JENNIFER LABRECQUE - Red-Hot Nights - Daring in the Dark

“YOU LOOK LIKE HELL,” SIMON Thackeray said as he carefully placed his camera case in an orange vinyl chair in Elliott’s inner sanctum and sat in the matching chair.

Blond, good-looking, outgoing and possessing a sense of style that always left him looking as if he’d just stepped off the pages of GQ , Elliott turned heads in a crowd. A girl in college had once likened the two best friends to Apollo and Hades. They were foils in both looks and personality. Elliott, sunny and outgoing, Simon, dark, quiet, withdrawn. But Elliott had sounded weary and worried on the phone when he’d asked Simon to stop by. He didn’t look any better than he’d sounded. “What’s going on?”

Elliott perched on the edge of the stainless-steel desk and swung one leg. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

Simon nodded at the obvious. Since they’d met in a photography class in junior high, where they’d discovered a shared love of art and a friendship that had weathered the years. Elliott had thrown out a lifeline that saved Simon from drowning in his own loneliness. Conversely Simon had anchored Elliott, provided him with some much-needed stability. Elliott’s parents were warm and outgoing, but volatile.

He wasn’t so sure he would’ve pursued a career in photography if Elliott hadn’t believed in him and pushed him. And Simon had provided invaluable contacts when Elliott had decided to open a small gallery.

“You know you’re the brother I never had,” Elliott continued. “I’ve always thought I could tell you anything. Share anything.” Once upon a time Simon had felt the same way. Until he’d discovered that there were some things you couldn’t share with your best friend. Like being in love with his fiancée. “I hope you’ll always be my friend.”

Simon sighed at Elliott’s penchant for melodrama. If Elliott hadn’t parlayed his art-history degree and eye for art into owning a gallery, he could’ve given Broadway a run. “Elliott, unless you’ve ax-murdered a little old lady, I’m going to always be your friend.” Simon shrugged. “I’d probably be your friend even then. Why don’t you just tell me what this is all about?”

“I’m gay.”

“Right.”

First Elliott called him in and gave him the big friendship spiel, now we was fooling around when Simon had a photo shoot scheduled in forty-five minutes. Elliott had a warped sense of humor and a piss-poor sense of timing.

Elliott knotted his hands together. “This isn’t a joke. I’m serious. I’m gay.”

Simon sat, stunned. Elliott was … gay? How was that possible? They’d been best friends for over a decade. Simon was the odd straight guy in a profession that attracted homosexuals like a homing device, yet he’d never once suspected Elliott of anything but blatant heterosexuality.

For God’s sake, Elliott was engaged to Tawny, slept with her on a regular basis and he’d just announced he was gay? “When … how …”

“Perhaps bisexual is a better estimation.” Elliott ran his manicured hand through his short blond hair. “I’ve found myself increasingly attracted to men over the last several years.” He shook his head and offered a harsh laugh lacking in humor. “Don’t worry. Not you.”

Quite frankly Simon could give a toss if Elliott was attracted to him or not. Well … maybe he was a bit relieved Elliott hadn’t professed undying love or lust for him, but he’d definitely missed something along the way.

Simon clearly recalled the first time he’d seen Tawny. It’d been here in the gallery, outside Elliott’s office. Simon had dropped by during a private event—a cocktail party and private viewing Tawny had arranged for her company. She’d been engrossed in an animated discussion with the caterer. One look at her and his world had shifted into sharper focus. Then she’d disappeared and he’d sought out Elliott, intent on discovering who she was, only to learn Elliott had beat him to the punch. Before Simon had opened his mouth, Elliott had announced he’d met his dream woman and arranged a date with her. Intuitively Simon had known it was the same woman. And he’d been right.

“What was this six months ago when you told me you’d just met the woman of your dreams?” he asked.

“She was hot and sexy and so different from the other women in New York, I thought she might cure me.”

She’d been a bloody cure?

Simon pushed to his feet and walked over to the window overlooking the street, needing to look at something other than the friend he wasn’t sure he knew any longer. Elliott had always been a bit self-absorbed, but this….

Outside, Manhattanites shared the sidewalk with tourists. Customers thronged from the electronics store across the street to the corner falafel stand and the shops in between. A cabbie flipped off a delivery van who cut him off.

Like a strip of negatives laid out before him, he saw in his head photos, moments in time committed to memory. He’d wagered the more he was around Tawny, the more he knew of her, the more his attraction would diminish. Instead with every encounter he’d found himself increasingly drawn to her, discovering that her spirit, her wit, her spunk, ran even deeper and surer than her physical beauty.

And he’d held himself increasingly aloof. Afraid he’d betray himself with a careless glance, a misplaced remark, he hid behind sardonic comments. He’d still held out hope for himself, for a recovery, even after Elliott proposed. He’d get over her.

It had been the photo shoot, the day he’d spent photographing Tawny, at Elliott’s request, that he knew he was deeply, irrevocably in love with her. He gripped the windowsill and rocked on the balls of his feet, looking inward instead of at the busy street outside. It was the only time he’d ever spent alone with her and he’d glimpsed something so sweet, so elusive, that to end that day had bordered on physical pain.

And she’d been a bloody cure for Elliott. He turned around to face Elliott, struggling for an even tone. “And was asking her to marry you part of the cure or did you consider yourself cured at that juncture? I’m a bit confused. Is this a twelve-step program?”

“Does it make you feel good to be such a sarcastic bastard?”

“Not particularly.” Simon felt a foreign urge to pound Elliott’s head against the cinnamon-colored wall. “You asked her to marry you when you knew you felt this way? When you knew you were attracted to men?”

Elliott colored at Simon’s censure. “But I’m also attracted to her. I thought if I threw myself into the relationship enough these feelings would go away.” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. He began to pace the room.

“But they didn’t and you cheated on Tawny?”

Elliott squared his shoulders defensively. “Just once. Last night. You know Richard, the acrylics painter we’re featuring? I’ve caught him looking at me, watching me a couple of times. Anyway, we were working late last night, shared a bottle of wine and one thing led to another.”

Perhaps this was one big mistake Elliott was blowing out of proportion through guilt. Elliott was also a bit of a dramatist, and guilt distorted the clearest picture, as Simon well knew. “Did you have too much wine? Were you drunk?”

His blue eyes solemn, Elliott shook his head. “No. That’d be an easy excuse. I wasn’t drunk. I was intrigued. I thought I’d try it and know for sure, one way or the other.” He scrubbed his hand over his forehead. “I liked it. I have feelings for Richard.”

Simon squelched a frown of distaste. This shouldn’t be any different than listening to Elliott talk about a woman. But it was. Vastly different. Simon held up a staying hand. “I neither want nor need details.”