Abstract Love Read online

  When his phone vibrated again—and continued vibrating—Sam realized he was getting a call. He again glanced at the name and smiled even wider. He said “Hello” as he slid into his brand new office chair.

  “My darling dirty boy. How’s the city with the burning river?”

  “That was, like, fifty years ago, Zen.”

  She made a humming sound. “Still, it was a dick move for you to leave me.”

  He toed at the floor until his chair spun in a circle. “You know I had to.”

  “I know,” she said. “How are things, really?”

  “I had my first big meeting and managed to piss off my boss.”

  “That might be a record.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s hot. I couldn’t help myself.”

  When she laughed, he could picture her amused face all the way from New York. “Might have guessed. You do love to poke the bear, especially if said bear is wearing Armani and twice your age.”

  He admired the view overlooking a frozen Cleveland. All the buildings seemed made of ice. “I didn’t notice the label, but there’s no way he’s twice my age. Maybe midthirties. Also, pretty sure he’s straight and married.”

  “I’m thinking of cutting my dreads.”

  “What the fuck? What? No.”

  She groaned. This was how conversations always went with Sam’s best friend from New York University. Zen had been a late arrival and huge surprise to her two hippie parents. She spent her childhood surrounded by bizarre creatives and eventually attended NYU, where she met Sam in an art history class. They had bonded over surrealism and weed. Although Sam had given up the stuff, Zen still smoked a lot of green, which might explain her unconventional approach to conversation—her approach was nonexistent.

  She bounced like a frog from lily pad to lily pad, only she hopped topic to topic. Sam was by then an expert at her lack of segues. “You will not cut your dreads,” he said.

  “Fine, but only because you told me not to. I miss you, and I’m miserable without you.”

  “Bullshit.” He hopped to his feet and approached the window, looking down at freezing Cleveland citizens who, covered in wool, looked like overstuffed ants on the sidewalk. “You have a million friends and work at the weirdest art gallery in Chelsea. Bitch, you’re living the dream.”

  “No one can replace my Sam.” She paused. “Have you talked to Joe?”

  He rubbed his forehead and didn’t respond.

  “Shit, does he even know you’re there?”

  He sighed. “I want to get settled. I move into my apartment this weekend, and I just got assigned a huge project on my first day, so—”

  “Did you know they filmed the first giant squid in the Gulf of Mexico?”

  “No, Zen, I did not.”

  Someone knocked on his office door.

  “Come in.”

  A sweet-looking blonde poked her head in and smiled, and he recognized her as one of his fellow team members. “Sorry to interrupt. We were going to do some brainstorming in the conference room. I’m pretty sure we all love your abstract Flo idea, but we should have some backups, and we need to start thinking about Great Lakes Brewing. I know it’s your first day, but you know… Donovan.” She shrugged.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Excellent.” The door closed behind her, but not before Sam noticed…

  “A coworker just checked out my ass,” he told Zen.

  “God, what a perfect start.”

  Chapter 3

  Donovan

  Over the course of the next few days, Donovan purposely avoided Sam, which was easy physically but not so easy, gossip-wise. Monica hadn’t been kidding: most of the young interns were feet over tits for the guy.

  Whispers floated like ghosts in hallways and corners.

  “He has the cutest butt.”

  “Those eyes with that hair. Oh, my God.”

  “He smells so good. I want to bathe in him.”

  It was like high school but the inappropriate office version—a possible HR nightmare.

  There was the unavoidable hallway passing, of course, although Donovan usually buried his face in his phone and never acknowledged Sam’s presence, but just having the guy around was annoying.

  More than annoying, because even Donovan was beginning to see it—the fact that Sam was not only pretty but also a knockout. Sure, Donovan was straight, but he was an artist too; he knew aesthetics. As a painter, in particular, even though he did abstracts, he knew bone structure was important, and Sam’s pale face might as well have been carved from marble. Bright-blue eyes offset the severity of his shaggy, brown hair. Maybe that wasn’t true. The severity of contrast made him look more interesting, ethereal, like he rode a unicorn to work.

