(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief (8 page)

If the guy’s even remotely interested.
The way things were going, he figured he’d have better luck at a monastery.

“
J
USTIN?” Cary sat on the couch, his feet on the coffee table, cell phone against his ear.

“Cary? Is that you?”

“Yep.”

“It’s been three weeks since you called. I left several messages on your cell, but you never called me back. Damn, you had me worried. I was just about to call Roberta and check on you.” Cary heard the concern in his brother’s voice, even with the lousy connection, and he ignored the spasm of guilt in his gut.

He’s right. You should have called him.
Justin worried about him. He always had.

“Sorry. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“What happened?”

“Got mugged,” Cary explained. “Broke my wrist and—”

“Your wrist? Oh crap, Cary. Is it going to be okay? I mean, are you going to be able to play again?”

“Yeah. Doctor says I’ll be fine. Maybe a little physical therapy, but I should be back to work in another month or so.”

“Shit, Cary. That was a close call.”

“I’m fine. Really. I’m a big boy now, remember?”

There was a hissing sound through the phone, and Cary pictured his brother releasing air from between his lips like a steam pipe. “Right. Tell me it wasn’t two in the morning when you got mugged, and maybe I’ll buy that.”

“It wasn’t two in the morning,” Cary said with a laugh. “It was three. But really, bro, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Cary knew Justin was unconvinced, and he made a point of changing the subject. “So how are Vicki and the kids?”

“Great. Vick got a raise. Clayton, Caleb, and Jackson are doing great. Clay’s playing Little League ball this year, and Caleb will probably go out for the team next year. Jackie’s watching and waiting. It’s hard, being four and watching your big brothers do things you’d like to do.”

Cary’s thoughts wandered to Massi and the circus. Which, of course, made him think of Antonio and the near-kiss of three hours before. He fought his body’s response. “Glad to hear it. Send me some photos when you have a chance. I’m sure I’ll barely recognize them now.”

Justin chuckled. “No joke. At this rate, Clay’s going to be taller than both of us.”

“Call you next weekend?”

“You damn well better,” Justin warned, “or I
will
call Roberta.”

“I will. Promise.”

“All right. You coming for Christmas?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“The boys’d be happy to see their uncle. I’d like to see you too. I miss you.”

Cary’s jaw tightened. He’d been avoiding St. Louis like the plague since his mother died. The few trips he had made in the past five years had been more difficult than he had expected—it didn’t matter that his mother had been dead nearly ten years now. The memories were still raw, painful. “I’ll take a look at the flights and check my schedule,” he said. He knew he’d do neither.

“That’d be great.”

“Talk to you later, Justin.”

“Take care of yourself, Cary. Love you.”

“Thanks.” Cary tapped the phone and laid it on the table, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes. Justin had been more of a father to him than an older brother, and Cary adored him. Why was it so hard for him to say the words?

You really should visit before the boys are in college.
He resolved to have his US agent book him a gig in St. Louis. The thought made him uneasy, and he tried to ignore the surge of adrenaline that accompanied the possibility of a visit back to his old home, with little success.

Justin had always been the grown-up and Cary the little kid. Necessity, maybe, given that their only parent had been so focused on Cary that Justin had been forced to grow up faster.

Funny
, Cary thought,
how different we are.

His nephews were lucky to have such a loving, attentive father. The kind of father Cary had always longed for.

His thoughts veered unexpectedly back to Antonio. How good he was with Massimo. So patient. Affectionate. Fun. Cary smiled and imagined Antonio’s laughter. The way he pushed the hair out of his face when he spoke animatedly. The low rumble of his voice.

At this, Cary’s cock happily asserted itself.
Shit.
The idea of hanging out at the apartment and jerking off was almost unappealing enough to subdue his traitorous erection. Almost, but not quite. He needed to get out of the apartment and do something with the nervous energy.

