“He’s very photogenic,” Elliot admits with some reluctance.
“And those eyes. Gorgeous. Are they green?”
“Blue,” he says primly.
“Have you painted him yet?” I ask, and Elliot looks me up and down, licks his lips in a reptilian way, and I know the answer already, so I forge ahead, “Never mind that. I’d love to meet him. Will he be here tonight?”
Elliot glances surreptitiously around the room. “I don’t know but, Cassius, leave this one alone.”
I place one hand against my chest in utter dismay. “Me? I’m not the one having restraining orders filed against me.”
“That was one time, and it was—” he interrupts himself with a disgruntled frown. “Adam is different.”
“Adam,” I repeat, liking the shape of it on my lips. “A strong Biblical name. Is he religious?”
“His father is a pastor.”
I smile. I simply cannot help it. A pastor’s son who looks like temptation incarnate and somehow found his way into my own backyard. It’s a crime that we’ve not yet been introduced.
“I only want to meet him, Elliot, and see the man who inspires such amazing work. Your best yet. And how can you blame me? I’m an artist too. Unless…” I take another quick perusal of the photograph, “Is this photoshopped?”
“Only a little. For exposure and clarity, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve applied some sort of filter then, haven’t you?”
“Absolutely not,” he insists.
“He’s this beautiful in real life?” I challenge.
“Morebeautiful. Not just on the outside but the inside too. He has a good soul, and he doesn’t need you coming into his life and… and ruining him!”
“Ruining him? Don’t be so dramatic.” My eyes alight then on a breathtaking figure making his way across the room. His suit is ill-fitting and cheap—some knock-off brand from an outlet store—and his eyes dart nervously like the flight of a swallow, but his countenance is dazzling still.
“Adam,” Elliot practically sings and takes a huge step away from me as if we’ve been caught conspiring.
“Hello, Elliot,” Adam says with a kind smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a merry way. They awkwardly shake hands, which I can imagine for Adam feels like fondling a slimy toad. Why anyone would want to mash their clammy palms together is beyond me—so many germs. Adam’s eyes arrow in my direction, and I wait for an introduction to be forthcoming. And wait.
“I’m Cassius Peacock,” I tell him, then lean in to brush my lips against his smooth, clean-shaven cheek. I inhale the scent of his aftershave, cool and crisp as spring water; I am instantly invigorated, a listless stream infused by the first snowmelt of the season. Aroused too. Scent is our most primal of senses, and Adam smells delectable. We’re about the same height, but where I am naturally slender—thank you, Mommy Dearest—Adam is built far more sturdily. I suspect it is deprivation and extreme workouts alone that have kept him so slim.
“This is Lucia Hoffman.” I make room for her to approach, and she kisses him in a similar fashion. “We are huge fans of your work.”
“My work?” Adam asks with a sudden look of alarm. I wave my hand at his portrait. “Oh, this. Well.” He ducks his head, clearly embarrassed. “This was all Elliot. I just had to sit there.”
“Modest too,” I remark. “But an artist is only as good as his subject. Surely Elliot must have told you that.”
He shrugs and smirks in a boyish way. “I’m glad you like it, sir.”
“Sir?” I make a show of my offense. “Adam, I’m still in my twenties. Please, don’t age me. It’s cruel. Unless you’retryingto hurt my feelings?”
“No, definitely not.” He holds up both hands as if horrified by the suggestion, and I touch his arm briefly.
“I’m teasing you.”
A smile of relief breaks over his face, lightening his countenance. “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. People are different here.”
Yes, Adam, they certainly are.
“But seriously, I love the portrait.” I study it again, wishing to possess it. The genuine article. “It’s as if you’re contemplating the transitory nature of beauty and youth. A kind of premature grief for what you will one day lose completely. What do you think, Lucia?”
