Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 (15 page)

Patrick cocked an eyebrow at him but dropped down to oblige. Rich ran into his bedroom and came back with a bottle of baby oil.

“Seriously? I thought we weren’t making it weird…” Patrick teased. “Why do you even have that?”

“What? It’s a great moisturizer.”

“Uh-huh.” There went the eyebrow again.

“Okay fine, it’s also great for jerking off. Sue me. I’m just going to rub some on your skin to give it sort of a reflective quality. It will look great on camera.”

Rich poured some of the oil into first Patrick’s hands and then his own, and they set about getting Patrick good and shiny. Rich tried not to get distracted sliding his slick hands over that delicious expanse of skin—but it was hard.

Finally, he turned off all the lights in the room, leaving only the single lamp lit. Looking into the viewfinder of the camera, Rich was able to see his vision take shape. “Wait, one more thing.”

“What bloody now?”

Rich grabbed a cup of water he’d left on a side table, stuck his fingers in it, and began flicking them at Patrick. Water landed on his face and neck, his chest and shoulders, and trickled down his ridged abdomen.

“Hey!”

“Just bear with me. In the real shoot, it won’t look like water. It will be sweat, or blood or something.”

“Blood?”

Rich began taking some test shots of Patrick just standing there while they talked—focus, meter, adjust, meter, snap, repeat. “Yes. See, the product is a men’s cologne—as if the world needs another one—from a relatively new cosmetics company. They’re kind of unusual, in that all of their products are, and forever will be, geared toward men. It hasn’t really been done before, that I know of.”

“What’s that got t’do with blood?”

“Getting there. Because they’re so new, they want us to create their entire commercial brand, starting with this product—this cologne called
Essedarius.
They’ve given us zero direction, except for the fact that all their products are for men.”

“So the ads need to appeal to men?”

“Yes and no. If you ask the general population—not the gay percentage—who typically buys cologne for men…”

“Women.”

“Yes. So a campaign for a cologne has to present the product not only as something men would want, but something women want for their men. So it has to appeal to both.”

“What about gay men?”

“Trust me, this industry is not ready for that kind of campaign.”

“Huh. All right, so why am I standing here covered in baby oil?”

“Besides looking deliciously fuckable?”

Patrick grinned. “Yes, besides the obvious.”

“That’s the idea part. I did some research on the word
Essedarius
and came up with some interesting stuff.
Essedarii
were actually a type of Roman gladiator—particularly the kind who used chariots in battle…but that’s not really important.

“I latched onto this idea of a gladiator—okay, turn so that your back is toward me. Good. Stretch your arms out to your sides and flex everything as much as you can. ’Kay, now lower your chin and look at me over your shoulder—sort of like I’m some lowly peon you just caught watching while you warm up. Perfect!” Rich snapped away and kept talking.

“I latched onto this idea and thought, what guy doesn’t want to be a badass? A hero…a
super
hero, but minus the capes and the tights. And what woman—or, yes, gay man—wouldn’t want to be the one who caught such a man, the one who harnessed all that power and focused it on her—or him? It’s a fantasy…and today, you’re going to play the part of the gladiator.”

The camera loved him. The lighting and subsequent contrast gave his body contours an otherworldly quality that couldn’t be faked. Rich switched the camera to black and white mode, then to sepia, to get the next few shots. With his professional lens, he was able to pick up on the minutiae of detail that would pull the viewer in. The fine hairs that sprinkled areas like Patrick’s lower back and upper thighs, that were otherwise nothing but an expanse of creamy, smooth skin; the tiny droplets of water, repelled by the oil, that rolled down his abdomen into the vee of his groin; the lamplight reflecting in his eyes that made them appear lit by some inner fire—all of these came together to make stunning, poignant photographs.

Losing himself in the craft that had always been a secret love of his, Rich directed Patrick into the next pose. “Face me. Good. Now twist at the waist…turn just your upper body to the left and stretch out your arms like you’re reaching for something.”

