Page 68 of Finding Grey
THIRTY-FOUR
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SEAN
I’d spent the past few days working on the sorely neglected grounds of the property. For weeks, Dante’s presence at the house had been like a magnet, keeping me from straying too far. Now I knew the truth about what Roger did to my father, the house was the last place I wanted to be. The manual labour had been good for me, giving me a way to vent my anger and keep my mind occupied at the same time. But the lawns were now immaculate, and I’d nearly run out of hedges to trim. If Roger didn’t leave soon, I’d have to resort to building an entirely new garden just to avoid him.
After returning to the house late in the afternoon, I’d managed a quick shower and was getting dressed when Dante came through the back door.
“Hey.” I smiled at him as I pulled on a fresh shirt. “I’m about to head inside to start dinner.”
“No need.” He held up a large plastic bag. “I got takeout.”
The smell of Chinese food filled the room and my mouth watered. “You are officially my hero.” We headed for the kitchen to get out plates and cutlery. “What about Roger?” I asked. Cooking for the man had become one of my least favourite parts of the day, but it wasn’t like I could avoid it. He was a paying guest and I was still the host.
“Roger has gone out for the evening. He’s um… he’s kind of pissed at me.” The edge to Dante’s voice made me frown. It wasn’t the usual anger or frustration. It was more like… amusement?
“What’s going on?”
“It’s been a strange day.” He huffed out a laugh as he looked at me and, for a moment, I thought he was going to elaborate, but then he dropped his gaze. “By the way, Roger’s booked a flight back to Melbourne late tomorrow morning. You don’t ever have to cook for him again.” He spooned fried rice onto the plates as he spoke. “I hate that you had to do anything for him, after the way he treated you.”
For a second, I thought he already knew the whole story, but then I realised he was talking about Roger throwing me out the night we met, and the way he’d prevented me from seeing Dante the second time. Already he struggled to forgive his father’s actions, and that wasn’t even close to being the worst of it.
Dante dropped the spoon back into the plastic container. “It’s weird enough you’re still taking care of me.”
Rounding the end of the counter, we sat on the stools and began to eat. “You find it weird?”
“That you still cook every meal and wash my dirty clothes and do all the cleaning?” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, it’s weird.”
I shrugged and bit into a spring roll. “I don’t see it that way. You’ll be back to washing your own dirty socks soon enough. But for now, it’s my job. I’m being paid to do it. Just like finishing your album is your job.” When he didn’t respond, I looked up. Dante was staring at his lemon chicken like it might bite him back. “Hey.” I reached out to take hold of his free hand, where it rested on his thigh. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you want to hear it?” he asked, turning to meet my gaze. His eyes shone with excitement, but the way he held himself was all wariness and apprehension. “The album I mean. It’s not finished, but the songs are done, if you’d like to hear them.”
“Are you kidding me?” I dropped my fork, turning my whole body towards him. “I’m dying to hear them. I didn’t want to ask in case you weren’t ready to share.”
“I didn’t think I could share them, but…” Standing, he pulled his phone from his back pocket and then turned on my Bluetooth speaker. “Everything is different now. I want you to hear them.”
Abandoning the food, I pulled him over to the couch. We sat, cross-legged, facing each other as he set up the files on his phone. His hands trembled faintly as he hit play. Reaching out, I took the phone and placed it on the coffee table before leaning forward for a soft, lingering kiss. And when the music began to play, I listened to every word.
He sang about the night we met, and the night he realised who I was. About making love to me for the first time. He sang about learning to be brave in the face of adversity, and he thanked me for teaching him how to be brave. He sang about his father and how trapped he’d felt in his old life. He sang about the new life he wanted to make for himself—with me. It was all wrapped up in metaphor and symbolism, of course. But I knew, in each instance, where the emotions were coming from and what events had inspired the lines. Because I’d been there every step of the way.
I crawled into Dante’s lap by the end of the first song, wrapping my legs around his waist. He held me tight, his face tucked into the curve of my neck, his lips against my skin. And when I heard the low, harsh timbre of his recorded voice describe his lust for another man in ways that made my body ache and my hands clench, I thanked all the Gods in heaven he was singing about me. By the time the last song faded into silence, I had an enormous grin on my face and a rock-hard boner that didn’t know when to quit.
“Holy fucking hell,” I breathed, trying not to grind myself against him. Grinding seemed inappropriate for the moment, but I couldn’t seem to keep still. “They’re the best songs you’ve ever written. I love every single one of them.”
His smile was wide as he released the breath I hadn’t realised he was holding. “Good. I’m glad you like them.”
“I’m beyond confused, though,” I admitted as he began covering my neck with kisses. “Are you really using these songs on the album?” Threading my fingers through his curls, I forced him to look up at me. “Everyone will know.”
“Damned right, they will,” he said without hesitation. “I tried to change the lyrics. To fix them so no one would know the truth. But then I realised, they weren’t broken to begin with. They say exactly what I want them to say. I’m done hiding, Sean. I’ll be well and trulyoutthe day the album is released.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Why do you think Roger’s so pissed at me?”
The enormity of his decision hit me, stilling the restless movement of my hips. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, his gaze roaming my face. “I want the entire world to know how much I love you.” And then his mouth covered mine, capturing the gasp that escaped me, and the needy moan that followed.
By the time I managed to tear my mouth from his again, I wasn’t the only one who’d succumbed to the heady pleasures of grinding. “What about the whole media shit storm thing?” I asked, wanting to make sure he really wanted this. That he was doing it for himself, not just for me.
His hands were under my shirt now, lifting it over my head. “I reckon we can weather the storm together,” he muttered, his focus on ridding me of my clothes. “What do you think?”