1 Chapter 1

He saw the handsome young man and instantly knew he had to have him. Oh, he wouldn’t kidnap him. After all, that was against the law. Instead, he would become friends with him. Then, slowly, he would begin to romance him, until the young man could no longer resist falling in love with him. But that was in the future. First, he had to find out all he could about him, beginning with his name.

* * * *

Ryan glanced from the sketch he was working on to the man and woman sitting a few yards away who were the subjects. It was obvious they were arguing. What he was trying to capture was their expressions and body language. He flipped the page to do another sketch, nodding when he finished it.Better. Not perfect, but better.

He was about to try again when someone said from behind him, “That is excellent. I can feel their anger.”

Turning, Ryan saw a good-looking man, at least five years older than his own twenty-five, if not more.

“Are you a professional?” the man asked, cocking his head to study the sketch again.

“I’m trying to be,” Ryan replied with a self-deprecating smile.

“Meaning?”

“I’ll have a few drawings in a show coming up at a local gallery, as part of their New Artists exhibition. If they sell, I guess that’ll make me a professional.”

“I would think, if this—” the man tapped the sketch, “—if this is an example of your work, they will definitely sell.”

“Thanks for confidence boost,” Ryan replied.

“Which gallery?”

“The First Street, on, no surprise, First Street. The show opens this Friday.”

“Perhaps I’ll check it out, umm…” The man looked at Ryan in question.

“Ryan.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Ryan. I’m—” The man’s cellphone rang before he could finish. He answered, walking away as he talked.

“Not terribly polite,” Ryan said under his breath. “Leaving me hanging like that.” Turning to a new page in his pad, he did a quick sketch of the man’s face from memory. He’d make a good subject for one of my drawings. Not like I’ll ever see him again to suggest it, I suspect, but he would.

Thumbing through the pages in the sketchpad, he decided he’d done enough for the day, so he stood, stretching to work out the kinks from sitting on the park bench for so long. He realized, as often happened, he’d lost track of the time. He had half an hour to make it back to his apartment, change clothes, and get to work.

Someday, I’ll be a famous artist, and then I won’t have to worry about holding down a day job to support myself. Ryan chuckled as he started down the path. Or at least middling well-known, to keep a roof over my head and food on the table. He was praying the exhibition at the gallery would be the first step in achieving his dream.

* * * *

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, because he wasn’t used to wearing a suit and tie, Ryan pushed open the doors and entered the gallery on Friday evening. He wouldn’t bewearing the suit if it wasn’t for the fact that the gallery’s owners insisted their artists be presentable during an opening. To quote Mr. Foster, “This is a black-tie event. While we don’t expect our artists to rent a tuxedo, we do expect you to bypass grungy jeans and paint-smeared T-shirts in favor of something less ‘starving artist’.” He’d said it with a smile, so Ryan hadn’t felt as if he was being put down.

Thankfully, his boss at the restaurant had given him the night off without argument, once he found out why Ryan had needed it. He’d also tendered his congratulations, and wished Ryan good luck.

People were already arriving for the exhibition. At one end of the main room, a table had been set up with finger-foods, wine, sparkling water, and coffee. Some of the patrons had already gravitated to it. Others, as was to be expected, were wandering around, looking at the collection of oils, watercolors, and drawings hanging on the walls. Ryan was happy to see his drawings were getting their fair share of attention. Now, if only they’ll buy instead of just looking.

“Scary, isn’t it?” John, one of the other artists, said when he came in right after Ryan.

“More like terrifying. So many good artists competing for attention. It makes me wonder if all these people are questioning why I’m among them.”

“Tell me about it.” John shivered. “And we have to stand next to our stuff so people can ask us things like ‘Why did you choose that subject, style, color?’ etcetera.”

“I just ‘felt’ it,” Ryan said, chuckling.