For the Love of Luke Read online

  Rupert leaned against the bedroom doorway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather biker’s jacket. The devastation was even worse than he remembered it from that morning. It looked like he was going to have another fitful night’s sleep.

  “So I’m sleeping on the couch again tonight.” He sighed. “The mattress and bedding must be soaked. I’m going to have to replace everything. And it stinks of damp.”

  He wrinkled his nose and turned to Sandra, who stood beside him.

  “I don’t think you need to put on the rubber gloves, sweetheart,” Rupert continued. “Do you fancy a drink or three, now you’re here?”

  Sandra slipped her arm through his and squeezed tight.

  “You’re supposed to be cooking for a special someone, remember? You can’t get too smashed if you’re seein’ yer dishy fella.”

  “Er, hi?”

  The voice came from above their heads. Rupert and Sandra looked up to see a man’s face peering down through a gaping hole in the ceiling.

  “Blimey, Rupert,” whispered Sandra. “’E’s fuckin’ gorgeous! An’ that bandage on ’is ’ead makes ’im look so vulnerable. I could—”

  “Hi, Luke!” called out Rupert to interrupt her before she said any more. “How’s your head? You’d better watch your step up there. I don’t want to play the hero two days in a row.”

  A broad grin lit up Luke’s face.

  “Don’t worry. I’m holding on real tight up here!” he replied. “Can I come down to see the mess I’ve made?”

  Before Rupert could reply, Sandra opened her mouth to speak. “’Course you can, love! We’re about to crack open a bottle of somethin’. Come and take the weight off yer plates.”

  “Plates?” asked Luke. He looked puzzled.

  “Plates of meat—feet,” replied Rupert. “It’s Cockney rhyming slang. Sandra claims to be a Cockney, even though she comes from Chigwell, which makes her nothing more than an Essex girl.”

  Sandra gave him a sharp jab in his ribs. Rupert turned to wrestle her into a headlock.

  “Ow, Rupert! You fucker!” Sandra’s voice came from somewhere below his waist.

  “This is Sandra Giles,” announced Rupert to Luke. “Picture editor extraordinaire from BBC Special Reports.” Rupert continued to resist Sandra’s struggles. “She spends all day in a darkened room watching dodgy TV. Which is why she’s got a filthy mouth on her when they finally release her into the daylight.”

  He let Sandra go from the headlock. She turned to kick him in the shin and then looked up to the ceiling. Luke was still peering down at them with a bemused expression on his face.

  “And you’ve already met The Hon. Rupert Pendley-Evans. Second son of Lord and Lady Pendley-Evans,” said Sandra. “Though fuck knows why they call ’im ’on’rable when he treats ’is friends like this.”

  Luke laughed. “He sure was honorable toward me last night. I’ll come down and say hi properly.”

  He disappeared from view.

  Sandra turned and looked up at Rupert. Her face was thunderous with fury.

  “What the ’ell did you have to do that for?” she said. “You made me look like a right plonker.”

  “Well, you punched me in the kidney,” replied Rupert.

  “That’s the ’ighest I can reach on you, Rupert Pendley-Evans. You should be grateful it wasn’t your manhood I went for. Otherwise you’d be no fuckin’ use to lover-boy Luke.” She ran her fingers through the strands of her long blonde hair. “And if it turns out he doesn’t ’ook up to your particular train, you can always point ’im in my direction. I’d be more than ’appy to attach his couplin’ to mine—”

  “Hello again,” Luke’s voice called from down the hallway. “You left your front door open, so I came straight in.”

  “Sandra!” said Rupert. He looked at her accusingly.

  Sandra turned to admire Luke as he approached them down the corridor. “Fuck me,” she said. “You’re even more gorgeous in the flesh. Oh my God!” She looked at Rupert and winked. “Did I just say that out loud?”

  Rupert eased Sandra aside, stepped forward as Luke reached the entrance to the bedroom, and held out his hand in greeting. Luke clasped it, and they shook hands formally.

