wheel and the kiln and all of the clay and glazes, was still well lit.
The voices were coming from that way, and through the entry
between the two sides of the shop, Talker could see Brian"s face.
He looked extremely uncomfortable.
Skeezy perv Olenbacher was there, and he was being extra
persuasive.
“Come on, Brian, you"ve rubbed that shoulder about six times
already. Just let me—”
“Talker will rub it when he comes to pick me up,” Brian said
shortly, and then Tate watched him jerk away. Skeezy was right
next to him, following him with that insinuation into his personal
space that made Talker want to gag.
“Brian, come on. I mean… I mean, look at the guy. I know you
want to be faithful and loyal and everything, but seriously—he"s just
holding you back!”
Tate cringed. Oh God. It was true. Brian with his steady, solid
perseverance was going to graduate from college and Tate, with
his mercurial flashes of brilliance, was not. Brian had the job of his
dreams and Tate was still a bar back for a nightclub, a job that
didn"t hold nearly the allure it had three years before when he
started. What the hell was Brian doing with him anyway, when he
had this older, wiser,
richer
man, trying to rub his shoulder and give
him art shows and—
“Shut up!” Brian snapped, and Talker flinched, because he
wasn"t sure he"d ever heard Brian that angry before. He"d known it
could happen—Brian had been attacked because his buried temper
had surfaced like an iceberg and savaged the person who had hurt
Talker—but he"d never actually
seen
his lover in a black fury.
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28
He couldn"t have given himself away if someone stepped on
his toe. He
had
to see what Brian did next.
“Brian, nothing against the guy—”
Talker"s breath turned to a brick in his lungs as he heard the
thump and rattle of a slight man being shoved against an empty
pottery rack. “You say one more word about him,” Brian said softly,
“and you can forget the show, you can forget my pieces, you can
forget the whole damned thing. I"ll go back to the Olive Garden and
go back to sculpting on my kitchen table, do you hear me?”
“Okay,” Orenbacher said, making an admirable attempt at
dignity. “Fine. I get it. Throw yourself away on a skinny punk with a
tattoo fetish and enough metal to—”
“Fuck off, Mark,” Brian said coldly. Talker watched Brian
appear in the doorway again and then disappear. He was going
back to where pieces were stacked after their first trip through the
kiln. He couldn"t see what Brian was doing there, but he heard a
rustle, like a tarp being pulled back, and he watched his gentle, kind
lover give a glare over his shoulder that would have sent Talker
screaming into the next year.
“You want to see who he is to me? You keep being shitty
about him, and you won"t listen to my words. I suck at words. The
only one I can ever talk to is him. But I"m good with clay. If this is
the only way you"ll listen, then listen. You and me will never
happen. But this is the boy you keep talking trash about, and you
need to know why I can"t let it stand.”
Mark moved slowly, stiffly, through Talker"s field of vision, like
Brian had really hurt him when he"d been thrown up against the
empty pottery rack. He moved to where Brian was standing and
Talker heard the softly indrawn breath that indicated true shock and
praise.
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29
“That"s beautiful,” he said quietly, and Talker let out a breath
he hadn"t known he"d been holding. “That"s him?”
“The fact that you have to ask means you haven"t been
looking,” Brian replied. His hand stretched out to the thing they
were both looking at, and Tate recognized that angle of his fingers,
the softness of his jaw—it was an expression, a touch, that Brian
had only ever aimed at Tate.
“Okay, Brian,” Mark said, his shoulders slumping. “I can"t say
I"m not disappointed—I think we would have made a real good
team here. But you"re… you"re brilliant. I"ve loved art all my life; I"d
be a real asshole if I took away your big break. Just… you know. If
this,” he gestured toward the hidden object, “isn"t who your boy
really is, you know. Remember there"s this old guy with a lot of
money who would love to take you in.”
Brian"s look eased up a little. “Don"t need money,” he said,
covering up the thing they"d been looking at. “Lived without money
my whole life. I need Talker, though. Didn"t really live until he saw
me.”
Talker"s heart stopped. He held his hand up to his mouth and
blinked hard, wishing he had a hole he could cry in or a church that
would take him in or a holy place he could give offerings to—oh,
Brian.
You’ve been trying to make me believe this for three years,
haven’t you?
Talker hadn"t believed. He thought he had. He"d let Brian
touch him in their bed, stood up for him when he couldn"t stand for
himself, come to trust that Brian would always be there for Tate if
he could ever possibly could….
But he"d always suspected a grain of pity there. That maybe
Brian was settling. He"d confessed it shyly to Doc Sutherland, his
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30
shrink and his friend, in one of their one-on-one sessions, when
Brian had been at class. Doc Sutherland had told him that he"d
never seen anyone more in love with someone than Brian was with
Talker, but Tate… he"d held on to that disbelief. His entire life, he"d
had to settle for hand-me-down clothes, pro-bono medical work,
leftover love. He didn"t trust that someone as beautiful, as true as
Brian could serve up the real thing and not lord it over someone like
Talker. But not Brian—Brian worshipped Talker because he thought
what Talker had to give back was worth it.
