(Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief (9 page)

“You really are a cruel bastard.”

“I only calls ’em as I sees ’em, man. But do tell.”

“Not much to tell. He chased away the muggers. Nice guy. Maybe
too
nice. Doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes, either.”

“Screwed him yet?” Aiden innocently wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Shit, Lind, you’re the worst. Implying that I—”

“Oh shut up, idiot. Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about that. It’s me, remember?”

“No,” Cary said with a growl, “I haven’t fucked him yet.” His best evil grin didn’t seem to do the trick. Aiden wasn’t buying any of it. “It’s not for lack of trying.”

“You mean you haven’t slept with him and you’re still hanging around? What’s up with that? Decided to try dating instead of slumming it?”

Cary opted for a bit of the truth. “We went to the circus together the other day with his son, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! His
son
? The guy has a kid?”

Cary took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it slowly, knowing full well Aiden was about to explode. “Yeah.” He took a gulp of his soda and set it back on the table, causing the table to wobble a bit on the uneven tile floor. “He’s good with him too.”

“Doesn’t really sound like your type,” Aiden observed. “Does he like music?”

“I guess. He says so, anyhow.”

“What does he think about your career?”

“Well,” Cary said, pretending he didn’t care, “he doesn’t… ah… really know about what I do for a living.”

“You’re shitting me.” Now Aiden really
was
surprised.

“It’s a long story. I sort of told him I was an unemployed musician.”

“Cary….”

“I never thought I’d see him again. It just seemed like the right thing to say. Cary Redding is more complicated.”

“But if he likes music, didn’t he recognize your name?” Aiden had stopped eating and had both elbows on the table, supporting his chin in his hands and just staring at Cary as though he had lost his mind.

“Well… no… not really….”

“You used that fake name? What is it?”

“Connor.” Cary looked down at the mangled panini on his plate so Aiden wouldn’t see him squirm.

“Shit, man. Why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to be Cary Redding. I mean, if I had told him who I was, he might have expected me to be something I’m not.”

“Like a successful musician?” Aiden shook his head.

“No.” Cary was squirming now.

“Like you deserve someone like him? You know… someone nice?” When Cary said nothing, Aiden continued, “That’s it, isn’t it? But you
do
deserve—”

“Look, Aiden,” Cary interrupted, feeling suddenly very shaky, “I’ve gotta figure this out. It’s been a crappy few weeks. I haven’t exactly been at the top of my game. And I’m sure as hell not what you think I am.” Cary rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Aiden frowned. “Okay. I’ll let it drop. For now, at least. So how long before the cast comes off? You gonna be able to play again?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“I wished you’d called me. I could’ve helped.”

“I didn’t want to impose.”

“I’d like you to impose. I’m your friend, remember? Your fucking
best
friend, last time I checked.”

“Thanks,” Cary said. “You are. And you’re right, I should have called.” And for once, he meant it too.

They parted an hour later, Aiden having extracted Cary’s promise they’d have lunch again in a week.

Back at his apartment after dark, Cary lay in his bed, unable to sleep. He knew Aiden was right. What good was it doing to lie to Antonio? He stared up at the ceiling and watched the lights from the cars bounce across it.

It’s not like you’re looking to marry the guy. So what difference does it make?
He had given Antonio more than enough signals, and in two weeks, they hadn’t even kissed. And eventually Antonio would figure out what Cary really was.

And then what?
Why even bother seeing him again?

As he finally drifted off to sleep in the early hours of the Milan morning, Cary was filled with a sense of uneasiness—an anxiety he couldn’t quite explain that lingered just out of his reach. Who was he fooling? He knew he’d see Antonio again regardless. The siren call was simply too powerful to resist.

Chapter 8

H
OME
TO
R
OOST

T
HE day after his lunch with Aiden, and in spite of the nagging voice at the back of his mind that said he was in way over his head, Cary was seized with the brilliant idea of calling Antonio. Cary knew nothing about “dating” in any conventional sense of the word. He had never “dated.” Ever. And he was sure he sounded like an idiot.

“Hey, Antonio. Just thought I’d… you know… say hello. I… ah… had a great time last week. At the circus, I mean, not afterward. Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I had a great time afterward too.” He paused, his cheeks hot, when he realized what he had just said. “I… ah… I’d like to see you again. When you have time. I know you’re probably busy. So… right… um… call me if you have a chance.”

Total fucking idiot.

He didn’t really expect Antonio to call him back, at least not right away. But Antonio left him a short message the same day saying he’d call again once he was back in town.

Nearly a week passed without a call from Antonio, however, and Cary began to wonder if Antonio was a lost cause. He had probably come to his senses. Which would have been fine.
Should
have been fine, really. Only Cary realized that he no longer felt compelled to frequent his via Padova haunts, and even the nearby park seemed to hold no interest for his cock. He couldn’t get Antonio out of his thoughts. And it was making him anxious. Antsy.

Cary was doing some crunches on the floor of his bedroom when his cell phone rang. He answered it, half out of breath. “
Pronto
?”

“Connor?” Antonio said over the connection.

“Antonio?”

“You sound strange.”

Cary’s heart began to race. “Sit-ups,” he responded in English, at a loss for the Italian word. But it wasn’t the sit-ups that had him breathless, and Cary knew it.

“Ah,
capisco
,” Antonio replied after a pause. “
Gli
‘
addominali
’. It sounds like they’re very hard for you.”

“Give me a break, macho man. It’s not as easy as you’d think when you’ve got a broken wrist.”