  “Bloody ’ell, you two,” said Sandra. She looked first at Rupert and then longingly at Luke. “Are you seriously just going to shake hands? I ’eard that last night—”

  “Sandra,” said Rupert. “Shut your mouth, will you? It’s making a howling gale in here.”

  “Gee, it’s a helluva mess,” said Luke. He looked over Rupert’s shoulder. “I’m real sorry for causing you so much trouble. Have you got another room to sleep in? For sure this one’s out of action.”

  Rupert shook his head. “Mine’s the smallest apartment in the building. It’s just the one bedroom. I’m afraid I’m on the couch until the decorators come to fix it up.”

  “No you’re not,” replied Luke. “I’ve got a spare room. You can come sleep in mine. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, but you don’t need to—”

  “What Rupert’s tryin’ to say,” interrupted Sandra, “is that ’e’s very ’appy to take you up on your offer. He’ll pack ’is things now and be upstairs in a jiffy.”

  Luke looked down at Sandra and laughed. “The lady’s right, Rupert. You can’t sleep here. And if your couch is anything like mine, you’ll have a backache for months. My spare room’s got a queen-size bed—”

  “Ooh, how appropriate,” said Sandra. She turned to Rupert. “You’ll feel right at home in that.”

  “All right, all right,” said Rupert. He threw his hands in the air in mock surrender. “If I’m honest, I really can’t face another night on the couch. I’ll happily sleep in your spare room for the next few days. But in return I’m going to cook dinner for you tonight.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Luke, and he held out his hand to Rupert.

  Sandra shook her head in disbelief. She grabbed Rupert around the waist and shoved him unceremoniously toward Luke.

  “For God’s sake, Rupert. Give the man a hug at least!” she said.

  Rupert put his arms around Luke’s shoulders, in part to steady himself, in part because it felt good. He was within kissing distance of the American’s lips when Luke’s body tensed. He looked into his eyes and could see Luke was uncomfortable with the enforced embrace. Rupert dropped his arms hurriedly and took a step away. To cover the awkwardness of the moment, he took Luke’s right hand in his and shook it vigorously.

  “Sure, it’s a deal,” said Rupert. “I’m starving anyway. Sandra and I will get the chili started, so why don’t you come back and join us in about an hour—”

  “Oh no,” said Sandra. She started to walk away from them down the corridor. “I’ve got me roots to do tonight. I’m not ’angin’ round ’ere playin’ bleedin’ gooseberry.”

  She opened the front door, turned to look at Rupert and Luke, and wagged her finger at them.

  “You two sort yerselves out. ’Ave a nice evenin’, boys.”

  The door slammed behind her, and its sound echoed down the corridor. Rupert slumped against the wall and sighed.

  “I’m so sorry about Sandra,” he began. “She has a habit of speaking her mind. Even if—”

  “Hey, don’t say sorry,” interrupted Luke. “I think she’s great. If anyone should say sorry, it’s me.”

  He took a step toward Rupert and laid a hand tentatively on his shoulder. Rupert was unsure how to respond after the mixed message he had received from the fumbled embrace. He knew what he wanted to do. The gathering grasp of Luke’s hand on his shoulder, and the warm rush of Luke’s breath against his cheek, sent his memory flicking back to the night before. He recalled the exquisite beauty of Luke’s naked form, lying vulnerable on the bathroom floor. The taut, ebony shine of the American’s skin, and the seductive sculpture of his motionless torso. Rupert slowly extended an arm, rested his hand on Luke’s waist, and waited.

  Luke’s eyes
scanned Rupert’s face for a few moments. He sighed, and the intoxicating rush of the American’s breath brushed against Rupert’s face once more.

  “I don’t remember too much about last night,” Luke began. “But I do remember saying something embarrassing about those beautiful blue eyes of yours. And as I look at them now, I have to say, they’re more beautiful than ever.”

  He slowly pulled Rupert toward him and kissed him gently on the cheek. He rested his forehead against Rupert’s and whispered, “Beware, beautiful Englishman. I’m complicated.”

  RUPERT TURNED down the gas under the pan as the smell of frying onions flooded the narrow galley kitchen of Luke’s apartment. He opened the deep drawer below the stove top and searched for a large pan to boil water for the rice.

