Creative Process Page 8

  “Sure, sure okay.” Owen’s tone had softened, and Reese recognized the look in his eyes. Compassion, concern. This was how it began, and those emotions were usually long gone by the time it was over. Oh God. Why was he doing this to himself again? To Owen?

  “I’ll be right back. Have a drink and a look around.” He gestured to the corner of the living room. “Bar’s over there.” He hurried off to take the fastest shower in history. After his shower, he dressed hastily in black jeans and a soft gray, long-sleeved Henley. The only sticking point was finding an aftershave that didn’t clash with Owen’s. He decided on none at all. Showered, shaved, dressed, and ready in fifteen minutes.

  And he hadn’t had time to give one second of thought as to what he was going to tell Owen. He made his way out into the living room. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.” Owen looked up from a magazine. He had a drink in his hand, something strong and straight-up.

  Reese went right to him and leaned over him, bracing his hand on the back of the couch. “Can we start this again?” he asked and kissed Owen gently. Owen relaxed into the gesture.

  “Yes, of course. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Reese pulled away and looked into Owen’s eyes thoughtfully. “Come here,” he said, a sudden inspiration making him hopeful. He straightened up and held his hand out to Owen. “I want to show you something.”

  Owen looked at him curiously but took his hand and followed as Reese led him into the office.

  “I write in here,” he explained. “Long stories, a hundred, a hundred and twenty thousand words sometimes. I’ll spend hours at a time with my head in that world, trying to understand my characters, present them well, make people care about them, you know?”

  Owen nodded. If he didn’t totally get it, at least it appeared he was trying. Reese steered Owen by the shoulders, sitting him down in the desk chair, and pointed to his laptop.

  “When you rang the bell, I was really in my zone and words were coming easily. That’s what I was writing when you arrived.”

  Owen looked at him.

  “Go ahead, read it.”

  Owen smiled and leaned closer to the screen, reading the last couple of paragraphs down to where Reese had left off. After a second or two, his hand went to his mouth. After half a minute, his shoulders were stiff. “Oh God. That’s horrific. No wonder Greg is so angry.”

  He nodded. “Rage. That’s rage. And that’s where my head was at when I opened the door.”

  “Oh, Reese.” Owen stared at him.

  “I’ve been writing for, I don’t know, maybe four or five hours? It’s like acting almost—I was in character. I was feeling what he was feeling, trying to express that in writing. It’s just how I work. I can’t help it.”

  Owen stood up. “That shit is terrifying. That psycho stuff is in your head? All the time?”

  “I’ve loved reading this genre since I was a kid. It just… evolved for me one day.”

  “Well, damn. I definitely saw rage when you answered the door. Maybe you need to be on Broadway.” Owen’s smile was forgiving.

  Reese shook his head. “I’m really sorry.”

  Owen took a look around the room, and his eyes fell on Reese’s mother’s antique glass-front bookcase. “What’s in here?” he asked, stepping closer to look at the awards and other writing achievements that Reese kept behind the glass.

  “Oh, that’s just stuff. Awards and things, you know.” Reese didn’t really care about the awards; he cared much more about the work. “We should probably get going. I’ve made us late.”

  “Huh.” Owen’s gaze lingered another moment on the glass case, and then he turned to Reese. “So, we’re late. We’ll make an entrance.”

  Yeah, Reese figured that would have happened even if they’d been on time. He hoped Owen was ready for this. “I think you’ll like my friends, but they’re going to give you the third degree. I recommend honesty, because they do their research.”

  “You mean they gossip?”

  “Well, among themselves, yes,” Reese admitted. But it wasn’t like they spread rumors or anything nasty. They just liked to know every detail of everyone’s love lives. “They’re nosy.”

  Owen laughed. “They’re men. Let’s go.”

  Reese grabbed his coat and a bottle of wine for Sammy and followed Owen out the door. He’d smoothed over the first disaster, but he knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  THEY WERE late, but only about twenty minutes. All things considered, Reese was fine with that. William answered the door, clearly knowing damn well it was them.

