his lips over the curve of my ear, pressed a kiss to my cheek. "How about this?" he murmured, reaching up to undo one of my shirt buttons.

"What the hell?" Without thinking, I shoved him back. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for that shit?"

His eyes rounded, then darted away from me. "I saw Mr. Daly do it, and realized I'd barely gotten to touch you all day."

"Mario?" I shook my head, trying to make sense of the sentence. "When did Mario kiss me?"

His gaze snapped back to mine, and a shy, unexpected smile touched his mouth. "Ah, no. He just touched you." Michael skimmed his fingers through the hair at his temple. "Here."

It took me a second to remember. "I guess he did," I admitted, frowning thoughtfully.

"Well," he stepped back, "I thought you might want some company, but I see you need to be alone."

He started to turn away--his head bowed, the lines of his body drawn tight--and I couldn't let him go. "Wait."

"Yes?" he said, spinning to face me.

I'd been on edge all day, but it had been the worst at Shel's house, in that brief, tense moment where I'd shared a piece of my past with Michael. Then Clayton had come along and taken a blade to the barely closed wound. "I'm surprised you even want to touch me, considering you think I'm a whore."

I heard his sharp intake of breath and suddenly he was striding back to me, standing so close that I could feel the heat of him. "That came out all wrong. I never should have said it."

"But it's what you feel, right?"

"No." He swallowed, hard. "I-I was just so fucking angry."

My eyes widened. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him swear. I don't think I'd ever heard him swear.

"Not at you," he said quickly. "At that guy. For taking advantage of you."

"He didn't--"

"I know you don't believe what he did was wrong." His voice softened. "I know that. But I do. Because you were just a kid, Avery. Even though you rarely talk about your past, I've gotten enough of it to know that by the time you were seventeen you'd lived more lifetimes than most people out there, than most people could survive. And in your mind you probably thought you were jaded, and adult, and in control." He lowered his head, his brown eyes clear even in the low light. "But you weren't. You were a kid. And although I'm grateful he saved your life, he shouldn't have taken advantage of you that way. You shouldn't have felt you had to pay him back. So I got angry, for you, because in this case you're never going to feel angry for yourself."

My lips parted as I stared up at him. Just a kid? Michael was the innocent one. I hadn't been a kid since...

Michael touched our foreheads together. "I'd never be repulsed by something that happened before we even met. Your past is a part of you, and no matter what's there I love you."

That... That was what I'd needed to hear. And I hadn't even known it. "You're such a sap, Michael."

He smiled. "Does that mean I can kiss you?"

I brought my cigarette to my mouth, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke into his face. "Nope," I said, walking away from him and up the steps toward the gallery. His groan made my mouth curve, made everything better, but I didn't look back.

"Avery."

Something in his voice stopped me in my tracks. My own smile faded as I turned near the top of the stairs. "Yeah?"

Michael jogged up and gripped the railing on each side of me. He leaned low, his eyes steady and serious as he held my gaze. "Please."

Please.

He'd never looked at me this way before. Intent. Heated. Like he wanted me so bad that it was killing him to hang on to those railings and not to me. I wasn't sure... It made me feel almost...

Desired? Hunted?

I looked into his eyes. Warm. Gentle. Michael.

Okay, so desired.

I tilted my head back.

Michael breathed a sigh over my lips before brushing his mouth over mine. The light caress took me by surprise and I pushed myself to my toes, wanting to get more. How long had it been since I'd kissed him--really kissed him? A week? A month? It brushed the darkness from the corners of my mind, dusted my senses with the barest hint of gold.

Lifting my hand, I palmed his cheek and drew him closer so I could settle on my feet again. He moaned against me and I sucked his tongue into my mouth, enjoying the trace of sweetness left behind by the soda he'd had earlier, enjoying him.

Then Michael jerked away from me and the moment snapped apart.

Confused, frowning, I took a breath and stared up at him. "What happened?"

"I don't know." He rubbed at the top of his hand. "Something burned me."