T
WO hours later, he was bent over a toilet in the bathroom of a dive near via Padova, only a few blocks away from where he’d gotten mugged, and getting fucked to within an inch of his life. He closed his eyes and tried to settle into the rhythm of it, to savor the burn. It wasn’t working. He hated these toilets, glorified holes in the ground where you stood on porcelain footrests. There was nothing to hang on to except the sink to his left, but the cast made it difficult, and he had to press his good hand against the filthy tile wall. He kept slipping on the wet porcelain floor, and his partner finally grabbed him at the waist to keep him from falling.

Even the buzz of too much alcohol didn’t help him focus on the sex. He tried to relax into the movements, even tried to imagine his partner was Antonio. But Antonio wouldn’t be fucking him in a dive like this, would he?

Taking a chance that his partner wouldn’t let him fall, Cary took his hand off the wall and pulled and stroked his own cock. But he couldn’t keep himself hard, and the smell of urine made him queasy. His companion climaxed with a grunt, muttering something like “thanks” before he tossed the condom and left Cary alone, oblivious to the fact that Cary hadn’t come. It didn’t really matter; Cary wasn’t going to get off. He knew it.

A roach scampered across the floor about a foot away from his shoe. For the first time in years, Cary noticed the filth, and it bothered him. The walls were a dingy yellow, and Cary didn’t even want to think about what was stuck to the painted surface. He noticed a used condom in the corner, overlooked by whoever had cleaned the bathroom, if it had been cleaned at all, and his stomach protested.

He closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, but he saw his mother’s face in his mind’s eye. He heard her voice reminding him of what a disappointment he was. He was fifteen again, and he saw himself standing on stage, bowing to the applause from yet another adoring audience. He didn’t deserve their praise. He had only ever wanted
hers
, anyhow.

You have to earn the applause, Cary Taylor Redding. Nothing in this life is free.

He wondered what his mother would think of him if she could see him now, bare-assed and bent over a filthy toilet, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. He laughed, and the bitterness of the sound hung in the air.

No wonder Antonio didn’t want to touch him. Who would want to?

Oh shit.

He leaned over the water and vomited. He took a few deep breaths and shivered, then pulled his pants up from around his ankles and zipped the fly of his jeans. He felt cold and sweaty under his clothes. Another wave of nausea and he was coughing and spluttering, a sour taste in his mouth, the back of his throat burning.

He splashed some water on his face, trying to avoid his reflection in the mirror. He caught only his bloodshot eyes in the dirty glass, but it was enough to make him pause and look.

Fuck this.

He would cut his losses and go home. Sleep it off.

T
WO blocks from via Padova, he heard the footsteps behind him. He was a block away from where he had gotten mugged, and it was nearly the same time of night. He picked up his pace, his heart beating so fast it felt as though it might jump right out of his chest.

Now he wasn’t just sick, he was scared. Terrified. He’d never considered carrying a weapon, but now he wished he’d thought of it. Sure, he was a tall man, far taller than the average Italian, but what had that gotten him before? A broken wrist and a shitload of bruises.

One more block and he’d be on the busy street. Every doorway seemed to cast shadows, and he imagined someone in each, waiting to jump out at him. Maybe this time they’d have a gun.

He was sure someone was following him now. He wasn’t going to let them beat the crap out of him again. He’d beat the crap out of them first.

He whirled around. “Stay the hell away from me!” he shouted in Italian.

The man and woman behind him—obviously drunk—laughed, then quickly headed off in the other direction. He just stood there, panting, his heart still racing. His hands were shaking.
He
was shaking.

Safe inside a taxi a few minutes later, he relaxed back into the seat, staring out the window at the buildings as they whizzed by. He felt like shit. Worse. He felt like an idiot. When had he become so afraid?

The driver let him out in front of his building. Cary already had his keys in his hand as he punched the pass code into the outer door. He scanned the area around the vestibule and entrance, fearful that someone had followed him.

Get your shit together
, he thought as he rode the elevator up to his apartment. Once inside, he latched the deadbolt and tossed his jacket on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and poured himself a double shot of tequila. He downed the drink in one gulp and refilled the glass.

