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  And work they did. The injury that had ended Adam’s ballet career before it had begun had healed nicely. In modern dance’s more forgiving environment, the limitation was much less problematic, since he didn’t need the turnout demanded of a professional ballet dancer. Once Adam had accepted the loss of one dream and allowed himself to reach for a different one, he proved to be the kind of dedicated, hardworking athlete dance companies built their foundation on. Cobalt was lucky to have him in his fledgling little company.

  The least Adam deserved now was Cobalt’s full attention. He put his own uncertainties out of his mind and focused on the current task: guiding Adam through his vision of the dance, correcting minute positions, making suggestions to help Adam see what Cobalt was after.

  Adam was sweaty and panting by the end of the session, but his eyes glowed and his cheeks were flushed. “We’re getting there, yeah?”

  Cobalt nodded and hit the Eject button for the CD player.

  “You’re not happy.” It wasn’t a question. Adam’s glow diminished some. “I’ll keep working—”

  “It’s not you, Adam.” Cobalt smiled at him and clapped his shoulder. “You’re doing fine. It’s not you.”

  “The dance?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Feels unfinished,” Adam suggested.

  He was right. Cobalt knew he was right. But every time he went over the choreography in his head, watched the dancers or the recordings of the dance he’d made, he couldn’t find the place it veered away from its true course. He knew it did. He just didn’t know where or why.

  “You need a break from this,” Adam suggested.

  “I need to figure it out!”

  Adam took a startled step back from that outburst, and Cobalt winced.

  “I’m sorry. I just—” He curled a lip. “Listen to me, sugar, taking it out on you. It’s not your fault. You’re doing everything I ask. It isn’t your fault I’m not asking the right things, or that I don’t know what the right things are.”

  “So go back to the story,” Adam said, pulling a towel from his bag to scrub his face. “What’s the dance about?”

  The trouble was, Cobalt only had a vague idea of how to answer that question. The parts of the choreography he was happy with had come to him fully formed, dropped into his head from someplace outside of himself. That wasn’t necessarily unusual. He’d often had snippets of dances just appear. Usually he played around with them on his own time, when no one was watching. Lately he’d done so here, either before anyone arrived for classes and rehearsals or after they had all gone.

  This dance, though, hadn’t come to him in its full form. There were bits missing, floating around the periphery of his vision like ghosts, refusing to come into full view. He had to work with the half-imagined movements on the edges of his consciousness, and they never ended up feeling quite right.

  “I don’t know what I’m missing.”

  “So stop looking directly at it.” Adam stuffed his towel back into his bag and plopped onto the floor to dig out socks and a pair of heavier sweats than the thin tights he was wearing. “Look away. Focus on something else—” He glanced up at a soft knock on the studio’s doorframe. “Perry!” His enthusiasm ratcheted up a few notches, and he levitated to his feet to cross the floor to his lover.

  “You ready?” Peridot asked, catching Adam in a bear hug. Adam might be short, but he was compact and heavier than he looked. Peridot took a single step back, foot braced out behind him like a buttress to steady their weight as Adam wrapped himself around Peridot’s body.

  “I think….” Adam glanced over his shoulder at Cobalt.

  “Yes.” Cobalt waved an imperious hand, shoring up his cracking mood with a glittery wink at them. “Go, before you embarrass yourselves. I’ll see you both at the studio tomorrow.”

  He had planned to ask Adam for a lift home since they lived just blocks apart, but clearly, from the folded set of dancewear spilling from Adam’s dance bag, he was not going home but to Peridot’s house for the night. Cobalt smiled at them. “Have fun, boys.”

  No use calling attention to the gaping hole in his social life by requesting a ride home from the lovebirds. They’d only end up worrying and insisting on keeping him company for a few hours, when clearly they wanted to be alone. He appreciated that they would offer, but he couldn’t handle being their third wheel again tonight.

  Adam grinned, scooped up his belongings, and was hopping into the sweats as he followed Peridot out the door and down the hall.