My face cleared as I looked at my own hand, at the cigarette still balanced between my fingers. "Oh shit, I must have dropped some ash on you." I ground the stick against the railing and flicked it away. "Here, let me see."

"It's fine," he said, smiling. "It doesn't even hurt anymore."

How could he say it was fine? "Don't try and play it off. I know how much hot ash can hurt."

His head tilted to the side. "Do you?"

I'd almost shared more of myself just then, and I wasn't ready. I'd probably never be ready. "Let me take a look."

He let me grab his wrist, was quiet until I skimmed my fingers over the top of his hand. "See? I'm okay."

I couldn't lift my head. I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?"

"I'm sure. It was more of a surprise than anything else."

His calm voice was setting me on edge. The more he said he was fine, the more I wanted to make amends. "I didn't mean to burn you."

"Of course not." Slipping his hand from my grip, he cupped my face and gently coaxed me into looking at him. "It was an accident."

Not that I was any good at it, but usually I was the one comforting Michael, and now he was trying to take care of me. It felt...strange. Enough that I tried to get away from it by moving up a step. "Let's go inside."

He followed suit, using his knuckles to brush the nape of my neck as we entered the gallery. "Can we stay together now, Avery?"

The feathery touch sent a shiver through my body, and I realized I liked the sensation. "Sure, I don't see why..." I spotted both Mario and Clayton walking toward us--Clayton looking determined, Mario looking apologetic. "Actually, I think we're about to be separated again."

Michael slid his hands into his pockets. "Oh."

"It's only a couple more hours." I curled my fingers around the lapel of his jacket and tugged him down to breathe warm words into his ear. "Then we can be together all you want. At home. On the couch. In bed." I grazed my teeth over his earlobe. "Sound good?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"See you soon." My fingers opened up, glided down his jacket. I lingered, savoring, thinking about that dusting of gold.

Then I was whisked away from him.

An hour and a half later, I was leaning back against a wall with a crescent moon of men and women speaking idly around me. I didn't strictly need to be here. At this point, I was more of a centerpiece than anything else. But I pretended to listen as I sipped on a fresh glass of bourbon.

Crowd was starting to thin, which was a blessing. It meant I could cut out in a few minutes. Make an exit and all that. Thoughts of stripping Michael down floated through my head, and for once the images made me hot.

Since he'd started growing, changing, I wasn't sure whether I liked the new body, or the new attitude that seemed to be coming with it. We fucked, sure, but my heart hadn't really been in it. That kiss we'd shared earlier, though...

Oh, I wanted more of that.

"... is it any wonder that Regnault is considered one of the fathers of Impressionism?"

I frowned, swinging my gaze over to the person who'd asked that idiotic question. "What?"

James Collodi--a man who came to most of my shows, but as far as I knew never bought any of my stuff--turned his head away from the young lady on his arm to look at me. "I was just discussing the far-reaching contributions made by Regnault to the Impressionist movement."

"Regnault didn't make any contributions to Impressionism, far-reaching or otherwise." And why the hell are you discussing Impressionism at a show like this, anyway?

James smiled, his voice polite but condescending. "No offense, Avery. Your post-modernist pieces are quite remarkable, but it's not as if you went to art school."

God, I hated posers. "I don't have a degree, but I do like to read and--contrary to popular belief--I enjoy going to galleries and museums to see works by other artists. I'm a fan of Regnault: 'Cupid and Psyche,' 'Education of Achilles.' None of his stuff could be classified as Impressionism. You might be thinking of Renoir, who did 'By the Water' and that dancing series." The room went quiet and I took another drink. "They're both French, though. And they both start with 'R.' I can see how that could get confusing."

The smug expression dropped right off his face. He glanced around a few seconds before leaving the circle, taking the young woman hanging onto his arm with him.

"Where're you going?" I called. "I thought we were talking art."

All right, I might have gone too far there. But what kind of asshole tried to belittle an artist over the lack of a degree at his own show?

Besides, people were laughing, so I'd been forgiven.

I paused, thinking about Shel and all the times he'd been forgiven for embarrassing some starlet on the red carpet.