The man who had nearly decked his meal ticket hadn"t done
that because he was settling. The man who had said he hadn"t
lived until Talker had seen him—that hadn"t been settling.
Suddenly all of Tate"s fears about not being worthy, about
being a fuckup who couldn"t graduate—they were all secondary. He
opened the door again and closed it harder, so the bell would ring,
and watched as Brian looked through the lit entryway and smiled.
Tate met him as he walked forward in greeting, taking Brian"s
face in his hands—the scarred and the sound—and pulling him into
his deepest, wettest, best kiss.
Brian pulled back and blushed and smiled. “What was that
for?”
“For loving me,” Talker said. God. Brian really did.
“Always,” Brian murmured, and they kissed again in Brian"s
holy place, and it was close enough to marriage vows for Tate to
always believe.
TALKER kissed him as they were getting dressed in their trunks.
“What was that for?”
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31
“For loving me.”
“Always.”
Talker smiled a little. The words had become their affirmation
of sorts, just like an art gallery had become their holy place.
“Hey,” Brian told him, “I’m going to go feed the guys, okay?
You go ahead and catch the first few waves—I’ll be a minute. They
looked like they needed some love.”
Talker nodded and let Brian go take care of the four alpacas
and three Merino sheep that they kept on the little spot of land next
to their cottage. Sunshine the rat had died while Brian had been in
the hospital, and Big Harry Nads, her replacement rat, had lived
right until Brian had almost graduated. They had debated then—
what next? Another rat? A cat? A dog? And then the opportunity
had come to move here, their little cottage by the sea, the tiny
haven of peace and heaven that Talker had never dreamed about.
When Brian’s Aunt Lyndie had suggested they raise the
animals to sell the fleece to local spinners/dyers, it had seemed
perfect. They had the two cats, half-feral, half-affectionate, slinky,
purring things that may or may not wake up on the foot of their bed
or the hood of their car, but the sheep and alpacas had been…
well, exotic, and sweet, and fun.
Talker loved them—he could feed them and stroke them and
they simply enjoyed him, and then baaad or bleated or whatever
and trotted away. They were actually better company than
Sunshine or Big Harry, and Talker would bring carrots or sweet
grasses or oats and spend hours petting them, just listening to the
wind and the surf and feeling that luxe, living fur of theirs under his
hands.
If he’d had any idea that he and Brian would have ended up in
this little cottage right by the sea, he might have been more excited
about the offer to move to Petaluma, actually. But then, Brian
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32
hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about the offer. How were either of
them to know that Mark was being completely sincere?
THE show had been held in the reception hall of the library, which
Tate had always thought sounded like a tiny room with gross
carpeting and plastic chairs. It wasn"t. It was called the Library
Galleria, and it was a big, gorgeous ballroom with marble floors and
arching ceilings and a second story level where people could
wander and look down at the crowds below.
It was beautiful, and the art being displayed there was even
more so. Brian was one of three artists being showcased, and Tate
Walker couldn"t look at the sculptures on their pedestals or boxes
without feeling cowed and unworthy.
This
was Tate Walker"s boyfriend here? Brian looked good—
handsome and assured. Talker had made him cut his hair the week
before, so it was only a little long, because that much long, wheat
colored hair just
shouldn’t
be cut short, and they had both hit the
thrift stores hard until they"d come up with sports jackets to wear
over jeans. They"d sprung for new shirts and Brian had a tie, and
they both were freshly shaved (even Talker"s tattoo side of his
head), and Talker had bought a new nose stud for Brian with a tiny
Celtic cross etched on the top, to match his own.
But Brian looked—professional. Self-contained. He"d nodded
and smiled and stood quietly, listened intently when people spoke,
and never made the mental missteps that might frighten people into
thinking he was a temperamental artist who couldn"t be relied upon.
Talker had twitched so badly in the course of the night that
he"d managed to scatter hors d"oeuvres all over the carpet once
and spill wine on his blazer another time. Brian had stopped what
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33
he was doing both times and tended to him—helped him pick up
the food, wiped gently at his coat with a napkin.
“It"s okay,” Brian had murmured the second time. “No one here
is paying any attention to us. It"s all about the art, all right?”
Talker nodded and covered Brian"s hands with his own. “I
haven"t even seen all your pieces,” he mourned. “I just want so
badly for them to think you"re awesome.”
And to not embarrass
you.
Brian colored. “You haven"t seen them all?” he asked, a little
strained. “Have you seen the main one? The one Mark put in the
center of the library? He said it"s the cornerstone of the show. You
haven"t seen that one?”
Talker shook his head. He knew instinctively that this was the
piece that Brian had shown Orenskeezer to make the guy back off.
Talker had never told Brian he"d been there that night—and he"d
never doubted, ever again, that Brian would simply forget that he
loved his boyfriend.
Brian looked strained and upset for the first time that evening.
“You
have
to see it, Talker. You
have
to.”
A lovely woman in her fifties came up and touched Brian"s
arm, looking for attention, and Brian turned to her with a smile that
Tate was beginning to recognize as his “This is a patron” smile.
“Thanks, Mrs. Rose—can I answer that in just a sec?” He turned
back to Talker and then spotted someone over Tate"s shoulder.