  The clothing choices, however, were unforgiveable. True, the skinny jeans did flaunt what the women called a “cute ass,” but Sam also had a penchant for hideous sweaters in loud patterns. Then, there was the socks thing. He must have owned dozens of different socks, all in bright colors and designs, and he showed them off by either tucking his jeans into them or rolling his jeans up. Might as well have shouted, “Look at my socks!” Bad. Just bad.

  Donovan had just arrived in his apartment lobby after a long day spent listing reasons to live. His place was near Progressive Field in a skyscraper called The 216, in homage to Cleveland’s area code. He’d lived there for years with his wife, but according to her icy voicemails, their marriage would officially be over soon. Paperwork was in the works, and tonight, Donovan faced a painful step toward singlehood. His cheating, soon-to-be ex-wife was coming to get her “stuff.”

  Donovan walked past the doorman and into the brightly lit lobby just as a laughing man in a long overcoat ran right into him. He was around Donovan’s age with light eyes and a thick, auburn beard. “Shit, sorry.” He dragged Sam Shelby behind him.

  Sam giggled—and stopped immediately when he recognized Donovan. “Wh—hi? You live here?”

  “You live here?” Donovan snarled.

  “Uh…” He turned to the bearded man. “Hey, could you give me a second?”

  “I’ve given you all fucking day.” The guy whined and went in for a kiss like it was no big deal. Just kiss, kiss, before Sam shoved him away, laughing.

  “Go wait outside.”

  “It’s cold outside.” The bearded guy tried tugging on Sam’s wrist to no avail.

  “Jamie. Just go. I’ll be right there.” Sam grinned and had the teeth of someone with either great dental insurance or great genes.

  “Yeah, anything for you, your highness.” The guy, Jamie, bowed and backed away.

  “Oh, fuck off.” Sam laughed at his retreating friend—boyfriend?—and turned to Donovan. Despite being skinny, he was Donovan’s height, which was a foreign feeling for the ex-athlete. “So you live here?”

  “So you’re gay?” Donovan asked.

  Sam shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “So you’re rude, and I’m bisexual.”

  “Then you’re just greedy.”

  Sam blinked his long eyelashes. “Wow, that is so ignorant. I can’t even.” He gave his head a quick shake, and his shaggy curls bounced around. “So, anyway, you live here?”

  “So you live here?” Donovan repeated.

  “Just moved in.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I waited a hot minute just to, you know, make sure you didn’t fire me. I hear you fire people a lot.”

  Donovan didn’t say anything.

  Sam shrugged. “It’s never too late, I guess.” He sidestepped Donovan in an echo of dance. “I was just on my way out, but…” He spun on his heels and flashed two thumbs up. “Great to see you, neighbor.” And under his breath: “Fuck my life.”

  Make that two lives, Donovan thought as he watched Sam traipse out into the Cleveland night where bearded guy scooped him into a hug, grabbed his hand, and dragged him away from the lobby windows of The 216.

  Up in his apartment, Donovan poured himself a glass of bourbon to try to soothe his nerves prior to Anna’s ominous arrival. His nerves had been frayed lately. Frayed was too weak a word. His nerves were burnt, gone, merely ash.

  Overlooking his impending divorce, the arrival of Sam not only in his workplace but also his living space made him feel like he was being punished—but for what? So he’d been a shitty husband. So he was a grumpy bastard. He didn’t deserve to be bothered by Sam. No one deserved Sam’s bothering, with his stupid socks and bedroom eyes.

  Where had that thought come from? Bedroom eyes.

  Donovan rubbed his own eyes.

  He could admit Sam had bedroom eyes, right? At all times, the guy looked like he was about to fuck or had just fucked. It was merely a descriptor: “bedroom eyes.” Didn’t mean Donovan thought they were special or anything.

  Donovan slammed the rest of his bourbon just as someone knocked on his door. He’d demanded Anna hand over her key weeks ago.

  He dragged his feet but eventually answered the door, and there she stood: the woman who would soon be his ex, with her Barbie doll good looks and floral perfume circling her like a halo—not that she was an angel. No, she had cheated on him. She had left him.

