About Kerry Adrienne:
Kerry loves history and spends large
amounts of time wondering about people who lived and walked on Earth in the
past. She’s a mom to three daughters, six cats, and various small animals,
including a panther chameleon.
In addition to writing, she’s a college
instructor, artist, costumer, and editor. Her new love is her Mini Cooper
Convertible, Sheldon, and they have already gone on many adventures.
STEAMINESS
Rocco
clutched the purple fliers and stared out at the busy park from his seat. He’d
posted enough of the papers for the day, not that it mattered. He’d never had
luck distributing them before—the responses had never lived up to his
expectations. He set his backpack on the ground and leaned back against the
wooden bench. Why bother? Not like the perfect man was going to walk up, pick
up the flier and actually respond. Not in this lifetime.
He
lowered the sunglasses over his eyes. The late afternoon sunlight didn’t thread
through the full-summer trees in this part of Central Park, but his shades
allowed him to “bulge watch” as the throngs of tourists and New Yorkers paid
homage at the mosaic shrine to John Lennon. The circular black and white
medallion with “Imagine” scripted across its center was a place of reverence.
Disciples had outlined the medallion with a peace sign made of fresh-cut
flowers, and tourists took turns posing and taking pictures in front of the
makeshift altar.
Rocco
scanned the visitors. The place was a people-watcher’s dream, and for a Monday,
the crowd was huge. Summer in the city always brought the tourists in droves of
asinine clothing and hats and noise. Still, he had hope he’d find the one he
was looking for.
The man
who’d make his dreams come true.
He set
the fliers on the bench beside him, then picked up one purple sheet and folded
it into a fan, carefully creasing each fold. He tried to breathe out the hot
air, but no doubt about it, the June day was steaming. New York was a
sweltering change from the Adirondack cabin where he’d spent most of his time
in the last month. Still, he was happy to be back in the city—his second home.
The cabin was great as a quiet place to work, even though it was small, but its
remoteness made it impossible to people-watch and gain inspiration.
Rocco
crimped the last crease. His apartment in one of the Guild’s brownstones felt
like home away from home. The Guild’s large studio provided the best space he’d
ever had to work—tons of light and plenty of quiet. And his guildmates were
like brothers, always ready to support each other through any artistic
struggle, though he supposed they too were growing tired of his search for a
perfect man. No one had actually voiced it, but he felt a distinct difference
in the tone of the conversation when he brought the search up in conversation.
With the upcoming charity auction in October, most of the artists would be
working overtime and even less inclined to listen to his plight.
He
fanned himself with the folded flier. Nothing to see at the moment. Not a
single possibility in the groups of people gathered in the small courtyard. He
scanned the area. The top edge of the Dakota Apartments peeked over the trees
and Rocco glanced over the rows of tightly curtained windows. He’d never been
inside the lavish building, though he knew several Guild members had been to
private parties there. Rocco had been invited many times but had always
declined. Wealth and showmanship weren’t his thing. He preferred the simple
life where nature set the style, not John Varvatos and Marc Jacobs.
Strawberry
Fields was a prime tourist spot. Too bad today’s mob held few specimens worthy
of a glance, much less a stare. I’d think the simple math odds would warrant at
least a couple prospects. Add in summer shorts, and there should be at least a
good bulge or two…
He
glanced at the stack of fliers—about fifty of them left. He’d put up as many
papers as he could around the park over the last hour. Who was he kidding?
After years of searching, he might as well give up on finding the ideal male.
He set the fan on the bench and shoved the stack of fliers into the front
pocket of his backpack and zipped it up.
He’d
held several open calls with no luck. Something inside him pushed him to keep
looking, keep trying, no matter how many times he failed. The same something
kept him awake at night and tore apart his thoughts during the day. He’d find
what he was looking for and he wouldn’t stop until he did, no matter what it
took. It didn’t matter if it cost him his friends, his guildmates, his sanity.
That was art, wasn’t it?
“May I
sit here?”
The
soft, lilting voice wove through Rocco’s thoughts and he paused. He looked up
and his breath caught in his throat when he saw where the voice originated.
Broad shoulders and a flat abdomen encased in a perfectly tight white T-shirt.
Tall, but not overly so. Blue jean shorts, snug. Red cropped hair that
glistened gold at the tips and fell over in a lock of bangs. Rocco gazed from
top to bottom and licked his dry lips.
Red,
white, blue, and all American.
“May
I?” the man repeated.
“Sure.”
