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  To my surprise, a second flat-bottom boat rested on Haven Island’s shore, positioned between a pair of boulder-size rocks, protected there from being swallowed up by the lake during rising tides. Smaller in size compared to the one I docked on the island’s sandy and rocky shore, the second craft looked more like poly-carbonate rather than aluminum. Also green in color, it lay face-down, its flat bottom staring into the gray heavens, unmoving in the storm.

  Once on shore, dripping wet and listening to my ears ring because of the tempest around me, I removed the single piece of luggage from the fishing boat, lugged it between and among the many rocks, and stepped onto a firm plot of earth covered in thick grass that almost reached up to my knees. Unfamiliar with my surroundings, and having no idea where to find Finn’s log cabin, I looked from left to right, taking in nothing more than a variety of trees that were common in Pennsylvania and Ohio.

  Not a minute later, observing a narrow and grassy pathway that led into the woods, surrounded by thick trees and verdant shrubs, I felt the cold smoothness of a gun’s barrel at the back of my head.

  “Turn around slowly, or I’ll blow your head off, trespasser.”

  One, I wasn’t a trespasser. Finn and I had communicated via email for the last sixty days, arranging my visit to Haven Island. Two, I highly doubted he would have murdered me since he didn’t have the reputation of being a serial killer. Rather, he probably would have shot me in the leg or arm, temporarily handicapping me. And three, something told me that Finn just happened to be more like a teddy bear instead of a lion hunting its prey for an afternoon treat.

  I slowly spun around, feeling somewhat panicked. Shaking my head, I responded with, “Finn, my name is Chad Base. You know who I am. I’m not trespassing.”

  He chuckled, dropped the shiny Colt 45 at his side, and shared his handsome grin with me. “The cute blond with blue eyes. It’s the only reason why I let you come here.”

  We shook hands like gentlemen, and he eyed me from toes to head, taking everything he could in about me: thin build, some muscle, twinkling eyes, even in the rain, five-eleven frame, one hundred and seventy pounds, and broad shoulders.

  Once his looksee game ended, he said, “You’re more adorable than you look online.”

  “Thanks for that. I appreciate the compliment.”

  “And you’re sexy as hell in the rain, just like Ryan Gosling in The Notebook.”

  So far we were hitting it off just fine together, which I had hoped only continued during my overnight stay on his island. In due time, I would learn if such a condition would pan out or not. Time would tell, of course.

  “Stay there. Don’t move,” he told me. Finn holstered the gun to his side, stepped around two suitcase-sized rocks, and told me, “Spread your legs and arms, I need to see if you have a weapon on you.”

  I had a ballpoint pen, cellphone, wallet, and the Prius’ keys on me and nothing more. But, if he wanted to pat me down, checking my thighs, chest, shoulders, and legs for any guns, knives, or self-created bombs, he could have at it. I thought him sexy as hell, handsome beyond words, and quite masculine.

  In the autumn storm, October at its most miserable, the moment between us turned rather romantic. He stood behind me, mistakenly rubbed his crotch against my tight bottom, palmed my outstretched arms, patted my stomach and sides, and rolled his wet palm down and over my hips. Hunched behind me, his nose only inches away from my ass, he rubbed his hands along my thighs, almost caused an erection to come to life between my legs, and rose.

  “You’re clean. You didn’t come to hurt me.”

  “Trust me. I’m not here to hurt you. We have work to do. Artist Trend is paying me to be here. Plus, they’re paying you for your time. This overnight visit is all about work and nothing more. I highly doubt there will be gunfire shared, artillery fired, and war between us. You’re a nice guy, and I’ve come to learn the ins and outs about you. It’s just that simple, if you want to know the truth.”

  He grabbed my single piece of luggage as if it were a feather, lifted it off the ground by its strap, and swung it over his right shoulder. “Follow me. My cabin isn’t far from here.”