  So. Cobalt would just call a cab. Later.

  Turning back to the stereo, he popped in a classical CD and turned to the center of the room. Maybe the problem wasn’t the choreography, but the dance. Maybe he just had to go back to his roots for a little while and remind himself what he was truly good at.

  Closing his eyes, he listened to the music as it swept through the room, buffeting him, swirling around him, lifting first his arms, then his torso, until he was on his toes and traveling across the floor. This was the thing with ballet. It lifted him above the rest into a stratosphere where he could look down on the world, but it couldn’t touch him. Up here, he was above everything that might do him harm. Anything that could get onto his skin or under it.

  The music ended about nine minutes later. Or it trickled down to a slow rolling piano trail and softly wailing violins. Nothing that could really hold him up. And he was too tired anyway. The dance hadn’t helped him solve the problems with the one he was trying to choreograph, but it had helped him to cement all the small bits of his confidence back into place.

  He settled onto his feet, into his body again, and pulled in a few deep breaths. The softer music sifted through his panting breaths and the sweat and the slight tremble of overworked muscles to calm him.

  Then, abruptly, it stopped with a click and he snapped his head up. “Wha—”

  Preston was watching him from next to the table. His cool features remained unreadable as his pale blue eyes evaluated Cobalt.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Preston’s lips twitched. “Mr. Azure dismissed me for the day. The center is on my way home, and I saw the lights were still on. I stopped to check. It’s good to see you dancing again and not just fiddling at the barre. Last week when you danced that bit, you marked the jumps, if I recall. Did single spins as well. Today it looked more complete. You’re getting your conditioning back nicely.”

  Cobalt studied him, surprised as always by the astute observations. Preston wasn’t, and never had been, a dancer. A person had to watch a lot of ballet, really study what he was seeing carefully, to pick out the things Preston did. It made Cobalt wonder if the man was here at Az’s request or his own volition. Cobalt didn’t know why on earth Preston would stop just because the center’s lights were still on if he was done with his duties for the day. He had driven Cobalt to Peridot’s house at six that morning, and it was going on eleven at night now. That was one hell of a long day he didn’t have to prolong on an employer’s whim.

  “You can tell Az I don’t need him to check up on me.”

  Preston tipped his head forward slightly. “As you wish, sir. Do you require a ride home?”

  “I won’t impose.” Cobalt lifted his chin, peered down his nose ever so slightly.

  “It is not an imposition if I offer,” he said. “I am happy to assist.”

  Cobalt huffed. It was impossible to dismiss the man when he was being so insufferably polite. “Fine. Yes,” he snapped.

  Preston bowed at his waist very slightly.

  “Thank you.” Cobalt managed not to choke on his tongue. It was annoying to have to be polite, and he felt like an asshole, hating that it was so hard to spit out a decent word to someone only being nice. But everything about Preston being there constantly—solicitous, carrying his bags, fetching meals, opening and closing doors—reminded Cobalt of the life he had viciously put aside years ago. Even if the car was a plain, sleek sedan tonight and not the customary limo and t
he door he opened was the passenger door and not the back door, a part of him wanted to refuse on principle. But if it was all because Preston was taking the initiative to look out for him, refusal would be the height of rudeness. There was enough hardwired propriety left in Cobalt’s DNA to not be that much of a dick. Besides, the reminder was no more Preston’s fault than it was his fault Cobalt had left the life behind in the first place. It wasn’t fair to take it out on him.

  He glanced at Preston’s profile as he drove. He had never really looked at him from this angle before. His chin jutted at a sharp angle, bringing his strong jaw to a slightly uptilted point. He had a bump on the ridge of his nose, and the eyebrow Cobalt could see had a quarter-inch swath missing where a pale scar traveled from just below it up into Preston’s hairline to disappear under the neatly combed salt-and-pepper locks. There was another small but heavy scar twisting the corner of Preston’s lips into a permanent down curl. He wasn’t exactly handsome. Nor was he ugly. He was… intriguing: interesting, and a far cry from the polished, put-together prettiness Cal cultivated.