  “Hello,” Anna said and swept right past.

  Donovan had said he wanted to be there “in case she tried to take anything of his,” which was bullshit. Anna was the interior designer. Everything about their apartment screamed her style—except for the Michael Halliday painting in the living room, Donovan’s celebratory purchase after his last promotion at work.

  Okay, maybe he also wanted to see her a little. She had, after all, been the love of his life for eight years. Donovan was about to shut his front door when a hand reached out and caught it. Donovan hadn’t counted on Robert being there, but he probably should have.

  Robert chuckled as he pushed against the door. “Uh, heh.”

  Donovan sighed and let him in.

  Robert Culliver had always been shorter than Donovan. Most people were shorter than Donovan. Despite their height difference, Robert had also been a track star at Cleveland State University. And Donovan’s best friend for the last sixteen years until, oh, right, he slept with Donovan’s wife. Not to mention they were now living together.

  Over the sound of Anna rushing around the apartment, throwing things in bags, the two men stared at each other. Robert had always looked up to Donovan, literally and figuratively. He was Advertising Sales Director at Winshaw Creative, which was probably why he started talking—that or to break the stifling silence.

  “I hear Stoker & Steele is going after Progressive too.” He smiled the smile Donovan knew usually got him anything.

  “I’m not talking about this with you,” Donovan growled.

  Robert shrugged in the light-brown suit that matched his hair. Donovan hated brown suits, almost as much as he hated brightly colored sweaters and exciting socks. “We used to talk shop all the time.”

  It was true, in vague terms. Despite going to the same school and being morning running buddies for over a decade, the old friends had ended up competitors, working for the two biggest advertising firms in Cleveland. Although they did “talk shop,” it was never in much detail. That was like telling the other football team your next play—and Progressive Field was a huge next play.

  Donovan crossed his arms over his chest and did his best to look even taller. “After today, I hope to never talk to you again.”

  Robert’s smile lessened but remained, twisting and altering into a taunt more than an indicator of amusement. The silence returned until Donovan had had enough and followed the sounds of his wife.

  She was in their—his—bedroom, digging the last of her clothes from the closet.

  “I can’t believe you brought him,” Donovan said.

  “I didn’t want to be alone with you,” she said, not granting the respect of eye contact as she went about her tasks. Under the thick, winter coat she hadn’t bothered to remove, she wore one of her Lily Pulitzer dresses that Donovan despised but had always told her he liked.

  “What, like I’m some villain now?” he asked.

  “No.” She sighed and passed on her way to the master bathroom, still not looking at him. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m the villain, Donovan.”

  He tried following her into the bathroom, but she was already coming out. She hurried by, angling her body so they didn’t touch. “That’s not what… I didn’t… Damn it, Anna, will you stop moving?”

  She zipped up a bag on their bed and looked at him, both hands on her hips.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked.

  She laughed and picked up her bag. “Oh, my God! Are you serious?” Their shoulders bumped as she walked past.

  Donovan didn’t have to turn to know she lingered in the doorway.

  “I left my wedding ring in the bathroom,” she said. “You should probably stop wearing yours.”

  “Did you take yours off when you first started fucking Robert, or did he get off on it?”

  Behind him, her throat made a wet, choking sound, and her heeled boots stomped farther and farther away. Donovan jumped and covered his face with his hands when the front door slammed.

  For months, they’d been hurting each other. Before that, they’d loved each other. Donovan still wasn’t sure how things could change like that. One day, Anna loved him; the next, she didn’t. How did things alter so quickly?

  Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe it had been gradual until, finally, she’d found comfort in the arms of another man because Donovan couldn’t offer it anymore. He couldn’t comfort himself, so how was he supposed to comfort someone else?

  He exhaled loudly through his nose.

  Might as well get it over with.

  As Anna had said, her wedding ring was on the sink in their—his—bathroom. It was modest: a single karat diamond with a platinum filigreed band. He picked it up and held it close to his face, staring. Then, he looked at himself in the mirror, looked at his simple platinum wedding band. He thought about taking it off—it was only a piece of jewelry—but grew cold at the thought. Despite the pain and betrayal, it would be like chopping off a limb.

