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Who even now was staring at him as he stood beside his truck with a questioning look. Marc told himself to quit being a fucking coward.
Pasting a smile on his lips, he stepped out of the car. Royce immediately led the way into the townhouse through a door in the garage without another word, just assuming that Marc would have brains enough to follow.
Marc walked beside Royce’s vehicle and through the open door which put him in the kitchen. An incredibly clean kitchen with pale honey-colored wood cabinets and a light gray countertop. There wasn’t a plate, cup, or spoon out of place. Hell, everything looked brand new—as if Royce had never used it. Following the sound of footsteps, he walked from the kitchen through a small dining room that didn’t contain a table and chairs to the living room.
Just like the kitchen, the living room looked completely untouched. He’d seen model homes that looked more lived-in. A white sofa and a black chair faced a nondescript wooden table. A TV offered the only break in the white walls. There were no pictures of family or friends. No art whatsoever. There was…nothing.
An uneasy twist tightened his stomach. It didn’t look as if anyone lived in this house. There was nothing personal. No little hint into the man who was supposed to be keeping him safe, as if he’d erased all signs of his soul. Marc had watched those horrible true-crime shows that revealed images of a psychotic killer’s home to find it meticulously cleaned and organized. Royce’s home reminded him a little too much of that.
“Have you lived here long?” Marc called after Royce as he continued to follow Royce’s heavy footsteps. He paused at the foot of the stairs by the front entrance, then shrugged. Royce never told him to stay in the living room. Didn’t speak to him at all. So, he went up.
At the top of the stairs, he found three open doors. One to a bathroom and another to a spare bedroom with only a queen-sized mattress and box spring on the hardwood floor. The other room was the master bedroom, and this one had a little shred of color and personality.
The king-sized bed dominated the room with its black comforter and wooden headboard with the open slats. Perfect for gripping or tying someone to. Marc blinked and jerked his gaze away from the bed to the pair of framed pictures on the nightstand. Without thinking, he stepped farther into the room, squinting at the pictures. One looked a couple of decades old at least and was of two young boys. The other was of a handsome young man with a colorful scarf tied around his neck. It looked like a nice spring day with cherry blossoms in the background. Even from a distance, the man’s smile was incredibly sweet.
Royce stepped out of the walk-in closet with a black roller bag in hand. He glared at Marc, looking as if he were surprised to find him there. “Wait downstairs,” he barked. “I’ll be down in five minutes.”
Marc stiffened at his tone, feeling like a scolded child. Sure, this was Royce’s private domain, and the man couldn’t like having his privacy invaded, but Royce was about to touch every inch of Marc’s private life. “Of course,” Marc bit out as he turned on his heel and started to leave the room.
A low muttered curse rumbled from Royce a second later. “Wait,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Is there anything in particular I should pack?”
“Most days I’ll be at the gallery downtown. You can wear whatever you want there.” Marc partially turned to look at Royce, still expecting to be ejected from the room at any second.
“Jeans and T-shirts?”
“You can wear onesie unicorn pajamas and a tiara every day to the gallery. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen.” Some of the tension eased from Marc’s shoulders when he saw the corner of Royce’s mouth jerk like he was fighting back a smile.
Clearing his throat, Royce tossed the roller bag on the bed and opened it. “I’ll skip the onesie this time. I’ll be carrying, and it could get in the way.”
His heart missed a beat at the mention of the fact that Royce would by carrying a gun and that danger was still haunting his steps. It was easy to forget at times when he was focused on the strange man grabbing clothes out of the top dresser drawer on the opposite side of the room.
“A suit or two would be wise,” Marc added. “I have a new show opening in about a week. Those typically run semi-formal. But, you can show up in jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve had other artists adhere to that dress code.”
Dark eyes lifted and pinned Marc to the spot as Royce’s hand stopped moving clothing around. “But I’d stand out.”