  “Reese, darling. Better late than never.”

  “Sorry, William. My fault entirely.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Reese snorted. “William, this is Owen Mercado. Owen, one of my oldest friends, William Waters.” William and Owen exchanged genuinely friendly smiles, and Owen offered his hand.

  “Welcome, Owen. Come in, come in!” William stepped aside and let them both pass, then closed the door behind them. “Owen, can I get you a drink? Sammy’s made a couple of pitchers of his famous spicy margaritas.”

  “Oh, that sounds great. Please.”

  William whisked Owen off to Sammy’s little bar cart in the living room.

  “Hello, sweetie,” Sammy called from the kitchen doorway. “You look great. Less bruised than the last time we saw you.”

  Reese laughed and made his way over to kiss Sammy on the cheek. “Thanks.” He held up the bottle of red wine he’d brought. “Now, you could drink this,” he said, smiling. “But I have it on good authority that it would be perfect for your Bourguignon.”

  “Oooh. Next party, then.” Sammy kissed him, taking the bottle. “Thank you, love. Go get a drink.”

  “My pleasure.” He winked at him and made his way into the living room.

  “Reese! Reese, you have to try this margarita. It’s amazing.” Owen reached over and poured him a glass, garnishing it with a lime and tossing in a couple of slices of jalapeño. He reached for it. “Red pepper flakes and chipotle chili powder. It’s so good.”

  He took a sip.

  “Your boyfriend tells me he used to be a bartender,” William said. “Maybe we’ll ask him to stir us up something for the next party.”

  Boyfriend? Reese swallowed awkwardly, coughing to keep from choking as the spicy margarita went down the wrong way.

  “Oh my God. Is it too hot? Are you okay?” Owen reached over and rubbed his back.

  “No, no. I’m fine.” Reese cleared his throat. “Down the wrong pipe.” At least that wasn’t a complete lie.

  “Oh, I hate that.” Joe’s voice came from somewhere behind him. He straightened up. If Joe was here, then that must mean—

  “Hello again, Reese.”

  The hottest man on earth. This evening was moving way too quickly. His head spun with it, and he wondered if he was going to have any hope of catching up now.

  He found a smile as he turned around. “Hey, Joe. And very nice to see you again, Benjamin.” He shook their hands and simply refused to look Benjamin in the eye for now. Instead, he introduced his “boyfriend” to the hottest man on earth and Joe. Benjamin and Owen hit it off immediately, and he felt himself relax a bit. He reminded himself that these men were his closest friends and tried to let that soothe away some of his anxiety. What did he really have to be anxious about anyway? How many times had William told him he should bring a date to dinner? He knew they were all supportive and just glad to see him trying to… something. Be happy. He could do this. He could.

  He took another sip of his margarita for the kick.

  OWEN WAS admiring some artwork on the wall when Sam approached him. “Having a good time?” Sam asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Yes.” Owen smiled. “I am. This is a wonderful piece.”

  “Thank you. That’s one of mine.”

  “Is it?” Owen looked back at it. Reese had told him Sammy was a mixed-media artist and William a sculptor. “Wow. So much… co
ntradiction.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased!” Sammy clasped his hands together. “You’re into art.”

  “Well, I don’t know how into it I am. I don’t know much, but I know what I like, and I definitely like this.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Hang around with this crowd for a while, and you’ll learn to appreciate all kinds of art. Joe runs a gallery.”

  “Oh, nice.”

  “So, tell me, how did you meet our Reese?”

  Owen looked over at Sam, who was standing at his elbow. Our Reese? Oh boy. He glanced around quickly for Reese, thinking he might want some guidance on this one, but Reese must have been off in another room. “Well, we met at Symphony Hall,” he offered, steering clear of the details. “It’s Sam, right?”

  “Sorry, yes. Sam, Sammy. I should have said.” He’d thought so, but he asked just to be sure. Sam gave him a smile. It was friendly and genuine, and put him at ease. He felt himself relax.

  “Your margaritas are fantastic, by the way.”

