Page 32 of Mad for Madison

Madison nodded firmly, meaning the business was settled.

He hailed a taxi and dictated the address, then reminded me that this place was his secret. “And what I do there is also secret. But I’m strangely comfortable sharing it with you.”

“I trust you, too,” I said.

Madison smiled softly until the driver dropped us off in front of a dilapidated redbrick building. I did all I could to conceal just how excited I was to be part of his secret.

The stairs creaked as we climbed to the top floor of the old building. Madison led the way, his broad shoulders brushing the peeling walls. He glanced back once, his face half-hidden by shadows, but his smile was visible even in the dim light. When we reached the final landing, he paused in front of a door with layers of paint chipped away and pulled out a worn key from his pocket.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low but warm.

“Show me,” I said.

The door creaked open to reveal a space that was utterly Madison—rough around the edges yet stunning. The room was flooded with soft, warm light from the many lamps that came on the moment Madison flicked a few switches by the door. The city skyline twinkled in the distance on the other side of the large windows. Canvases were propped against every wall, some resting on easels, others leaning casually against mismatched furniture. The scent of turpentine and paint clung to the air.

Madison stepped inside and tossed his jacket over a chair that looked ready to collapse. “This is it. My sanctuary.”

I followed, my breath catching as I took in the paintings. The figures on the canvases were arresting—nude men in various poses, their forms bathed in light and shadow. The brushstrokes were bold and expressive, capturing not just their bodies buttheir essence. One canvas depicted a man leaning against a railing, his back to the viewer, muscles taut under golden sunlight. Another showed a pair of men reclining together, their hands almost touching, suspended in that moment before the first contact.

“You painted these,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Madison nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t show them to anyone. They’re…I don’t know, not good enough.”

I turned to him, stunned by his vulnerability. “Are you kidding? They’re incredible.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, he looked small despite his commanding presence. “I’m not a real artist, Bradley. I just…I don’t know. I come here to feel something. To run away from all the other somethings in my life.”

“You are an artist,” I said firmly. “These paintings—they’re alive. They make you feel. That’s what art is.”

Madison’s lips twitched into a small smile as he turned toward the nearest canvas. “This one,” he said, pointing to a painting of a man standing waist-deep in water, “was inspired by a Henry Scott Tuke piece I saw years ago. But I wanted to make it raw, more emotional.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, stepping closer. The brushstrokes, messy yet deliberate, seemed to shimmer in the golden light. I could feel the water, the breeze, the quiet intimacy of the moment captured on the canvas.

Madison watched me, his expression softening. “You really think so?”

“I do,” I said, turning to meet his eyes. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

For the first time, he seemed to let himself believe me. He let out a breath, his tension easing. “You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here,” he admitted.

“I’m honored,” I said, meaning it.

His smile widened. “I think you just earned another cookie.”

Madison chuckled softly as he walked to a small table where I had set the cookies from Gran. He picked one up and took a bite, the expression on his face somewhere between bliss and disbelief. “Your grandmother might be an actual sorceress. These are amazing.”

“Tell her that, and she’ll demand a portrait as payment,” I teased, gesturing toward the canvases.

He smirked, his gaze flickering between me and the artwork. “She’d probably make a better subject than me.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the window frame. I looked at one figure on a small canvas, his back turned to me, but his unruly curls and broad shoulders were unmistakably Madison, and I realized it had been a self-portrait. It showed nothing more than his bare back, his round ass, his muscular legs, and the way his head tilted upward to face the vast emptiness of the blue summer sky.

Madison hesitated, his fingers idly brushing crumbs from his hands. “Because I hide. I can play a part when I’m in public—be the perfect smile, the perfect body. But here…” He motioned to the studio. “This is where I strip it all back, and sometimes, it’s messy. That’s not something people pay to see.”

“Madison,” I said, stepping closer, “flaws aren’t just something we’re burdened with—they’re what makes people real. That’s what I feel looking at these. They’re not just beautiful. They’re honest.” I licked my lips as I neared him so dangerously close that I had to restrain myself from taking him into a powerful hold. “And it’s what I see when I look at you.”

His gaze softened as he studied me like he was trying to paint my words into his memory. “Nobody makes me feel like this, Bradley.” He blinked and looked away, arms crossed on his chest, holding himself protectively.

“Like what?” I asked, too scared that I might misunderstand him, that I might get my hopes up.

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