  Cobalt realized he was staring and faced forward again. “I—I do appreciate this,” Cobalt said.

  “And I am happy to be of assistance,” Preston told him.

  “It’s kind of you to take the time.”

  Conversation stuttered to a halt, and they drove in silence. At Cobalt’s door, Preston parked the car and jumped out immediately. For the first time in a very long time, Cobalt felt awkward as he waited for Preston to open his door. Maybe that was because he was sitting in the front, and he would never wait for Peridot or any of his friends who drove him places to open his door for him.

  Mortified to have automatically expected it from Preston, he hurriedly pulled the handle and swung the door open. It stopped against an immovable object with a dull thud.

  “Ow.” Preston sifted in a breath between clenched teeth. “Thank you, sir. I’ve got this.” His teeth filtered the words down to distilled pain, and Cobalt shrank back into his seat.

  “Oh God. I am so sorry.”

  Preston grunted. “Just a shin, sir. Nothing serious.” He shuffled out of the way, swinging the door open.

  “I can.” Cobalt hastened out, shimmied to the side, and slammed the door shut.

  Preston stumbled, clamped a big hand on the roof of the car, and huffed. Too late, Cobalt realized he’d been leaning on the open door. How hard had he hit the poor man? He lifted his gaze to find Preston only inches away, mouth pinched, eyes blazing.

  “I’m very sorry,” Cobalt whispered.

  “It’s nothing, sir.”

  Clearly it was not nothing. Preston’s breathing was quick and shallow and his words still pinched.

  “I hurt you.”

  “’S fine.” Preston’s gaze softened and he licked his full lips, leaving the bottom one damp, shimmering in the light from Cobalt’s side porch. Silver hairs at his temple bounced a few rays back into the night. His arm flexed and he shifted his feet as he stared down at Cobalt.

  Cobalt’s back fetched against the cold steel of the car. A cool breeze blew up the drive, slippery tendrils climbing up his legs under the wide bells of his light pants, and he shivered.

  Preston moved again, wrapping a beefy arm over Cobalt’s shoulders. “Cold?” He tugged at the shawl that had slipped off Cobalt’s shoulders and proceeded to wrap it more snugly around him, bunching it at Cobalt’s throat.

  “Um. The breeze,” he whispered, fingers fumbling over Preston’s when the big man didn’t let go of the gathered wool.

  Preston was as tall as Cobalt, matching his six feet, but his wide shoulders eclipsed Cobalt’s. The past few years of battling viruses and medication side effects had whittled away more than a little of Cobalt’s lean dancer muscle, leaving him thinner than he should be.

  Preston’s bulk against the wind and dark felt safe, and Cobalt found himself shuffling forward to press against him. Preston slipped his arm around Cobalt’s back as he stumbled over Preston’s feet. Hard muscle held him close, but there was a layer of padding over it, rounding out the angles and softening the planes. Compared to the iron chill of Cal’s arm slung over his shoulder, this gentle but unbreakable hold left Cobalt’s knees weak.

  “Get a fucking room, you fucking queers!” Something tinged off the fender of the car and ricocheted into Cobalt’s thigh. He gasped and swore under his breath, shrinking tighter against Preston.

  From inside the house, a series of sharp warning barks issued.

  Preston tightened his arm even as he swiveled to see who had shouted at them.

  “Kids,” Cobalt snapped, annoyed more at the broken moment than the words or thrown stone.

  “Get inside.” Preston steered Cobalt toward the door. It was nice to have the warmth between him and the world as Cobalt unlocked the door and let them inside the house.

  Once the door closed behind them, Cobalt set his keys aside and held out a hand for his dog, Chance, to wiggle his nose into his palm. The dog huffed and snuffled and wagged his tail until his ass swayed back and forth. “Hey, Chay, baby. How you doin’, big guy? This is Preston. You remember him.”

  Chance whuffed and ambled over to sniff at Preston’s pant leg. He gave a few wags of his tail, then continued on to the door, where he sat to wait.