  Luke had persuaded him to transfer the evening’s cooking operations to his upstairs apartment. That way they could talk while Luke cleared the clutter from his spare room. Rupert found the unfamiliar kitchen easy to navigate. Cooking pots and utensils were in the place he expected to find them. The cupboards turned up a good supply of quality spices and herbs. It was gratifying to find the American took his food as seriously as Rupert.

  Luke appeared at the kitchen doorway, a CD case in either hand.

  “Two questions for you. Adele or George Michael? And red or white?”

  Rupert straightened up from the drawer. He held a large saucepan in his hand.

  “Definitely Adele,” he said. “And why don’t you open a bottle of red? Then I can use some of it in the chili. We can drink the rest.”

  “Good plan,” replied Luke, and he disappeared from the doorway. A few moments later, the sound of “Home Town,” sung by the north London singing legend, drifted through from the living room. Luke reappeared at the kitchen doorway. He held two large glasses of red wine in one hand and an opened bottle in the other.

  “Here,” he said and handed the bottle to Rupert. “This will liven up the chili tonight. It’s an exceptionally fine Syrah I brought back from France last month.”

  Rupert took the bottle and set it on the counter beside the stove. He retrieved a glass of red wine from Luke and inhaled the bouquet.

  “That’s very fine indeed,” he commented. He took a sip and held the liquid in his mouth for several seconds before he swallowed it. “I’m not sure we should be cooking with it. Where did you say you got it?”

  “Oh, sure. Put it in the chili. I’ve got plenty more. I was staying in Collioure, down in the South West of France. Do you know it?”

  “Oh yes, a wonderful place,” said Rupert. “I went there when I was a student.”

  “It is,” continued Luke. “I went over the border into Spain for a few days. I wanted to see the coastline on that side of Spain and visit Figueres. You know the place? The Dali museum?”

  “Oh yes. Lots of painters have spent time in that region over the years.”

  “It’s a stunning part of the world,” said Luke. “The light is somehow different to any I’ve experienced before. Matisse lived in Collioure. And of course Picasso. It was real inspirational. I’d say almost spiritual.”

  Rupert held out his glass to Luke.

  “Well, you made an excellent choice with the wine. Cheers.”

  They clinked their glasses together and sipped the ruby-red liquid. Rupert watched Luke close his eyes and roll the wine around in his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A look of what Rupert could only describe as serenity engulfed the American’s face. Luke reopened his eyes.

  “It’s like nectar, isn’t it?” The air of serenity remained in Luke’s expression as he spoke. “You can taste the sunshine, the clear air, the intensity of the light. That part of Europe is an artist’s paradise.”

  Rupert could see two artworks hanging on the wall of the hallway outside the kitchen. Both canvases were about three foot square and appeared to be part of a larger work. They were dark, brooding pieces; the brushstrokes seemed rapid and angry. Rupert could see no sign of the azure blue Mediterranean light he recalled from the times he had spent in and around the coastal border area of southwest France and Spain.

  “I see you brought back some souvenirs with you,” he said. “Are they from Spain or France?”

  “Neither,” replied Luke with a grin. “They’re from Vauxhall. Those are my own attempts at art.”

  “Really?” said Rupert in surprise. He carried his glass out into the hallway, took another sip of wine, and examined the canvases. In the confined corridor, it was difficult to get far enough away to take in the combined composition of the two pieces. Standing close to them, he could sense the furious energy the artist had thrown into their creation.

  “They’re impressive,” said Rupert. “Forbidding, but impressive.”

  Luke sighed and turned to go back into the living room. “I knew you wouldn’t like them.”

  “I didn’t say that,” protested Rupert and followed him. “I really find them—” He searched for the right word. “—interesting. They just weren’t quite….”

  Luke turned to face Rupert at the door to the living room. “But you don’t like them, do you? That’s a real pity.” He raised his hands and gestured to the ceiling. “After we’d eaten, I was going to take you upstairs and show you more. Maybe it’s not such a good idea—”

  “You have an upstairs?” asked Rupert.

