Life Class

Chapter 1Men in suits and women in ostentatious jewelry choked the gallery. Knots of people stood under artfully lit paintings, debating their merits furiously. Waiters carried trays of pink champagne and caviar entrees. Thousands of dollars’ worth of art was bargained on while soft music rose over the chatter, and Ryan Morgan drifted already, his attention not so much on the canvases displayed on the walls, but on the lavish buffet table at the back of the room. The pockets of his jacket were deep, and he aimed to get two meals out of this, one eaten here and the other smuggled out to be eaten tomorrow. It wasn’t like he wasn’t getting paid for being on the arm of a flighty, blonde socialite, but the money he earned tonight would have to pay his electricity bill tomorrow before he got cut off. And summer in Orange County without air-con wasn’t funny. He’d survived on a candy bar and two large oranges all day so far, and his stomach growled. The first swallows of champagne went straight to his head. His current dire financial circumstances weren’t going toward keeping the sculpted body on which he prided himself. Not when he couldn’t afford to eat. He lingered behind Anna Smith, the lady who’d offered to pay for his company that night, his bored gaze flitting over the paintings and back to the buffet table. Something caught his attention, and he turned to look. Two women, their heads together and whispering, one of them pointing not-so-discreetly at him. He frowned, not recognizing them. Maybe his fame as a life model and sometime-w***e was spreading and they wanted to hire him. He dutifully followed Anna along the row of paintings, seeing a man nudge his female companion and gesture at Ryan. He frowned again before Anna stopped so suddenly in front of him that he almost ran into her. She muttered under her breath, “Oh, my God.” Ryan’s gaze flickered to the wall above her head. Frankly, he could take or leave art, especially the pretentious crap being peddled tonight, even though he’d enjoyed drawing and painting at school, but… He froze on the spot as he stared up at the canvas. In large landscape, a man reclined naked on a bed of red satin, face down with eyes lowered. Long lashes shadowed his cheeks, and dark hair was cropped close to his head. The hills and valleys of his muscular body were drawn with lavish attention to detail, the pert swell of his buttocks a thing of startling beauty after the perfect dip of his spine. His pale skin was painted in the creamiest tones with a stark, black tattoo marked there between his broad, powerful shoulders. It was this tattoo which identified the subject to Ryan, for he was looking at himself. But the lifelike resemblance had clearly struck many people in the room, because there was a hullabaloo of excitement now, women pressing his arm, asking his name. Ryan stepped back, horrified, gaze not needing to stray to the bottom right of the canvas for the artist’s signature. He remembered only too well sitting for this picture some six months ago, a picture he hadn’t expected to be made public in such a fashion. He turned around, cheeks burning with humiliation, intent on fleeing, and there, standing at the back of the room with eyes fixed on him, was the artist himself, Harley Hayes. There was a heartbeat of shocked recognition between them and then anger became the dominant emotion in Ryan’s confused and indignant brain. He put his empty glass down with a clatter on a nearby table before he stalked across the room. * * * * Harley had finished the painting long ago, and it had remained covered and untouched in his studio for months as he drowned in pain over Ryan Morgan. He’d never expected to see his model again this way, not after so long, and he stood his ground with his fists clenched as Ryan approached. He couldn’t help but be intimidated by the other man. Harley was a few inches shorter than Ryan’s six-feet-three, his body lean and subtly toned as opposed to Ryan’s all-out muscle, but it was Harley’s face people didn’t forget. Harley knew it had been said that more than one straight man had turned gay on first sight of him. He couldn’t walk into a room without every person there staring at him. His face was exquisite, like an angel in human form. His lips were full and pink, his nose small and button-like. A pair of startling, amber-colored eyes fringed with lush lashes peered out from behind an untidy fringe of glossy, dark brown hair. This hair was cut close to his neck and fell over his eyes in a manner which might seem carefully calculated to others, but was not. Harley didn’t tend to think too closely about the effect he had on other people. He had, however, had six months to think about the effect he’d had on Ryan Morgan, and his heart hammered against his ribcage as the other man approached with menace on his face. “I want to speak to you right now.” Ryan moved past him and glared back, making it clear if Harley didn’t follow him, he would be dragging Harley after him by the scruff of his neck. Harley glanced around the room, seeing just how many friends and acquaintances had witnessed this, before he followed Ryan quickly through a door marked Staff Only. In the narrow, dimly lit corridor, Ryan looked almost incandescent with rage. “What the hell are you playing at?” he yelled as the door swung closed. “When I sat for that picture, you never said you’d be putting my bare ass up in a f*****g gallery for the whole world to stare at!” Harley regarded him coolly. He made his tone deliberately supercilious, trying to mask his unease. “I sell my paintings, Ryan, it’s how I make a living. I didn’t pay for your services for nothing and, exhibitionist that you are, I thought you’d jump at the chance of people drooling over your body.” Ryan grabbed Harley by the shoulder and slammed him into the wall, holding him there, their faces close. “You paid me to take my clothes off for you and you alone,” he hissed. “I didn’t give you permission to show my ass to frustrated housewives.” Harley’s lip curled in barely concealed scorn. “You really don’t have a shred of humility, do you? What did I ever see in you?” Ryan looked embarrassed. Maybe he’d been hoping this entire unfortunate encounter would pass without mention of that. Of the fact that the sittings for the portrait had come to an abrupt end after Harley had made a pass at Ryan. The original point of the fight had clearly been lost, because Harley could see those memories warring within Ryan before he turned on his heel and fled through the fire exit. * * * * Harley went back out to his exhibition with his shoulder burning from the grasp of Ryan’s fingers and his stomach leaden with misery. A gaggle of people gathered under his canvas of Ryan, surrounding his manager, Nathan, seeming to be in a bidding war, no doubt brought on by seeing the exquisite model in the flesh. Harley couldn’t have wished for better publicity than Ryan turning up that night, but he could have wished for a better ending to him and Ryan. Not that there’d ever been a him and Ryan, at least not beyond the kiss he would never forget as long as he lived. * * * * Ryan made it back to his tiny apartment and found the electric off. The man below him played his TV too loud as Ryan sat there in the dark and brooded. All because of Harley he’d left without Anna paying him and without any food. All because of Harley, he was remembering being kissed by a man six months ago and allowing it to happen. But this memory had never left his mind; not really. He just pretended to himself it had. He groaned, lying down on his bed and closing his eyes, the taste of champagne bitter in his mouth, the artist’s beautiful face behind his eyelids. Damn him to hell.