  “Oh, thank you. They tie into the Mexican theme for dinner.” He must have felt Owen’s thoughts. “I go a little overboard. I love entertaining.”

  “Works for me,” Owen replied easily. “You’ve known Reese a while?”

  “Oh, he and William go way back. They’re from the same hometown, and they were roommates after college. William and I have been together five years, married for one.”

  Owen nodded. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Sam smiled. “You’re a cellist, Reese said?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you play… with an orchestra? Or you teach?”

  “I just took a position with the symphony.”

  “Oh my gosh. Really? Here in the city?”

  Owen laughed. “Yes, the real symphony. Here in the city.”

  Sammy blushed. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s fine. I was kidding. It’s a real honor to be chosen. I’m still pretty shocked myself.”

  “So you must be pretty good. I mean, obviously you’re talented. You must love it.”

  “I can’t imagine doing anything else. I don’t remember ever wanting to do anything else.”

  “That’s amazing. I’ll make William take me to hear the symphony play sometime. He loves classical music. I’m not very educated about it I’m afraid. I tend toward techno and atmospheric kind of stuff.”

  Owen nodded. He’d believe that, having seen Sammy’s work.

  “I love your hair. It’s so gorgeous and curly—you must have grown it forever for it to get that long.”

  “Thank you. I’m proud of it but yeah, it’s a labor of love sometimes.” He remembered his mom spending hours on it as a kid. Every Sunday, washing, conditioning, styling it while he watched TV. He’d liked it long and curly even then, but that made taking care of it a bit of a process.

  “I’m sure. Not like my slightly gray wash and wear.” Sam laughed. “You get all that curl from your mom or your dad?”

  “Both actually. Papa is Puerto Rican. Mom’s family is originally from Haiti. She’s second generation. Plenty of curls on both sides.”

  “Oh wow. That’s neat. I know nothing about Haiti, have you been?”

  “No, my mom hasn’t even been. But I’d like to see it, sometime. My family roots are a little bit of a mystery to me. People tell me I’m a lot like mom, though. I definitely look like her more than Papa.”

  “You should definitely go.”

  Owen nodded. There was a lull in their conversation, and Owen took the opportunity to refill their glasses.

  “Reese is a good one, you know,” Sam said finally and then sipped his drink. An alarm bell went off in Owen’s mind. Usually if someone felt the need to tell you a guy was “a good one,” there was a catch. “But I guess you know his quirks by now.”

  Ah. There it was. “Quirks?”

  “Well, you know. The writing. He’s so talented, but the things he writes, he goes to such dark places, and he can be so obsessive.”

  Owen tilted his head and looked at Sam. “Well, creativity can be like that. You get lost sometimes.”

  Sam turned his entire body rather dramatically and looked Owen over with much more interest. “Yes,” he replied slowly. “Yes, it can. You know, none of his other lovers has ever said anything like that to me.”

  Owen blinked. None of his other… okay. He’d process that later. His brow furrowed a bit. “Well, I live in my music. I’ve been known to disappear myself now and then.”

  Sam’s smile was absolutely brilliant, and Owen was struck by the light in his bright green eyes. “Oh! Oh, you are lovely. I’m so glad for you both.”

  Owen blinked at Sam. “Uh, thank you.”

  “Sammy!” William called. “Something in the kitchen—”

  “Oh, coming!” Sam shouted back. He turned briefly to Owen. “Please excuse me. You just make yourself at home, sweetie. I’m so pleased you’re here. I really am,” he said happily before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Owen was left on his own again, and that was all right. He got a chance to look around at the men gathered, most of them partnered with someone, at least for the evening. Each of them moved about with an easy familiarity with the apartment and with each other.

  Reese had explained on the way over that this was a collection of some of his oldest friends, each of them artists or creators in one form or another, and all of them part of what he’d called his “support system,” which Owen had found interesting because it sounded like something a therapist would say. It did seem that it was the case, though, and Owen got the feeling it was mutual.

  He felt a happy warmth creep up his neck and into his cheeks. Whether it was the company or the chili pepper and tequila, he couldn’t be sure. Either way he was blushing again. He shook his head at himself. Damn reflexes.

