Dreams of Shreds and Tatters - Amanda Downum Page 0,1

excursions. He missed it, missed Liz and all their friends. He caught himself twisting the silver ring on his right hand absently.

Blake leaned his head against Alain’s, grounding himself in the familiar texture of his boyfriend’s hair. Thick and soft, brittle at the ends from the bleach and dyes that stripped away his natural black. This month’s brilliant peacock green had faded to a yellower absinthe shade. His own hair, plain brown and unbound, fell over both their shoulders. The window showed their reflection, faded as an overexposed photograph.

It felt unreal, like a snapshot of someone else’s life. Eight months together, and they made it work. Blake had even stopped waking up next to Alain with the terrible certainty that this would be the day it fell apart. Most days, at least.

“No. I’m not disappointed.” He was happy here. That thought scared him more than any ghosts or goblins or faceless monsters. Alain turned his face for a kiss, and Blake’s nose wrinkled at the bitterness of alcohol and citrus. “What are you drinking?”

Alain raised his glass; dark liquor glowed sienna in the light. “Black rum, coffee liqueur, Campari, and bitters. I think I’ll call it a bête noire.”

“The bane of your existence?”

Alain winked, a sweep of black lashes and silver flash of brow ring. “If I have any more it might be.” He threaded his arm through Blake’s. “Come on. Rainer wants to talk to everyone.”

“About what?”

“Dunno.” His eyes narrowed. “The exhibit, I hope.”

That tiny frown made Blake pause, ignoring Alain’s attempt to steer him toward the other room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” A second later his cheeks darkened. “That’s never sounded convincing from anyone, has it? Sorry.” He scowled at his glass and tossed back the last swallow. “It’s just... Rainer. And the way he looks at you sometimes.”

Blake’s cheeks stung as if he’d been slapped. He stiffened and jerked his arm free. “That’s—” A denial died unspoken. It wouldn’t have sounded convincing either. “Are you jealous?” he asked instead, and cursed his defensive tone as soon as he heard it.

“Oh, please!” Alain drew the word out in two drawling syllables. “He may have money and a sexy accent, but throwing me over for your patron—who I introduced you to—would be so tacky you’d choke on it.” He grew serious again. “It’s not that I mind him making eyes at you. I just wish he wouldn’t do it in front of Antja. Even if she doesn’t say anything—” He shook his head. “Damn it. I’m tipsy and stupid. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

He held out a hand like a peace offering. After a heartbeat, Blake took it. Together, they stepped into the light and warmth of the other loft, into the smell of wine and candle wax and soft perfume. The party was quiet, intimate, not one of the events that sometimes crowded the gallery beneath them. Everyone here was familiar—still more Alain’s friends than his, but Blake liked most of them well enough.

Tonight, though, tension ran in crackling lines through the room. Robert and Gemma—the gallery’s premier artists, and normally inseparable—sat together, but Robert looked everywhere but her. Everywhere but her and Stephen York. Stephen circled the edges of the room, sleek and amused. He raised Blake’s hackles, but was also one of gallery’s backers. Jason and quiet little Rae sat apart, baby-bat goths and the youngest ones here. Antja stood by a window, watching the night as Blake had moments ago. Streetlight kissed her cheeks and hair. Studying her profile, he felt a familiar spark of recognition—the weight of unhappy secrets. Alain’s words echoed in his head, and he looked aside.

And in the center of them all sat Rainer.

The gallery owner glanced up as though the thought had summoned him. His eyes were vivid even across the room, a pale shade that wasn’t sky or periwinkle or even non-repro blue. A blue like shadows on snow. Compelling and disconcerting, especially when they lingered too long. After a few seconds he smiled apologetically and looked away.

The song on the stereo ended and the last haunting electronic notes fell into silence as conversations paused. Rainer shifted in his chair, ice clinking as he tilted his glass absently in one hand. Heads turned in the lengthening hush, watching, waiting. Blake didn’t know how he did it—the charisma that drew attention with the slightest gesture, the energy that pulled people close.

Rainer sipped the last of his drink and set the glass aside. The guests turned to face him as the silence