“Care for a drink?” I offer.
“From you, no thanks.”
I shake my head. Elliot is convinced I’ve drugged him in the past, but honestly why would I waste my supply on him when he’s perfectly capable of making an ass out of himself without my help?
“Mind if I make one for myself?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I mix myself an Old Fashioned while Elliot glances around the room again, noticing the many works of modern art I have mounted on the walls—a Rothko, two Basquiat’s, a Poliakoff. These are the ones I display for company. I have other more controversial pieces that are just for me. Elliot’s nose twitches in displeasure. Lucia was right in that he is very ferret-like.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says tartly.
“What’s that?”
“You’re here to threaten me to stay away from Adam.”
“Threaten? Why would I do that? You and Adam are friends. Of course, I want my boyfriend to have friends.”
“You’re afraid I’m going to tell him something you won’t like.”
“You can tell him whatever you want, Elliot. I’m not afraid of idle gossip. I’ve had terrible things said about me over the years and yet, here I am.” I take a sip of my drink—delicious—and settle on the bar stool beside him. “But tell me, does Adam know about your voyeuristic tendencies?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a sniff.
“It’s fine with me, Elliot. I’m not judging. I have plenty of perversions myself. I only wondered if you were as candid with Adam about your own predilections as you are with mine.” His lips shrink into their characteristic pucker, and I fear I’m antagonizing him too much. “Never mind that for now. Tell me how has your work been going? Adam tells me you’ve run into a bit of financial trouble.”
“I don’t want any money from you. God knows what you’d expect in return.”
“Do you not even want to hear my proposal? I’d hoped our familiarity would at least allow for you to consider it. After all, it was Adam’s idea.”
“Adam suggested it?”
“Yes.”
“Fine,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “What is it?”
“As I was saying, Adam told me that you were in a bit of a financial pickle, and he is such an admirer of your work—”
“Did he say that?”
“In so many words, yes.”
Elliot’s lips curl at the edges in a very Gollum-like smile.
“Anyway,” I continue, “we both know Adam is a rare beauty, the sort of vision that inspires not only artists like yourself, but also admirers of art, which I am, and I was thinking of commissioning a portrait of my Beautiful Adam or several, depending on whether or not your muse speaks to you.”
“For payment?” he asks as though I would shortchange him.
“Yes, of course. I’m happy to pay for your canvases and paints too since I know you’re a bit cash poor at the moment, and you’re welcome to use my pool house as your studio. Hell, you can even sleep out there if you want.”
“What’s your angle?” he asks, and I feel sorry for anyone who must go through life always suspecting their fellow man of some treachery. How terribly limiting.
“There’s no angle. Only that I hope we can put aside our past differences and let bygones be bygones, for Adam’s sake.”
“For Adam’s sake,” he repeats hollowly.
We hear the slam of the front door—no matter how many times I remind him, he always uses too much force—and Adam strolls into the room humming Holly Hamilton’s latest release “2 Good 2 B True,” which is about, you guessed it, the white meat who sandwiched himself between her and her beloved Spaniard.
