Lexington Black (28 page)

'I've come to say goodbye,' he said.

Panic gripped me. 'Where are you going?'

'Connecticut. I'm on my way to the airport.'
As I was processing this information, he leaned down and kissed my
lips, moving away before I could hold him to me.

'Why Connecticut?'

He smiled gently. 'I found a house in the
clouds.'

'Yeah? Tell me about it.'

'It's an old lighthouse in Freehaven. At the
moment it's just broken floorboards but I'm going to live there and
write terrible novels.' A small, sad smile. 'Peter told me about
your father. I'm sorry.'

'Thanks. It was pretty quick at the end.'

'What will you do now?'

I shrugged. 'I haven't thought that far
ahead.' It was true, I hadn't. Sorting out my father's affairs was
time-consuming enough, without worrying about how I was going to
spend the rest of my life.

Or who with.

'Well, if you fancy a break by the sea ...'
He handed me a piece of paper. I looked at, and saw that it was an
address. 'I need some help making the place habitable if you're
interested. But get your life sorted out first, Lex.' He
thoughtfully ran his thumb over the ring I wore on the third finger
of my left hand.

'It's yours if you want it back,' I said.

He shook his head. 'Another time, maybe.
Goodbye, Lex.' He pressed a gentle kiss to my lips and walked out,
leaving a cold empty space behind him.

I didn't see Rob for months after our brief
conversation at my bedside. There never seemed to be a good time
when I could concentrate all my efforts on mending our broken
relationship. Also, I guess I was scared, which was a new feeling
for me. I didn't want to see him and find out for sure that he
didn't want me any more. Even though he had said "maybe," in my
book that was a resounding "no." Rejection sucked, so why put
myself through it again?

During that time I sold the company and all
the assets that went with it, including the housekeeper, the
helicopter, fleet of limousines and penthouse apartment. After
Dad's death I realised I had too much of everything. It wasn't as
if I needed it.

To give myself some kind of focus, I bought a
derelict building in the heart of the city. Some of the people
finding themselves without a job after the company sell-off began
running it as a drop-in centre, where anyone down on their luck
could go in and get a hot meal and a bed for the night. I worked
non-stop to get the Charles Martyn Center up and running. Did I do
it to make myself feel good? Hell, yes, but also because I knew
that finally, my life had begun to mean something. The day Rob had
given Jerry Ford a hot coffee and a couple of dollars had shamed
me. I had walked past such people all my adult life and hadn't
given them a thought.

It was rollercoaster ride, a steep learning
curve, crazy, sleepless, terrifying time, but one of the most
fulfilling in my life. Jerry Ford ran the place, and I couldn't
manage without him. He had the right combination of no-bullshit
presence and warmth which was essential for dealing with desperate
people. As a former city boy, I haven't yet commanded their respect
but it came naturally to him. Maybe it was because he is
ex-military. I didn't know, but he sure as hell has mine.

My ex-chauffeur, Ty, was extra brawn for
those times when things kicked off. We had a strict no
drugs/booze/grudges policy, and anyone turning up wasted was put in
a quiet room to sleep it off. People knew that Ty and Jerry could
flatten everyone in the room in less than five minutes, so they
tended to behave.

Ty was also an expert in the kitchen. Who
knew? I hadn't. His mama had taught him a few things before letting
him loose in the big city. Hell, he was better at cooking than he
was as a chauffeur. He even began teaching me. I'm getting better
at it. I'm too light on the seasoning, though, something he
continues to give me grief about.

Rob has been into the city a couple of times
to have a look around the CMC. The first time I wasn't there and I
was glad, because I didn't want him to see me with an apron on, up
to my eyes in chile con carne. I'm not ashamed of doing it, but he
would have thought that I was trying to justify myself to him.
Maybe the project started that way, but by the time it came to
fruition, I was 100% committed. No more designer suits and handmade
shoes. It was actually a relief not to worry about what I was going
to wear each morning, or how much money I was expected to make.

