Thomas's Muse: A Quidell Brothers Novella Read online

  Thomas’s Muse

  A Quidell Brothers Short Novel

  by

  Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Published by Six Love Erotic Romance

  Copyright 2013 Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Edited by Annetta Ribken at http://wordwebbing.com

  Copyedited by Terry Koch at Beyond Grammar

  Cover designed by Kris Austen Radcliffe at Six Talon Sign Media

  Plus a special thanks to my Proofing Crew.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are used factitiously. All representations of real locales, programs, or services are factitious accounts of the environments and services described. Any resemblances characters, places, or events have to actual people, living or dead, business, establishments, events, or locales is entirely unintended and coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any print or electronic form without the author’s permission. For requests, please e-mail: [email protected].

  Copyright 2013 by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Published by: Six Love Erotic Romance

  An imprint of Six Talon Sign Media LLC

  Minneapolis, Minnesota.

  First edition, November 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-939730-08-4

  Special thanks to my dear husband Peter for being the inspiration for all the good men.

  Also a special thanks to Katie for helping with so many things, the least of which being titles and names.

  And finally, an added thanks to the everyone who makes the writing possible: Netta and Terry, who polish what I dig out of my psyche, and Jackie and Vickie, who present it to the world. I also want to also thank Kami, Jonel, Kristine, and everyone else who, from the beginning, believed in my stories.

  Thank you!

  1

  Samantha

  The first moment I thought Maybe I need to get my own place wasn’t when I tripped over Rick’s bike for the thousandth time. Or when the ripe smell of workout clothes and dirty dishes hit my nose as I opened the apartment door, either. Or when I sneezed. No, none of that.

  Rick’s an athlete—triathlons, races, modeling to make ends meet because the sponsorship deals haven’t quite come through—and he treats it like a career. An investment banker-like, cutthroat, “I work hard so give me my damned Mercedes” career.

  The rest of his life sits unwashed and collecting dust.

  Making me sneeze.

  I knew what I was in for eight months ago when I moved into the spacious wonder of Rick’s touched-by-an-architect loft. Into his world of boom and bust. It’s exhilarating—I won’t lie. When he’s up, he’s up. And he’s good at celebrating.

  At the time, I thought it a worthwhile trade-off. I received every inch of Rick’s scrumptious hardness, a downtown life, and escape from the tired suburban trajectory I’d been born into. But now his bike rattles when I knock it with the door, the place smells like bachelor, and he even closed the curtains before he left.

  Shadows force the sunlight onto the rough brick of the loft’s walls, making it look like old skin. This place is solid, much like Rick. Sinewy and hard and cut along perfect lines. It’s an old refurbished warehouse and it has character.

  But it doesn’t have soul. And I finally figured out why.

  We have no art. Or, more precisely, he has no art. No cheap single-man prints. No family snapshots in nice frames. Not one giant narcissistic photo from a modeling gig. The apartment has nothing but a cat who is as bland as the walls.

  And deep inside, I wonder what that really means.

  * * *

  Thomas

  It’s time for me to move out of my brother’s basement.

  My stomach tightens, thinking about it. He did a good job renovating before his ex did her crazy bitch dance and ran off. It’s open and sunny, for a lower level. Good light streams in from the big rear windows. I’ll miss painting in the warm afternoon glow reflecting off his golden patio out back.

  I never wanted to live in his basement, but he needed help with his kid. I needed a place to crash while I finished school. So I cooked mac and cheese for my nephew on the nights Daddy got called into work.

  It’s the least I could do.

  And the kid loves posing. I’ve covered more canvases than I can count with sweet cherubs and little superheroes.

  Right now, a long line of action figures, stuffed toys, books, and video game boxes snakes across the floor of my “studio,” running from the steps to the living room upstairs into the box my nephew packs my paints. Bart is quite reverent of my supplies, for a four-year-old.

  He holds up a tube of vermillion, his shoulders square, and speaks to his army. “Apples,” he says, and nods once before placing it in the box.

  I watch, wondering. He asked wide-eyed if he could pack my paints, like it was the most important thing in the world. No way could I say no.

  He picks up a tube of indigo, stares at it for a moment, and mouths the label, sounding out the word. “Almost night!” He looks proud.

  I squat next to him and squeeze his shoulder. His ever-present superhero costume crinkles under my fingers and he looks up at me, a bit glassy-eyed.

  “What are you doing, little man?” He makes rivers of toys all the time, so that’s not new, but color naming is.

  “I remember the colors, Uncle Tommy. When you used them.” He holds up a tube of yellow and points to a summer portrait I painted of him a couple of weeks ago. It hangs on the wall, next to the stairs, in a spot bright in the morning sun.

  I don’t know what to say, though I remember doing the same thing when I was his age. Lining up my toys. Making patterns on the floor. I drew and drew and taped my stuff to the walls so I could watch the light play over my crayon colors.

  I’d seen Bart stare at his markers, his nose crinkled like they weren’t right. As if they didn’t have the scent he expected a color to have.

  I give him a hug. “I’m going to miss you.” I’ll miss my brother too, but I need room. Dating is impossible when you live in your brother’s basement. Sex while my nephew lives upstairs seems wrong on so many levels that the elevator between each floor of wrongness is itself wrong.

