Dissonance (3 page)

The man crossed in front of him and walked toward the S train. A couple of kids ran down the tunnel, laughing and chasing each other. He wondered vaguely what it might be like to grow up in the city. He remembered the first time he’d come here as a kid and how overwhelming it had been. The kids ducked in and around people, nearly bumping into a couple of tourists with their heads buried in subway maps. Hands full of shopping bags, an elderly woman turned to avoid the kids. She must have overcompensated, because she fell onto the concrete and the contents of the bags spilled onto the ground.

People continued to pass by and ignore her. He was just about to set his trumpet aside and help when he saw the man—the one he’d been watching before—walk up to her and offer his hand. Galen had assumed the man would keep walking. Instead, he began to gather her items from the concrete floor. The woman blushed charmingly, and they spoke for a few minutes. At one point the man turned toward him as if noticing the music for the first time. Galen watched intently as they exchanged a few more words before the woman hurried off down the tunnel. The man waited until she disappeared from sight, looked over at Galen once more, paused as if considering something, then strode over.

Galen began to play the next piece.
“No one to walk with ’cause I’m happy by myself, ain’t misbehavin’, I’m saving my love for you….”
The man stopped directly in front of him, canted his head almost imperceptibly, and smiled in recognition of the song. Blue eyes. Galen had noticed them before but hadn’t seen them up close and personal. He could get lost in those eyes. Galen’s musical training had taught him always to acknowledge his audience when playing close to them, but he worried if he nodded at the man, his attraction would be painfully obvious. Instead he continued to play, focusing even more intently on the way the music echoed around the space. He changed his tone to match the bright acoustics.

The piece ended and Galen did something he’d never done before: he spoke to his audience of one. “I take requests,” he said, knowing he sounded like he was flirting. He was, wasn’t he?

The man appeared to consider the question before he asked with a charming English accent, “Do you play classical?”

A challenge.
One Galen would gladly accept. He nodded and began to play the Rachmaninoff
Vocalise
, a piece originally written as a song without words but transcribed for just about every instrument. Challenging to play, more so for the breath control required than for its technical fireworks. These days Galen had less time to practice, and he had to sneak a few added breaks in the inordinately long melodic line, but the effect still pleased him.

As the piece ended, Galen met the man’s gaze. He imagined he could see beyond the alluring blue of those eyes to the soul beneath. He saw understanding there, an acknowledgment of the beauty of the music and of its ephemeral nature. In that instant the din of the subway faded and the music continued to exist on the air for a fleeting moment beyond the playing. Mesmerized by the connection between himself and the stranger, Galen lost track of time.

The sound of a train returned with a roar, snapping Galen out of his brief meditation. Brakes screeched, people spoke, and a crackling, unintelligible announcement over the PA system drowned out the moment. The man with the blue eyes blinked as if he too had felt time stop. He glanced at his watch, dug his wallet from his pocket, and dropped a bill into the trumpet case. He’d made it halfway to the stairs leading to the Lexington Avenue train before Galen managed a soft “Thank you.”

Galen took a deep, calming breath and began to play again.
“Moon river, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style someday….”

C
AM
CLIMBED
the stairs of the Spring Street station. The wind had picked up, causing one of his curls to tumble onto his forehead. He sighed as he pushed the hair from his eyes and cursed his mother for her genes. They were too much alike, and not just in appearance. They were both wanderers. Always seeking excitement. Prone to infidelity. But whereas she seemed to revel in her freedom, he’d always sought partners. Not that he’d had any success in keeping them.

He thought of the trumpet player in the subway station. For a moment he’d felt something. He played well. Surprisingly well, really. Had it been more than that? Something beyond the music?

Of course it was more than that. He was attractive.
Cam laughed and shook his head to himself. What did it matter? There were plenty of men in New York, and the last thing he needed was a downtrodden fuck.

C
AM
ARRIVED
at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. The place was tiny and the tables so close to each other that Cam had to squeeze between several chairs to make his way to where David Somers and his partner, Alex Bishop, sat. Along the way, a woman at a nearby table stood as Cam was squeezing by, and Cam brushed against a waiter and nearly caused him to spill a tray of food.

“Beer,” Cam told their waiter after he’d greeted David and Alex. “Tiger or Halida.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “we don’t carry those. Would a Saigon be okay?”

“Fine.” Cam waived the waiter away and stifled his irritation. What self-respecting Vietnamese restaurant wouldn’t carry a decent selection of Vietnamese beer? In New York City, no less?

“So good to see you,” David said after the waiter had left. “And happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday, Cam,” Alex added brightly. “Glad you could join us.”

“Thank you.” Cam was pleased they had remembered.

They chitchatted about easy topics, catching up on David and Alex’s performing schedule
—
David had three more performances of
Don Giovanni
to conduct, and Alex would be performing the Berg Violin Concerto in Philadelphia over the weekend—and Cam’s plans for remaining in New York for a while longer as they ate. Comfortable conversation that had Cam relaxing for the first time that day
—
until, much to Cam’s chagrin, David brought up the topic of Aiden.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell him you were at the opening night performance.” David frowned and refilled his glass with more Perrier. “Aiden would have been pleased to know you were there.”