  * * * *

  Brown earth comprised a thin trail from the shore to his log cabin. Hemlocks, spruce, birch, and maples somewhat protected the pathway. Autumn leaves had already turned, creating a canopy of oranges, reds, and yellows. Few leaves had fallen from the mass of trees, hanging on to their airy homes for probably the next two weeks, not a day longer.

  I followed the artist to his cabin, checking out his bulbous ass in a pair of tight blue jeans. The man wore a pair of rugged and well-used work boots and a red-and-black flannel shirt. The outline of a square wallet decorated his left rear pocket. Together, we moved slowly through the woods, away from the two green boats and the lapping lake’s water. Above us, the storm raised Cain, creating louder booms and cracking lightning.

  Panting while climbing uphill, a somewhat steep grade that had started to break me, I continued to follow the man, staying close to him, unsure of how I would survive on my own, away from the mainland and lost on his island. Tucked in the side of a leafy hillside stood two buildings: the artist’s log cabin and his barn-shaped studio. The cabin just happened to be half the size of the studio. The one-story cabin had windows tinted light blue. Its front door looked as if it were made out of clear glass and iron. Approximately twenty feet from the abode, I guessed the cabin as less than one thousand square feet in size with very few windows.

  The two-floor studio sat to the left of the log cabin. Dark red stain covered every corner, curve, and surface of the building. Two main doors were locked at the front with what looked to be a rusted padlock, keeping strangers and Artist Trend writers at bay. To the left of the studio, positioned between two oaks, a two-person swing blew in the rainy wind.

  I didn’t take the cabin, studio, and swing as majestic or anything spectacular. Truth told, the trio looked sketchy and a perfect location for a horror movie. No matter how ominous the scenery felt, I had planned to spend the next twenty-four hours on Haven with the bizarre glassblowing artist and learn much about him for my article, dedicating myself to the man, his strange life alone from the world, and his property.

  * * * *

  The cabin’s interior sparkled and reflected like a glass kaleidoscope. Bright orange and green vases were scattered here and there. Aquamarine-colored canisters decorated the kitchen’s counter. A Tiffany-like light in the shape of a tulip hung down from the ceiling in Finn’s living room. Ashtray figurines that were half the size of humans were placed in corners and throughout the two bedrooms. And glass blown ashtrays shaped like snails, seashells, helmets, avocados, and fishbowls were everywhere, but mostly displayed in windows. Light of many hues filled every room, glowing in rainbow colors and making it feel as if I had entered a museum of glass, a magical crystal ball, or a Harry Potter movie.

  “Home sweet home,” Finn said, offering me a towel to dry off with. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I would hope not. Everything about this place represents your work. Your soul is somewhere in this cabin.”

  “That’s a good way of putting it, Chad. You sound like one of my super fans.”

  “I do,” I admitted.

  He stepped up to me, helped me out of my light jacket, and dropped it to the floor. A fire burned in the hearth, offering heat and light. He told me to step in front of it, joining me. Before I realized what started between us, he reached down for the rim of my T-shirt and yanked it over my head.

  “We need to get you out of these wet clothes.”

  I didn’t mind his knuckles dragging up and across my flat and firm torso. I missed the touch of a man and craved his forwardness. Honestly, it felt wonderful to be cared for that way, under his physical advancements and spell, and whatever else he had to offer within that moment by the stone hearth and its warm amber-red fire.

  Once the cotton shirt lay on the floor next to my feet, he studied
my torso, licked his lips, and admitted, “You look good. Thanks for letting me manhandle you.”

  As he ran off for a dry towel for me to use, I thought of the article I had to write. When he returned to my side, I asked, “When did you have physical contact with a woman or man last?”

  “I only connect with men,” he said, handing me the towel. “Everyone in the art world knows that about me.”

  I rolled the towel over one shoulder, then the other, drying off. “So tell me when you kissed a man last, Finn.”

  He stared into my blue eyes, fingered my Kenneth Cole belt buckle on my jeans, and replied, “Two years ago. Let’s just call him Keith. We don’t want you causing me a lawsuit.”

