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"Marcus, I can't. . . I can't promise you anything. " That wasn't what he'd intended to say. No, I can't start this again. I can't be with you even a week. A day.
But Thomas didn't say that. Everyone knew an addict couldn't have just one drink, one fix. But no matter how strong Marcus' hold over him, they both knew the building behind Thomas, the people waiting in it and all that meant would always call him back.
The question was whether it was worth it to him to give himself a week of Marcus again, now that he knew how intolerably hard it was to walk away from him, be without him. Knowing he'd have to sever that link and do it to himself all over again at the end of the week.
But Marcus and his art together. . . even if Thomas had to let Marcus go again, if he rediscovered his art, he could have that. Maybe that would help fill the aching void enough that it wouldn't be as difficult this time.
And maybe Thomas wanted Marcus so much he just didn't give a damn how hard it was going to be to walk away again.
"No," he said. "No. I won't. "
Marcus nodded. "Hold onto the ticket. It's yours to use or not to use. " Thomas held it out. He couldn't afford the temptation. "No. You take it back. Give it. . . " The words "to someone else" hung on his tongue as if he were pierced by a fish hook whose barbed tip he couldn't dislodge.
He'd tortured himself with images of other hands on Marcus' body, other men seeing that thick cock, Marcus thrusting into them. He woke from dreams about it, wanting to smash and tear something. He usually settled for going out in the middle of the night in nothing but his pajama bottoms to chop wood, the pain singing through every muscle, his fingers knotting with the agony of clenching the axe too hard.
"I can't, Marcus. I just can't. "
Marcus turned for his car. Didn't take the ticket. Thomas clutched it with the check Marcus had picked up, smoothed and handed back to him. He swallowed. Goddamn it.
"Marcus, are you - " He bit it off, knowing it was wrong to show how he felt. As powerful as the physical attraction was between them, it was even more dangerous to give Marcus the edge of knowing how much deeper it went for Thomas still. In fact, if he was forced to look at himself in a mirror and be brutally honest, Thomas knew he hadn't realized how much he loved Marcus Stanton until he left him. He was pathetic.
Marcus turned at the driver's side door. He'd put his sunglasses back on, distancing himself, and Thomas felt exactly like what he was, an awkward, gangling kid dealing with a man who was one step ahead of him on everything. Swiss watch, self confidence and a strong sense of his identity.
"What, pet?"
The endearment was uttered in a neutral tone Thomas knew could hide anything from hurt to scornful amusement.
"Are you. . . are you being careful? I'm not. . . fishing. I don't have any right to be, to ask anything. And I'm not," he added quickly. He just knew Marcus. Knew that there was a reckless side to his personality, odd moments of melancholy that had once been known to compel him to go out for an evening's entertainment wherever he could find it, not giving a damn about protection. It was a side of Marcus few knew about, and he'd only picked up on it from bits and pieces of things Marcus had revealed about himself, most of them inadvertently.
Thomas had been able to balance Marcus' dark side, calm it, where friends who'd known him longer couldn't even touch it. When Thomas had asked Marcus about that, to determine if he was imagining it or not, Marcus had been sitting on the balcony staring out in the night, seeing shadows Thomas didn't understand.
"It's because you're an artist, Thomas. I don't mean a person who paints or sculpts, though that's one form your perception takes. You see into the souls of others more easily. It should make me want to close all doors against you, because my soul is the last thing I want anyone to see. But - "
"But. . . " Thomas had prodded. But Marcus had said nothing else, his green eyes lost in the darkness.
"I just want to know you're taking care of yourself," Thomas said, coming back to the present. "You matter. "
Marcus left the driver's side, came back across the gravel in his Italian shoes.
Thomas held his ground as Marcus picked up his hand and ran his fingers over the tip of the injured one. "Same goes, pet. " Though the shades concealed Marcus' eyes, Thomas felt the intensity of his focus. "Come to the Berkshires. The address is written on the back of the ticket. Don't say no. Just think about it and be willing to give it a try. One week. "
"One week when you'll try to get me back in your bed. "
"Oh, there won't be any trying on that one, Thomas. We both know that's not what's in question. " Marcus' lips curved. Thomas felt his cock respond as if on a chain that Marcus could jerk to attention whenever he wished.
"You'll be in my bed. "
Chapter Three
Marcus managed to drive to the end of the dirt road, weaving through the flanking trees that put him out of sight of the hardware store. Then he had to stop. He gripped the steering wheel, fighting the urge to pound on it. He wanted to destroy something inside the car, rip it apart to make it match the way he felt inside.
God, he'd wanted to just eat him alive. Eat him alive and then force him into the car, drive away from the deceptively picturesque rural scene that was tinted with the backlight of hell, because it was a prison for Thomas.
"Jesus Christ. And here comes the warden," he muttered under his breath.
Thomas' mother stopped her late model SUV behind his rental, got out and moved with purpose toward his window, a steely glint in her blue eyes. Marcus toyed with the grimly amusing idea of rolling the car forward just a few feet to see if Elaine Wilder would chase him. Instead, he pushed the window control, met her stare for stare as she squared off with him and crossed her arms.
Her face was hard and strained, unattractive in this light, showing all that had happened to her over the past year. He wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic right now though, even as he acknowledged the wear and tear.
