Page 39 of Refraction

9

Windows. Canvases.Boxes. A bed.

Tucker looked around the space again and pulled the huge tall table from across the room to the center of the studio. Then he climbed up on top of it to start moving the lights.

Oh.

Oh, from up here he could see down at the people at a totally different angle. Where was his camera? Oh, right. At home. Phone. Where was his… pocket. Pictures. They looked like birds down there. Wild flocks of ravenous crows.

He snapped one photo after another, teetering on the edge of the table. Dammit. Okay. He wanted to paint near the windows, but if he moved the table over by the windows he could lean and watch from up tall and…. He needed music.

He hopped down, grabbed his iPad, and searched for the hotspot, the driving beat filling the air. Oh. Yay.

Tucker wandered to the little fridge and peeked in. Dr Pepper, cheese, milk, and two jars of olives. He grabbed a can, knowing without question that the cabinet would have a box of Lucky Charms for him and the good coffee.

Thank God for Marge, electricity, and internet.

Right. Lights.

He climbed back on the table, making sure not to look out the windows, and set the lights up so he could work.

He’d bet Calvin was looking fine under some lights right now. The thought made him smile. He’d drawn Calvin for hours last night, eyes and smile, the curve of Calvin’s shoulder, the tight little ass. Calvin’s hands, which fascinated him.

God, those hands. So much about Calvin was aesthetically perfect, but Calvin’s hands were better because they were the slightest bit crooked, the knuckles strong, heavy. They were the promise of Calvin, which made no sense, but Tucker didn’t care. He loved what he loved.

Who he loved.

Wait. What was he doing?

“You mean besides standing on the table, imagining your lover’s fingers, weirdo?” His voice echoed up here, and he didn’t like that. That felt—scary—unnerving.

Right.

Down.

More music. Move the table and start unpacking the stuff.

That would be like Christmas. He’d told Marge, “Make an order.”

He loved not knowing exactly what would be in the boxes.

“Is there a knife in here?” He knew there’d be a palette knife in the boxes, but that wouldn’t…. What was he supposed to do with the boxes? He didn’t want the boxes taking up space. Was there a dumpster? Surely there was a dumpster, except he hadn’t seen a dumpster.

He was going to have to call Marge.

Also, he needed to know if there was a place close by to get bagels.

After he found a knife and unpacked the boxes so he could work.

Calvin’s thumbshovered over his phone. He just wanted to say hi—couldn’t he just say hi? But Tucker hadn’t texted him, and Calvin knew Tucker was painting today. He really shouldn’t interrupt.

Which was exactly how Tucker was probably feeling, right? That Calvin was working and he shouldn’t interrupt? Maybe Tucker was eyeballing his phone too. Or maybe Tucker just needed a day off from him. He could be a whole lot of company. Sometimes Calvin wished he could get a day off from himself too.

Jesus. He really shouldn’t be given breaks—all he ever did with them was pee and worry.

He would just say hi.Hello, not expecting a response, just wanted you to know I was thinking about you, tiger.He could do that, sure. Because he was.

He was, and he had to make himself stop after a while because he couldn’t spring wood at this shoot. This one had girls in it.

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