Chapter 7

SEVEN

The meeting about the fundraiser hadn’t gone the way Rhys wanted it to. He’d wanted his family to see that entertaining any idea that would make Mariel Flint into anything other than a negligent murderer was a terrible idea. Instead, they’d engaged with Martin Flint like he was a friend. Even after the bastard insulted Early with his obvious distaste.

Rhys stomped around his classroom after the last class of the day, slamming drawers a little too hard as he put away supplies from the primary school class he’d ended the day with and dragging easels a little too hard across the paint-splattered linoleum as he moved them back into place for the first class in the morning.

About halfway through the tidying and resetting process, he started to recognize how stubborn and bullish he was being. He stopped where he was, let out a heavy, helpless breath, and glanced around the studio to get his bearings. Sense told him it wasn’t Flint’s fault that his sister had gone to the pub with her girlfriends that night. It also whispered that not everyone was as comfortable with differences in sexual expression and Flint could have reacted even worse to Early.

None of it really helped, though. Rhys stomped on, dragging the rest of the easels into place, then retreating to his own studio nook once everything was ready for the next day.

He glanced sideways at his landscape canvas, but rather than sitting down straight away and working on it, he gathered up his brushes and took them over to the sink to give them all the thorough cleaning that they desperately needed.

He was exhausted from the war of emotion that had been raging in his soul for a year now, exhausted by being held hostage by feelings that had him behaving like a child when he knew he was better than that. As he dipped his brushes in turpentine one at a time, then rubbed them to work dried bits of paint loose, he wished there was something that could clean his soul in the same way.

That was the annoying thing about grief. It kept hanging on and reared its head at the most inconvenient times, especially when you thought you’d kicked it.

Everything within Rhys felt like it was straining to get over the last hump of losing Raina so that he could get on with things. He had a life to live, classes to teach, and a painting to finish. He should be getting out and socializing again, maybe even dating. He needed to find someone his own age, someone far more sexually appropriate than Early to go to bed with. It’d been so long since he’d had sex that he was afraid he’d forgotten how.

Well, not really, as his hand and shower could definitely attest to. But he’d probably completely lost whatever suave skills he’d possessed before. Maybe he should go back through some of the contacts in his phone to find an ex who he’d left things on good terms with so he could?—

“Hey.”

Rhys jumped at Robbie’s voice and at the knock on the doorframe of his studio, then turned to see what his brother wanted.

“We’re heading into London,” Robbie said, glancing at Toby by his side. Both of them were dressed up. “The Chameleon Club is having a games night. Do you want to come?”

“I—”

Rhys stopped his knee-jerk “no” answer. He glanced between Robbie and Toby. After a rocky start, the two of them were ridiculously happy together. They were like horny teenagers around each other, which was both sweet, sickening, and, unfortunately, rubbed off on Rhys, making him wish he had someone, too.

He’d just been telling himself that he needed to get out and socialize more. The Chameleon Club was the ideal place to pick up a friend for the night. The club even had rooms upstairs that members of The Brotherhood could rent like a hotel for a night or two, if they needed it.

“No, thanks,” he said instead, smiling weakly at Robbie and Toby. “I’m exhausted after today, and I want to work on the landscape for a while.”

Robbie and Toby turned their heads in almost comic unison to glance across the room at Raina’s landscape.

“It looks amazing just the way it is,” Toby said.

Rhys lowered his head with a skewed smile. “Thanks, but it’s actually rubbish. I need to figure out why it doesn’t look right and fix it.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” Robbie said, leaning back and tugging Toby with him. “The Chameleon Club is just a short ride away.”

“And a much longer ride, I hope, once we get back,” Toby teased him friskily.

Robbie laughed and grabbed Toby’s hand, and the two of them disappeared down the hall.

Rhys smiled at them. He was happy for his brother. Robbie and Toby were well-matched. It was about time Robbie was happy with someone after the way his nasty ex treated him.

His smile dropped as he finished cleaning his brushes and headed over to his nook. It was good that at least one of the Hawthorne boys had found love. The rest of them were rubbish in relationships. He was in a dry spell, last he’d heard, Rafe had turned into a man-slut over in the States, and Ryan was so picky about who he dated after an ex left him with an infection that had made a serious dent in his self-esteem that it was a wonder he bothered dating at all. Rhys didn’t know much about Nally’s dating life, but the idea of imagining his youngest brother in bed with anyone grossed him out. Nally was the same age as Early, and?—

Rhys blew out a breath through his nose as thoughts of Early rushed at him. He stood in front of his landscape canvas, but his gaze slipped to the side, to the half-finished sketch of a nude Early that he’d done in his class that morning, then set aside where the school kids wouldn’t be able to see it in the afternoon.