Rocco fumbled with his pack and slid over to make room on the wooden park
bench, pushing his folded fan behind him and out of the way so the stranger
could sit down.
“Thanks,”
the man said, dropping onto the bench.
No,
thank you. But not so close. The vibrations of the man sitting raced through
the wood of the bench into wood between Rocco’s legs. He swallowed hard,
pushing back the anxiety. “No problem,” he said, half-whispering. He peeked
then gazed down again. Finally, someone worth looking at. Only the man was so
freaking near, Rocco felt as if he could feel the heat emanating from the man’s
hotness.
Too
close. No comfort.
The man
scooted back on the bench and stretched out his legs. “Long day. I’m exhausted.
Didn’t expect there to still be such a crowd here this time of day.” He blew
out a long breath and closed his eyes.
Despite
the heat, a shiver raced through Rocco and he eyed the fluid line of the man’s
form. If he’d had a sketchpad, he’d do a quick gesture drawing of the long
stroke of torso and limbs.
Not
knowing what to say, Rocco turned away. A group of noisy teens descended on the
mosaic like a swarm of bees, laughing and shouting and taking photos of
themselves in stupid poses. Rocco blinked away the distraction and looked back
to the man sitting beside him.
Not
bad. “Yeah.” Hell, not bad at all. “It’s crowded.” He squeezed his thighs
together to control his body’s reaction. Why couldn’t the man have chosen to
sit on the other side of the path where Rocco could observe without having to
talk?
“Such a
loud crowd, at that.” The man opened his eyes and peered at the teen spectacle
then shook his head. “They need to relax. Chill. You’d think they’d never been
outside before.”
Rocco
nodded and followed his gaze. A teen had picked up one of the flowers from the
medallion and was tossing it into the air and catching it. “Tourists. New York
can’t live with them, or without them.”
“Tourist?”
The man asked. “Aren’t you? I can’t place that accent, so I assumed you were.
Where are you from?”
“Italy.”
Rocco sat up straight, trying to not be obvious in staring at the man’s
muscular legs. He must be some kind of athlete. Was this man a candidate or had
the hour of staring at subpar specimens clouded Rocco’s judgment? “Well, born
in Italy, but I’ve lived in the city for several years. Many, actually. I
consider myself a New Yorker now.”
“Ah, so
Italian with some city dialect. Not a tourist. What’s your name?”
Rocco
flipped his sunglasses up onto his head. “Rocco Lazzaro. Not a tourist.” He
forced a smile. Meeting new people in person wasn’t something he was used to
doing.
“But
very Italian, I see. Nice to meet you, Rocco.” The man held his hand out. “I’m
Devin Johansson. Also not a tourist. I live on the East Side.”
Rocco
took Devin’s hand in his own and shook it firmly, aware that his own hand was
clammy with anxiety. “Good to meet you too, Devin.”
Devin
clamped down on Rocco’s fingers and held on. “Oh. You have working hands,” he
whispered. He pulled Rocco’s hand closer and rubbed Rocco’s palm with long,
soft fingers. “And your aura shows great creativity.” He looked up. “What is it
you do?”
The
teens moved on down the park path, giggling and talking loudly as they went.
Rocco glanced over at them, trying to still the shudder that played along his
arm as Devin rubbed his hand. A calm, warm feeling flowed up through his arm
and into his chest. Even in the summer heat, the warmth felt good. Too good.
Wait, what did he say? What the hell?
“My
what? My aura?” Rocco yanked his hand away, immediately aware of the loss of
warmth. Great. The first good-looking guy he’d met this week was a fruit loop
New-Ager. The city grew all types, but this was one type Rocco tried to avoid.
These dopes talked too much and thought too much about weird things instead of
reality.
Devin
leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. He stared up into the trees,
smiling. “Yeah, I can tell you are creative by your aura. So, what is it you
do?”
Rocco
scowled. “I’m a sculptor.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling Devin, or why he
was even talking to the man in the first place. Am I that desperate? Do I look
like a pity case? He straightened his sunglasses on top of his head and
smoothed back his hair.
“I knew
it.” Devin looked at Rocco, his eyes sparkling. “You work with your hands, I
can tell. Your hands hold lots of kindness and feeling and warmth. I knew you
were an artist of some kind.”
Rocco
made eye contact. He nearly sighed aloud at the deep green in Devin’s gaze. A
perfect offset to his red-gold hair and pale skin, which, oddly enough, seemed
devoid of the freckles that redheads often sported. If Rocco were a painter,
Devin would be a divine palette to experiment with.
