Loverman Read online

  A slight rustle of clothing, sound, as Kemp rose to his feet. He threw the words over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “Then I’ll wait while you grab a shower. You stink of sex. Somehow I don’t think Liz will appreciate that.”

  Charles felt as if he’d been drenched in ice water. That real tenderness… He must have been imagining it. Willing it. Because it hadn’t been there in that cool, pragmatic advice.

  “And you?” he flung at Kemp. “You won’t be smelling any better.”

  “People don’t expect any better from me, honey. I’m the rock slut with no limits.”

  “That’s not you, Kemp.”

  He received a cynical look in answer, and Kemp shrugged.

  “Shower, Charles. And then we’ll go back downstairs and play the game. That’s what this is all about, right?”

  Chapter Eight

  In the morning, Kemp rolled over to find an empty bed and crumpled sheets. Without thinking, he pressed his face into the pillow beside him. Any body heat had cooled from it, but the scent of an expensive grapefruit shampoo still clung, and his body warmed, his cock plumping. Last night had been very, very good… but once they’d gotten back here, it had been even better. Cracking through that facade Charles put up had proven to be addictive; in fact he was damn well craving the man right now, but… God only knew where Charles was. Judging from the light filtering through the blinds, it was midmorning. For all his compulsive, secret hedonism, Charles wasn’t one to laze around. He could be anywhere.

  With a groan, Kemp reached for his phone and stared at the screen.

  “Fucking hell,” he said flatly.

  Notification after notification. The exhibition had gone nuclear, in a way that most artists, hungry for recognition and attention, would be celebrating. There was a storm of notifications hitting his screen about Charles Durant’s groundbreaking transgressive exhibition. Articles and reviews. Social media mentions. And yeah, transgressive, that word was used a lot.

  So were words like controversial, exploitative. Genius.

  Charles. He’d be in meltdown.

  They had to talk, right now.

  Even as he slung his legs out of the bed, the phone in Kemp’s hand sounded, belting out the Rolling Stones. Ruby Tuesday. At least the personalised ringtone—one he hadn’t heard in years—gave him fair warning. Which was the exact reason he’d picked it and kept it through the years.

  Finally, he hit Accept and said calmly, “Hello, Mum.” The word felt foreign in his mouth. He ran a hand over his face. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, it has.” From her tone, it might have been yesterday. The coolly distasteful voice of Maxine Durant had acquired a transatlantic edge since he’d last heard it. Commanding or not, apparently she’d forgotten her own early days; hooked up with a no-talent actor who’d split the minute he’d fathered her children, she had a taste for upward mobility and sex with useful men. Not to mention the drugs she’d used to power her way through that climb.

  There was nothing on that score he could do that she had not done first; somehow, even with a nose full of coke and a fistful of pills, she’d stayed in control. Kemp had learnt his drug etiquette from her. Thanks, Mum.

  She cut crisply into his thoughts. “We need to catch up.”

  “I’m not in the States. Sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you regret any distance between us,” his mother said dryly. “But I’m not there either, for now. In fact, I’m staying at darling Nick’s place in Woollahra. I’ve been looking around, thinking of establishing a new base here. So let’s arrange a time.”

  Kemp wasn’t ten any longer. Nor even fourteen, the age he’d been the last time he’d lived under the same roof as the woman. Not even sixteen, the age he’d been when he’d last seen her. It had been eight years. So why should he feel his gut knot up with anger and loathing as if he was still a scared kid? Except he knew exactly why, and it was the exact same reason he hadn’t seen her in almost a decade.

  If she was staying at her ex-boyfriend Nick Riley’s place, not in the States, then where was her latest husband? Why was she talking about establishing herself in Sydney again? For the last decade, the distance between them had been the only good thing about their relationship. Anything that threatened that distance could only be bad news.

  “What is it you want?”

  “A meeting, darling. Just with you, in fact.” She paused, then added delicately, “Or do you think we should invite Vivian along as well?”

  Three days later, and there was still absolutely nowhere Kemp felt like inviting his mother that included Viva.