  “Sure,” replied Luke. “It’s my studio. In the converted roof space. There’s only a ladder to get up to it. It’s a bit rough and ready. But there’s lots of light.” He grinned at Rupert. “My humble artist’s garret. Here’s the deal. You cook us a meal, and I’ll take you upstairs later.”

  “Now there’s an invitation,” said Rupert. He raised his glass to Luke. “Here’s to you, the complicated American, with his overflowing bathwater and his paintings in the attic.”

  Chapter 5

  THE FLAMES on the five tall candles set in the glass candelabra sputtered and swayed. Rupert carried a heavy iron pot of chili from the kitchen and placed it on the table in front of Luke. The last rays of evening sun had long gone, but a glow of twilight filtered through the large Edwardian window and illuminated the small, square dining room in Luke’s apartment. As with all the windows on that balmy evening, Luke had opened them wide to invite in any whisper of a cooling breeze to displace the suffocating heat in the upper part of the house.

  “Voilà!” said Rupert. He removed the pot lid and stood back to let Luke admire its contents.

  “It smells great!” said Luke. He leaned over the chili and inhaled its aroma. “Your own recipe?”

  Rupert put the lid down on a glass mat that protected the polished oak surface of the dining table. He sat opposite Luke, picked up a large serving spoon, and handed it across the table.

  “Here, help yourself to some rice,” he said. “Yes, sort of. I only learned to cook about ten years ago. When I ran away from home to live with a chef. I survived on vile school dinners and takeouts before that.”

  “A chef, eh? Your first lover?” asked Luke. He spooned a generous portion of rice onto his plate and handed the spoon to Rupert, who dug deep into the bowl of rice.

  “In fact,” Rupert continued, “he was the executive chef at the Savoy Hotel in London. A tall German guy with an amazing body and a very fast BMW motorbike. At least, it was fast when he rode it. The first time I watched him cook, I decided I had to learn. He taught me how to improvise recipes and cook with what you’ve got.”

  “You ran away from home?” asked Luke.

  Rupert sat down and arranged a well-laundered damask napkin on his lap.

  “I was eighteen, and I’d recently come out to my parents.” He handed his plate to Luke. “It didn’t go well.”

  “What happened?” asked Luke. He piled a generous portion of chili onto Rupert’s plate.

  “Hey, that’s enough for me,” said Rupert. He held up his hand before Luke could offload another spoonful. Rupert took the plate back and set it down in front of him.

&nb
sp; “Father told me to grow up, and Mother suggested I join the Army. My parents are rather old-fashioned in their outlook on life. They might be Lord and Lady Pendley-Evans, but basically Father’s a farmer in deepest Buckinghamshire, and Mother’s a farmer’s wife. I think I’m the first gay man they’ve ever met. I expect they’d rather not believe I’m gay.”

  Luke served himself a portion of chili, placed the serving spoon on a porcelain spoon rest, and replaced the lid of the iron pot. He picked up his fork and tasted the chili.

  “Wow, that’s a hell-raiser.”

  Rupert took a bowl of grated cheese and handed it to Luke. “Here. Have some of this.”

  He looked at the dishes on the table. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot the sour cream. Hang on a minute.”

  Rupert stood up and headed out of the dining room. As he entered the kitchen, a mobile phone on the countertop began to ring. Rupert noticed it was not a modern smartphone, but more like one he had owned more than five years ago.

  “Luke,” he called. “Your phone’s ringing. Do you want me to bring it in?”

  Luke appeared at the kitchen door. He walked over to the counter and turned off the phone.

  “I’m not in tonight.” Luke tossed the phone into a fruit basket at the far end of the kitchen.

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” said Rupert, “that’s a really old phone.” He picked up a small white porcelain bowl from the countertop and handed it to Luke. “Here’s the sour cream.”

  Luke took the bowl and headed back to the dining room. Rupert followed.

  “I’m not big on technology,” said Luke. He sat down at the table and served himself a generous helping of cream. “I need a phone to make phone calls, not play dumb games.” Rupert felt admonished for owning a smartphone but said nothing as he took the bowl of sour cream from Luke.