He sees art in the world around him yet is never truly part of it. There's a line that keeps him just on the outside of everything and everyone else except his best friend.
Thomas Harrington has everything—the money, the car, and the designer suits. But something is missing from a seemingly perfect life, lost when his mother was taken ill.
After attending a local art show, Blu is contacted by Tom and offered his dream—a chance to show at a gallery. Though there is a growing attraction between the men, their worlds couldn't be more apart. Blu speaks through paint and brushes, and Tom's life is filled with words and paperwork.
Though opposites attract, these differences might push them apart.
Blu wasn't sure what he was expecting the morning after. The sex had been okay. It was just two guys using each other to get off. Harry was just a little on the arrogant “fuck the poor guy” side. Being topped by someone who seemed to find it delicious to be banging the guy off the street was evidenced by the labels he'd thrown at Blu while he was being fucked. Apparently he should like it rough, want it now, and various other bad porn-talk throwaway lines.
Blu was so out of there, and as soon as Harry was snoring contentedly, he gathered his stuff as quietly as he could and let himself out of the seventeenth floor apartment. Feeling like a reject from some Pretty Woman storyline, he managed to avoid most human contact and found himself out on the street at ass o'clock in the morning.
Gathering his bearings, he realized his options were limited. Five dollars in coins was not going to get him a taxi back to the loft, and it wasn't fair to phone Jackson to come get him when it was—he peered at his cell phone screen in the dark—three o'clock. Okay. A walk back home was his only real option, and peace stole over him as his feet hit the sidewalk.
The streets were his. Every corner he turned held the promise of a new view of this beautiful city. Every step could hold inspiration for his next piece of art. He stopped and examined graffiti on walls and doors in the early morning light then crouched down and looked at the curious tracings of mud and water at the back of a grocery shop. The chance for art was evident in every single thing he saw.
He dodged the people sleeping in doorways snuggled deep in blankets and paper, and he whistled as he crossed the bridge. No one spoke to him; no one told him he shouldn't be walking. The city was his until it began to wake. The first things to break the peace were the dump trucks collecting garbage and the early morning cops clearing the doorways, followed by the guys in suits clutching coffee and talking into cell phones.