“Good
g-guess.” Rocco looked away. Something about intense men always caused him to
lose his confidence, like maybe the men were peering into the innermost part of
him and not running away. Like the fruit loop cast a spell.
“No,
it’s really obvious.” Devin chuckled. “If you’re sensitive to reading people,
you’re rarely wrong. It happens, but not often.” A look of doubt crossed his
face and was gone in an instant.
A warm
breeze pushed through the park, sweeping a few dry leaves across the trail in a
crackle and rustling Rocco’s hair. He smoothed it down and settled the glasses
back on his head.
How am
I supposed to respond to that? Rocco fidgeted. Is he trying to get me to ask
him something? “Well, okay. It’s obvious I’m an artist.” He had to get the
conversation away from himself. Now. Not only was it uncomfortable, but Devin
was in his personal space. “So what do you do, Devin? Besides tell people about
their auras?” Magician? Fortuneteller? Horse Whisperer? He hoped Devin would
notice the skepticism in his tone and lay off the hoodoo talk. Seeing colors
around people? He’d heard of it before, sure. It was about as stupid as
believing ancient aliens built the pyramids.
If
Devin felt made fun of, he didn’t show it. “I’m a yoga instructor and
meditation coach,” he said. “I meet clients here in the park and we embrace the
movement of the sun and the moon and the seasons of nature. Here’s my card.” He
pulled a neat stack of cards out of his shorts pocket and slid one off the top.
Rocco
took the dark blue card. Embossed in gold lettering:
Devin
Johansson, owner of City Dreams. Yoga, meditation, and spiritual healing—on my
schedule or yours.
And
quack. Rocco scooted forward on the bench. “Meditation, huh? Like being still
for a really long time and breathing and not thinking?” He raised his eyebrows.
This was going to be interesting.
“Yeah,
I do group meditation classes on the Great Lawn on Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday mornings at seven. Free. You should join us. We had a great crowd today.
Summer sessions are always well attended.”
“Thank
you, but I don’t meditate. I sleep. That’s being still enough for me.” Rocco
rubbed his palms on his jeans. “I do try and breathe every day though.” He held
back a smirk. Something about being uncomfortable made him sarcastic, a
smartass. He knew it but just couldn’t help himself. He looked out over the
park. Why was he even embarrassed?
A noisy
group of tourists wearing matching lime green T-shirts circled the medallion.
Their guide spoke loudly about John Lennon and the crowd ooohed and ahhed. One
woman sobbed.
Maybe
Strawberry Fields wasn’t the best choice today. Too many weirdoes congregating.
He should’ve checked the planetary alignment or star charts before he came
because something was amiss. He smiled at his own cleverness.
“Well,
maybe you should consider trying meditation. Your aura looks pretty blocked.”
Devin scooted closer and lowered his voice. “Maybe I can help you find what
you’re looking for. If you’ll let me.”
Rocco
cleared his throat and stared at the woman crying, unable to look Devin in the
eye. Was the fruit loop coming on to him? Rocco certainly wasn’t looking for a
quick fuck, though there were plenty of opportunities in Central Park. So he’d
heard, anyway. But if he wanted a quickie, the last place he’d pick was a dirty
bathroom or out in public behind a butterfly bush just off the path. Being
stung in the ass wasn’t worth it.
“Well,
think about it,” Devin pushed. “I’d love to help you out. It’s what I do. I
don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, but maybe I can help you. Us
meeting here today wasn’t by chance.”
The
hell it wasn’t. “Thanks. I’ll check out your website later.” When I have
nothing else to do.
“Great.
Please do.” Devin slid even closer until his leg brushed Rocco’s. “I don’t
bite, Rocco. I help people.”
Rocco’s
heart thudded and he yanked his leg away. How one man had gotten to him so
quickly then left him scattered just as quickly was frightening. He had to get
out of the park and back to the safety of what he knew. His work. His privacy.
His studio.
The
Guild auction was only a few months away and Rocco hadn’t even begun to sculpt
his main piece. At this rate, he’d have to work in clay only. He shoved the
card into the small front part of his backpack and zipped the pocket closed. “I
gotta get back to work. Nice chatting with you, Devin.”
“Maybe
I’ll see you around another time.” Devin closed his eyes. “I’m in the park most
days for one thing or another. Just call me. I’ll meet you here any time you
want. One-on-one assistance, if you prefer.”
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