Chapter 13
Rick was holding a package with the label Leading Man printed in thin, long, black letters, and showing a picture of an athlete, nearly nude save for the strip of film covering his crotch. He walked down the side steps to the house and made his way to the beach.
Except for a few surfers in the distance, the beach was deserted. He walked a stretch of the beach until he came to Paul, who was seated under a huge umbrella, paintbrush in hand, squinting his eyes toward the water.
"Hey, that's great, Paul," Rick smiled. "I can almost see the waves coming at me."
Paul made a few strokes with the brush, stood back to survey his work, shook his head, then put the brush down. "I don't like the green I've used," he said, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Going to have to mix more of a sea green."
"Well, I like what you've done."
"No, it's got to be better."
"You're too much of a perfectionist," Rick grinned. "Oh, this came for you just now."
Paul glanced at the package. "I know what it is without looking."
"What?"
"Eric does his shopping at Leading Man. They've got some great things, but knowing Eric's taste I'm going to be shocked."
"Why'd he send you a shirt."
"That's how far back your memory goes. Because, idiot, he tore my shirt off my back. Open it, will you? My hands are dirty."
Rick snapped the string, opened the package, and pulled out a yellow shirt with white ruffles along the sides and on the sleeves.
"Be great for Halloween, huh?" Paul frowned. "I'll take it back and exchange it for something else tomorrow. Oh, can't do it then. Well, one of these days."
Rick covered the box and set it down. "You're really painting up a storm, Paul. Gosh, you haven't stopped in days."
Paul made a circle of white around the sun on the canvas. "I know, I know."
"Is there a reason for it? You got a deadline or something?"
"No."
"Well, is there somebody interested in buying your stuff?"
He saw Paul turn from his painting and look at him. It was a quick look but a revealing one. He didn't understand why Paul suddenly shifted the conversation with:
"Rick, you're getting as brown as a coffee bean. Are those new bathing trunks?"
"No. They're yours," he answered.
He saw Paul's gaze go to his crotch. "I wish I looked as good in them as you."
"As for my tan. Hell, what else is there to do with you painting all day and half the night."
"Come now," Paul said. "Don't tell me you're angry because I've started to throw myself into my work. It was long overdue. I thought I couldn't paint again, it was that long."
Rick kicked some sand with his bare foot. "I was thinking that maybe we could go out for dinner tonight and maybe hit a movie."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"I've got to finish this, that's why."
"But you said that last night."
"Okay, so I did. So what?"
"Jeez, suddenly you don't want to do anything but paint."
"I'll grab me a sandwich later. But don't let that stop you from going out."
Rick tried to pinpoint the vague anxiety flickering on the edge of his thoughts. He saw a change in Paul. He didn't know exactly what it was, but something was wrong. Paul had been evasive for days now, ever since he picked up his brush and started going crazy with it. He had all but ignored him. Rick found himself more and more alone. And there was something else. Paul had taken to sleeping on the sofa. He wondered why.
"No. I think I'll stay home myself," he told Paul. "I'll make dinner though. Hey, how about a nice thick steak and some-"
"No," Paul cut in, stopping him. Then his voice got softer. "I'm trying to stay on a diet."
"You? Why? You're as slim as a toothpick."
"Yeah, but I don't like the tire around my middle, at least the start of one."
"Don't be silly. I'll get a nice salad and bake some pota-"
"You heard me, Rick. No! Try to understand I have a lot of work to do."
"Shit, you can't work on that painting twenty-four hours a day!"
"I can if I want to!" Paul said with a surprising twist of anger.
Rick sensed the leaden weight of Paul's annoyance. He curbed his own growing irritation, feeling his hands go tense and prickly. They always did when he felt frustrated. He reached down and took a cigarette from Paul's full pack on the canvas chair and lit it. He remained silent as he watched Paul at work. This is the way he's been for nearly a week, he thought. There was no way he could please Paul, for there was nothing Paul seemed to want; he stopped watching television, stopped going out, stopped talking to him, and stopped sleeping with him. That spoke volumes. It was the strangest thing, he thought, for, with Paul suddenly wanting nothing, having no preferences, remaining alone as much as possible, Paul could not be pleased. Rick found himself looking for little things to do, thinking of topics to discuss, anything to make contact with his lover. But Paul seemed to grow more distant daily. No wonder he was frustrated.
"I'll take the shirt back for you since you don't have the time, Paul," he said, "I'll do that today."
"No need."
"What color shirt would you like."
"Don't bother."
"No bother for me. It'll give me something to do," Rick smiled.
"I said forget it!"
Rick's smile disappeared. He kept his face straight with an effort, ignoring Paul's sharp look of annoyance.
"Guess I'll go for a swim," he finally said.
"Brilliant idea. Water must be marvelous today. Wish I could."
Rick saw that Paul was relieved to change the subject, as relieved as he was, he thought. Ah, he was only going in full circles with Paul anyway, and getting nowhere. Disgusted, he buried his cigarette in the sand and, without another word, raced down to the water.
