Truth be known, this was his first visit to his studio since the gallery showing last week, and as he opened the door he was hit with a musty smell. Like it had been closed off for years, not just a mere week. He lifted the shades to allow the bright morning sunshine to spread its rays on the hardwood floor, then opened the windows wide to let in the briny smell of the ocean. Again, he caught sight of Parker, and this time he watched from behind the curtain. Since his arrival in Wonderland, Parker St. John had been flirting with Marc, toying with the obvious heat between them. But as hot as Parker was, with his chest coated by a thick dark pelt just begging to be stroked and a noticeable bulge in his pants, Marc knew he just wasn't the cheating kind. Unlike Rich, the player. But Rich had promised no more playing around, they were in this life together, alone. He had made that promise just hours before being shot.
Shot. Christ, what was becoming of Wonderland?
Gazing about his empty studio, a remorseful Marc Anderson could hardly believe what had happened was reality; couldn't it have been a dream—a nightmare, actually—like the one that soaked his sheets and woke him scared and alone in the middle of the night? For one second Marc looked out another window that faced Number Three, knowing that the person inside felt alone too. As much as Marc had reached out to him, his friend remained closed down. Just like the house itself, shades drawn for the better part of the week, the car remaining in its garage, as though life had been drained from inside its walls.
But in truth, hadn't they?
Marc shuddered.
It was supposed to have been a party celebrating this new direction in his life, his arrival in Wonderland, not just as Rich North's cute piece of eye candy but an individual unto himself, and instead the event had brought utter disaster. It had all started with the insidious threat to turn peaceful Eldon Court into the tourist-driven Wonderland Palaces at the hand of that bald bastard Danvers Converse. Converse's inner desire to seek revenge against a past sin had led neighbor to turn on neighbor, and things like trust and loyalty, they were as dead to them as. . . Marc tried to shut the image from his mind, but the blood he saw was crimson, the screams he heard loud, the fear he felt in the room palpable.
Marc's mind drifted back to that fateful night at the Healy Gallery. Darkness had begun to fall on Down Wonder, the local business district, and as he nervously paced the upstairs office in anticipation of his first-ever gallery showing, all Marc could think was. . .
* * * *
“. . . where the hell is Rich?”
“Easy boy, have another glass of wine to calm yourself.”
“Sure, and be drunk for my first show?”
“Fine. Be sober and crazed. Me, I like the buzz I've got going.”
His friend, Paolo Bautista rarely took anything too seriously, so for him the idea of the art showing was just an excuse for another party, not unlike the pool parties he and his lover, Aaron Walters, threw at Number Three Eldon Court. Except no one tonight would be dressed in Speedos—or so Marc hoped. In fact, Paolo looked downright dressy for him, which meant he was wearing long pants. His button-down shirt was opened halfway down his chest, exposing smooth, naturally tan skin. Marc thought his neighbor looked sexy, as opposed to himself who just looked a hot mess. That would be Marc. He'd already changed shirts once; he'd sweated through the first one before arriving at the gallery.
As Paolo poured himself another chilled glass of Napa Chardonnay, Marc nervously looked back down from his hidden perch at the growing, mingling crowd, the din of their conversation wafting upwards, only to be sliced by the motions of the ceiling fan. It seemed half of Wonderland had turned out for the event, maybe some wealthy tourists too, all of them eager to get a look at this promising new artist on the scene. Count Rich among the other half who were a no-show. Christ, he'd just left him back at the house, and he'd promised to be right behind him. But this was typical Rich, no matter the promise of enduring devotion he'd made this morning, no matter the proclamation of fidelity he'd shared just moments after they'd climaxed and kissed, Rich was Rich. Which meant Marc really didn't want to know what Rich was up to this moment. Or who he was up.
Marc was snapped out of his reverie at the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs.
“Hey, Mr. Artiste, you thinking of making an appearance at your own show?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, Lauren. How's it going down there?”
“Let just say the air of mystery around you in thinning faster than Paolo's hair.”
“Bitch,” Paolo said. “But listen to her.”
So Paolo pushed him forward, and Marc followed between his friends down to the main floor to a shower of enthusiastic applause. And so began the night, Marc's head dizzy with excitement as Lauren whisked him around, introducing him to a bevy of Mr. and Mrs. Whomevers, down from