Rich nodded when Patrick complied, and he sighted his model through the viewfinder. “Now—slowly—pull your right arm back, elbow up, hand even with your jaw…kind of like you’re drawing a bow string. Channel your inner Oliver Queen.”

“My who now?”

“God, never mind…just do what I said.”

Patrick moved into position, and Rich snapped away, giving subtle direction to tweak the pose. The effect was breathtaking; it was almost exactly what he’d had in mind…maybe even better.

“Your turn, mate. Get over here!” Patrick teased.

Rich gulped. He usually hated having his picture taken—he wasn’t really comfortable being the center of attention in any fashion, except work—but the idea of having a picture of himself and Patrick, naked and oily, for his own personal collection…he shivered and quickly set the camera to remote shutter.

Another idea niggled at the edges of Rich’s brain as he oiled up and came over to Patrick’s side. Clicking the remote with the hand that was out of the camera’s line of sight, he slid his free hand down Patrick’s chest and over his powerful thigh. Following the path of his hand, Rich sank down on his knees and clutched at Patrick’s leg, almost as if he were worshipping at his gladiator’s feet. He raised his eyes to stare up at Patrick. “Strike your warrior pose.”

And he did.

Even as his body was tingling all over from his close proximity to an oiled-up Patrick, Rich’s brain was running a mile a minute. “Hold that pose…I have an idea.”

“Shocker,” Patrick said fondly.

Rich ignored him, jumping to his feet to scurry off into his bedroom. After a couple of minutes rummaging through his closet, he found what he was looking for. It was a comically long, red silk scarf that he’d somehow wound up with as a result of the company Christmas party ‘dirty Santa’ game. He ended up with the useless gift because he refused to ‘play’—something was just fundamentally wrong with a Christmas game that involved trading and stealing gifts…even to someone as fucked up as Rich.

He was glad he’d gotten it now, though, since it was about to become a prop in the hottest photos Rich had ever taken. He returned to find Patrick wilting in his warrior pose. “Sorry, I should have told you to take a break,” Rich said with a wince. “Relax a minute while I put this on you.”

Patrick eyed the scarf dubiously, then shrugged. “I’m a wee bit underdressed for fancy accessories, but you’re the boss.”

“Just trust me.”

“If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be standing here bare-assed and greased up like a pig on a spit, would I then?”

“Fair enough,” Rich said, allowing himself a moment of smugness that he’d cajoled Patrick into doing this for him.

Rich managed to drape and wrap the scarf around Patrick’s head and neck, and across his face to where half of it was obscured, so that it looked similar to an Arab
keffiyeh
. He wound the excess material around Patrick’s torso and draped it in front of his pelvis to keep the shot PG-13.

Then Rich returned to his position of kneeling at Patrick’s feet and clicked off several shots with the remote. He directed Patrick through different poses while inserting himself in the composition as an adoring follower. If the slowly tenting scarf was any indication, Patrick was enjoying the idea of Rich’s faux hero-worship.

When he was satisfied that he’d gotten what he needed, Rich reached beneath the scarf to stroke Patrick’s burgeoning erection. He dropped the remote so that his other hand could join the party.

“Mmm,” Patrick rumbled, sifting his fingers through Rich’s hair. “Is it time for me to collect the spoils of war?”

“Looks that way.”

Much later when they lay together, a sweaty tangle of limbs on the couch, Patrick trailed his fingers along Rich’s side, making his muscles shiver and dance.

“Where did you learn photography?”

Rich’s sigh was long-suffering and rather melancholy, even to his own ears.

“Ah, Rory then,” Patrick guessed.

“Yeah. He teaches high school photography. Photos are essential in graphic design, and graphic design is essential in advertising, so I asked him to show me the basics of photography.”

“You miss him.”