His gaze wandered to his studio, and he eyed the cello case in the corner of the room. He put his glass down on the piano and walked over to the cello. He ran his good hand over the smooth fiberglass case and inhaled a slow, deep breath.

Oh, how he longed to play! How ironic, that as a teenager he dreamed of taking even a day off from practicing. And now it would be weeks before he’d be able to do anything but run the bow over the strings, and he was miserable. When had his life become music all day and anonymous sex at night?

You need to ditch the drinking and the bars.

How many times had he told himself that? He’d tried to stop. He really had. But each time, he’d gone back. How could he stop when there was nothing else in his life but his music? But now…. He blinked away tears and took a deep breath.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

He pulled the instrument out of its case and inhaled the scent of the wood and lacquer. He plucked a few strings, then replaced the cello and latched the case. After retrieving his drink, he sat down at the piano and closed his eyes. His arms depressed the keys, and the instrument responded with a jumble of notes.

He imagined Antonio, with his sandy blond hair and his face rough with stubble. For just a moment, Cary wished for more than just a one-night stand. He thought about Massimo, not the child this time, but the man he was named for. What kind of a man had he been?

A better man than you. Someone who doesn’t lie. Someone who deserves Antonio.

“Fuck you, Cary Taylor Redding,” he said under his breath. “This is all you are.”

C
ARY didn’t sleep well after his failed evening at the bar. Still, the next morning was bright and relatively warm for November, and he was glad to have something to do for a change.

“Aiden!” Cary caught a glimpse of the lanky opera singer as he made his way through the
paninoteca
. The small restaurant looked out over a large piazza near the train station, and was hardly memorable with its utilitarian glass windows, tiny metal tables, and tile floor. Still, it was one of the best places in Milan for panini sandwiches, and at the height of the lunch hour, it was filled to capacity with a lively crowd.

It took Cary a bit of wrangling to get past the tightly packed tables and over to where Aiden waited. “It’s great to see you, man.”

The two men embraced. It had been nearly six months since Cary had last seen his best friend, and he realized now how much he had missed him.

“Cary.” Aiden Lind paled as he took in the cast on Cary’s arm. “Damn. What happened? How’d you get hurt?”

“Minding my own business on a Milan street?” Cary did his best to sound casual. He was pretty sure Aiden wouldn’t buy his bullshit.

Aiden frowned as they ordered their paninis at the counter, picked up their drinks, and took their seats. “So,” he said, facing Cary across the table, “gonna come clean?”

“Not much to tell.” Cary really wasn’t up for a lecture. He was hungover and sleep deprived. He adored Aiden but didn’t need a mother hen; his brother was doing just fine in that department.

“Cruising again?” Aiden leaned over his coffee and glared at him.

“None of your business, Mr. Happily-Ever-After,” Cary shot back in his snarkiest voice. “Not all of us are pining for domestic bliss.”

“Since when is it a bad thing to spread some of the happiness around?”

The waitress came by with their sandwiches. “How’s Sam?” Cary asked, happily taking advantage of the interruption to change the subject.

Aiden’s face lit up at the mention of his partner. Cary thought it was kind of cute. “He’s great. Nice thing, being the boss. You can take off and nobody can complain. He’ll be here for Thanksgiving since I can’t go home to Philly.”

“David invited you too?”

“Yeah. Nothing like Thanksgiving at an Italian villa.” He grinned. “So what about you? Other than getting beaten up, I mean.”

Cary raised an eyebrow as he bit into his sandwich, which promptly fell apart. Eating panini, like just about everything else, was easier with two hands. As he picked up a fork and began to salvage the mess on his plate, he realized the distraction was a good thing—he wasn’t sure how he wanted to answer Aiden’s question. In the end, he just shrugged.

“Relationships? Dates?”

For nearly a minute, Cary just chewed his sandwich and considered the question. He was beginning to enjoy the look of frustration on his companion’s face. “Maybe,” he said at last.

“Really? Bang-Me-in-the-Bathroom Redding?” Aiden put his hands to his cheeks in feigned shock.