  That certainly included his current surroundings. The Blues Basement jazz club was an old hangout. Now, staring at his face in the grimy dressing room mirror, Kemp took in the strangers, the friends, the other musicians packed in the room behind him and didn’t know whether to thank or curse his dark dirty angels for tonight’s distraction. He also had to find Charles before setting up that reunion with his mother. If he left it much longer, though, she’d set it up herself. He needed time, and so cursing those angels of his felt more appropriate.

  The one-off gig at the Blues Basement had been arranged before Maxine’s phone call, in the calm before the implosion of the filthy, magnificent genius of that exhibition.

  Charles had truly done a disappearing act. Slipped off the planet. No calls, no texts. Nothing.

  Distraction had already been set up, thank Christ, in the form of Cam Brodius, a visiting muso and friend and ex-fuck buddy of several years standing.

  On tour from the UK, Cam had a habit of setting up unannounced side gigs for shits and giggles at small, dingy venues in the cities he was playing his big concert dates in. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d played together. The last had been in some small club when they’d found themselves same time, same place in Dublin.

  Grimacing, Kemp raised his iPhone and took a snap of his face in the mirror, the insanity in the room behind him, and fired it off to Charles with the ironic text See what you’re missing, loverman? Give me a call

  They didn’t do sentiment. Caring. Would Charles take the piss?

  Probably.

  But Kemp couldn’t forget Charles’ raw panic the night of the exhibition. He’d never seen him so vulnerable, so out of control.

  Charles was ignoring the texts he’d sent. The voice messages. It left Kemp feeling foolish and vulnerable himself, and he hated both. Problem was, his head was getting into worst-case scenarios.

  Charles wasn’t so delicate that he couldn’t handle the media storm that had erupted. Or was he?

  Not that they’d had a conversation since the night of the show opening. They’d tumbled home, fucked again, and fallen asleep. But if Kemp could handle seeing his cock—pixilated or not—flashed up, so to speak, all over social media, then Charles could deal with being lauded as a genius and, yes, occasionally accused of being a pornographer.

  Bloody hell. Kemp glared at his reflection in the smeared, fluoro-lit mirror as he zoned out in the rowdy, hangers-on-packed dressing room and spun an empty pack of cigarettes between his long, tense fingers.

  Where are you, Charles?

  Can you not reach for your damned phone?

  Hell, how would you know I’m even worried? We don’t do worried, do we?

  But I am, mate. I am.

  And how much longer could he hold his mother at bay?

  Maxine was a greedy bitch who was about to demand another pound of flesh. Kemp could scent the blood in the air. The question was, why? And who would pay this time? Viva, again, or all of them?

  Ignoring someone yelling out his name, Kemp picked up his phone and flicked through his messages. Too many, but no answer to the ones he’d sent the man.

  Would it stoke Charles’ ego to hear his concern?

  Because yes, he was concerned. Thanks to the exhibition, Charles had hit next-level fame in his career. Problem was, for someone as private as Charles, that also involved endless references t
o his status as the son and heir of one of Australia’s richest men, not to mention being his musician ex-stepbrother’s boyfriend.

  Complicated. Perverse. The media loved it.

  It was no wonder that Charles had gone to ground, but the way he’d done it… hell, an almost physical ache across his heart made Kemp breath shallowly. Was this what abandonment felt like?

  Shirt hanging open, Kemp met his shadowed stare in the mirror. He closed his eyes against the screams and laughter behind him. Closed his senses to the sweet reek of alcohol and weed.

  He missed the fucker… he missed him and shit, he was obsessing about him. God, his Viking would love needling him about that, and bloody hell, just when the fuck had the bastard started to cut so deep under his skin?

  A house trio had played earlier that night. Drawn in by well-placed info leaks, the club out there was packed; heading for 2:00 a.m., upstairs a crowd choked the alley outside the doors. Viva pushed into the dressing room, eyeing the sweaty, shrieking crowd with distaste. Red and Stephen were with her. “It’s getting ugly out there,” she bit out. “I suggest you and your friends get on with it. And after that, we reconvene back at our place. Okay?”

