Demming by Avril Ashton

Five

He meant what he told Hart. Life was rarely ever about what was right or wrong. Demming had seen and done enough to know. But he stayed rooted to the same spot long after Hart walked out.

It wasn’t just Hart agreeing to sell—finally—that left him stunned and off-kilter. He should be feeling triumphant at having accomplished what he’d set out to do.

He should be celebrating, knowing he’d have what he’d always wanted.

But dismay kept him standing, unable to move when his legs were in peril of giving out on him.

He’d wanted to comfort Hart. When he talked about his father, Demming’s own arms ached to wrap around him.

What the fuck was that?

He glanced around as if the empty room held the answers.

“Your place is so…white.”

Hart’s words in his head made his lips twitch. Hart had made his description of Demming’s condo sound offensive, but Demming didn’t care. He hardly spent enough time there to have it be other than what it was, which was spotless. And when he was there, he paid a housekeeping service a shit-ton for not a speck of dust to linger.

But he kept seeing the way Hart’s eyes widened when he’d glanced around. Kept seeing him standing there looking a little bit awkward, wary, and so fucking…

Demming wished he hadn’t left so soon. Wished he hadn’t taken all his color with him, or the kindness in his eyes. He’d thought Hart was like his father, but that was a fallacy. He was nothing like his old man.

Hart’s pain and the heaviness that surrounded him remained long after his departure. The urge to console Hart as he’d talked about his father’s stroke had reared up out of nowhere, almost knocking Demming sideways, as sharp as it’d been unexpected, and he didn’t know what to do with it now that Hart was gone.

The memory of Hart standing before him, his brown eyes curious, clad in all that color, beard still so fucking shiny and lustrous so late at night. That memory sent heat washing over the nape of his neck, his brow, settling lower. Way lower.

Where did he put that foreign and unwanted thing?

Why would he feel that way?

Why had his stomach been all knotted up from the moment he knew Hart would be coming over?

He hadn’t expected them to have so much in common, either, and now there was something happening in his gut, in his lower belly, heat and…things he couldn’t explain. Refused to explain.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

He picked up the glass from where Hart had set it down, turning it this way and that, as if the few remaining drops inside held the answer to questions he had no business indulging.

Forcing himself to move, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey he’d gotten from a happy client and refilled the glass before taking a sip. The burn reminded him of Hart, his reaction to it, which didn’t help get his mind off the younger Asamoah at all. Demming should be figuring out how to get Bryce to think about someone other than himself for once. He should be thinking about the look on his mother’s face when he presented her with what he’d wanted to for so long.

He should be checking in with his crew.

But all that filled his mind, his senses, his nostrils, was Hart.

“Fuck!” He barked the curse in the quiet, felt the echo roll over his skin, but it did nothing—absolutely nothing—to bury the truth forcing itself to the tip of his tongue. He walked over to the couch and dropped onto it with a grunt, the liquid in his glass sloshing over the sides and wetting his fingers.

His body betrayed him.

Parts of him that had been neglected for so long twitched. But they’d never done that for another man. Hadn’t done that for anybody else in God knew how long.

Hart was a rare breed. A good guy, and Demming was fucking attracted to him. How could that happen? Did things like that happen in real life? One minute you think you’re one thing and the next you’re wishing you could touch another man’s face, drown in his scent, be the liquor flooding his taste buds?

A fine tremor worked its way through his body, starting at the base of his throat, and he leaned his head back on the couch, closing his eyes.

Seeing only Hart.

What the fuck?

He tossed back the last of his drink and put down the glass on the coffee table then stretched out on the couch. Maybe he just needed to rest? Maybe this was just a momentary lapse and it would go away soon.

Maybe he should get laid?

Except he didn’t have anyone on hand he could call for that purpose. He didn’t have girlfriends, not since college. All of his encounters with women had been brief with no strings attached. He’d deliberately kept women at arms’ length, bringing them close just long enough to scratch an itch when it became unbearable.

