Blood Sacrifice by By Rick R. Reed Read Free Book Online Page B

myself.” Edward chuckled. “In more ways than one.”
    Terence raised his eyebrows.
    “Y’see, I smear paint on myself and then I apply myself to the canvas. I move. I apply more color, different color…and move. I roll. I twist. I wave my arms around, swing my legs.”
    “So, you’re your own brush.”
    “I suppose you could think of it that way. But I’m my own subject, you know? I’m hoping to say something about myself with my work, to capture something essential about me that people can see and connect with.”
    Terence nodded, his dark gaze never moving from Edward’s face. “You know Mark Rothko’s work?”
    Edward’s eyes lit up. His shyness continued to ebb. “I love Rothko! There’s something he said that sticks with me; it sums up what my work is all about. He said…”
    Terence cut in. “He said something like, ‘Art is not about experience. It is itself the experience.’”
    Edward was awed. The statement, slightly paraphrased, had been his credo since he had moved to New York five years ago, after making the decision that he would do whatever it took to live his life as a painter. “That’s exactly right. I’m shocked that you know that.”
    And at that moment, the combination of Terence’s fine-boned, yet strong, features and his passion for art sparked something in Edward. Some would call it love. At least for the rest of the night, and for perhaps much longer, Edward knew he would do whatever this man asked.
    *
    The rain came down in sheets. When Edward had walked the dozen or so blocks from his apartment to The Tiger’s Eye, there was a mist in the air, chilling it and muffling sound. It was almost like a fog. But now, as he emerged from the bar with Terence behind him, a downpour of King Learish proportions had blown up. Thunder rumbled and roared. Lightning lit up the sky, leaving the smell of ozone as an afterthought. And the rain poured, hissing, seeming louder in the lull between thunderclaps.
    Terence stopped and grabbed Edward by the shoulders at the corner of Sixth and Christopher Street. He smiled, not enough to show his teeth, just enough to look kind of slow and sexy, one corner of his mouth turning up more than the other. “Indulge me in a little romantic purple prose.”
    “Okay.” Edward looked out of the corner of his eyes to see if they had witnesses. But the storm had driven most potential observers indoors; those who remained outside didn’t have sense enough to be outraged, amused, or confused by the sight of one man embracing another.
    “Don’t worry. No one’s watching.”
    Edward let himself fall into Terence’s gaze. He must ask him if he could do a portrait. Even though his work wasn’t representational, he still had the skills he had honed as an art student at Carnegie Mellon. He could dabble in realism.
    “Come on, allow me this moment.” Terence gently guided Edward’s face to his own by his chin. “We have to use this line—it’s so brilliant!—in the first chapter of our ‘how we met’ story.”
    “Okay…”
    “It was a dark and stormy night.”
    Edward rolled his eyes. Terence looked offended for just a second and then the moment broke, along with a thunderclap overhead. The two men collapsed against each other, howling with laughter. Terence took the opportunity to pull Edward closer, to brush a kiss along his neck. Edward didn’t mind.
    He looked up at Terence, smiled. “God! We need to get you inside. You’ll catch your death.”
    Terence said nothing, and if Edward witnessed the glimmer of a wry smile whisper across his features, he said nothing about it. “Why don’t we hail one of those horseless carriages to take us to our destination.”
    “Because I can’t afford it and this is more memorable. Now, it was a dark and stormy night. Thunder roared overhead…
    “The angels were bowling…”
    Terence took Edward’s hand and they hurried through the night, while taxi headlights threw harsh illumination on their drenched