  “Fair enough.” I felt one of his hands roll against my denim-covered dick, making it hard. I pushed his hand away and continued my twenty-four-hour interview of his world. “What happened between you and Keith?”

  He laughed and winked at me. “His mother. The guy resembled a momma’s boy. He couldn’t live without her.”

  “Did he live on Haven with you?”

  He shook his head. “Never. He visited occasionally, just like you are now.”

  “And the two of you were lovers?”

  “Fucking was fun with him. If I may be so blunt, he knew how to use his dick, ass, and tongue.” He reached out and brushed a palm down and over my naked chest. His fingertips strummed the line of blond hair beneath my navel. He shook his head and added, “Damn, you have a nice torso. This is why I let you visit me. I have a thing for gay blonds.”

  “Was Keith a blond?”

  He nodded. “All the way. Curtains and carpet.”

  I pulled away from him ever so slightly, keeping a small amount of space between us as protection for me.

  He changed the subject and said, “You must be hungry.”

  “Ravenous,” I said.

  “Then let me whip us up something to eat.”

  * * * *

  Finn O’Rourke fed us a thick beefy stew with homemade bread. We sat together in his kitchen among the various rainbow lights. Illuminated greens, blues, and purples painted my bare chest. Hungry, I wolfed down one bowl of stew, was offered a second bowl, and started shoveling the meal into my gut, enjoying its wholesome and rich flavor.

  Finn sat across from me and said, “The autumn storm’s becoming stronger.”

  I didn’t argue with him, listening to the thunder over the island. The storm echoed above us, welcoming a decrease in the temperature as the afternoon sunlight started to disappear behind the dense clouds.

  Together, we consumed the stew, ripping fresh bread apart with our hands, enjoying the meal. Again, I thought about the article I had to write.

  “Tell me more about yourself.”

  He held a spoon in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. “What do you want to know?”

  I fetched a clean and dry T-shirt from my single piece of luggage, put it on, and sat down across from him again. “You had a rough time with alcohol and drugs. Tell me about that.”

  “And anonymous and unsafe sex. Don’t forget about that.” He shoveled a spoonful of food into his mouth, and then continued. “Addiction is the worse. It can rule and ruin your life. I never joke about it. I’ve lost a lot of friends because of meth and heroine.

  “Living on the street wasn’t the best time of my life. Add the drug addiction and sex for drugs, and it was the worst time ever. I couldn’t find any focus in my life. The glassblowing didn’t help. Down and out, I didn’t care.

  “I was fortunate I didn’t catch AIDS or a different sexually transmitted disease. I was also fortunate that Rod Helsinger saved my life. I love that man and always will. He’s an angel.”

  “Rumor has it that you still stay in touch with Rod.”

  “It’s true. He’s one of my best friends. He’s living in Taiwan. Loves it there. I try to visit him about twice a year, but really don’t like to leave the island. Honestly, I owe him my life. Not only did he save me from the streets, but he created a career for me.”

  Intrigued, I asked, “Are the two of you still lovers?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t care about each other that way anymore. Life changes like that for men who are long-term friends. I guess it has everything to do with maturity.”

  “You’ve had, and have, a very interesting life.”

  “We should retire in the living room with some vodka. What do you say?”

  I couldn’t have agreed more and helped him clean up before continuing my evening with him and whatever else transpired between us.

  * * * *

  We enjoyed two shots of vodka. He sat across from me with the vodka bottle placed between us on a giant, glass ashtray-shaped coffee table the color of topaz.

  “Let the questioning begin.”

  “I’ll be gentle on you since you let me come to your island. Fans and the media say that you’re despicable and hate people.”

  He chuckled and admitted, “I really don’t like strangers. I bought the island to get away from the world and its hypocritical media. I didn’t ask to be famous. I simply wanted my own space where I could create my art. Haven Island offers me that.”

  I couldn’t stop thinking him handsome: muscled shoulders, brown scruff on his chin and cheeks, stumble-over hazel eyes, Adam’s apple, and somewhat of a small nose. My mind drifted to a place and time where we would kiss, undress each other, and make love.

