Tommy’s chest heaves with exertion–or anger–his clenched fists gripping one of the Palmer brothers by the shirt. Rain slicks down his shoulders, his neck, as he stands in the center of the storm, at the edge of the roof. His hair is dripping, his clothes stuck to his muscled frame.
He glares at me over his shoulder; his eyes burn and spark like he’s trapping the lightning in his gaze.
Exquisite.
Achingly perfect.
Art in motion.
Just like when I saw him at the lake, just like the first time he made me understand art, I’m hit with another realization; I’ve been searching for him my entire life, without ever realizing it.
“Help!” Gregory cries weakly, gripping Tommy’s wrists for dear life, sipping shallow breaths of terror and fear. He’s right to be afraid. Tommy’s holding him over the ledge.
The other brother, Leonard, is slumped off to one side, a knife hilt sticking out of his shoulder. He’s pale and gasping, in shock and in no state to aid his brother.
“Tommy,” I say his name because it’s all I can think of to say. It’s the only word in my head right now.
“No!” he shouts back over the thunder. “Fuck off! I’m fixing it myself!”
“Tommy,” I say it again, stern this time, because it’s clear he’s burned himself up and is on the brink of a breakdown.
“No!” he shouts back, shaking Gregory over the drop. The boy screams and tries to grab onto Tommy’s clothes.
“No, please!” he weeps. “I’m sorry! Don’t drop me!”
“Shut up!” Tommy growls, sending shivers down my spine. Fuck. I want him.
“Tommy,” I stalk forward, out into the cold rain, and press against him from behind. Wrapping my arms around his, I grip Gregory’s shirt, too. It’s ripping, the weight of him proving to be too much for it. “Let my men take them. Let him go.”
“Why?” he snaps, pressing back against me despite his frustration. “They threatened me! They threatenedus!”
“Are they the blackmailers?” I ask, plastering every inch of my body to his.
“No,” he denies, the word biting and angry. “They’re fucking with me, wasting my time, causing trouble. They know about me and they wanted to fucking, to fucking tell you and fucking bother you with it, make me even more of a burden, this fucking–these fucking–ugh! This isn’t how I wanted this to go!”he shouts. Thunder shakes the air around us. His arms are shaking from the strain of holding Gregory and I try to take some of the weight.
“Tommy, if you think I’m going to let you go to prison, you’re out of your fucking mind,” I warn him sternly, letting my Daddy tone slip in. “Let my men take the brothers, and I’ll handle it. But if you drop him, it will be a much bigger mess to clean up.”
He flinches in my arms, like I’ve said something painful. He pants as he debates it, clearly torn. But eventually, he concedes to me, like the perfect boy I know he is.
“Fuck!” he finally shouts with frustration and defeat. Together, we drag Gregory back onto the roof so I can throw him into the arms of my men.
“Why do I make everything worse?!” Tommy asks, scrubbing his face with his hands, hunching over in the chilling rain.
I snap my fingers at the two employees who followed me out here. “Take them,” I order, indicating the brothers. “I’ll have a chat with their parents. Get them cleaned up and get them the fuck out of here without anyone seeing. Down the stairwell, over there.”
Following my orders, my underlings pull the boys into the rain, over the roof, toward a rusty, external emergency stairwell on the other side of the building. Gregory whimpers and follows along on rubbery, shaking legs, and Leonard is white-lipped from the pain in his arm as they are dragged away.
I pant in the icy chill, hot and cold all over. With rough, rapid movements, barely even thinking coherent thoughts other thanTommy, Tommy,I go to the door and slam it shut again, closing off the light from the party. Severing us from the rest of the world.
No one will bother us.
My eyes rove over Tommy, and snag on a red stain turning pink under the onslaught of water. Pulling him under the belltower roof and out of the rain, I yank his shirt out from his pants and lift it, then scowl at the cut I see running from his ribs to his hip.
“It’s shallow,” he mutters, petulant and sullen.
“It could’ve been a lot worse,” I say, trying to control myself. I’m seeing red, seething. The frozen, crystalline wonder and worship of seeing him in that still frame of violence and beauty is gone, replaced by the reality of the rain and his blood. “What the fuck were you thinking, coming up here with them alone? Why did you do that? I had men watching you inside for a reason. You were supposed to stay there!”
“They wanted to talk somewhere private, and I was hoping they were the blackmailers.” He averts his eyes, despite the way I grab his chin to direct his face to mine. Our breaths puff between us, heated and fast. “They weren’t. It made me angry.”