The statement, said quietly in the sleepy, musical cadence of Patrick’s voice, cut Rich deep. “Like I would my right arm,” he said, confessing more than he meant to. “Maybe it’s stupid…selfish even. Can you even really miss a person who’s not gone?”

“Loss is loss,” Patrick said in barely a whisper. Rich got the feeling there was a story there, but something told him it wasn’t the time to pry.

“I think maybe I miss him so much because he was all the family I had, and I fucked it up…because I have no idea what it takes to make a good family.” What the hell was wrong with him? Patrick, with his brashness one minute and his still waters the next, was pulling all of these feelings out of him, entirely against his will.

Patrick nodded, oblivious to Rich’s inner struggle, and rolled so that they were on their sides, facing each other. “At the risk of getting kicked out of your…um…off your couch, can I point something out?”

“I guess…” Rich said warily.

“It may take some time for Rory to forgive you, but I think he will. Meanwhile, you do have family—
real
family—out there now. Maybe you should make a go of it with them. Are you going to talk to your brother?”

Christ, the man saw too much. “I guess I should. I just have no idea where to start. My experience with family stuff, well, it’s been less than encouraging.”

“Just start simple—coffee or something. Less pressure that way. In the meantime, the Clan O’Dowd would be happy to give you an initiation into the ‘family stuff,’ say, at Sunday dinner this week.”

Patrick’s grin was just a little too wicked to trust…and meeting the parents? “Umm…”

“Ma won’t take no,” Patrick said, sensing his eminent refusal.

“Oh, fuck me,” Rich answered, defeated.

“That can be arranged, mate, but it won’t get you out of dinner.”

PART III

Coming About

Chapter Thirteen

Coffee. Rich took Patrick’s advice and started with coffee. He’d probably been more relieved than he should have when he got John-Michael’s voicemail. He left a quick message pleading with his brother to meet him at the coffee shop near his work,
Caffé Éveillé,
at ten in the morning.

He was twitchy as he sat at his favorite table watching people go by the large picture window. Sighing, he checked his watch for the umpteenth time in the last three minutes. Ten fifteen. Hell, John-Michael probably wasn’t coming. There’d been no confirmation—but there also hadn’t been an ‘oh, hell no’—so he didn’t know what to think.

Rich chugged the dregs of his large mocha-latté and set down the cup. He was just considering leaving when he saw the hulking frame of his brother fill the doorway. Christ, he hadn’t been this nervous…ever.

J-M gave him a small wave and made a beeline for the table. He smiled sheepishly as he sat down, but didn’t quite meet Rich’s eyes. Rich wasn’t sure if it was because he was still uncomfortable with the gay thing, or if he was afraid Rich was going to lose his shit again. Damn, the ‘family stuff’ was harder than it looked.

“Hey,” Rich said. “Thanks for coming.”

John-Michael shrugged and finally looked at him. His expression was guarded, but his eyes were curious. There was no judgment or condemnation to be seen. “Not a problem. Glad you called.”

Rich wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d been expecting a fight or, at the very least, some resentment. “Um, do you want some coffee? I’m going to get another.”

“Sure. I’m pulling an all-night shift tonight, so better make it a triple-death.”

“You’re already picking up shifts? I thought you hadn’t even moved yet.”

“That day I showed up at your place, I had driven down to sign my new lease. I didn’t want to miss much work, so I asked the captain to put me on the roster ASAP. I’m down here ’til the end of the week, then I drive back up to my parents’ to pick up Jos.”

“Jos?” Rich figured he must be referring to his son, but they’d barely touched on the subject before he’d had his meltdown.

“Josiah. My little boy. I didn’t want to bring him here just to drop him off and go to work so he’s staying with…my folks.”

Rich could still sense the hesitation when John-Michael spoke about his parents, and it felt a little bit too much like pity. “It’s okay, remember? You can talk about them. It’s good,” he said, repeating the same words he’d said to the Mendelhaussen’s that long ago night. He gave a tight smile and stood up. “I’ll grab our drinks.”