Why hadn’t he ever had a relationship?

Why was he wondering how soft Hart’s lips were?

He fell asleep with Hart on his mind.

And the moment his eyes popped open the next morning, his mind went right back to Hart, and those feelings seemed to have melded into his bones overnight.

He stood with a grunt, rolling his neck to remove the kinks, and stumbled to the kitchen, putting on coffee before going to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and brush his teeth.

At some point during the night, he’d apparently stripped all his clothes off, leaving him only in his red and black boxer briefs. He pulled on a pair of shorts and returned to the kitchen to retrieve his coffee before grabbing his phone and going out onto his balcony.

The cool morning air washed over his skin, making him shiver. The panic from the night before was still there, though not as thick and cloudy.

He sighed as he stared into his cup. He still didn’t know what to do, so he checked the time on his phone before calling somebody he hoped could help.

“Demming, what’s up?” Renzo Vega greeted him with a smile in his voice.

For a long time, Renzo had walked around with so much darkness in his eyes it’d been difficult to hold his gaze for too long. Then he met his guy, and now nobody smiled as much as Renzo Vega.

“Asamoah agreed to sell me the property.” Renzo knew all about his plans to buy Larchmont. He even held a minority stake in ArtFi Holdings.

“Congratulations, you did it. I know how much you wanted this.”

Demming sipped his coffee, a delay tactic to deal with the unexpected emotion clogging his throat. More than anything, this was what he wanted. And now that it was a reality… “Senior’s out at the company,” he rasped. “I’ve been dealing with his son. Hart.” Just saying his name had Demming’s gut clenching.

“I imagine that’s been way more pleasant.”

He had no fucking idea. “How is—” Was Low Renzo’s husband as yet? He didn’t recall mention of a wedding, but Renzo was also notoriously private. Which he had to be, as Atlanta’s most untouchable criminal. “How is Low?” The question sounded awkward and stilted and his face heated as he stared off into space.

“Low is perfect, of course, but what’s going on with you?” Renzo asked. “You’re sounding…off, my friend.”

Demming tightened his grip on his cup, lips twisting as he made himself say the words out loud. “I think—I think I might be attracted to Hart.” There went that clench again.

“Might be?” Renzo didn’t sound as shocked as Demming thought he’d be.

“I am. I just—” He blew out a breath and started pacing. “I don’t know how this happened. I’m not—I’ve never—”

“Been into men, I know. Which means he must be some kind of special,” Renzo said. “Tell me about him.”

So Demming did and soon he was gushing—he heard himself as he rattled on and on about how fucking brilliant Hart was—but he couldn’t stop it. At least Renzo didn’t call him on it when he was done talking. “What do I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

* * *

Demming heldout until nightfall before doing what he’d wanted to all day.

He called Hart.

“Sawyer?”

He insisted on using Demming’s first name. He wished he hadn’t given Hart his name. It sounded way better on his tongue than it should.

Settling back on the couch, thighs spread, he held the phone to his ear, eyes sliding closed. It was a full-body experience, Hart’s voice.

“I didn’t thank you,” Demming rasped. “For agreeing to sell me Larchmont.”

“You don’t need—”

“Yes, I do need to thank you, Hart.” He blew out a breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Hart responded softly.

A silence fell then, thick but not uncomfortable. If Demming wanted to, he could fall asleep, listening to Hart’s breaths.

Fuck, just how far gone was he?

“What do you want to do?”He’d been unable to give Renzo an answer to that question during their morning conversation. But if he had the chance now, he’d tell Renzo he wanted to listen to Hart breathe.

Fuck.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “Tell me about you. What’s your favorite food? Color?”

“Korean barbecue. And lapis lazuli.”

“Lapis what?”

Hart chuckled. “Lapis lazuli is a blue mineral that was more valuable than gold back in the Middle Ages and during the Renaissance. It has an intense blue hue. Nowadays the most beautiful ones are sourced in Afghanistan.”