As a rule, a good fast run along the beach and a swim refreshed him. Then, sitting on the sand, looking out toward the horizon and the sailboats, gave him a calm and comfortable sense of well-being, especially knowing that Paul was by his side or somewhere near by. This morning it just wasn't happening. For one, Paul was not by his side-oh, he was near, but he might as well have been a million miles away. And the water was too cold and dirty, there was a chilling breeze that cut through him, and there were too many surfers in the water. It added to his annoyance. He got out of the water and, without even glancing at Paul, made his way back to the house. What he had done was change his life, that's what, he told himself. Paul had become very important to him. The fabric of his life was now so tightly woven with that of Paul, so strongly stitched, that he asked himself what would happen if anything ripped the tiniest part of it. Was that what was happening now? If so, why? There was another force entering, a force that was nameless and destructive. He sensed it, but for the life of him did not know what it was. There was too much anxiety, too much hollering and bickering between them, and it was building so that the emotional climate between them had become raw, driving them apart.
He showered and dried himself, feeling depressed. He walked to the bed and stretched out on it, relaxing as best he could. Fumbling for a cigarette and matches, he lit it and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Just as he finished the cigarette, the bedroom door opened and closed with a soft click.
"Sleeping, Rick?"
"No," he answered, his voice tight.
"I'm sorry I've been so-well-tense," Paul said.
"Forget it," he answered, dabbing his cigarette into the glass ashtray. He heard the soft whisper of Paul's shirt as he threw it across the bed, followed by that of the Levi's.
Rick swallowed hard when Paul slipped in bed beside him and he felt Paul's body straining against him, his arms clinging to him. Paul's cheek was oddly wet against his own.
"What's the matter, Paul?"
"Oh, Rick. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Don't cry. I've never seen you cry."
"I've been so uptight, I guess I need the release."
"What's been happening to us, Paul?"
"Oh, let's not talk, Rick. Just hold me close to you." Paul lay on his side, breathing unevenly.
Rick put his arm around him and rubbed Paul's bare chest. "All right," he whispered, feeling his own blood stirring strongly. He pulled the sheet from his body and let his thick cock free. It wound itself upward from the thick brush of curly hair surrounding the thick, hard base. "He's missed you," Rick whispered. "Very much."
Paul reached for it almost timidly and took hold of it. He squeezed the hard cock in his hand, then, pulling himself closer, he ran his tongue lightly over Rick's smooth chest, taking his tiny nipple in his mouth and feeling it harden against his tongue.
"Baby, baby," Rick whispered.
Paul's lips moved downward until they met Rick's cock, and then he opened his mouth, taking all of it, cupping Rick's balls at the same time. Suddenly Paul's head shot up and he looked into Rick's eyes.
"Oh, Rick, I've been so miserable. I don't know-just so damn miserable."
"Kiss me, baby," Rick said. "Don't talk. Just let me hold you in my arms and love you."
They lay embracing each other for a moment, then Rick's lips closed over Paul's, his tongue forcing its way inside Paul's mouth, running lightly over his strong, even chalk white teeth and firm gums. Rick held Paul even tighter, savoring his tongue between his teeth, his jaw moving slowly up and down as he tasted the velvety sweetness of the man. He could hear Paul's muffled cries, and could feel his quickening need. Suddenly he wanted desperately to be fucked.
Paul enjoyed the feel of Rick's fingers as they massaged his back. He was conscious of their warm bodies pressed against each other as they lay on the bed. He rested his head once again in the crook of Rick's arm and felt Rick's mouth kiss his forehead, nose and eyes lovingly, tenderly.
"Feel good?" he heard Rick ask.
"Mmm," he replied. He felt Rick move his legs closer against his and draw his fingertips lightly over his stomach.
This is what he loved best, he thought, the both of them lying close to each other after marvelous sexual release.
"Feel like talking about it now?" Rick asked him.
Paul wondered with an uneasy pang if it were at all possible to tell Rick the truth about himself-about Rick's mother. He would have to, sooner or later. It hurt him deeply, trying to kill his feelings for the boy. For that's what he was doing, little by little. "Oh, it's nothing," he answered. "Just overwork."
"No, it's more than that. I can feel it in you. Tell me," Rick said. "I want to know."
He thought of Susan's words: I want you to drop Rick! and his stomach muscles turned into a hard knot. "No, really, Rick. It's just that I've been tired," he lied.
"No wonder. You've been driving yourself too hard."
"I guess."
Would he be able to drop Rick, Paul asked himself. Was it worth it? "Paul?"
"Yeah, babe."
"I wish I could buy you your own studio. I wish I could do a lot of things for you."
Paul smiled, reached up, and put his fingers to Rick's lips.
"Some day I'll be able to do it," Rick said. "I only get four hundred a month. But when I'm twenty-five I come into a great deal of money. Did you know that?"
