so natural. Like … our partnership, or whatever we want to call it. Are we collaborators? Coworkers? … Partners …?”
I snort. “Until I put a ring on you, I wouldn’t go telling anyone we’re partners just yet.”
His cheeks are enflamed at once. “I didn’t, uh, mean to …” He shakes his head, winces, then turns back to the sink, rinsing out a glass. “Never mind.”
I chuckle, then eye him. “You were on fire.”
“Yeah?” He turns and leans back against the counter, folding his arms. “I can’t even describe … how this feels. I’ve been on edge all night. I don’t know half the crap that flies out of my mouth. It feels like just yesterday, I was questioning what was wrong with me, why I liked what I liked, and how in the hell I was going to find happiness. And now …” He snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t know how I feel about it, honestly. It’s so weird, to have so many people … looking at me.”
I rinse out the last glass, set it aside, then face Tye. “The BDSM world felt a lot different when I was a kid. It felt like a secret. It felt special … like it was just mine and no one else’s.”
“Yeah, exactly,” agrees Tye. “And now—”
“Now, everything feels like someone else’s.” I chuckle. “That’s commercialism for you. They find something enough people like, then steal it away from them, turn it into something else, and sell it back to you.” I nudge him. “But that doesn’t have to be how it is. Art isn’t always commercial. What we accomplished is something deeper, like we’re … reclaiming it as our own. Don’t you feel it, Tye?”
“I do. Which … is what brings me to … a … thing I wanted to, um … talk to you about.”
My stomach clenches up.
I think I’ve been dreading the conversation we’re about to have since the moment we stepped foot in the gallery.
He’s about to professionally break up with me. State his desires to work with other people. Tell me about some opportunity to move away to France and work with an artist I’ve never heard of.
“So?” I prompt him. “What is it?”
“I … I was hoping we might …” Suddenly, he pushes away from the counter and puts himself in front of me. “I was wondering if I might stay here for a while and collaborate on a new project.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending.
“Stay here …?” I echo back, dumbfounded.
“This sounds really awkward. Sorry. And a bit random.” He runs a hand over his buzzed head, laughs at himself, then shrugs. “I’m being kind of presumptuous, inviting myself into your place like this. I’m not meaning I want to move in or anything. It’s just …” He lets out all the air from his lungs in a sigh of dreamy delight. “It’s not just me who’s on fire. We both are. I can see it in you, Dante. We’ve got this thing going on, and it’s making me feel a sense of purpose.”
I don’t even know where to begin. “I figured you might’ve been … about to say the opposite.”
He squints at me, confused. “The opposite?”
“You’ve made so many connections tonight. I thought you were about to tell me you wanted to work with other photographers and … move off to France or something. I mean, you’ve always been welcome to work with others. I don’t own you. You are your own person, and … I knew the day would come that I’d have to send you off, let you go, watch you fuckin’ blossom or some shit.”
He puts a hand on my chest. “Dante, I think you’re giving me way too much credit. I guess there’s a possibility I could work with others in the future, but … I’m not forgetting who took those photos of me. I’m not forgetting who made me, who gave me my dreams, who unlocked me.” He lifts his eyebrows up, his pretty irises sparkling with so much beauty, I’m fucking captivated all over again. “You and I have so much more work to do before any of that. Dante, I’ve got ideas. I know you do, too. I need to be here with you to explore them, don’t you think? We’ve got to be together. We … We only just scratched the surface tonight. Besides, it’s such a long commute from my parents’ place all the way here. And … I did say I want