Better Than Safe (5 page)

I was flabbergasted and no doubt looked the part. Who was this man? I couldn’t begin to guess his game, but he was certainly toying with me.

“No, they weren’t. The point was the idioms and slang of the lower class were represented. It was the first time everyone was given a distinct voice in print. But you knew that, didn’t you?” I studied him thoughtfully. “You’re putting on an act. I’m not clear what your motivation is but perhaps you missed your calling. You might want to give the theater a go.”

Seth’s grin rivaled a Cheshire cat’s until a slow building chuckle finally morphed into a belly laugh. I couldn’t help joining in. I didn’t understand him, and I doubted our difference in nationality had anything to do with it. He was… quirky. Strange and yet somehow compelling in a way that had nothing to do with his beautiful exterior.

“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m too old or fat to model or worse, when my muse leaves me for good, and I have no reason to paint.”

“What is your style of art?”

“It’s probably closest to expressionism. I love bright colors and heavy texture.”

He turned suddenly to face forward giving me the impression he was done talking. Just as he finally became interesting, I mused with a shrug. Fine by me. I reached for a folder in my briefcase, but went still when he continued in a hushed, serious tone. “I have three things that keep me going. I model for money. I play guitar to satisfy some weird compulsion to help someone I care about who’s always been there for me… and I paint.”

“And….”

“What?”

“You said you model for money, play music to help your friend. What does painting do for you?”

He waited a heartbeat before answering. His gaze became noticeably intense. “It’s how I breathe.”

I understood the weight of truth behind those simple words though I knew nothing about his work, his medium, his style, or his muse. However, I recognized a very telling authenticity in the sentiment. For many artists, the compulsion to create wasn’t a matter of earning money to pay the bills… it was who they were.

“Hmm. What do you paint?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” He considered me for a moment before continuing, “So you’re from Canterbury, the enchanted place of castles, cathedrals, archbishops, and Chaucer. What else?”

“What else?”

“Yeah. What do you like to do? Do you travel? Play an instrument? Tell me something.” He shrugged indicating wordlessly it was my turn to do the talking.

“I play the piano. Poorly. I’ve traveled extensively for work and I’ve enjoyed it, but it’s grueling so I’m looking forward to a small break. And I love jazz, the one type of music you hate if I remember correctly.”

Seth grinned devilishly but had the grace to look chagrined. “I love jazz. I was being a dick. A tosser. I apologize. You made me nervous.”

“Nervous? How so?”

“I don’t go on dates. Ever. I went for two reasons, maybe three. One, it’s hard to say no to Aaron. Two, it was coffee and I figured it couldn’t be completely awful.”

“What’s the third reason? You heard I have a British accent?”

“Yeah.”

I rolled my eyes and looked out the window at the dark landscape. I couldn’t see anything outside, but I could see Seth’s handsome reflection in the glass behind me. I saw him reach out to brush his finger lightly over the shell of my ear. The gesture was sweet, but too familiar. I turned abruptly to find him closer than expected.

“I was kidding. The third reason is… I thought you were sexy.” He shrugged and gave me a wry grin, “I still do. I’m sorry I acted like a jerk. I freak out a little when I get nervous and—I’m sorry.”

The apology was as smooth as walking on a bed of rocks, but his sheepish countenance and silly smile went a long way toward erasing my earlier irritation. Plus he said I was sexy. It didn’t mean I wanted to start over and, God forbid, go on another coffee date, but I suddenly didn’t mind him sitting next to me.

We chatted idly about general topics ranging from my favorite musician, John Coltrane, to his rock star hero, David Bowie. Seth was pleasant and unexpectedly engaging. He knew more about jazz and probably most genres of music than he let on, but there wasn’t time to delve deeper. The engine slowed as the train pulled into the station. Our fellow passengers scrambled to gather their belongings, talking and laughing at a higher volume in an almost frenzied anticipation of finally arriving at their destination. I tuned out the background noise and focused on my companion. He was telling me about a gig he’d performed at in a dive bar in New York City where the women in the front row took off their shirts and bras and threw them on stage.