Was I really going to grow into the old man?

"Hey, what the heck happened to Michael?" said another regular to my shows. This one was actually a patron, but I couldn't quite place his name. "He looks great."

"Growth spurt," I said absently. "Exercise."

The man next to me tapped a teasing elbow against my arm. "You must be enjoying the hell out of the new and improved version."

Bland face...good natured eyes... Brandt. Brandt Thomas. "I enjoyed the hell out of the original."

For a split second, everyone wore the same expression. Not one of them fucking believed me. I'd had a living, breathing work of art at my side for five years and none of them had even noticed.

Someone across from me broke into a grin. "He's going to be more high maintenance now."

I thought about our adventure at the mall today. "You have no idea."

"Better keep an eye on him. The cuter a dog gets, the farther he strays."

It took me a second to realize that my definition of 'high maintenance' was totally different from his. "Take it from someone who knows. Dogs are strays because they have no home," I stood away from the wall, "and Michael has a home."

I walked forward and the crowd parted, letting me through. Once free I glanced down at my glass. Empty again.

"May I take that for you, Mr. Scott?" asked a waiter.

Placing it on his tray, I considered asking for another, but decided against it. Instead, I searched out Mario, let him know I was leaving. He pulled me aside and filled me in on the status of my paintings before wishing me a good night.

"You too." I tried not to sound as tired as I felt. "Point me at Michael?"

He gestured toward the paintings closest to the exit. There was Michael, with Mrs. Deniaud trailing long, elegant fingers down his chest.

"Christ," I said, chuckling. "He has no sense of self preservation."

"Would you like me to rescue him?"

I smirked, already on my way. "I can handle it."

He straightened when he saw me, wide-eyed and relieved.

"Time to go home, Michael."

Pouting, Mrs. Deniaud pressed her lush body along his. "He belongs to you?"

I turned my head and tapped the amethyst stone in my ear, knowing a woman like her would get the meaning of the accessory right away.

She clucked her tongue and ran a finger over his lips. "Too bad," she said in her lovely French accent. "I had such delightful games planned for you."

In a different time, with a different man, I would have let her play them as long as I got to watch. But I was way too possessive of Michael. "I apologize for spoiling your fun," I told her, my voice sincere as I grasped Michael's wrist and pulled him to my side.

She smiled brightly and held up her hands. "Il est bien. I shall comfort myself with your wonderful artwork."

Somehow, when I imagined these paintings with her, I didn't think of them as quite so horrible. "Au revoir."

She blew me a kiss and I led Michael out of the gallery.

His entire body shuddered when the cool night air hit us. "Thanks, Avery. That was a little..."

"Scary?"

"God, yes."

I couldn't help teasing. "Maybe you should have gone with her. I got the impression she'd have given you as much pain your body could stand."

"I only want you to hurt me," he said without hesitation.

A smile ghosted on my lips. Michael was no stray.

The grip of his hand firmed on mine. "How'd you know she'd back off when you showed her your earring?"

We got to the car and I released his hand so he could unlock the passenger door for me. "She and Shel have the same...energy around them. Made sense they'd play by the same rules."

He thought about that for a second before going to the other side and sliding into the driver's seat. "She said she was going to buy one of your paintings."

"According to Mario, she's planning to buy all of them. Has already committed four point two million dollars."

"Whoa."

"Yeah. Mario seems to think that the collection will top five million by the end of the week. Maybe more." Personally, I hoped she got it. Out of the patrons I'd met tonight, she was the only one I'd found interesting.

The car pulled out of its space and into the street. "That's incredible, Avery."

"Hm."

He glanced my way briefly before returning his attention to the street. "What do you think Mrs. Deniaud will do with all those paintings?"

"First guess? Decorate a kinky little dungeon."

Michael burst into laughter. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He fell quiet, but his face was bright, happy. I didn't say anything more, studying his profile, the lines of his hands as they curved over the steering wheel. We were driving away from my Inescapable Nightmare. Soon we'd be home.

For the first time in weeks, I started to feel...good.