Page 13 of Blown

“Don’t you just hate how full of tourists places like this are?” he asked, sniffing and imitating the way Rafe stood.

“I beg your pardon,” Rafe said in the most British way possible. “You’re one of those tourists.”

“I am not,” Jake protested as they moved forward again. “I’m British at heart.”

“Why?” Rafe asked, making the single word as dry as the Mojave. “Why would anyone who doesn’t have to be here want to move to this place?” He glanced around with his nose wrinkled.

“Because it’s home,” Jake said with a sigh. “I can’t explain it, I just feel safer here. Everything is simpler here. It’s quieter and kinder and not so tangled.”

“Tangled?” Rafe arched one eyebrow.

Another wave of anxious heat flooded Jake. “I mean, the English way of life is simpler than things in America.”

It was generic enough that Rafe might let the whole thing pass without question.

Rafe stared at him for a long time without saying anything. That was worse than if he’d called Jake out on the spot. Rafe wasn’t stupid. He knew something, knew there had to be a reason Jake would drop his life on a dime and attempt to startover on another continent with only the contents of a suitcase and a backpack. Jake just had to keep it together long enough to get that visa and then the whole, sordid truth could come out.

“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked to fill the brittle silence.

“No, not really,” Rafe said in the most banal way possible.

“Well, I am,” Jake said. “You’ll have to hold my hand when we’re up at the top.”

Rafe sent him a look that said he knew full well what kind of fishing Jake was doing.

He knew, but when they got to the front of the line and climbed into their pod along with a dozen other people, he reached for Jake’s hand.

“Since you’re afraid of heights,” Rafe said with a wry grin.

Jake’s heart melted. Rafe didn’t have to play along with him. He didn’t have to do anything. When he called him last month to blurt out his proposal, Rafe could have told him to bugger off and hung up the phone.

But there they were, slowly rising up over the grand city of London, and Rafe was holding his hand. Even though he’d lied about being afraid of heights and Rafe probably knew it.

He’d lied and Rafe had still accepted him. Maybe this could work after all. Maybe he should just tell Rafe everything, tell him how he’d been caught lying on his resume, how he’d been fired from his production glass job, and how he’d nearly over-drafted all his accounts and drained his savings. Maybe Rafe would help him instead of telling him to go fuck himself, like the friends they’d had in Corning had done, like all the people he’d once considered friends had done.

Rafe was his last hope, and he was determined to hold onto that hope as long as he could.

An hour and a half later, that hope wavered.

They were sitting at a small table in what had once been a Georgian ballroom but was now the public dining room of TheChameleon Club. A gorgeous waiter with olive skin and black hair had just brought their sandwiches. Jake had just taken his first bite of turkey and brie with cranberry compote, and Rafe stared seriously at him and asked, “Why were you such a self-serving, arrogant arse in Corning?”

Jake nearly choked on his sandwich. “What do you mean?” he asked hoarsely, reaching for his glass of water.

“You were a loud, obnoxious fool,” Rafe said, picking up his roast beef sandwich without lifting it to his mouth. “You had to answer every question first, you spoke over other people, and when Hero Yoshito stepped over to assess my work, you dragged him over to your display without a second thought.”

Jake swallowed his water uncomfortably, then set his glass down. He stared at it for a few seconds as he scrambled to construct a plausible story that would make Rafe happy instead of telling him the truth.

The problem was, Rafe deserved the truth. Especially since he needed Rafe to stop himself from crashing and burning. In this particular case, the truth would be better than a lie to win Rafe over.

“I needed that internship,” he said, shoulders hunched a little and head bowed, looking at Rafe like a dog afraid of being kicked. “I…my last studio glass job didn’t work out. I needed that internship to boost my credibility.”

“But you’re already one of the most talented and well-respected artists in our field,” Rafe said, radiating frustration. “You’re friends with everyone. The rest of us didn’t stand a chance against you. The least you could have done was share the spotlight.”

“I was scared,” Jake said, barely audible, though he did manage to hold Rafe’s gaze. “I needed that internship.”

“Well, you didn’t get it,” Rafe said, raising his sandwich at last, “and none of the rest of us did either. Yoshita went homeand plucked someone from an art school in Tokyo and the rest of us went home. Now I’m teaching glassblowing to locals from suburban London instead of showing at galleries.” He bit into his sandwich.

“I’m sorry,” Jake said, feeling horrible. “You really are talented, Rafe. You don’t need one of the greats to notice you in order to shine.”

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