  The crowd parted and Cam Brosius appeared, slung an arm around Viva’s shoulder, and swallowed back a beer. She shrugged him off with a snarl. He grinned. “The lady’s right, mate. We’re on.”

  Christ.

  Dawn was not far off by the time the gig was done, and they’d left Cam and the others still partying. The streets empty, the four of them headed for Darlinghurst and Viva and Red’s place, even though Stephen was still house-sitting Charles’ palatial crash pad.

  Right now, Charles unofficially missing, Kemp had no idea when that arrangement might end.

  Kemp folded himself onto an ottoman and scanned Stephen’s face. “How are you feeling now?”

  Stephen took a mug of coffee from Red. “Better. Looking human again.”

  Kemp could see that. The ugly bruising had left Stephen’s face, leaving him unscarred. That didn’t wipe away Kemp’s sickened memory of just how vicious that beating had been. “Chaz said he’d get his security firm to look over the property. Were they thorough? Did they find anything?”

  “They looked it over.” Stephen’s lashes flickered as Kemp turned a mug of tea and honey around in his hands. “I’d been certain it was an ex of mine. That was why I didn’t want to call the cops. I didn’t catch sight of whoever it was—they hit me from behind after I unlocked the front door and punched in the code. But after I was shown the security video, I realised I was wrong. The bastard was wearing a balaclava, but the height was off. Way too tall.”

  Kemp frowned. “But someone was there. You were knocked out, beaten up, and then—”

  “The guy pushed past me once I was unconscious and went right into the house I’d just opened up. I’ve no idea how he even got onto the grounds.” Stephen shook his head. “Turned out that he was in the house for over ten minutes. He’d bolted by the time I finally came to and got inside.”

  Viva’s eyes glittered. “We should have called the cops.”

  “The question is, what was he doing inside the house?” Stephen said flatly. “No security cameras in there, and whatever he did or looked at, it left no trace and nothing was stolen.”

  Viva’s face hardened. “The place clearly wasn’t safe. Bloody Charles.”

  Stephen blinked at her animosity, but he simply said, “Viva, Charles offered me alternate accommodation, even got the security firm to loan me a guard dog for as long as I’m there, plus they checked on my ex’s location—he’s overseas.”

  “Which doesn’t explain why you were knocked out and Charles’ place invaded,” Viva said stonily. She drank some coffee, and her eyes narrowed on Kemp’s. “And just where is Charles? I thought he’d be there tonight.”

  So had Kemp. Or hoped, anyway.

  Her hard stare challenged him. His gut hurt. Just what the fuck was going on?

  By the time Stephen drove him back to his Balmain place, Kemp was wired and past sleep. In the old days he would have fixed that too easily, but his days of powders and pills were pretty much over. Yet another era that Charles had ushered closed. Not that he could protest that one.

  He understood his own talent for self-destruction too well; besides, next to the buzz he got from Charles, drugs had lost their allure.

  Kemp got out of the idling RAV4, drive-through fries and coffee in hand, and eyed Stephen through the open passenger’s window. “Thanks for the lift. Now go home and cuddle up with that attack dog Charles got you.”

  Stephen smiled. “Ralph? Sweetest Rottweiler I ever met.” He raised a hand and revved the engine. “Get some sleep. See you.”

  Kemp ambled away with a wave. The gate was buzzed open before he reached it.

  Charles. Had to be. Thank Christ. He reached the front door and pushed it open, walked into the entrance and through into the open-plan living space with its striking exposed timber-and-steel beam ceilings and polished concrete floors.

  A stunningly beautiful woman, a thick dark mane of hair falling about her shoulders, sat on one of the big, throw-covered couches.

  He halted abruptly.

  “Maxine.”

  Dressed in her signature black and white, his mother lazed back and gave him a dazzling smile.

  “Hello, darling.”

  Charles stood by the dining table, his face unreadable. As usual, he looked pristine in a white tee and light khaki chinos. Where were you? Kemp met the celestial eyes of his Viking. They were unreadable but for one thing.