"No."
"What I'm saying is, well, I can buy us a big house. Anywhere you want. And a car-a Cad, a Lincoln, a Rolls, any kind you want. And," he laughed, "I could buy all of your paintings. You can charge me anything you want. I'll pay it gladly."
Guilt surged through Paul. Guilt that made him depressed and angry at the very thought of giving Rick up. "Yeah," he said, "when you're twenty-five."
"But that's only six years from now."
I'll be thirty-six, Paul thought. Hell, I might not even be painting then. No, it had to be now-right now! "Yeah," Paul whispered, "six years from now."
"Well still be together, Paul. I know we will."
Paul twisted his head so that he could look better into Rick's face. "Will we, Rick?"
"Don't you think we will?"
"It's hard for me to-"
"We will," Rick interrupted. "I'll tell you why. It's because I found something in you that has been missing from my life. I need you, Paul. And I know you want and love me. I want to have you forever. I-I love you."
He saw the flash of tears in Rick's eyes, but only for a moment.
"There, I said it," Rick said in an unsteady voice.
Yes, he had said it, Paul thought. The very words he so wanted to hear. Rick was in love with him. But the words had come too late. He did not want to hear them now. He couldn't hear them now. There was too much to lose. He needed success, damn it, and he needed it now. Susan could give him that-now! It was worth every sacrifice. He must not falter, must not get carried away by this beautiful youth. He'd made a mistake falling in love with Rick; he would have to undo it all. But he did not want to hurt Rick anymore than he had to. It would be difficult, especially now that Rick had confessed his love for him. And Rick would take it hard. He was a troubled boy, rejection would not come easy. Could he do it? Should he do it? He pulled himself from Rick's arms and straightened up.
"You're wonderful to say that, Rick. But I don't think you're really in love with me. Fond maybe, yes, but not in love."
"But I am. I could never say something like that unless I meant it."
Paul put his finger across Rick's lips, urging him to be quiet. Then he looked with delighted wonder at the youth's lean body stretched over the bed. Soon it would be his no longer, he thought. It was a great sacrifice. He reached out and touched Rick's trembling cock. "That's what we've got going for us." he winked. Rick was becoming far too dramatic. He had to stop this and now. Besides, he could not bear to hear those words repeated.
Rick smiled. "Our cocks? Yeah, that's no lie. But it's more than that."
"Maybe, but not much more," he lied. He saw Rick's organ slowly begin to stiffen. Quickly he pulled his eyes away. He must change the subject, he told himself. He got to his feet.
"Where you going?" Rick asked.
"Back to work. Oh, there is something you can do."
"What's that?"
"Clean up this house. Looks like pigs live here." Rick looked about. "It's not any worse than usual."
"The bathroom is filthy."
"I'll find a maid tomorrow. Hell, I'm no housemaid."
"You'll have to clean it today. Tomorrow will be too late." Paul paused, knowing the reaction he would receive. "Tomorrow your mother is coming."
Rick's face grew serious. "How do you know?"
"She called late last night. You were asleep."
"What the fuck is she coming for?"
"To spend the weekend."
"Shit!"
Say it, Paul told himself. Start it going. It has to start with an argument. "Rick," he said. "A word of advice. Try treating your mother with a little more respect."
Rick's head shot up.
"I mean it. Give in a little. It won't kill you. You're so miserable every time she comes here. Certainly she must feel it."
"Good!" he snapped.
"No, it's not good. Christ, she's your mother."
"Tell her that!"
"After all, Rick. She's coming to see you."
"It's too late. She can't make up nineteen years of neglect in a weekend. I hate it when she comes here. This is our home; she has no right here."
"She has every right here!" Paul shouted. "Besides, it's my house!"
Rick stared at him, his face darkening. "What-what are you getting angry for, Paul?"
"Because I hate the tension in the air when she's here. You cause it, you alone."
"Then tell her to keep the hell away from here."
"I won't do that."
"Why? For Christ's sake."
"It's wrong, that's why."
"What goes here?" Rick asked, his voice rising. There was an instant of silence. Then Rick shook his head slowly and said, "Something's happened to you. It started with her visit here. I felt it then, and I feel it strongly now. What is it? Has she got you snowballed?"
"No. I was just thinking of you."
Paul saw Rick get to his feet, glare at him, then heard him say:
"Well, don't think of me. I'll handle my cunty mother my own way, hear?" He turned and strode out of the room.
Paul stared after him. He sighed deeply. He'd started it, he thought, feeling a little sad. He'd planted the seed. It was going to kill him, he knew that, but he was determined to break with Rick.
He dressed and walked down the steps to the beach. Under the umbrella, he sat, and moodily stared out toward the sea. When he dipped his brush into the dab of heavy green paint on the easel, his mind started to reel. There flashed before him the faces of Rick and Susan, and he heard a voice cry Choose! and suddenly he felt as if he were on the edge of some nameless danger.