Rough Canvas Read Online Free PDF Page A

him hard, his tongue sweeping inside to claim his mind, that was that.
    It had lingered with his muse, though, so he’d created the painting. He’d never done a self portrait and was glad to do it from the back. He did a photo session to get some perspective on points of himself he’d never seen, which included some close-ups he’d had to forcibly wrest from Marcus to destroy.
    In the end, he’d found it oddly difficult to paint himself, trying to put together the pieces from photographs. The final effect gave the painting a brilliant starkness, almost as if the artist had painted the figure from inside to out, starting with the skeleton and 19
    Joey W. Hill
    forming muscle layers over which the skin was painted. The figure of the man was an absorbing contrast to the easy beauty in the green of the meadow, the vibrant colors of the sun.
    * * * * *
    “I kept that farm scene, because your soul is in it. You’re living up to your
    responsibilities.” Marcus nodded toward the hardware store. “But you’re looking toward that sunset, all the colors, the miracle of it, yearning for it.
    “It was one of your best pieces. It was you. I wanted it.” Marcus’ tone lightened, but Thomas heard the edge beneath it. “As you said, I get what I want.”
    Marcus leaned against the fence. There was just the space of one man between him and Thomas now. When Marcus put his foot up on the bottom slat, Thomas couldn’t see if he was as turgid and aching as Thomas had been only moments before. And
    would be again in no time if Marcus didn’t remove his chiseled face, sensual lips and lean strong body from Thomas’ senses soon.
    “I have a proposal for you. One that I hope you’ll consider. It would allow you to be here and nurture your talent both. Are you ready to listen, or do you need further attention?” He flicked his glance over Thomas, letting his gaze slide down like the lazy path of hot oil on heated skin.
    Oh yeah, in no time at all. “Just tell me.”
    Marcus inclined his head. “Artists come to New York to make it because that’s
    where you can get hip deep in the industry, make connections. You’ve done that. My gallery is in the center of things and the reaction at that auction says I can market your work without you. J. Martin is one of my biggest clients and he doesn’t make public appearances at all. If you never want to cross the Mason Dixon line again, you don’t have to. You provide the art, I’ll sell it, get it distributed, build your name.”
    “What do you want in return?”
    Silence was a weighted thing, and Thomas felt it in Marcus’ gaze. Suddenly,
    beneath it, he felt so out of place. Everywhere. He didn’t belong here, but it was where he was needed, had to be. He didn’t belong in Marcus’ New York world anymore
    either, but when he’d been with Marcus, he’d felt like he belonged anywhere. Wherever Marcus was.
    He couldn’t be thinking like this. He started to fumble open the work apron and spread it over his damp groin. Marcus spoke.
    “One of the buyers was Hans Joyner, a hotel mogul who’s salivating to see more.
    He’d like to put about fifty original pieces in his exclusive male salons across Europe.
    No restrictions on the subject matter. Fifteen thousand each upon delivery. Take out my sixty percent and you’re still bringing in six thousand dollars per completed work, in addition to what else you’ll start selling when your name starts growing.”
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    Rough Canvas
    As Thomas hesitated, Marcus sighed. “Thomas, you’re working short-staffed at a
    hardware store that, while admittedly a tribute to a bygone age, only makes enough to break even. Barely. You run in the red half the time. You still have debts from your father’s funeral and Rory’s astronomical medical bills, not to mention that expensive medical college your sister’s scholarship won’t cover beyond the first year. If one of the big home improvement stores goes up in a nearer town in the next few