“Leave the car here,” Bill commanded, craning his head to look at the upper stories.
“I can’t leave it in the middle of the driveway.”
“Don’t worry about it. Park it over there, then.” He waved to the side.
Dan hefted their bags from the trunk and turned to find Bill staring at him. “What? Am I dressed wrong for this set?” he joked, glancing down at his plaid jacket, navy T and khaki pants.
“Thom’s going to love you,” Bill said apprehensively.
“What? How do you mean?”
Bill gave him a pained look. “I know Thom’s type. And you’re essentially it. I just hope he doesn’t try to steal you from me.”
Dan made a face. “I thought he was getting married this weekend.”
“That wouldn’t stop Thom.”
“Well, I’ll stop him if he tries. I’m here with you.”
“You don’t know Thom,” Bill said. “Besides, the rich make their own rules.”
“You’re rich, aren’t you?”
“Not that rich.”
A knocker resounded deep inside, as though the house went on for miles. After a few seconds, Bill grabbed the handle. The door opened onto a panelled foyer bright with flowers. A note awaited them on the hall table.
Welcome Billy and Daniel!
Your love nest is the first room on the left up the stairs. Make yourselves at home. (Food, drink, pool boys, etc.)
Seb and I will be back around 2.
XO Thom.
It was well past two now. Dan followed Bill up the stairs. Their room had an en suite bath and a fireplace. He set their bags down and looked around. A bay window overlooked a green swath that disappeared in mist before it reached the water. Dan walked over to the mantle and picked up a framed photo of a young man in a rowing scull. Big smile, bigger arms. The blond, blue-eyed looks of a matinee idol. Pretty enough for daytime soaps, though possibly not serious enough for prime time.
“That’s Thom,” Bill said, almost reluctantly.
“He’s rich and good looking?” Dan exclaimed. “How unfair!”
“He was an Olympic rower the year the team won a silver medal. Thom’s got it all,” Bill said with what sounded like disdain. “In fact, he’s even better looking in person.”
Dan thought it over. It wasn’t disdain; it was resentment. He heard it clearly now.
Bill pulled a rose from a bud vase, sniffed it, then laid it aside on the runner. “Come on,” he said, turning. “I want a shower.”
In the bathroom, Bill yanked at Dan’s T-shirt, then left off to unzip his fly. Fingers snaked inside his pants. “You have the most perfect cock.”
Dan slipped off his trousers and stepped into the shower. Bill knelt and looked up at him through the stream. “Who am I?” he demanded.
“You’re a dirty little hitchhiker I picked up on the Trans-Canada,” Dan said. This was Bill’s game, though for the most part Dan went along with it. “Who am I?”
“You’re a big sweaty trucker and you’re taking me to a place off the highway to make me suck your big dick.”
Dan ran a hand through Bill’s hair.
“Oh yeah!” Bill exclaimed. “Hit me … slap me around.”
Dan tapped Bill gently on the cheek.
“Harder!”
Dan gave his hair a tug. “I told you — I don’t mind make-believe, but I won’t hit you for real.”
Bill leered up through the pouring water. “What if I deserve it?”
“Then you’ll have to find someone else to give you what you deserve.”
“What if I told you I already have?”
Dan felt himself stiffen.
“You like the thought of someone else fucking me, don’t you? It turns you on.”
“Shut up,” Dan said.
“Yeah! Call me names. Tell me what to do!”
Dan thrust until he heard Bill gag. He felt slightly used, the unwilling participant in a porn video aware the camera is on him but closing his eyes and thinking of the money he needs to buy medication for his infant son.
Bill milked him until he stopped throbbing. “Sweet! You are so fucking hot!”
“And you are a very bad doctor,” Dan said. He towelled off and returned to the bedroom to dress.
Bill followed him. “Got you going there, didn’t I? It gets you hot to think about me getting off with other guys, doesn’t it?”
“Does it?” Dan said, adjusting his shirt.
Bill stood beside him. He turned and regarded his reflection with a frown. “I’m getting fat.”
Dan wrapped his arms around Bill from behind. “More to love?”
Bill reached behind, impatiently tugging at Dan’s zipper again. “More,” he commanded.
“Later,” Dan said, doing up his fly. “We have to be downstairs to meet your friends” — he checked his watch — “forty minutes ago.”
Bill made a disapproving face. “Friend,” he corrected. “I’ve never even met this other guy.” He stood. “All right, then. Mr. and Mrs. Thom Killingworth await.”
A picture window gave way onto an unbroken view of the harbour. Idyllic, grand. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds like a promise of better things to come. The light reflecting on the waves lent the room a solemn stillness, mysterious and exotic, like something hidden in plain view, all the more startling when you finally notice it.
Bill looked around the empty room and shrugged. “Told you,” he said. “There was plenty of time. We could have done it again.”
Oil paintings hugged the walls. Even someone unversed in art would know it for a serious collection. The intricate filigrees and whorls of the frames spoke of cultured tastes and leisurely times when the art of woodcarving was a commonplace but necessary attribute. Still lifes predominated — apples and pears in bowls, flowers in vases, slabs of butter, and loaves of bread on tables. There were also landscapes — glowering forests, rugged mountains, stormy lakes, and open-throated skies — in cartoon-dreamy colours. There were no portraits. Impressionism favoured the inanimate.
“Thom’s a collector,” Bill said, looking them over as though considering a purchase. “What do you think this room is worth?”
Dan glanced over the walls. “I have no idea. I don’t know much about art, except that it’s usually bought by rich collectors for a lot of money after the artists are dead.”
He recalled the impressive jade tiger dominating Bill’s living room. On their second date, Bill had tossed a silk shirt over it as though it were a hitching post. The garment sizzled and slipped to the floor. Bill had left it lying there as he went for Dan’s belt.
“Do you know anything about Canadian Impressionism?” Bill asked.
“Not really.”
“That’s what this is. It’s pretty pricey stuff. I’d say this room is worth at least three or four million.”
“I didn’t know there was anything other than Group of Seven.” Dan looked over the nameplates at the bottom of the frames — Mary Wrinch, Clarence Gagnon, and a few others.