“It was crazy! It was this tiny club so it wasn’t like anyone gave a shit. We played a complete set to this group of bare-chested women dancing with their tits out.”

I smiled at the bewildered amusement in his voice as I zipped my computer in its case and gave my phone a brief glance. People were filing out of the car now. It was time to go.

“Are you ready?” I prodded when he didn’t move.

“Yeah. Hey, I was thinking… um… hang on a sec. It’s in my backpack.”

Seth stood abruptly and placed his bag on his seat. He rifled through the contents with an almost manic concentration before pulling out a wrinkled postcard. He handed it to me with a shy grin completely at odds with the cocky attitude he’d shown so far.

“What’s this?” I asked as I quickly read over the black-and-white glossy card. There was a drawing of a guitar engulfed in flames and large print giving details to an “awesome” show featuring Spiral.

“If you’re looking for something to do later, come check us out. It’s not jazz, but… well, if you feel like it, the info is all there.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder and turned away abruptly. I watched him grab his guitar case from the storage rack nearby before I stepped forward to follow him. Seth was waiting on the platform when I finally emerged. His playful grin spoke volumes, like he was dying to taunt me for being so slow. It was hard not to smile in return.

We walked side by side in companionable quiet through the drab station and into the grand entry area with its majestic vaulted ceilings, intricate circular skylights, and pillared columns. I loved this type of traditional architecture and took a second to appreciate the recent renovations as we made our way toward the bank of glass doors to the exit. We stepped outside into the chilly Baltimore evening and stared at each other for an awkward moment.

“I’m heading to my buddy’s place to practice. Do you need a ride?”

“Thank you, but no. I’m going to take a taxi to the hotel and prepare for my meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Cool. Maybe I’ll see you tonight. If not, I’ll catch you another time.”

“All right. Break a leg.”

He smiled widely before turning away with a wave. Then he stopped and walked back toward me with an inscrutable look on his handsome face.

“I just remembered another reason I didn’t like that book.”

“What boo—
The Canterbury Tales
?” I felt my forehead pucker in confusion. What was he talking about?

“Yeah. All that shit about the Church. The Summoner and the Pardoner. Corruption, greed, ultimate authority in the name of a higher power. Evil in the guise of saving your fucked-up soul. But then again, it’s the twenty-first fucking century and that’s all still going on, isn’t it? Different times, same problems.”

“Uh….”

“But I love that saying, ‘All that glitters is not gold.’ I know Shakespeare used it in
The Merchant of Venice
, but Chaucer used it too. Interesting, huh? See ya, Paul.”

I stood with my mouth open, torn between shock and awe as I watched his retreating form. He stopped to light a cigarette before picking up his guitar case and crossing the street toward the giant Male/Female statue across from the station. He looked like a wandering minstrel or a bohemian poet in no particular hurry.

A taxi driver honked his horn, effectively snapping me into motion. I hopped in and gave the impatient driver my hotel information before turning in vain to get another glimpse of Seth. Less than two hours ago, I hoped I’d never see him again. I was sure he was self-absorbed and extremely immature for his age. However, the intense man on the train was obviously well-read and more intelligent than he’d let on over coffee. He left a trail of intriguing clues that made me very curious about him. I smiled as I settled back in my seat thinking I’d have to Google
The Canterbury Tales
. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Summoner and Pardoner. It had been years since I’d been required to read it in school, but I was fascinated by his outburst. Seth Landau was much more than a pretty face. He was a puzzling surprise.

L
ATER
THAT
evening I closed my laptop and rubbed my eyes tiredly. My meeting was scheduled at nine the next morning. I hoped it wouldn’t go past noon. It would be nice to be back in DC before rush hour, I mused. I stretched my arms over my head and leaned back in the hotel room desk chair. It had been a long day. And a strange one. My mind kept wandering back to Seth. He was gorgeous, albeit a bit daft, but the truth was I had a thing for beautiful crazy people. I’d tried dating normal men like Curt, for example, but those efforts usually fizzled before we even thought about getting into bed. The ones I couldn’t get out of my head and almost always fell into some sort of tumultuous affair with were the oddball, temperamental types. The mercurial artist who might ignore his cell for days on end, then surfaced to find inspiration using any means possible the moment his muse fled.