  So I’ve been unofficially celibate for my last two years of undergraduate studies. It’s been… tough.

  Bart’s eyes widen again. “When will you be home?”

  He’s got a special scent, one I can only assume is what little boys smell like. He’s the only one I know, so I can’t say for sure. But he sort of smells like my brothers. And me, I suppose. It’s not attractive, just family. “I’ll come visit, okay?”

  My new place is closer to downtown, not far from my new job. I’m just thankful to have work. I know a lot of people my age who moved home after graduation.

  “Uncle Robby says you’re selling monster food.” Bart blinks, his eyes wide again. It’s amazing what kids hear, when adults speak.

  My younger brother, Rob, scoffed when I told him about the job in the art department of one of the big multi-national food corporations. Called me a sell-out.

  The beers flowed that afternoon on the deck, now that Rob is legal. He chewed his burger and said the last thing he expected was for me to be drawing happy pictures of frankenfood and GMO yogurt. Bart must have heard him.

  But it’s a job and jobs paid the rent.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll draw you some ‘monster food.’” I curl my fingers and growl, tickling his belly.

  Bart screeches, his plastic costume wrinkling. “Uncle Tommy!” He lets loose a little four-year-old-boy fart and screeches some more.

  I
roll around on the floor with him, laughing. He’ll be okay. Little Bart, he’s just like my brother, except for the farting. Dan’s the biggest and the best of the three of us.

  And like my brother, I hope to do the best I can, with what I’ve got.

  2

  Samantha

  Andy leans against my cubicle’s overhead bin and looks down at me with his baby blues. The metal groans when he crosses his arms. His well-sculpted biceps strain his perfectly-pressed button-down and I swear the fabric groans too. I tell him to call Rick’s agent but he just smirks and says he likes his job here in our wide-open land of cubicles, usually with a flourish and a wink.

  Andy, my usual lunch mate and the best work-husband a girl could want.

  “Let’s see them.” He wiggles his fingers in front of my face.

  Andy’s had a crush on Rick since we started dating. Not a real crush—more like a supportive best friend showing approval—but he does enjoy the photographic evidence that I am, in fact, living with a hot hunk of man model.

  Who took a cab to the airport this morning for another photo shoot, after I left for work. He hadn’t really talked to me, not even to ask me to take care of the cat.

  “I didn’t bring any,” I say to Andy. Rick didn’t share share—he sent me a link with the equivalent of lucky you in the subject line. I didn’t print them, either. This time, I didn’t even load the shots onto my phone. I know he was being snarky, but lucky me, indeed.

  Shaking my head, I point at my monitor. “Work. Deadline.” Honestly, I don’t want to think about Rick right now.

  Andy rolls his eyes and the walls of my cubie groan again when he stands up straight. Sometimes I forget how tall he is. “You write press releases in your sleep.”

  “It’s not a press release. Product testing.” Every year, our company prototypes new cereals, yogurts—anything in garish packaging they can slap with a “good for you” logo and call “healthy.” It’s a complicated process involving several departments, including ours.

  “Ah.” Andy’s nose wrinkles when he nods at my monitor. There are aspects of our work he likes, and aspects he doesn’t. Just like me. That’s why he’s a wonderful work-husband.

  He keeps his arms crossed as he turns to go. “Oh!” He lifts his hand off his elbow and twirls his finger in the air like a magician. “I have noon meetings all week so you’ll need to find some other sucker to lunch with you.” He winks.

  Guess I’ll eat my frozen boxes of well-tested midday meal product alone this week. I nod toward my computer. “Probably be at my desk, anyway.”

  My entire cubie rattles when he wraps his fingers around the top edge of the wall. “Don’t do that. It’s supposed to be nice. At least take your tablet and go outside.” He frowns like a big brother, or an uncle, or a father.

  “Yes, Dad.” I frown back.

  Andy laughs and shakes his head full of perfectly cut, chocolate brown hair. He really should call Rick’s agent.

  “Back to work, you slacker.” He walks off, toward his own cubie. “Next time, pictures!” he calls over his shoulder.

  My chair squeaks when I lean back, thinking about pictures, and I realize my cubicle is as ugly as Rick’s loft. The gray-blue nylon fabric walls feel like they were textured to mimic office furniture, or burlap, or maybe someone’s unfortunate Christmas sweater. They do their job—cutting neighbor noise and fading into the background while I work—but they’re flat. And completely lack personality.

  I’ve pinned up a few items: Pictures from a Museum of Modern Art calendar I bought a few years ago. A couple photos of Mr. Pickles—Mickles, I call him—Rick’s sweet cat. A page or two out of one of the clothing catalogs featuring Rick and his picture-perfect ah-shucks smile. That’s it. Nothing special. Nothing unexpected. Not even a plant.

  My cubicle’s door opens toward the windows, so at least I see daylight. The tint on the glass turns the morning a weird green, but it’s natural light. I can tell when it’s time to eat and when it’s time to leave, all by the pitch of the sun.

  Maybe I should get a plant. Something living.

