Art for Art's Sake

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Enter that room at your own peril.”

The unexpected and dire pronouncement startled me. I jerked my hand from the greasy, fragile-looking doorknob and spun around. My alert eyes hunted the penthouse hallway, lit by only a single, dust-laden light bulb glowing directly above me. Apart from the ancient and tarnished cage elevator from which I’d just exited at the end of the long corridor, I could see no other doorways from which the voice might have originated.

My mind was playing tricks on me, I decided. Yeah, that had to be it, damn it to Hades. A lingering effect from last night’s binge of tequila shots and Corona beers, I told myself. A lethal combination for certain if wielded by an inexperienced boozehound…

But then again, a nagging inner voice reminded me, my vast training in that area had never before given me hallucinations. Or put phantom voices in my ears. No novice boozehound here, that’s for sure.

So what the hell was going on?

The longer I stood in the corridor, the more I recollected my morning, piecing it together like a jigsaw puzzle to make certain I hadn’t forgotten an element that could have caused me to hear disembodied voices…

I had barely felt a hangover after I awoke and showered—or rather, I had barely felt it after I’d gulped down the two icy-cold Coronas I’d discovered wedged into the back of the communal fridge. My roommate’s “secret stash.” I had decided that “hair of the dog” would become the perfect breakfast treat, and I hadn’t erred in my reasoning. Screw Jeff and his childish “buddies don’t have to share everything” dictum. All’s fair in love and war—and college roommates and hidden booze, especially when a hangover raged total war within one’s head. And never once since awakening with a head-banging sensation had I regretted the decision.

Until now, that is.

Nope, no way in hell had I imagined the voice, the words of warning, I’d just heard. Certainly, it probably wasn’t nasty remnants of the booze after all, I concluded, since by now I felt my normal self.

Perhaps it was the atmosphere that induced my fantasy. And why shouldn’t it? After all, here I stood on a Saturday morning in a seemingly abandoned office building in the center of the town’s historical district. The edifice, itself, had likely passed its one-hundredth birthday long ago, and it showed. The stained and peeling wallpaper, the cobwebbed rafters crossing the cracked ceiling, the eerie shadows and the squeaky floorboards beneath my booted feet…it appeared the building’s cleaning and maintenance crew had taken a century-long siesta. Spooky as anything out of a Stephen King novel, to tell the truth. The only thing missing was a thunderstorm to add Hitchcockian-like movie effects to the mix.

So why shouldn’t I imagine hearing voices, ghosts of the past to accompany the building’s many creaks and groans of old age?

An instant before I made the decision to turn back to the door, to ignore whatever it was that had just happened, I finally detected the silhouette of a man. He stood in a darkened alcove only a few feet away. I gulped. And to say a mere quiver ran through me would have been like describing the infamous 1905 San Francisco Earthquake as a mild shift at the fault lines.

Damn! No tremendous comfort in my discovery. I wasn’t losing my mind after all, just risking my life.

Renewed alarm rushed through me. Nevertheless, I puffed out my chest, the one I’d worked so hard to develop through the past few years, and held my voice as steadily as possible. “Peril? Excuse me, buddy? What do you mean by that?”

Surprisingly, a good-humored chuckle poured from the shadows, sounding anything but sinister. In accordance, my wise-ass nature and suspicion took over. Could this be Jeff, giving me just-revenge for that morning’s “Corona theft”? Or one of my other roommates playing a decidedly unfunny prank on me? Lord knows those crazy buffoons had all razzed me enough after learning about the appointment that had brought me here today. And I wouldn’t have put it past one of those jokesters to show up at this building just to razz me some more.

“I beg your forgiveness,” said the stranger. “I suppose ‘peril’ was not the most appropriate word. I do tend to have a flair toward the dramatic. Please know, I did not mean to startle you, or sound so ominous.”

Nope, no college buddy, I decided, as the voice didn’t sound familiar in the slightest. In fact, I couldn’t recall ever hearing a timbre so deeply rich and musically masculine. And I detected a slight accent, yet I couldn’t quite pinpoint its origin. European, perhaps. “Then what do you want? What did you mean?”

“I guess I just wanted to make certain you knew what you were getting yourself into by entering that room.”

“Should I be afraid? Is that what you’re implying?”

“Well, peculiar things—things a sane man would not typically expect to happen—sometimes do occur in there.”

“Is that so?” Peculiar things, similar to an unexpected encounter with a mystery man in a darkened corridor? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. “Well, what sort of things? It’s just an art studio, for heaven’s sake—”

“Just an art studio? Well, if you can say that, then you truly have no clue what to expect once you venture inside. Someone has not done his research, hmm?”