“
Poverino
.” Antonio’s voice dripped with mock sympathy, and Cary was sure Antonio was smiling.
Poor little thing.

“Thanks. So you’re calling to make me feel like an invalid, or was there another reason?” He didn’t care either way.

Right. Keep telling yourself you don’t care, and maybe you’ll believe it!

“Ah,
sì
. Yes, two reasons, in fact. First, I wanted to let you know I was back from my business trip to Japan. My flight just landed.”

Today?
The guy was calling from the airport?

“How was Japan?” Cary covered the microphone with his thumb and forced himself to slow down his breathing.

“Not very interesting seen from the inside of an office. But I was able to wrap up the contract. And the food was good.”

Cary chuckled.

“The second reason I called,” Antonio continued, “was to invite you this Friday.”

“Another circus?”

Antonio laughed. “No, not the circus this time. A client gave me two tickets to the symphony. Would you like to come?”

“Sure,” Cary said without hesitation.
Great. So much for not sounding desperate!
“I’d like that.” He hoped he sounded both interested and not.

“Why don’t I pick you up around six, and I can make us some dinner before?”

Cary grimaced at the prospect of another of Antonio’s home-cooked meals. “How about dinner out this time? My treat.”

“You sure? I’m happy to pay for dinner.”

“I’m sure, Antonio. I’d like to treat you.”

“All right. Thanks. I know a little place nearby you’d enjoy. Do you want to eat before or after the concert?”

“I don’t mind an early dinner. That way I can just meet you at your place.” Cary had other ideas that didn’t involve eating food. “That’ll save you the trip to pick me up.”

“That sounds great. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

C
ARY arrived at Antonio’s apartment on Friday night, dressed in a pair of khakis and a wool blazer with a simple silk tie. It had been far more difficult than he imagined to find just the right thing to wear. Too expensive an outfit and Antonio might suspect that his story of being an out-of-work musician working as a waiter was a sham; too casual and he might embarrass the man. In the end, he had gone shopping in a vintage store not far from his apartment, where he had found the English wool blazer. It fit as though it had been made for him.

“
Buonasera
,” he said when Antonio answered the door. The look of pleasure on Antonio’s face told him his efforts had paid off.

“
Buonasera
, Connor. You clean up well.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I own some clothing of my own,” Cary quipped. “I can also bathe myself, although it isn’t as fun as when you helped me.”

The pink flush on Antonio’s cheeks was way too charming.

Dinner was at a tiny restaurant Cary would have completely missed if Antonio hadn’t opened the door for him and gestured him through it. They were met by a round-faced woman whose eyes lit up when she saw Antonio. “Signor Bianchi, I have missed you! It has been far too long.” She then proceeded to kiss him soundly on both cheeks.

They sat at a small table in the back corner of the restaurant. Cary guessed by the set of stairs they descended and the ancient bricks lining the walls that this had once been a cellar for a store. The tables were set with candles, the walls were hung with paintings of the city, and the music was classical: baroque, understated. A hint of garlic hung temptingly in the air, and the meal was one of the best Cary had eaten in Milan, except perhaps for a dinner at home of Roberta’s paella, a recipe that had been handed down to her by her Spanish grandmother. It was also dirt cheap. Antonio had obviously taken pains to make sure that Cary didn’t have to spend a lot of money.

Throughout the meal, he and Antonio talked comfortably. The bottle of red wine they had nearly finished between them put Cary at ease, and he found himself focusing through slightly hooded eyes on the top button of Antonio’s white cotton shirt. A hint of downy hair peered out above the button, the same dusty blond of the curls that had a habit of falling onto Antonio’s forehead when he spoke animatedly.

“So,” Antonio said as they ate Signora Tuzzi’s cannoli (Antonio said it was Massimo’s favorite, and after tasting it, Cary could understand why), “what kind of music do you like?”

“Any, really. Jazz, classical. I’m not a big country music fan, except maybe the classic stuff. I love rock too.”

“What is it you like about rock?” Antonio asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What does it make you feel?”

Cary paused to think about the answer. It was an interesting question, and one he had never really considered. “I don’t know… free, I guess. And a little dangerous.”

Antonio chuckled. “I think you’re usually dangerous. But I understand what you’re saying. It’s the same for me when I listen to classical music.”

“The dangerous part?” Cary said as he chewed on his lower lip.

“It makes me feel something. I forget about the little things that get to me, and I just
feel
.”

Cary stared down at his empty glass, the warmth of the conversation fading as he had a momentary vision of himself, the first time he had performed. He had been four or five years old. He’d felt something then: excitement, to be sharing the music which had up until that moment been only his. Love, even? How long had it been since he felt anything even approaching that?

“Are you all right?”

“I could use some more wine,” Cary said with a tilt of his head.

“Of course.” Antonio poured Cary the last of the bottle, and their eyes met.

Cary shivered, suddenly cold in spite of the warm restaurant and his wool jacket. What was it about those blue eyes that made him feel as though they could pierce his skin and see inside of him? It was as if Antonio
knew
….

Cary shrugged off the thought and gulped his wine.

“Good?” Signora Tuzzi asked with an expression of eager anticipation.

Thank God
, Cary thought, relieved at the interruption. “
Perfetto
!” he said aloud. “The best I’ve ever had.”

The woman left, and Antonio reached across the table and laid his hand on Cary’s. It was an unexpected gesture that took Cary by surprise.

“I remember the first time my papà took me to La Scala,” Antonio said. His expression was pensive. “He loved opera. We saw
La Traviata
. It was so beautiful, I remember wanting to run up on stage and join the singers. But I never could sing.”