  A warning.

  Chapter Nine

  Maxine Durant-Carreton had navigated through life using the primitive passport of her looks; she’d had Viva at twenty, and now, in her mid-forties, the resemblance between the two women was still striking. Kemp knew his sister would scarcely enjoy being reminded of that. Openly studying him as he dumped the coffee and fries on a side table, Maxine rose and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  She took in a sharp breath and stepped back.

  “God,” she said flatly. “You reek. Do you ever get near bathwater? You were never overly fond of it, as I recall.” She cut a glance over at Charles. “However do you stand it?”

  A corner of Charles’ mouth kicked up in a smile so filthy that for a moment Maxine was silenced. Even Kemp was stunned; he’d seen that look before, but solely in private. “I enjoy it,” Charles replied. He turned to Kemp. “How was the show last night?”

  So they were playing this as if it was all normal?

  Kemp took in an unsteady breath. The casual insults were familiar enough. And yeah, as a kid it had been a nasty contrary pleasure of his to stay as grubby as possible just to piss off and embarrass his stylish, status-conscious mother. Watching his lover and his mother spar was more novel. Back in the day, teenage Charles had treated her with a remote, silent disdain. “Good,” Kemp answered. He wanted to ask, Where were you, Charles? Right now, that was the last thing on earth he could voice. Instead, he said, “Maxine is right. I need a shower. First things first, though.” He looked over at his mother as she arranged herself on the sofa with the elegance and assurance of a queen. “What’s happened?” he asked bluntly. “Why are you back?”

  She shrugged and lifted her chin. “Money. Bad investments. Primarily, putting my time and trust in the wrong man—my husband.”

  “You have a habit of doing that.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Charles’ father was wonderful. My current husband is not. He’s made bad investments, he’s been cleaned out, but worse than that, he’s lost my money as well. It’s over between us. I’ve left him.”

  Nothing like putting your cards on the table. In the end, it always came down to money with her. Why had he even wondered why she was here? It should have been obvious. Raking his tangled, sweaty hair back, he said, “And that involves me how?”

  “Darling, don’t be foolish. I think you know exactly how.”

  Her sm
oky eyes held a world of knowledge. They slid towards Charles. That was when the threat of danger really hit.

  Suddenly, his lungs were too tight. He couldn’t breathe. It was as if he’d inhaled concrete and now nothing, not a molecule of oxygen could get through. Frozen, Kemp stood, attempting to breathe the same air as the woman who he knew, with total certainty, was the worst human being he’d ever known in his entire sorry fucking life.

  Very carefully, he raised a hand, clenched it in a fist against the heavy, erratic thudding of his heart, and prayed she would not read just how betraying that gesture was. It was years since he’d had a panic attack. He was having one now. Vaguely, he was aware of a blur at his side. Charles. Christ, he did not want him here for this, but she evidently did, or they would not be having this conversation now.

  He fixed his eyes steadily on his mother. “I need you to go.”

  Her face was starkly cynical. “Of course you do.” She picked up her white leather tote and crossed the room; framed perfectly in the doorway, she turned on one high, blocked heel and drawled, “My next stop will be Vivian. Do you really want that, Kemp? Do you?” Her gaze slid to Charles, and her mouth curled. “You’re my son’s partner now. I suggest you behave as if you care and give him the financial support he plainly still needs. God only knows, your father left you enough funds. You could halve that inheritance and not even miss it.”

  Charles’ face was stony. He hadn’t even raised an eyebrow at being called Kemp’s partner; she nodded at his silence as if it was answer enough. “Think this through, both of you, and get back to me. Kemp, I think you know it would be incredibly unpleasant if I have to take this further.”

  “Unpleasant for who?” Kemp spat. “You? Scarcely. You’d enjoy it.”

  Maxine shook her head as if she pitied him. “Don’t be so naive.”

  She walked out of the building. Angry and exhausted, Kemp scrubbed his hands over his face. It wasn’t enough to wipe her threat out of his mind.