“Oh? Care to enlighten me about what I’ve neglected to discover?”

More chuckles, ones that tickled the hairs on my arms and chest and the back of my neck. Almost as if a variant breeze had cut through the rotten air and into my clothing to tease my flesh.

“You see, ’tis not just any art studio, my friend. This one belongs to Skylar Novak.”

“I know that.”

“You do? A splendid start. But how well do you know the man himself?”

“I…I…what I mean is…I…I…” poured from my mouth, the suppressed i***t inside me revealing himself and embarrassing the stuffing out of me.

“Some say Novak is more than just a brilliant artist, you know?”

“Actually, I don’t know,” I admitted. “I met the man only last evening.”

The black silhouette of a head nodded. And I thought I detected a tsking sound. “Ah, I see…you sought him out, like many others have done through the years, did you?”

“It was the other way around.”

“Truly?” A note of genuine interest filled the melodic voice. Or interest masquerading as sarcasm, I couldn’t be certain.

Instinctively, I puffed out my chest and flexed my arms. “Are you calling me a liar?” I asked, my voice rising a level in pitch along with my defenses, much to my regret. I hated confrontation of any sort, especially with a stranger who likely, for all I could surmise, had been standing here in this otherwise abandoned corridor just itching to slay his first victim in a bloody-crime-spree weekend.

Finally, the unseen man stepped forward. I held my breath and felt the muscles in my arms coiling in preparation for the defensive. Then, for some odd reason, I started to relax, but not of my own volition.

Light from the lone bulb reflected off large leather boots, then tight-fitting jeans, then the hem of a knee-length leather jacket. A silver belt buckle momentarily ricocheted a shard of light into my eyes before I saw a T-shirt—skin tight—which covered what appeared to be a lean yet muscular torso. The man was donned entirely in black—black denim, black leather, black cotton. No wonder he had blended so perfectly into the shadows.

I swiftly sized up his frame and deduced him to be about even with my own six-foot-two stature. And I wondered whether I could either make it back to the elevator before he stabbed my gut with a sharp blade or if I could hold my own in a one-on-one fisticuffs festival. Quickly taking a mental inventory of my skills as a fighter, I thought perhaps the latter result might apply. Nevertheless, I preferred to avoid the situation if possible.

“And Novak recruited you to sit for him this morning, did he?”

Still unable to view the stranger’s face, I battled to hold my growing irritation—and fascination—in check. I still couldn’t determine whether this guy meant any harm. After all, why would he be lurking in a dark hallway of an office penthouse unless he had mischief in mind? On the other hand, a professional mugger would have found a more populated location to ply his trade. Still, I told myself, no sense rushing headlong into danger. No sense employing the skills I had learned in karate class all those years ago and instigating a fight from what could still be nothing but a harmless encounter.

I tried to keep my voice as light as possible, yet found myself taking a step backward. “And that is your business, how?”

“Oh, I suppose it is not,” he responded, his own voice revealing no indication of evil intent. “’Tis just that I am always intrigued by the type of models Novak actually hires to pose for him. The occasions are all too rare, I am sorry to say. I must admit, however…” A lengthy pause. “He certainly has exceptional taste.”

The unexpected compliment made me blink several times. Heat flared in my cheeks. Suddenly, I felt painfully exposed in the realm of the corridor’s only light source, especially when this man insufferably remained, for the most part, cloaked in shadow.

As if reading my thoughts, he took another few steps forward, finally revealing a face that not only stunned me with its attractive features, but also inspired a closer examination. I originally estimated his age to be in the mid to upper twenties. Still, I couldn’t be sure, since a pair of celestial blue eyes, housed above high cheekbones, bore a wisdom far beyond those years. A slender nose resided above a generous mouth, partially shielded by a black mustache. What appeared to be a three- or four-day-old beard stubble darkened his firm jaw line, giving him a scruffy yet not unappealing look, and long dark hair cascaded in waves down to his shoulders. Recalling an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer I had once watched a long time ago, I instantly thought of a biker vampire. Then a rock star from the ’80s. Then a pirate in black leather. Yes, that’s what the man looked like, with his captivating good looks and attire—a biker-s***h-rocker-s***h-pirate. A wild, yet thrilling, combination.

I took a deep breath and swallowed hard, attempting to squelch the fresh and vigorous notions of another sort bombarding my brain. No, I silently reprimanded myself, now was not the time to indulge in those types of fantasies. Those deepest, most private fantasies that even my three roommates knew nothing about and…

But aren’t those very fantasies the reason you showed up here in the first place?