I swiped my hand over my jaw and stood abruptly as thoughts of Simon Pickard came flooding into my head. Damn. I wished Aaron hadn’t brought his name up. What was that about? An artist’s work his editor wanted to use for a British influence fall spread. Hmm. Simon was undeniably talented, but he was complex. And very difficult. I didn’t want to think about him.

I walked back to the desk and searched my briefcase for the postcard Seth had shoved in my hands earlier on the train. I pulled out the battered card, noting the drawing of the guitar again. The initials SL in tiny print were visible at the bottom of the design near a lick of fire that curled in an intricate twist and formed the S in the band’s name. Spiral. It was good. Simple but eye-catching. I hadn’t asked him, but I’d bet Seth drew it. I traced the long neck of the instrument before allowing my gaze to shift to the bold font at the left. Cyanide Studio, Eager Street 10 p.m. I glanced at my watch. It was nine forty-five. Too late to—

Fuck it. I grabbed my wallet and headed for the door before I could change my mind.

T
HE
MOMENT
the cab driver pulled away from the hotel, I had second and third thoughts followed quickly by a fourth. I’d been much too impulsive. It may have been a Thursday evening, but this section of downtown Baltimore didn’t get the memo. The street was packed with barhoppers dressed in torn jeans, ripped tights, or their finest clubwear. I looked down at my khaki pants and traditional black V-neck pullover and knew I was out of my element. I chuckled as I stepped toward the entrance to Cyanide Studio. Really… the name alone should have served as a warning. Yet as I showed the overzealous bouncer my ID to prove I was beyond legal, bless his soul, I realized this impetuous trip was so very typical of me. I saw something I shouldn’t have or met someone I knew was disastrous to my mental health and well-being and bam! I was instantly transfixed. Like a bloody crack whore, I thought with a sigh.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the small club’s dark interior before I searched for a much-needed drink. The word club gave the cramped space a laughable delusion of grandeur. It was a large square room with dark walls. High-top tables dotted the area, leaving space at the far end near the back wall for a raised platform with the band’s instruments on display. There was a drum kit, an electric guitar, a bass guitar, and a lone microphone positioned front and center. Music played in the background, but it competed with raucous laughter and chatter and was reduced to something like a dull hum with a beat. I sidestepped my way around scantily clad women and tragically hip men with overgrown facial hair and multiple piercings, and leaned across the sticky bar to order a gin and tonic.

A woman standing nearby gave me a lascivious once-over, stopping for a measured few seconds at my crotch before grinning up at me suggestively. I wanted to laugh, but honestly I had a hard time making my mouth cooperate. I looked away and sent up a prayer the bartender was quick. And another that the drink was strong. Sitting in a crowded dive bar with a group of wasted twenty-somethings was madness. My unhip clothing didn’t bother me in the slightest because everyone here appeared too stoned or drunk to notice. I paid for my gin and scanned the room for an inconspicuous place where I could stand for the length of a song or two before heading back to my hotel. I had a feeling the type of music that appealed to this crowd would definitely not be for me, but curiosity made me stay.

I stood off to the side, close to a door with a clearly marked exit sign overhead. I took it as a beacon of sorts as I sipped my drink, cautiously avoiding eye contact with anyone around me. My body was present, but my head was already planning my escape. Suddenly the dim club area went a little darker. The crowd cheered and whistled as the shadowed figures of the band filed onto the makeshift stage.

And my traitorous heart skipped a beat. All pretense of being aloof and uninterested flew out the proverbial window. I knew full well why I was in this little shithole of a bar, and I wasn’t going anywhere until I saw him in action. My dick twitched in anticipation as the first sound of an electric guitar sounded above the din. The audience went nuts, screaming, cheering, wolf whistling. The air was charged with a palpable energy that buzzed, then jumped when the meager spotlight shone on the four young men. They were all good-looking in an überhip way that begged the audience to believe “cool” just oozed out of them naturally. A captivating drum beat, a bass lick with a hook, a lead singer with a Jaggeresque attitude and a guitarist who—fuck.