  Chapter 4

  Sam

  Jamie’s beard rubbed against Sam’s inner thigh when he went down on him, and Sam loved it. It was an empirical fact that Jamie gave incredible head. Sam gasped when his talented fuck buddy sucked his entire cock into his mouth until Sam could feel his dick pressed down the back of Jamie’s throat.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, the rest of Sam’s extensive, educated vocabulary erased by suction and tongue. He dug his hands into Jamie’s short hair and tugged before rolling his hips up and thrusting into Jamie’s mouth.

  Jamie’s hands slid between sheets and skin to squeeze Sam’s ass, and just like that, Sam was coming. Words were now completely gone; he communicated via violent, panting breaths until Jamie eventually pulled off and crawled up his naked body, littering kisses up Sam’s abdomen and chest as he went until his lips found the side of Sam’s neck and kissed gently.

  Despite the great head, Jamie was too gentle of a lover for Sam to keep around for long. True, great head was a thing to be admired, but Sam hated how Jamie treated him like he might break. Sam knew he was skinny with long limbs and delicate artist’s fingers, but Sam wasn’t small. Sam was over six feet tall, damn it. However, Jamie was taller, Jamie was bigger, and Jamie was older. Something about that equation made the guy gun-shy about fucking Sam the way he wanted: wild and rough. Jamie’s innocent image continued as he ran his fingers through Sam’s hair and nuzzled his nose against his cheek.

  They’d met Sam’s first week in Cleveland at a Great Lakes Brewing Company beer-tasting event. Sam loved beer. Loved it, especially IPAs, double IPAs, imperial IPAs. Give Sam all the IPAs. In the chill of Ohio winter, there was nothing better than a strong beer to warm up the belly.

  As a beer distributor, Jamie had assisted with the tasting. Sam had been immediately drawn to the guy. He dug the auburn hair, light-blue eyes, and Irish lineage obvious in the way Jamie’s ears turned red the more he drank. It seemed Jamie had felt a similar tug toward Sam. He’d circled him most of the event until making his approach to inquire over the quality of the Lake Erie Monster Imperial IPA. They’d geeked out over beer for the better part of two hours before Jamie asked for Sam’s number, which had made Sam laugh and lean forward, giving Jamie a kiss in front of Cleveland’s entire beer snob community.

  “You’re shameless,” Jamie had said, grinning.

  Sam had replied, “You have no idea.”

  They’d been fucking ever since.

  “Hey.” Jamie nudged his nose against Sam’s. “I have a work party Friday. Come with me.”

  Sam’s brain still floated in a sex haze. “Hmm?”

  “A work thing,” Jamie said. “Some local guy is making alcoholic tea out of Chagrin Falls. He wants my company to distribute for him, so he’s throwing a big party at Jekyll’s Kitchen to impress us. You’ll have to wear a suit and shit. Come with me.”

  Sam rubbed his eyes and turned his head away to glance at the clock: almost eleven. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

  “So?” He ran a hand across Sam’s flat stomach.

  “Jamie,” Sam whined. “You’re trying to take advantage of me postorgasm. You know I can’t fucking think after an orgasm.”

  “It’s not a tough question. Just come with me Friday.”

  “I don’t want to,” Sam said.

  Jamie sighed and rolled onto his back. Sam followed and rubbed his face across Jamie’s chest hair. He then scooted out of bed and into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, flipped on the light, splashed water on his face, and stepped to the toilet to take a piss.

  Sam didn’t date. He didn’t do relationships. He’d explained this to Jamie at the very beginning, but he already felt Jamie getting clingy. Guys—and girls—had a tendency to do that with him. Sam had no idea why. It wasn’t like he encouraged connection. He didn’t do “dinner and a movie,” and he never let anyone stay the night unless too much alcohol was involved. He was an excellent lover, and he knew the science behind endorphins, but come on: relationship material, he was not.