  “Do you consider yourself lucky because of your brush with fame, Finn?”

  “How so?”

  “A lot of artists spend a lifetime creating their work and are never recognized. You went from alcohol and drugs to fame. Doesn’t that make you feel lucky?”

  He shook his head. “Not necessarily. If I wasn’t discovered, I’d still be an artist. Creating ashtrays and ashtray sculptures are a legal drug for me. It’s a different type of addiction.”

  We had two more sets of vodka shots, and my interview continued:

  “Did you ever want any children, Finn?”

  “Never. Honestly, I just care about myself. It sounds horrible, but it’s the truth. I’ve never seen children in my life, and probably never will. I strongly believe that every artist is selfish. Children can only get in the way, preventing creations.”

  I took mental notes, paying attention to his answers and my questions. “How often do you leave Haven Island?”

  “Probably twice a month. There’s a tiny shack in the woods where you parked. I keep a motorcycle there and ride it into Mesna. I usually pick up groceries, a few paperbacks to read, and supplies. Then I make my way back to the island.”

  “I didn’t see a shack.”

  “No one usually does. It’s painted to look like the woods.”

  “Camouflage?”

  “No. Better than that. I actually painted trees, leaves, and brush on it. I keep it locked so no one steals the bike. The key for the shed is around here somewhere.”

  “A Harley?” I inquired.

  He shook his head. “Something smaller. A Suzuki GSX-S1000. I’ve never really had an interest in Harleys. I’m more into less flashy bikes and things. You’ve probably guessed that about me already.”

  “You said you like to read. Who’s your author of choice?”

  “Any mystery. I like thrillers, too.”

  “Did you ever think of writing an autobiography? Your life as a child, young adult, and then a famous and reclusive artist worth millions who lives on a lake’s island.”

  He said, “I couldn’t put two sentences together if I tried.”

  “I’m sure you could.”

  He chuckled. “That would be like asking you to blow glass. I’m sure you couldn’t.”

  I pointed at him and smiled. “Point made.”

  We chatted for the next twenty minutes about his life on the island: how he liked it when autumn turned into a cold winter and offered him more seclusion; a vegetable garden he planted in the spring, close to the end of April; keeping in contact w
ith his friend Rod by email, although he hated using a computer; his off-the-grid way of life, enjoying being away from civilization and the modern mechanics of the world.

  My questions were detailed and interesting, all of which painted a picture of a lonely man who favored his quiet and life away from the rest of the world; a man who had donated a lot of his earnings to charities, becoming a philanthropist without a conceited air.

  Bottom line: Finn O’Rourke turned out to be a very nice man with many emotions, one who respected nature, and portrayed someone with an above average skill for conversation.

  * * * *

  “Enough with the questions for now. There’s something you have to see since you’re writing an article about me.” He downed another shot of vodka, stood, and grabbed my right hand. With a short and rough tug, he pulled me out of my chair and said, “Follow me. It’s outside.”

  The October horizon filled with blue-purple-red splotches through the autumn leaves. A wind had kicked up, and it continued to rain. Large droplets of rain plummeted down from the darkening heavens, producing a cold and wet chill at the back of my neck.

  He dragged me off the front stoop of his cabin and led me over a dirt pathway to the left and through the island’s woods and falling rain. Stones of various sizes lined the trail and reminded me of my childhood days in the Boy Scouts and Summer Camp. Quickly, we made the jaunt through the rain to his boarded barn in the distance. The building reflected a dull red hue. Upon closer view, I saw it was trimmed in brown. No windows welcomed a gander inside. Two barn doors stood at the front, and he cracked them open after releasing my right hand.

  “Welcome to my little world of glass, Chad. Not many people have seen this place.”

  “Thanks for having me. I feel honored to be here.”

  He nodded, smiled, and brushed fingertips against my chin yet again, obviously fond of touching me and feeling comfortable in doing so. “Let me turn on a light inside, and you can see a little better. What do you say?”

  “I’m here to learn everything about you. Take me on any adventure that you feel like.”