He heated as memories of the pale lines of Early’s body assailed him. They’d been holding the same pose as the last class that morning, but something had been different about Early. They’d had a sparkle in their eyes, and every time Rhys had met those eyes, his blood had pumped a little harder. Pumped harder to specific places.

The funny thing was, it wasn’t Early’s nudity that had turned him on, it was the languid way they’d draped themself over the block, the ease of their breathing, and the way Rhys had felt their attention following him everywhere, even though over a dozen other eyes had watched them.

Maybe Early wasn’t the lost, vulnerable young person he’d always assumed they were. Age was just a number, after all. Maybe they weren’t completely out of bounds for a sexy fling.

“No,” he told himself, shaking his head and forcing his eyes back on the landscape. “Don’t go playing with fire.”

He pulled the rolling tray that held his palette closer and reached for the small bottle of linseed oil in the corner. He needed to think of something else besides the fact that Early either shaved or waxed his chest, or didn’t grow much hair at all. He needed to concentrate on mixing his paint to just the right color and consistency to get the highlights on the trees in Raina’s landscape right.

Half an hour later, he’d barely dabbed any paint on his canvas at all, and he’d had to breathe through more than one erection that had tightened his jeans as he’d thought about Early’s easy laugh, and the way they’d taken to wearing that ratty old pair of heels.

Rhys let out a sigh and dropped his hand away from his painting. It wasn’t working. Nothing was working. Now he couldn’t even think without his thoughts turning dangerous.

“This is stupid,” he hissed, throwing the brush he held against the wall in a fit of pique.

It was just his luck that his mum was walking past his studio door as his outburst hit.

“Whoa,” she called out, rocking back a step and heading into the studio instead of moving on. “An artist never throws their brushes,” she scolded him, but went right into, “Unless they have a very good reason to.”

Rhys instantly felt stupid for letting his emotions leak out. “Sorry,” he said, stepping over to pick up the thrown brush and then on to the counter to grab a paper towel to clean it.

Instead of letting things be, his mum hummed and came over to stand against the counter, crossing her arms. “Having a bout of artistic temperament, are we?” she asked.

Rhys glanced briefly sideways at her before walking back to his palette and setting the brush down. “Just letting frustration get the best of me is all.”

“Yes, well, we’re artistic types, dear,” his mum said. “If we didn’t let frustration in, then we wouldn’t create half the masterpieces that we do.”

“And what have you been working on lately?” Rhys asked, knowing that if he didn’t do something, he’d be in for a motherly talk.

It was too late to avoid that fate.

“I’m experimenting with mixed media,” his mum said. “Don’t change the subject.” Her gaze at him was downright piercing.

“I wasn’t aware we had a subject,” Rhys said.

He still hoped to avoid any sort of hippie-dippy discussion about feelings, which his mum was a big fan of, so he picked up another brush, swirled some of the pale yellow-green highlight color he’d mixed on his palette with a drop of linseed oil, then turned to his canvas. He had no idea where to put the highlights, though.

“The subject is your frustration,” his mum said, as if she were teaching a class. “Now, is it artistic frustration, fundraiser frustration, or sexual frustration?”

“Mum,” Rhys groaned, sending her a look that he hoped she would see meant she should stop.

“Sexual frustration it is, then,” she said, grinning broadly.

“Would you stop,” Rhys said, laughing unexpectedly at her teasing.

“No. I’m your mother. I have a contractual obligation to embarrass you until the day you die.”

Rhys shook his head and smirked before turning back to his canvas. Although weirdly, his mum’s silly mood was quickly rubbing off on him.

“I can’t get this damn painting right,” he confessed, throwing her a few crumbs.

“Then stop working on it,” she answered quickly, as if she’d already formed an opinion about the work and had been waiting for an opportunity to share it.

“It needs to be finished,” he argued. “Dad said something about hanging it in the front hall in honor of Raina, and since it’s oil, it’ll take at least six months to fully dry and cure before it’s ready to be hung.”

“Because it’s oil, it won’t dry out tomorrow, which means you can set it aside and come back to it in a few weeks once you’ve had a change in perspective,” his mum argued straight away.

Rhys sighed and stepped back from the canvas, more annoyed than ever. “I need to finish it. I need to…I need to move on.”

He sent his mum a look that showed far more grief than he was comfortable showing.

He expected her to reply with kind words, or another joke, or anything to steer him back to the right path.