  A message pops up on my screen: The boss wants me to go downstairs and pick up mock-ups from the Art Department. I stretch, leaning back to see past my cubicle door to the wall of industrial windows not far away.

  It looks like a nice day. Bright, and not cave-like. Maybe I should go outside. But first, I need to pick up fresh new designs for America’s freshest and newest breakfast foods.

  The stairwell door hisses shut behind me as its hydraulic closer keeps it from slamming. The company recently painted the stairwell and my floor’s door is purpleberry purple, a cereal box color so vividly bright it looks like a monitor screen and not paint. The tangy, chemical stink of “low odor” paint also lingers. I rush down, trying not to breathe too deeply.

  The standard big building metal and concrete stairs clunk as I jog, and my skirt rubs against my legs. Tight black pencil skirts and heels don’t make the best running gear, but I try to take the “dress for success” bullshit to heart. The shoes, though, stay in my desk drawer when I leave for home each evening. Bus rides call for sneakers.

  The door to the Art Department has a graffiti look, as if someone spray painted versions of all the company’s product logos onto it. It’s graphic design all the way, with very little “art.” But it gets the point across. I pull open the door.

  The windows are different down here. The day doesn’t shine through weirdly green, like upstairs. It bursts into the wide open space, white and clear and warm. The entire floor is flooded with natural light—and no cubicle farm messes it up, though cubies do line the inner wall next to me, on either side of the door. The Art Department prefers big tables and open spaces.

  I walk in, breathing in deeply, and memories of my undergraduate days flood back. I took a lot of art courses, Art History mostly, and I spent my time in studios. They have a particular smell to them, an art-in-progress scent of dyes and metal and clay. Real tools, real media, and the hands of real people.

  I loved it. I might marvel at what the Art Department here whips up with software, but nothing beats the sound of brushes on a canvas and the smell of paints.

  There’d been this guy, too, my senior year. A tall, skinny kid with sandy brown hair and bright, pale eyes. I saw him once or twice, walking near the art building, a pad under his arm and a pack on his back. He moved around in a sort of awe, like a lot of freshmen, so I stayed away. At the time, I had a month before graduation and an eighteen-year-old boyfriend didn’t seem like a good idea.

  Sometimes I don’t remember his face well, but I remember the look of his hands. And I imagine how they would have felt. How he would have smelled masculine but naïve, with a hint of charcoal from his work, if I had been smart enough to throw my reservations to the wind and come close. How he would have watched me in the morning light with his artist’s eye, planning the next expression of his art.

  I brush my fingers over the gray-blue nylon of the cubicle wall next to me. Time to retrieve mock-ups, not to pull up old fantasies, no matter how richly wonderful they are.

  A body swings out of the cubicle—a big body with a wide chest and broad shoulders—and pulls up short, right in front of me.

  “Oh!” pops from my mouth and I look up at the most wonderful blue-green eyes I have ever seen. Eyes more moving than Rick’s. Beautiful eyes framed by thick, masculine lashes—not too long, but perfect for the shape of his face.

  The man in front of me stands at least six inches taller, even with my heels. I get a good look at his strong jaw and expressive lips. Stubble covers his chin and I doubt he shaved this morning. His hair’s messy too, as if he also forgot his comb. But his clothes are neat and clean, and he smells nice.

  Quite nice, like real art, not the moused-over kind. Like texture and color and enough care to do it right. My forehead wrinkles. “Caring” didn’t have a smell, but with this guy, it did. And it smelled brilliant, as if his potential reflected off h
is skin with the warm sunlight pouring through the window.

  “Sorry,” he says, grinning. One of his big hands grips the wall of his cubicle and it grumbles, much like mine does. His other reaches out to steady me, a reflex, I’m sure.

  His hand cups my elbow. Strong, warm fingers grasp my flesh, not hard but with just enough pressure to steady me as I stagger back on my three inch heels.

  “You okay? I didn’t knock you, did I?” He watches me carefully, his gaze first searching my face before it drops for a quick glance at my chest. A tiny arch of approval moves from one eyebrow to the other before his eyes return to where they are supposed to look.

  “No, no,” I stammer. God, he’s built like a man. Not Rick’s obvious inverted triangle and twenty-six inch waist. No, this guy looks like he could pick me up and carry me out of a burning building while wearing full firefighter gear. He works, not trains.

  His fingers release my elbow. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  God, he has wonderful hands. Hands like the ones my remembered freshman would have now, four years out from my graduation. I look down at my arm, feeling, suddenly, as if I’d just been offered the best touch in the world and now he takes it away because he never should have offered it in the first place.

  Then I remember the reason: Rick. I stand up straight, determined to regain my composure. I’m in a relationship and I need to act like it.

  The new guy—because I’m damned sure I would remember him if I’d seen him before—smirks and looks away. As he shifts his weight, his hips move side to side in the centered way only men with strong abs and assured personalities move.

  In this moment, as I stand no more than two feet from him, I know I’m blushing. I feel the heat move down my neck to my breasts and my nipples are so damned hard I’m sure they’re showing though my bra. I’m starting to feel slick and I want to press my thighs together, but I don’t. Because the blush is embarrassing enough.