Leave it to Hart to make a mineral sound interesting as hell. “You said your ex got you into wearing color?”

“Yes, she’s a stylist. Styles A-list actors and models and all that.”

“Why do you look sad when you mention her?”

“I’m not sad, I’m pissed, because Sydney cheated on me then stole my favorite painting—worth a quarter of a million dollars—and disappeared.”

“Shit.” He hadn’t expected to hear that.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Demming told him quietly.

“So am I.” Hart blew out a breath. “She’s lucky I don’t want her arrested, otherwise she’d be under the jail by now.”

Demming smiled at the vehemence in his voice. “But you got it back, right? The painting?”

“No.” Hart paused for a bit then continued, “My PI couldn’t find it and honestly, I’ve been so distracted by the company that I haven’t given it the attention I know I should.”

“A quarter of a million dollars, Hart. You’re allowing her to get away with that? How long has it been?”

“Three months. I know she has it stashed somewhere in Aspen at the home of the man she cheated on me with but…” He chuckled. “Sorry, you didn’t call to hear about all of that.”

“Don’t apologize.” That came out sounding harsher than Demming intended, but he didn’t soften his tone. “What is it? The painting—you said it’s your favorite?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What is it?”

Apparently, that was the opening Hart needed to really go off. “It’s called A Night on the Lake and it’s oil on panel…”

Demming couldn’t help smiling as Hart described the painting. Eyes closed, he luxuriated in the animated happiness making Hart’s voice vibrate.

“You like art, huh?” he said when Hart paused to take a breath.

“Yeah. Guy I was kicking it with in college was into it. I was into him so figured eh, lemme at least try to learn some things. I fell in love with it even though dude and I didn’t last too long. Been collecting ever since.”

“Can I see it? Your collection?” What was he even asking?

A car door slammed on Hart’s end. “You’re serious?”

“Of course.” Demming frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno, I just…didn’t expect you to be interested in art.”

“I’m very interested,” Demming told him. And it sounded very much like a double entendre that he couldn’t take back.

Hart must have heard it too because silence fell again. This time it was a little tense, awkward.

“It’s okay to say no,” Demming told him. “I understand. You don’t—”

“I grew up with everything I did regimented and already laid out beforehand. My father had a plan for what my life was going to be, and everything I did, all my friends and activities, reflected that. Don’t get me wrong, he was a great father and I never doubted his love for me, but I only allowed myself to pursue my own selfish interests when I went off to college. Finding art was…It was this guilty pleasure I couldn’t give up.” Hart’s voice dropped to a whisper as if he were imparting a big bad secret.

“I get it.”

“It’s my thing. The business is really my father’s, no matter who’s sitting behind that desk, but my collection, it’s all mine. Nothing to do with my dad and maybe it’s not that serious to some, but it’s a big fucking deal to me. It’s something I know I accomplished all by myself and not because of my father’s name or influence.”

The distinction mattered to him, Demming could tell. And he understood that sentiment, wanting to be more than your parents.

Hart drew in a deep breath. “Sorry, I get carried away when I talk about it.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He could admit to not giving much thought to Emmanuel Asamoah’s family. His beef had been with the old man and he’d focused his attentions on him, but every now and again he’d hear or read about the son’s accomplishments regarding the business, and Demming remembered being resentful of Hart, of the life he had, one Demming didn’t. Here was a reminder that while Hart got to grow up with wealth and an influential family, his life wasn’t truly his own.

That had to be as much a prison as anything else.

“It’s, um, much of my collection has been loaned out to galleries, but I’ve got a few pieces at my place in the city.”

“And where are you now?” Shit, he was getting all up in the other man’s business, wasn’t he?

“At my parents’ in Manhasset. I moved back when my dad got sick. I’m staying in the pool house,” Hart said quickly.