Damn that inner voice!

I took another breath. “Th-thank you for the compliment,” I said. No, alter that—I croaked. I hated that my voice made me sound like a teen suffering through puberty instead of a virile, twenty-one-year-old man. I cleared my throat and shifted the topic off of myself. “How do you know Novak?”

“Everyone in this town knows him, or knows of him, anyway. He is our most famous artist. Our only local celebrity, if you will. People come from hither and yon to seek an appointment with him, begging for a portrait sitting.”

I barely suppressed a laugh. Hither and yon? Although the man’s style of dress made him appear like he’d arrived here from the previous century, his archaic words added a hundred years to that impression. “Well, as I implied, pal, I didn’t know of him until last night.”

“Probably because you are a recent transplant to the old Huntsville College, is my guess. A struggling college student needing some extra party cash, no doubt.” When the man c****d his head, the light bulb reflected an almost prurient twinkle in his blue eyes. His left eyebrow arched as that twinkle redoubled. “And perhaps…perhaps a young man needing something more…something he has revealed to no one but himself…if that…”

I shivered at how well this stranger seemed to divine my personal agenda. My mind raced for something to say, anything to steer my thoughts away from the sudden surge of desire, pure and primal, that came from being under the scrutiny of this sexy man. Yes, sexy! There, I fully admitted it to myself, finally. Despite his appearance, despite his old-fashioned phrases, this dude was about the sexiest creature I had ever encountered. And it took my breath away.

Yet it also scared the s**t out of me!

Sure, I had agreed to pose in the nude for money. I had to pay for my new car stereo, not to mention the growing credit card debt I had accumulated—mostly bar tabs, unfortunately—since my parents’ last allowance check had arrived.

And as far as the modeling itself, I had never been the bashful type when it came to my body. Especially since a decade of track, playing baseball and field hockey, and recent weekly trips to the gym had provided me with well-developed arm and leg muscles, a nice set of pecs and six-pack abs.

But I had also arrived at this building today with an ulterior motive—the opportunity to be in the same room with Skylar Novak again.

In private.

Damn it, yes, in private. And nude!

Ever since the mysterious and elusive artist had approached me the previous evening at my buddy’s party, I couldn’t get the man out of my head. Novak’s own intense and satisfying good looks, his own muscular physique, along with his vehement scrutiny of me, had given me a boner that had found no relief. I’d gone to bed last night, drunk as a proverbial skunk, yet annoyingly alone. I had attempted to jack myself to climax, but one too many beers had foiled that plan. Nevertheless, I spent the night fantasizing about Novak and his tempting offer of posing for five hundred bucks. And all the while picturing him completely naked and imagining what might happen today between us. I had clearly viewed the look in his eyes last night—he wanted my body for more than just “modeling.” And with that type of money at stake, and those similar desires to venture into unknown territory driving me mad, I hadn’t regretted my decision.

Little did I expect, however, to meet, just outside the studio’s doorway, another man who would have a similar effect on me. And instantly. Or an effect maybe even more profound.

Unable to stop myself, I lowered my gaze to the stranger’s crotch and clearly viewed something else profound. His bulge left little to the imagination, with each ridge defined by the taut material. Without warning, blood gushed into my own c**k. In seconds, my jeans became annoyingly tight, as tight as my fists and ass cheeks clenched in an effort to quell my escalating horniness.

“So you say Novak is more than a brilliant artist?” I asked, proud of myself for steering the odd conversation back to the artist and not my secret intentions without so much as a croak issuing from my vocal cords.

“Most assuredly. His paintings are nothing short of spectacular. He has an almost magical ability to delve into the very souls of his models…a rare talent. One can actually feel the various, deep-felt emotions his hands depict on canvas with such vivid intensity. But there is so much more to him…so much you will undoubtedly learn very soon.”

“For example?”

From beneath the man’s mustache, the moist lips pursed in amusement, then blossomed into a devastating smile. “Some actually say he is attuned to the ‘other side.’”

“The other side of what?”

More twinkles lit his eyes and sent my mind reeling. I unwittingly imagined that face looking down at me while I wedged his throbbing erection into my mouth, tasting a c**k for the first time in my life and doing my damnedest to bring him to climax, to live out one of my ultimate s****l fantasies.

Before I realized it, the man had taken a few more steps toward me. He now stood within arm’s length, and the intoxicating scent of male musk invaded my nostrils. I could smell his carnal arousal—or at least I imagined I could—and my balls began to tingle in response.