But let's be clear here. My newfound altruism
only extended so far. I still lived in fucking luxury compared to
the poor bastards I met every day. Unless I sold everything and
lived in a tent, that is. But if I had given everything away, the
CMC wouldn't have existed. Everyone wins. I was still the
businessman and always would be. Guess it must be in the genes.

When I finally was invited up to see Rob in
Freehaven the following October, I was wondering what the hell he
had been thinking, buying a place that needed so much work. Within
a few moments of being there, I totally got it.

I went up one Friday morning. We had been
exchanging tentative emails for a few weeks, most of them painfully
polite. He told me about progress on the lighthouse, and I in turn
wrote about what had been happening at the CMC. Once, in a moment
of weakness, I sent him a Lana Del Ray CD, highlighting the song
Blue Jeans
, and a letter that was little more than verbal
vomit, saying I was sorry, I was an asshole, that he meant
everything to me, I would love him forever. That kind of thing.
Yeah, I was embarrassed afterwards, and he said
nada
. Not
one fucking word about it. No doubt he felt as awkward as I did,
yet I didn't apologise afterwards. I stood by every word I had
written. In return, he gave me fuck all. No subtext in his emails,
no drunken ramble saying how I had ruined his life. Not that I had,
but I was expecting some fucking thing to acknowledge what we had
before was real.

Then out of the blue, he said that the
shipment with all his possessions was arriving very shortly from
England, and he would need help moving in properly. For the first
time in months, he would be able to sleep on a decent bed. Would I
mind giving him a hand?

I thought about it for all of two
seconds.

His possessions didn't amount to much, so
unpacking didn't take very long. It was mostly moving pieces of
furniture around, deciding what would look best where. We worked
tirelessly; there was too much to do for conversation to lag. He
told me where to put things and I did as I was told.

There had been times in the last few emails
(before my verbal vomit) that had I had sensed him thawing towards
me. Not weakening. I had never seen him as the weaker one. That
role was mine alone. It was more that he was trying me out for
size, starting with an "x" by his name, and progressing to "love,
Rob xxx." There were a few comments that sounded slightly
flirtatious, however many times I read them to make sure I hadn't
been imagining it, and one starting with "when you come up here..."
Although I wanted desperately to take advantage of these overtures,
I dared not, lest I had misinterpreted them. After the verbal
vomit, the kisses continued but did not increase. That was
something, I guessed.

So I drove up there when the morning was
still dark, and arrived at a respectable 8.30 in the morning. As we
worked on that late October day, I asked him again about his books,
which were selling well on Amazon. He had switched genres from
steampunk to horror, and man, did he ever have a sick sense of
humour. It was one more thing I loved about him. Scared me a bit
too, that my angel could think such things. You see? I'm definitely
the weaker one.

In the end he had decided not to find an
agent for his family novel. Having completed it, and given what he
now knew, he didn't feel it was appropriate. Maybe one day he will
change his mind. He is a brilliant writer, far better than he
realises.

For the next two days we worked side by side.
I dug the yard, washed up, did all those things I had avoided for
the first thirty-five years of my life because I had staff to do it
for me. It was fun. More fun than I thought possible. If this was
ordinary, I could take it.

The first night felt awkward. I slept on the
couch and he was in a sleeping bag up in the bedroom. I lay awake
for a long time, waiting for the creak of footsteps on old
floorboards, but they didn't come. I remembered that morning when I
had woken alone and he had been cooking breakfast, clad only in my
underwear. That day seemed far away. To get back to that closeness
seemed impossible.

It was late the following afternoon by the
time we heaved his mattress up the stairs to his bedroom. I
collapsed upon it with a sigh and closed my eyes. As weary as I was
by our exertions that day, only one thought crowded my mind.

Please, Rob. Just get on the bed with me and
allow me to love you. Please, please...

Nothing. I opened my eyes and saw him
standing by the window, looking out towards the sea.

'Where did you put the bed linen?' He asked,
somewhat brusquely.

'Uh, in that cupboard.' I scrambled off the
bed, not wanting him to think I was hoping for any intimacy. 'I'll
go down and light the fire.''