  “Hey, you.” He felt a strong hand wrap around his waist from behind and Reese’s lips on his neck.

  “You,” Owen responded, leaning into the touch. Reese still smelled freshly showered, only now with a little hint of tequila and lime.

  “Having a good time?”

  “I am.” He turned in Reese’s arms and smiled at him. Reese was a couple of inches taller, but not so tall that Owen couldn’t easily look him in the eyes and take in those baby blues. Reese had red hair, and Owen assumed, judging by his freckles and his pale skin, that he was Irish. Some mixture of Irish and hot. “Your friends are nice. They care about you.”

  “Uh-oh.” Reese grinned. “Are they telling you stories?”

  “Well, not as such, but the conversation has been enlightening.”

  “Shit, we’re going to have to talk later, aren’t we?”

  “Maybe.” But Owen hadn’t heard anything that really concerned him, just piqued his interest a bit. “Relax. It’s all good, I’m just curious.”

  Reese kissed him. “Okay, if you say so.”

  Strong arms held him close, Reese’s smile was reassuring, and there were depths behind those blue eyes that Owen was looking forward to discovering.

  “Dinner is served!” Sam called out, and everyone made their way into the dining room.

  THEY WERE both giggling when they got out of the car Reese had hired to bring them back to his place—hands all over each other, a little drunk, a little sugared up, a little overtired.

  Owen stopped Reese in the foyer and kissed him, and they stumbled their way to the elevators.

  “Joe is hot too.”

  “What? Now you want to do all of my friends?” Reese replied, laughing as they arrived at the elevator bank. Reese pushed the Call button and then pressed Owen into the wall. “What about Benjamin?” Reese asked, baiting Owen.

  Owen sighed. “Oh, man. Benjamin is… wow. He’s—”

  “The hottest man on earth?” Reese grinned broadly.

  “Oh yes.” Owen nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. He’s like Adonis.”

  “With eyes like the ocean.”

/>   “Oh my God, that blue.” They both started giggling again as the elevator arrived. “Are you drunk, Mr. Kelsey?” Owen asked as the elevator doors closed and Reese slid his hands under Owen’s shirt.

  Reese nodded. He was. He definitely was. “Mmhmm. A little.”

  “Mmm. Me too.” Owen leaned up and whispered in Reese’s ear. “Want you.”

  It was as if Reese felt rather than heard Owen’s words at the base of his spine, heat radiating into his groin. He groaned. “Jesus. Don’t do that to me in the elevator.”

  “You promised to show me around your shower,” Owen said, his laughter changing character, turning dark.

  Reese growled in response, and the elevator doors opened. The couple waiting there laughed at them as they tumbled out of the elevator and down the hall to his apartment. He slipped his key into the lock and waited for the metallic click of the electronic safety, then opened the door and dragged Owen inside. He led Owen through his apartment and into his master suite.

  Owen slowed once inside the bedroom. “Oh wow,” he said, looking around the room. The bedroom really emphasized Reese’s flair for the dramatic.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said, trying to pull Owen along toward the bathroom.

  “A lot?”

  “All the time.”

  “Like, how often is a lot?” Owen sounded coy.

  Reese blinked. “Oh no. I didn’t mean like a lot. I meant often. You know. I mean not that often, but often from the few people I… oh, fuck. Please stop me. I’m digging in deep shit here.” He shook his head.

  Owen laughed at him and gave him a playful shove.

  “Never mind. Do you like it?”

  He watched as Owen took in the plush carpet, heavy curtains, the dark wood, and the enormous four-poster bed. “Jesus, this is….”

  “Too much?” Reese nodded. He knew. He liked it anyway, but he knew.

  “Hot. Fucking hot. Look at this bed!” Owen ran his hand over the luxurious duvet that covered a thick down comforter. “Look at all the pillows!”

  “The sheets are Egyptian cotton, eighteen hundred thread count,” Reese bragged. He couldn’t wait to make a giant mess of them.