His lithe body was as defined as I remembered, the lean muscles of his abs glistening with droplets of water that I wanted to lick off slowly. One by one.
If my awakening had happened more than a month before I had to leave Berlin, maybe I would have told him about the feelings he’d stirred in me back then. But my decision to keep it to myself had been the right one, and it had kept our friendship intact. I was out in my circle of friends in NYC, but hadn’t had the guts to tell Kert. The issue now was that I’d been convincedthat I could hide my attraction to him as I’d done for the last four years while keeping in contact with him online.
I was such an idiot.
“One sugar with your chamomile?” I hovered the spoon above his mug.
“Yeah.” He sauntered over to me. “You remembered.”
I made a non-committal snort paired with a shrug and stirred his tea.
“I’ll get these to the living room.” I placed the mugs on the table and sank onto the couch.
Kert grabbed clothes from his suitcase and returned the towels to the bathroom. Now dressed in an oversized t-shirt, he plopped next to me and tossed his bare legs over my lap.
“Feeling at home already, huh?” I flicked his big toe, and he wiggled it.
“Yup. You’re very welcoming.” He took his mug in both hands and sighed. Then he set it back and burrowed himself into the worn couch. “Tell me about what you’re working on now.” He motioned to the easel standing in the corner.
“I’m playing with a mural design. I don’t know if I’ll ever do it on a wall or a big canvas, but I need to pour the ideas onto a smaller piece or my brain will explode.”
He hummed, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I totally get that. What’s this one about?”
I placed my hands on his cold legs and looked at my unfinished painting. “It’s inspired by this city and how I view it from the perspective of a relative outsider. How it makes me feel.” I continued talking until Kert’s breathing grew deep and even.
His signature smirk smoothed out into an angelic expression as he slept. In a strange juxtaposition, it graced the kind of features associated with a devil in many cultures: with his goat-like horns, crimson skin, and a slim long tail.
I relaxed into the couch, Kert’s presence still barely registering with me. With him in my apartment, the place was like our tiny dorm room—we were alone and Kert was stealing my warmth.
My phone pinged, but I ignored it. Another text message arrived, and one more. With a grunt, I fished in my pocket.
DeeDee: You promised you’d come to the opening tomorrow and I’m expecting you.
Fuck. I completely forgot. I’d been so psyched by Kert’s arrival, the gallery’s opening had slipped through the cracks of my mind.
Marin: I can’t. My friend came to visit.
DeeDee: Bring them. I told everyone that the guy who made the gallery look like a useful space instead of a dump was gonna come.
Numerous galleries had been interested in me painting their walls, but had never considered displaying my art. Sure, I had only shown them my landscape pieces, but I doubted that my other stuff would do any better. Parading around in a gallery as the artist who couldn’t make it and ended up painting walls didn’t sound like fun.
Except I wasn’t ashamed of using my skills to turn people’s homes and other spaces into something more beautiful.
Marin: I’ll see what I can do.
I glanced at Kert and smoothed the black hair on his calf. I couldn’t abandon him the day after his arrival. Would he agree to come with me?
Chapter Two
Kert
Iwoke up to the sound of traffic, people arguing, and a siren in the far distance. The unfamiliar sounds were polar opposites to the soft hum of trees and neighborhood chatter I was used to hearing in my quiet house in the Berlin suburbs.
Opening my eyes, I threw away the cover and grinned. I was in Marin’s apartment. In New Fucking York. The three white walls were a stark contrast to the remaining one portraying a stormy sea with a sunset, the red glow beautifully complementing the angry waves. The second wall had a color palette on the side, but no art on it—only a set of supplies on top of a dresser. Signs of a busy artist.
Given the modest size of the apartment and having only one bedroom, the enormous bed had to be where Marin usually slept. I buried my face in the pillow and inhaled. With a groan, I sat up. The sheets were fresh and didn’t smell of my best friend at all. We’d lived in one dorm room for five years—I’d recognize his scent anywhere. It was in the room, though—the aroma of ocean breeze and warmth of a summer day at the beach.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
