Rough Canvas by Joey W. Hill Page A

that a single spark could ignite the forest around them.
    Thomas came up the stairs, found Marcus already returning from inside, sliding the glass door back with a knee, beer in one hand. His favorite label, Bud Light. Marcus rarely drank beer, and when he did, it was an import.
    “You knew I’d come.”
    “Yes. For your art, I knew you’d come, even if you wouldn’t just for me.” There was no censure in his tone. Calm, civilized.
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    When Thomas reached out to take the beer from Marcus’ hand, Marcus set it down
    on the rail before they made contact, absurdly disappointing Thomas. He needed to play it cool, easy and Marcus was helping him.
    He didn’t want Marcus to help him.
    His stomach was taut with all the things Thomas did want, such that his hand
    shook as he took the bottle to his lips. He covered it by turning away, looking at the view, when all he wanted to do was look at Marcus. “Spectacular. This place is a new one. When’d you discover it?” With someone else?
    “Friends of mine own it. They’re in the Bahamas, at my place there. We swap.”
    Thomas nodded. Swallowed. He felt Marcus’ eyes on him and made himself turn
    his head to look at him. Leaning his hips on the rail two feet away, Marcus drank his wine. The wind made the tail of his open shirt feather against Thomas’ forearm, drawing his attention to the fact there was only a foot between their hands on the railing.
    Marcus’ long fingers, manicured, his knuckles perfectly proportioned. Thomas’
    hands, calloused from farm work, several knuckles enlarged from a lifetime of drawing, brushwork. The tip of the one finger gone.
    As if following his thoughts, Marcus reached out and brushed the scarred tip with his forefinger, held it there, head cocked. “Does it hurt?”
    Thomas shook his head, tried to relax his beer hand. It allowed him to press the point of his wrist into his stomach. He rested his forearm on his hip bone as he shifted to lean his side against the rail.
    “You should have used the plane ticket.” Marcus’ gaze took in the amount of bug matter on the hood and windshield of Thomas’ vehicle. “You probably only stopped for a vat of those boiled peanuts you think are food.”
    “They stopped making them at the state line.”
    “Thank God for the limits of the Mason Dixon. I have some Chinese takeout, plenty for two, and you’re going to eat all of it.” Marcus straightened abruptly, moved toward the glass doors.
    “I want…” Thomas stopped. His hand gripped the beer bottle in a tight fist, as if squeezing could call back the words.
    Marcus stopped and looked back at him. Thomas wished he knew what Marcus
    was thinking, feeling. He knew what he needed, didn’t know if it was fair, was afraid to ask.
    “What, pet? What do you want?” It was the gentle tone that did him in, made him blurt it out.
    “I’d like…while I’m here. I’d like permission to call you Master… For one week.”
    He had to add that, had to be honest, even as he flinched at the flash of derision that crossed Marcus’ expression.
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    But then it was gone, and there were just the shades of green in Marcus’ eyes. All the mysteries of life were there, all the answers. Marcus inclined his head.
    “Then you will.”
    Thomas let out his breath. He couldn’t explain why that gave him a sudden sense of grounding, much of the awkwardness melting away, though it did nothing to alleviate the sexual tension. That was still hot enough to make him think he was feeling the heat of a southern sunset, instead of a New England one.
    “Come here.”
    Putting down the beer, Thomas walked across the deck, not conscious of any
    sounds his shoes were making. All he could see was the outstretched hand against the fluttering pale yellow of Marcus’ shirt, the silhouette of Marcus’ body revealed fully and then cloaked by it, like an unconscious strip tease.
    Marcus slid the door open, tugged Thomas so he stepped into the