“The other side of what, you asked?” His gaze clawed over me from head to toe, then swept up to clamp on my groin. His smile widened even more. “’Tis hard to say, for certain, but I am sure you will discover for yourself and quickly come to appreciate Novak’s work.”

“Like yourself?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have overwhelming appreciation for the man and his…talents…”

“Then you’ve posed for him?”

“On numerous occasions…numerous satisfying occasions, I might add.”

An unwarranted envy tightened my stomach muscles. Oh, what I wouldn’t have given to see this sexy man pose naked for the artist in question. Or learned exactly, in lush detail, just what “talents” had brought the man such satisfaction on those occasions.

Then it hit me like a slap to the face—could that be the reason this stranger had been lurking outside Novak’s studio? Could he be a jealous lover, trying to scare away potential competition for the artist’s time? Yes, a possibility for certain…

Again, I felt the burning need to apologize—but for what, I didn’t know—and to support the reason for my visit. “As I said, I met the man only last evening, so I have no clue as to what you’re talking about. And as far as I know, I’ve never even seen his work.”

He raised his right arm, holding up his large hand in a gesture of surrender. “No need to explain further, my friend. ’Twas not my intention to raise your hackles in alarm, or for you to take a defensive stance. As I said before, I was merely curious as to the type of man Novak…selected…for his sitting today. Nothing more.”

“Is that so? Are you his paid watchdog or something?”

Another chuckle issued from his luscious mouth. He eyed me for a long time, his gaze again alighting on my crotch and making my balls ache for release. When he finally answered, his eyes seemed to once again send sparks through the murky atmosphere and directly into my soul. “Yes…or something…”

“What does that mean?”

His chest puffed outward on a deep breath. “You will discover the answer to that question before too long, I am sure…”

“Huh? What the hell are you—”

The snapping of a latch startled me into silence. I choked off my question and spun toward the studio. There, in the open doorway, appeared the topic of the recent conversation, Mr. Skylar Novak himself.

I had to admit, the thirtyish artist looked as appealing today as he had the previous evening when wearing his more elegant attire, even if he now wore a tight and paint-stained T-shirt, ripped blue jeans, and no shoes. His short, jet-black hair stood in disarray, as if he hadn’t combed it since awakening, and his dark stubble gave his already swarthy and handsome features an ultra-Bohemian cast. He held the doorknob with one hand, and with this other hand, he tapped a paintbrush against his muscular thigh, where a gash in the jeans displayed a furry leg.

The muscular arms poking out from the T-shirt sleeves, the hefty bulge behind the faded denim crotch…even more masculinity to behold, more for me to absorb and attempt to ignore—at least for the moment—on this exceptionally strange morning. f**k, I thought, glancing toward the floor and suffering more inner turmoil. Even the man’s bare feet were as perfectly formed as the hands I remembered so clearly from last night’s party; the toes chiseled to perfection in just the fashion I’d imagined when picturing him naked and attempting to jack myself to completion at bedtime.

All around me, the rotten air practically sizzled with testosterone. Tingles spirited up and down my spine, then settled with a bang between my legs. Stifling a groan of defeat, I accepted the situation. I found myself drowning in a closeted gay man’s worst nightmare—or, on the optimistic side, drifting in his biggest thrill. Either way, having the mysterious stranger enflame my libido with his physique, voice, and probing stare, and now facing this equally sexy artist who openly emitted raw sensuality, I wondered how much more I could take. How much more visual bombardment could I consume from these two hunks before my c**k speared through my taut zipper and spurted my primal desire in a geyser of c*m?

“Ah, Mr. Rhodes, it’s you,” said Skylar Novak, his toothy smile adding heat to the fire already rushing through my groin. His brief and swift glance toward my crotch didn’t help matters either. “I’m so pleased you could make it after all. I was growing—”

“Please, Mr. Novak, as I told you last night, call me Matthew.”

“Splendid, Matthew. And, as I also mentioned, call me Sky. I was wondering what was keeping you. I had grown fearful you found my directions to the studio a bit nonsensical, or worse, had changed your mind about today’s sitting.”

“No, no, certainly not. In truth, I was actually here on time.”

“Is that so?”

“Y-yes, b-but I met someone and—”

His sharp, ebony gaze elevated to peer over my shoulder. “Ah-huh, I thought I heard voices.”

“Do you know this guy—?” I turned to indicate the stranger who had kept me from my appointment, knowing he would give me a viable reason for my tardiness. Knowing his presence wouldn’t make me appear as crazy as I sounded.

And then I received the shock of my life when I found the hallway behind me completely deserted.