Canvas pressed to my chest, I descend into the party’s opulent depths while hyping myself up.Be the bigger man. Don’t rise to his bullshit. Get through this.Gram’s advice, Jamal’s blunt encouragement, and Ash’s unwavering faith all swirl in my head.
My mind does it’s thing and tries to weave a fantasy image of Alistair taking this well, but the party cures me of that delusion fast.
The waterfall beside the staircase blows cold air on my courage. The city glitters beyond the glass, beautiful and far away. Guests in black tie orbit Alistair in slow, obedient circles. What happens to a moon that leaves its planet?
I have to do this. For Gram. For Ash.
“You know your way from here?” the escort asks, gesturing to the artists’ back room.
I nod, and he hurries back up the steps.
The fourth-floor basement is a pop-up gay nightclub, throbbing with music and bodies. Bass rattles my ribs. Strobing light freezes the room into stuttering frames of sweat and glitter. I thread my way through with the canvas held tight to my chest like a shield.
If the universe keeps tabs, then Alistair has evaded what’s due by purchasing his own, temporary universe that bends around his gravity. Men lean in when he speaks. Heads tip back when he laughs. His money is in crystal wine glasses, expensive bottles, sequins, lights, free drinks, and loud music.
I keep moving.
Rocky weighs heavy in my pocket, and I give the pet rock a quick squeeze before reaching for the door handle. Shoulders squared, chest puffed, and canvas in hand, I open the door to the back room.
No courage comes with me.
Alistair’s already inside.
“There he is,” he sings, gliding to my side. “I was so relieved when they contained the Carter Creek Fire.” He drapes an arm around my shoulders to pull me close. “This boy was trapped, hiking away from the fire. Posted the whole thing online. I was just. So. Worried.”
I remember his so-called worried text:This will cost much more than rent.
I stiffen, then pull away from his touch with the excuse to hang my canvas—our canvas—the one with the chains, the fire, and the… love? Is that what this is?
Stepping back, I watch his eyes fix on my work.
“And you’ve painted it,” he whispers. “You must tell us the story.”
He meansnow. Rich people say things like that, making their demands light enough for people like me to inhale. That’s how my father spoke to my mom in the rare instances they saw each other before she left, never as an equal and always with the answer already decided.
Not today. Alistair wants a story? I’ll give him one with a surprise ending.
“It was sudden,” I begin. “It started at a retreat in Philbrook. When the fire came, everyone evacuated, except me and this guy?—”
Alistair lifts a hand, his smug, thin smile curving. “Asher Pierce, right?”
He knows. The thought slams into me, stealing my breath and sending my gaze skittering from Alistair to the exit.
“How…?” I whisper.
“I care about you, Kael,” Alistair says. “You posted Ash’s name. It didn’t take a whole lot of sleuthing, nor was it hard to find out he works for my company.”
My boyfriend’s caught in Alistair’s web, and it’s my fault.
“I have the resources,” Alistair adds. “And I care about my employees.”
My throat tightens. I want to tell him I’m done. I want to protect Ash. I can’t do both.
“You’re so generous,” I say, cheeks puckering.
A few of the other artists sense their chance to suck up and echo me. “So generous.” “Thank you, Alistair.” “We love you.”
But Alistair ignores them, smothering me with attention.