Instead, she picked up the much smaller canvas with the nude sketch of Early.

“Well,” she said, eyes glittering as she scanned the work Rhys had done on the piece so far. “It certainly looks as though your live model class is a success.”

“I’m lucky Early was willing to step in at the last minute to pose,” Rhys said, trying to make his voice flat.

His mum just hummed in that all-knowing way she had as she looked at his work. “I’ve been saying it all along, and I’ll say it again now,” she said, glancing up and handing the canvas over to Rhys. “Maybe you should try something different for a while. It will refresh the work you’re already doing.”

“Are we talking about art or life now?” Rhys asked.

His mum made a noncommittal sound and shrugged one shoulder.

“You’re so enigmatic, mum.” Rhys huffed a laugh and shook his head as he stepped past her to put the canvas with Early back on the counter. “No wonder you and Dad have an open relationship.”

“Cheeky!” His mum smacked his arm, then tilted her head up with fake arrogance. “Your father and I have always had an open relationship because we are entirely too filled with passion for our own goods. We would drive each other mad and would have divorced ages ago if we didn’t allow ourselves occasional extracurricular outlets.”

“Would you really have divorced?” Rhys went tight with horror at the thought.

His mum gave him a reassuring smirk. “Of course not, love,” she said. “Your father and I are soulmates. So much so that we respect each other’s expansive spirits.”

“Whatever that means,” Rhys said with a laugh, crossing back to his canvas.

In reality, he was pretty sure he did know what she meant. He was glad his parents knew and loved and respected each other enough to allow each other to live their own lives. He was also bloody glad that his mum had come back from her wanderings and was there for them all at the moment.

“What puzzles me,” his mum said, coming to stand so that she could look over his shoulder at the landscape while Rhys stood lamely in front of it, “is how two such bohemian spirits managed to bring such stuffy, unimaginative children into the world.”

“Mum!” Rhys blurted, twisting to grin at her. “That hurts.”

“Hmm, yes, I’m sure holding it all in those balls of yours definitely hurts.”

“Mum!” Rhys said even louder, laughing. “Hearing you talk about my balls absolutely does not inspire me to use them.”

“Then my lips will be sealed,” his mum said, miming zipping her mouth shut. “But yours certainly shouldn’t be.”

“God, you’re embarrassing,” Rhys said, turning away from her.

It was astounding how much better she made him feel, though. He really had missed her when she’d been gone. Raina had been just like her in so many ways. Rhys hadn’t realized how much he’d been missing that sassy female energy.

The moment he thought that, the memory of Early so full of themself as they’d posed that morning sped back to him again. It wasn’t even close to being the same energy that his mother and sister had. That would have been supremely weird and wrong. But there had been something in Early’s smile, something that tickled Rhys’s insides and left him wanting more. He liked excitement in his relationships. Maybe that was part of the legacy his parents had given him. Maybe it was why his last couple of relationships had fallen flat. There hadn’t been any zing, any danger.

“Put it aside and do something else,” his mum said, leaning close to his ear. She had to go up on her toes to reach his ear, and when she stood down again, she patted his back. “Truly, love. No painting in the history of art was ever made better by grinding away at it when inspiration vanished. Work on something else and you’ll get your mojo for this piece back.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Rhys said, turning to her and pulling her into his arms for a hug. He was nearly a foot taller than her and twice as broad, but he hugged her like he was still a child who needed his mum’s embrace to make him feel safe.

His mum kissed his cheek, and after a few parting words, left the studio in a sweep of her eclectic, hand-made skirts, leaving a trace of her woodsy perfume behind her.

Rhys took a deep breath of it, then turned back to the landscape. She was right. He needed to do something else, to go down another path.

Almost like he was reaching for forbidden fruit, Rhys moved over to the counter where he’d set Early’s canvas when his mum had given it back to him. He picked it up and swept his eyes over it. He’d only had twenty minutes to work on it that morning, and he’d only done as much as he needed to demonstrate the next phase of the project to his class.

What he had was good, though. It had been ages since he’d painted any figures, let alone nude ones, but he’d once been good at it. If he was clever, he could not only convince Early to pose for a more involved project of his own, he could trick himself into thinking it was for art’s sake and not the sake of his libido.

And so what if it was his libido in the driver’s seat? After the way Early had looked that morning and the confidence in their eyes, Rhys was willing to reevaluate whether a hot little fling might work for the two of them.

He put the small canvas down and headed away from his nook toward the door, a smile on his face. It was too early to jump into anything, but a little careful research, spending time with Early and getting to know them better, couldn’t hurt anyone.