for me, gathering the torn paper and pieces of tape.
It was Michael’s sketchbook.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Smiling, the man threw the lump of crumpled packaging paper into the wastebasket, left the room, and closed the door softly.
The first few pages were nature sketches. The view of the lake from the cabin window, a crooked pine that sat by the driveway, a small bird—a titmouse—on the pier… They were beautifully crafted, detailed. I remembered Michael’s expression when he sat and drew, his absentminded smile.
I turned another page and stared at myself. It was me on the pier, drying my hair with the towel. Sharp lines, dark shadows, the curve of my back... He’d poured his desire in the drawing. Another few sketches were of me running, glimpses of my body moving forward between trees and bushes. The next page was full of me again. My head bent over my iPad, my hands, my body sprawled on the sofa. Me, me, me. On another page, I was standing tall, looming, my eyes fierce—how Michael saw me when he knelt in front of me.
The next one was painful in its beauty. I was naked, my hands the most detailed of the picture, and I was holding a roughly sketched body in my lap. My fingers dug into the skin, and the head of my lover, drawn only in a thin outline, was thrown back in obvious pleasure. Michael drew us making love.
My hand shaking, I flipped another page. A portrait of myself sleeping on the hospital bed. My grumpy, wrinkled face seemed different through Michael’s eyes. Serene, peaceful, I looked as if I was smiling in a dream. The drawing was so detailed it must’ve taken him hours. His love saturated the paper, and now it shone at me.
I love you, Vincent.
A promise, a dream come true… a reminder, and a plea.
I closed the book and let it lie on my lap.
Nowak, you’re such an asshole.
Maybe it was naïve of me to think that a twenty-four-year-old artist, rich and beautiful, would stay for longer than a few months. The adult, rational part of my brain still refused to believe it.
Yet the way he saw me, the way he looked at me, the way he gave himself to me… Michael adored me. And I’d sent him away because I was afraid.
Of course, he’d been entirely right. The thought of letting myself fall for him, of having him and then losing him… it crippled my pain-muddled, medicated brain. I was afraid I wasn’t strong enough to handle him, to protect him and fulfill his needs. Not now, not when I didn’t know how long it would take for me to heal and if I would ever heal completely.
I’d told him he didn’t need me anymore, but what if I was wrong? He didn’t need Vincent Nowak, the security expert, to save him. Michael needed me, the flawed human, to see him and care for him. Nothing more and nothing less. It was my responsibility to keep him safe and happy, and instead, I’d pushed him away because I had a few doubts. Yeah, a coward.
At one o’clock at night, desperate and burning with guilt, I called him twice.
Of course, he didn’t answer.
The next day, I booked a taxi directly from the hospital. The car drove up the gravel path to the Bourgeon family residence in New Haven, the vibrations traveling through my bones excruciatingly painful. I winced and clenched my jaw. I had informed Michael’s new security chief about my visit, so the guards sent us through. The engine finally stilled, and I climbed out. My stomach heaved from the pain, but I had to put off taking another painkiller. I needed a clear head. I’d fucked up badly in a way that couldn’t really be blamed only on sleep deprivation and medication. So, I pushed through the ache and walked toward the wide double main door.
The house wasn’t as big as I’d expected, definitely smaller than Bart Bourgeon’s mansion, but the garden was vast, more like a park, fenced in and private, perfectly hidden from any public roads and far away from other residences.
The driver got my bag. Surrounded by my clothes, safely tucked in, Michael’s sketchbook lay inside it.
“Just put it by the door. Carefully.”
“Do you need me to wait?”
“No, I got it.”
“Okay. Good luck with the recovery.” He gestured to the sling and cast around my arm.
“Thanks. Good-bye.”
I rang the bell and waited, my knees trembling. Fuck, I needed to lie