  “He has to go out,” Cobalt said. “I’ll let him out once you go.”

  “No.” Preston picked up the dog’s collar from the floor. The lead already attached led out the door, and he shot Cobalt a questioning glance.

  “It’s tied to the corner of the porch,” Cobalt assured him. “If you let him out, he’ll go around back. I’ll pick up his mess when it’s light out tomorrow.”

  Preston accepted the explanation and wrapped the collar around Chance’s scruffy neck. Chance licked his hands as he worked to do up the buckle, then happily trotted through the door, down the steps, and along the drive at the side of the house toward the backyard to do his business.

  Both men followed him out. Cobalt leaned against the house, arms tight over his chest against the rising breeze. Preston stood near the rail of the porch, watching the street while Chance shuffled around in the backyard.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Cobalt said quietly. “Chay and I are fine.”

  Preston grunted but remained where he was. Once more, Cobalt could only see his profile. His barrel chest heaved as he drew in a deep breath and let it out.

  “They won’t come back,” Cobalt said. “They never do.”

  Preston turned to face him. “This has happened before?”

  Cobalt shrugged, and though he tried not to think about the hole the size of a golf ball in his kitchen window, his gaze strayed that way. Preston’s followed, and the noise he made at the sight was decidedly more aggressive. “Go in the house,” he growled.

  “Down, boy.” Cobalt bristled at the commanding tone, even while a flood of warmth spread through him at the protectiveness.

  Preston turned a diabolical look on him. “Please, sir.” There was a grin hidden under the words, disguised by the shadows where he stood in the shifting silhouette of a hanging plant.

  “I don’t need you to protect me, darling.”

  “Of course, sir.” His voice dropped back to the conciliatory tone Cobalt was used to, only now those tones rang a little bit empty. Cobalt wanted the warmth of hidden smiles and overprotective commands back.

  “But it is chilly out here,” Cobalt muttered. He glanced down the drive, looking for Chance. The dog’s lead disappeared around the corner of the house, and Cobalt could hear soft snuffling as he investigated something that clearly smelled fascinating.

  “He’ll let us know when he wants back in,” Preston reminded Cobalt. He opened the screen door and held it for Cobalt to return to the warmth of the small kitchen.

  “Thank you.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Cobalt stopped just inside the doorway. “Why do you call me that?”

  “Sir?”


  “Yes. That.” He spun. Once more Preston was mere inches away, squeezing inside to escape the closing swing of the door. “Why do you insist on calling me sir?”

  “I work for—”

  “My brother. Call him sir all you want. You don’t work for me. Your service to me is only favors for Az that happen to fall within the skill set of what you do for him. But that doesn’t make me your employer.”

  “I’ve worked for your family all my life,” Preston reminded him.

  “But not for me.” Even Preston’s first job for the Winslows, in their barn, grooming Azure’s polo ponies, had nothing to do with Cobalt beyond saddling a horse for him now and then, and even more occasionally accompanying him on trail rides. Heaven forfend Cobalt ever ride the woodchip thoroughfares of the family estate alone, after all.

  Preston shuffled his feet. “I suppose that’s true,” he admitted.

  “So then calling me sir seems… less than genuine.”

  “Do you think I don’t mean it?” The man actually sounded offended.

  “I think you do. I think I don’t merit it,” Cobalt said. “It’s not the life I live anymore. Look around you.” He waved an arm to encompass the kitchen, with the broken window covered over by a piece of cardboard taped to the frame, and the unravelling carpet in the doorway of the living room. “No one calls me sir anymore.”

  “And you think that is because you shouldn’t be given the respect?”

  “Don’t sound incredulous, darling. It is what it is. I made my choi—”

  A loud, frantic yipping from outside froze Cobalt’s blood. “Chay.”

  Chapter 4

  COBALT’S ALREADY pale face drained of color. He stared wide-eyed at the back door, immobile, as the dog’s sounds of distress dwindled.