In the lounge, I built up the fire in the
wood-burner as he had shown me the night before. I could hear him
upstairs, making up the bed. Great. And I'd be on the fucking couch
again, if he deigned to let me stay. I could feel my temper rising
with my frustration. What was it going to take for him to realise
how sorry I was for my crass error?

Moodily, I lit the fire and closed the glass
door. Night was drawing in and the glow from the flames illuminated
the soft rug in front of it. He had furnished the room with comfort
in mind, rather than high style. It was a world away from the chic
penthouse apartment I had lived in, but I liked it. I felt at home
there.

It was a dangerous thought, and I thrust it
away as I went back down into the kitchen to find some wine. It was
a bit early in the afternoon but I didn't care. I needed the
alcohol to dull the pain of more fucking rejection.

On the way, I prodded Play on the iPod dock,
thinking some music might fill the silence. Lana's smoky vocals
filled the room. How fucking ironic that the song I had sent to him
came on exactly at that moment. What were the odds?

I opened the large refrigerator door. He had
stocked it well, with Lanson champagne, smoked salmon, steak. He
wasn't going to go hungry, that was for sure. I hoped he would
enjoy his house-warming meal all by himself because I wasn't going
to spend another night on that uncomfortable hunk of furniture,
nursing a hard-on and too stubborn to jerk off.

I slammed the fridge again, and nearly jumped
out of my skin.

He was standing behind the door.

'I've played that song every damned day since
you sent it to me,' he said.

Before I could speak, he had pulled me into
his arms and was kissing me as if I was the last man on earth. I
lifted him onto the work surface so we were face to face, our lips
still locked. The small whimpers of pleasure could have come from
either of us. I couldn't tell.

Suddenly, he thrust me away and leapt off the
kitchen top, beckoning to me as he headed for the stairs. Still, he
said nothing. I stumbled after him like a blind man, my cock rigid
in my pants, my eyes glued to his perfect, denim-clad ass. I wanted
to push him down on the stairs and take him right then but he
swatted me away.

'I'm calling the shots,' he said over his
shoulder, and I could do nothing but follow him.

In the living room, by the light of the fire,
he peeled my tee-shirt away and unbuttoned my jeans. I was almost
embarrassed by the strength of my erection as he watched me step
out of them. As soon as I was naked he pushed me down on the rug
and removed his own shirt, all the while smiling slightly. I did
not trust that smile. He was planning something. I just knew
it.

Naked apart from his glasses, he knelt on the
rug and lay close along the length of my body, trapping my arm
between us. He moved my other arm up over my head and held my wrist
firmly as he kissed me again. He tenderly bit my lower lip and
flickered his tongue along my teeth, tasting and testing. The kiss
became deeper as I opened up to him, allowing his tongue to roam at
will in my mouth. Through the surround sound system, Lana's voice
smoothed over us like molten chocolate. Rob moved one knee over to
trap me on the floor. I could feel the solid length of his hard-on
against my thigh, the dampness of pre-seminal fluid. For once, I
felt vulnerable, at his mercy.

'Rob ...'

'Be quiet.' He kissed my lips, my nose, my
forehead. All the while, he had one cool hand wrapped around my
shaft. My hips lifted and a soft whimper escaped my throat. I
needed him so badly by that point. All the weeks of hoping and
waiting had concentrated my lust to the point I was ready to
blow.

As if sensing it, he shifted to straddle my
body, his large, hairless balls pressing against my own. He held my
wrists tightly to the floor and examined my face. There was a
strange gleam in his eye that had not been there before. He had
changed in many ways in the last few months, and the man before me
was a lot more confident than the one who had fallen asleep in the
Audi, over a year before. I had underestimated his temper,
ferocious when he snapped, the power behind his punch. I was wary
of him, and that made him more exciting than ever.

'I'm going to take you tonight,' he said
neutrally. I could feel his hard-on pressing against my stomach,
vying for dominance with my own.

'I always go on top,' I said calmly. It
wasn't negotiable, as far as I was concerned, yet my heart was
thumping at new possibilities. Rob was a top? Really?