At Cam’s insistence, David had agreed not to tell Aiden that he’d flown in for and attended Aiden’s Metropolitan Opera debut. Cam had hoped to surprise Aiden, but when Aiden hadn’t turned up at the opening night party, he’d decided Aiden didn’t need to know he’d been there at all. He’d hoped his last conversation about it with David would be the last. Clearly that had been too optimistic. He stifled his irritation and took a long drink of his beer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cam saw Alex force a smile. No doubt
he
understood why Cam avoided Aiden, even if David didn’t. David probably understood Cam’s discomfort at seeing Aiden, but he doubted David would ever avoid an ex the way he did. David always seemed so sure of himself.

Cam motioned for the waiter to bring him another drink. “Far be it from me to rain on Aiden’s parade,” he said as he scooped a noodle from his bowl of pho and contemplated it thoughtfully. “I’m just pleased it was a success. It was good to hear him sing again. It’s been a while.” Total and utter bollocks.

Perhaps hoping to ease Cam’s discomfort, Alex reached into the leather jacket he’d hung on the back of his chair and pulled out a small package. “Happy birthday, Cam,” he said. “This is a little something from both of us.”

Cam took the package, unwrapped it, and opened the box to find a stunning sterling silver fountain pen. Antique, with raised scrollwork on the barrel and cap. Quite old. “Thank you both. It’s lovely.” Outrageously expensive, but David could afford it. It wasn’t the price tag that impressed Cam, though—David always seemed to take so much care when choosing gifts.

Cam had been nine years old when his father died and left him a small collection of pens. Over the years, he’d added more as he’d traveled. He hadn’t bought many recently. He’d spent the last bit of his inheritance on his New York penthouse, several classic cars housed at his family’s estate, and financing three stage productions that died slow and ugly deaths off off-Broadway. And although the monthly allowance from his trust fund covered his expenses comfortably, he had little left over for “frivolous” purchases such as pens.

David smiled. “Alex spotted it at our favorite antique market near the villa. We both thought of you.”

“It’s beautiful. Truly.” Cam lifted his half-empty glass in an effort to avoid David’s gaze. At least Alex hadn’t tried to hug him again. Cam had never been one for public displays of affection, even the strictly friends variety.

“You’re welcome.” Alex exchanged a quick glance with David, whose expression softened with obvious pleasure.

This sort of interchange always left Cam feeling uncomfortable. Alex and David were so obviously head over heels in love that Cam wondered if falling in love was bound to reduce even the most stalwart of men to sniveling fools. He hadn’t been like that with Aiden.

Of course not.

“So how long are you in New York?” Cam asked.

“I leave tomorrow,” Alex said. “David leaves next weekend. We’ll spend Sunday and Monday in Chicago, and then I’m off to Italy for a week.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Cam took a sip of water and leaned back in his chair.

David smiled. “The travel’s easy. As for being apart… we schedule time together when neither of us is working.”

At one time Cam had imagined he might travel with Aiden. Now, if anyone traveled with Aiden, it would be Sam. Cam pushed the thought from his mind. Of course he resented Sam. What sort of idiot wouldn’t? Still, he’d have preferred if David hadn’t brought Aiden up. It was easier not to think about things.

“I should be going,” Cam lied. “Thank you both for the beautiful pen. And thank you for lunch.”

“It was our pleasure,” David said as he shook Cam’s hand.

Alex embraced Cam warmly. Cam patted Alex’s back in a pathetic attempt to return the gesture, not wanting to offend him.

“We’d love to have you join us for Thanksgiving at the villa if you happen to find yourself in Italy in November,” David said.

“I’ll let you know.” Cam wouldn’t take David up on it. He’d never been one for holidays, especially holidays he hadn’t grown up with, and he knew Aiden often attended David’s celebrations. An evening watching Aiden and Sam gazing at each other the way David and Alex did would be pure torture.

He left David and Alex with a curt wave, and hurried off. In truth he had nowhere to go, although since he wasn’t too far from Barney’s New York, he figured he might stop and pick something up for his mother. A necessary evil should he run into her when he returned to London. Gifts went a long way toward placating her, and that, in turn, was usually effective at keeping her out of his hair if they had to share the estate.

C
AM
ARRIVED
at Riley Weston’s Park Avenue apartment a little after ten that night. After leaving David and Alex, he’d spent an hour and a half at the gym, then a blissful few hours getting a massage and a manicure at the apartment. He’d chosen his clothing with care: a new Calvin Klein ultra slim-fit suit in a warm shade of gray wool, with a gray shirt and gray tie to match. The suit had set him back a pretty penny, but as he’d checked himself out in the three-way mirror in his bedroom, he’d smiled with satisfaction. He’d slipped in the single diamond stud he liked to wear for special occasions, then worked his fingers through his loose curls until he was satisfied before he headed out to the impromptu birthday party Riley decided to throw him.

Riley greeted him at the door with kisses on both cheeks. Early thirties, with red hair that was just one shade past natural, she smiled at him with glossed lips that reflected the light of the modern chandelier in the front hallway. “Cameron. Happy birthday, old man!”