Every mention of Hart’s father was a reminder that Demming had no business having anything more than a cordial conversation with Hart. He tightened his grip on the phone, listening as doors slammed and footsteps echoed in his ear. He didn’t have to ask to know Hart’s place—wherever that was—would look drastically different to Demming’s.

His space would be filled with color, Demming already knew that from the way Hart dressed and his office decor. Everything about him was color.

“What would you do?” he asked. “If you weren’t running the business, what would you do?”

“I’d open my own gallery,” Hart said quickly then exhaled loudly. “I’ve never said that out loud. Not even to Sydney.”

“Then I’m honored.” And he felt that way.

“I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear when you called me.”

“I wanted to hear you.” The words left him before he could silence them—strangle them on the tip of his tongue—and now they hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. His heart thudded in his chest and he swore it echoed through the phone.

“Sawyer.” He heard Hart’s swallow. “Sorry, Demming.”

“No.” He shook his head, voice turned rusty. “You had it right the first time.” Silence again. Heavy and pulsating with things he should not be feeling. He kicked his legs up onto the glass coffee table and crossed his ankles.

Hart cleared his throat finally. “I should—You sound exhausted. I should let you go.”

He had been exhausted before calling Hart. Much of his day was spent dealing with his brother and fielding calls while curating a list of the next jobs that were already waiting for him. He was still tired, but talking with Hart kept him distracted enough that it didn’t matter. He liked listening to Hart talk, he realized, because his words kept him captivated and didn’t allow his mind to wander. Hart held one hundred percent of his focus, leaving room for nothing else.

“Can I see you?” Demming blurted. “Can I see you sometime?” He wasn’t ready to let Hart off the phone. He wanted to see him again. He closed his eyes softly. He wanted to see Hart Taylor-Asamoah again. Panic threatened to swallow him, but he held it at bay, waiting for Hart’s answer.

“Uh, is that a good idea?”

Definitely not. “Please?”

“I guess I can…I can show you my art collection.”

Demming sat up. “You don’t have to. That’s not—”

“I want to,” Hart said, interrupting him. “I want to, Sawyer. When are you available?”

“Name the place and the time, Hart. I’ll be there.”

“Tomorrow evening, my place in the city?”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll text you the time and the address.”

“Okay.” It was time to say goodbye and hang up, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He tightened his grip on the phone, staring off into nothing.

“I should go. I have an early meeting in the morning.”

Right. Demming licked his lips. “You’re good at it, you know. The business. From what I’ve seen, you’re fucking good at it.”

“Thank you, Sawyer,” Hart said softly. “My father’s shoes are…tough to fill.”

And he questioned if he was worthy of filling it. Hart didn’t have to say it for Demming to know. “I’m sure you make him proud.” Sudden emotion thickened his voice and he swallowed. He couldn’t help but think of his own father at that moment. Had Demming made him proud with everything he’d done in his name?

“Sawyer—”

“Get some rest, Hart.” He waited a bit and when Hart didn’t respond, Demming cut off the call, tossing the phone down beside him on the couch with a muttered curse.

He and Hart weren’t that different. Everything he’d done had been influenced by his father. He’d started his business out of necessity at first, to provide for his mother, to ensure they didn’t starve or lose the house. But he’d done that. Working for some of the most notorious criminals and clients with bottomless pockets meant he’d amassed his own fortune. But everything he’d done had been driven by the need to make his father proud.

That was the entirety of his reasoning behind wanting 1845 Larchmont.

After knowing everything Demming had to do, all the illegal shit he’d done in order to fatten his account so that he could buy the property where his father’s pride and joy used to stand, would his father be proud? He wasn’t around for his mother, and his brother was a resentful stranger.

But he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, hadn’t he?

There’d been no time for a life outside of hopping from job to job. He didn’t allow anyone close out of fear of being distracted from his goal. He had his moments with women, but he’d ensured they didn’t last beyond the time he expended on getting them into bed and under him.

But now, he found himself attracted to Hart.

And Demming still didn’t know what he was going to do about it.