The Stars That Tremble (8 page)

“Nah. Just fools around on the dance floor. He works through his stress that way.” Sandy shrugged.

Gio watched another guy come up to Mike and whisper something in his ear. They got right to the dancing, moving around each other, everything easy movements. Gio wasn’t jealous so much as incredibly turned on.

James came back, carefully balancing everyone’s drinks in his hands.

“So… Gio. Is that short for something?” James asked as he handed a glass over.

“Giovanni.”

“And you teach voice lessons… wait. You’re Giovanni Boca. I saw you in
La Traviata
at the Met seven or eight years ago. You were incredible.”

“Thanks,” said Gio, his gaze still glued to Mike. “You remember it was me?”

“Oh, yeah. I had orchestra seats. I remember how hot I found the male lead.” James laughed. “No offense, man. Not to be creepy, but I immediately went out and bought that recording of you singing the same part. A French opera company, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes.” Gio remembered that recording.

James dipped his head bashfully. “So, yeah, I remember it was you. I heard what happened to your voice. What a terrible shame.”

Gio normally found these conversations unpleasant, but he was so focused on Mike he barely heard it. “Um. Excuse me.”

He went to Mike. If Mike had steam to blow off, if he had something to work through, Gio suddenly wanted Mike to do that on his body, not with strangers. Mike smiled when he saw Gio approach and gestured toward himself.

The music was too loud to speak over, so Gio let his body do the talking. He put his hands on Mike’s waist, which was hard and muscular. Mike put his hands on Gio’s shoulders and tugged him a little closer.
Dio
, but Mike was so sexy, all that gorgeous skin showing, a confident grin on his face, his very movements on the dance floor like sex. Gio slid his hands a little lower to feel Mike’s moving hips, and then he reached around to cup Mike’s firm ass, and—
Santa Maria
—Gio wanted to get Mike naked as soon as possible. For now, he had to settle for dancing.

Mike moved his hands down and pressed them into the small of Gio’s back, pulling him closer. Gio was not an especially talented dancer, but he held his own as Mike led. The moves were mostly writhing anyway. Gio tried to copy Mike’s movements, tried to undulate his body. Mike threw his head back, so Gio swooped in and licked Mike’s Adam’s apple. Mike lifted his hands and plunged his fingers into Gio’s hair, and that felt amazing. Dancing with Mike, being surrounded by him, that was amazing too. Gio wanted more of that, wanted to get even closer. He moved, getting up on his toes, and he kissed Mike.

Mike’s lips vibrated with what must have been a groan, because he held Gio’s head in place and plundered his mouth. Gio opened up for Mike, slipped his tongue into Mike’s mouth, tasted him, learned his flavor and scent. They kissed like no one was watching, like their lives depended on it, like they could have just devoured each other right there in a room full of people. It was one of the hottest kisses Gio had ever experienced. It was thrilling, and Gio’s heart raced and his blood rushed, and everything about this was exciting and erotic. Mike pressed back into him, pressed his erection into Gio’s hip, clutched Gio as if he were holding on for dear life. So Gio did all those things back and went one further, digging his fingers into Mike’s sides, scraping his teeth against Mike’s lip, and trying to keep the movement of the dance going.

The song changed into something a little mellower. Mike pulled back and smiled. He took Gio’s hand and led him back toward his friends. Before they were in earshot of James and Sandy, Gio said, “You are the sexiest thing I have ever laid eyes on.”

Mike smiled and kissed him briefly. “So much for keeping our distance.”

Gio forced himself into small talk with James and Sandy but kept a hand on Mike at all times. It had been hot watching Mike dance with those other guys, but now Gio found he wanted to keep this treasure for himself. And if Mike moved in bed the way he moved on the dance floor….

Mike laughed suddenly.

“What?” Gio asked.

Mike leaned over and whispered, “You just made the weirdest face. You’re thinking about us together, aren’t you? I am too.” He bit Gio’s earlobe before he pulled away.

How on earth was Gio supposed to think about small talk now?

But Gio managed to talk about opera with James, a museum exhibit everyone had seen with Sandy, and he griped about that afternoon’s long meeting with Mike, and the whole time he was practically vibrating out of his skin with the need to get Mike alone somewhere and fuck him until the world ended. Because he wanted to fuck Mike like he wanted to take his next breath, a need that made his skin sing arias; he wanted to be inside this man, to watch him fall to pieces, to make him come.

He danced with Mike again, which didn’t do a goddamn thing to sate his need, but it was a joy just the same to get his hands all over the man, to press their bodies together, to move in time with the thrum of the music. Dancing with Mike felt like singing in a way nothing had since Gio had lost his voice.

W
HO
knew that simply giving in to one’s desire to run one’s hands through another man’s hair could bring such breathless joy? Mike did it again and again, learning the contours of Gio’s skull and the soft silkiness of Gio’s gorgeous hair. He managed to move his hips and his legs so that he was doing some semblance of dancing as he dipped his head to kiss Gio again, because there was nothing better on earth than kissing Gio. The man was a live wire tonight too, writhing against Mike, touching him constantly, practically vibrating with need. All of that for him, Mike thought. He loved every minute of it.

Fuck waiting. When yet another song ended and Mike realized that ache in his thighs was his body telling him he was thirty-seven and not twenty-seven, he escorted Gio off the dance floor again and over to where Sandy and James were having some sort of contest to see who could shove his tongue farther down the other’s throat.

“Sandy!” Mike shouted.

Sandy turned but tilted his head toward James and gestured with his free hand. It was the “can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” look.

“I’m out,” Mike said. He took Gio’s hand so Gio would know there was no way their night was over yet.

Sandy waved and went back to kissing James.

Out on the sidewalk, Mike let go of Gio’s hand and gestured toward the corner of the street. Gio followed. Mike swallowed a couple of times, hoping the ringing in his ears would go away. He said, “Emma’s spending the night at a friend’s, so I don’t have to be home at any particular time.”

Gio’s eyes widened. “That’s… I live on West Sixty-eighth.”

That was a lot closer than Mike’s place across town. “Lead the way.”

It was a nice night, warm but breezy, the night air refreshing and cool against Mike’s sweaty skin. Hell’s Kitchen was buzzing. They nearly collided with a gaggle of twinky boys coming out of one bar and then immediately turning into another. They walked past one of Mike’s favorite neighborhood bars, which was so crowded there was a line to get in. Gay and straight couples walked hand in hand up and down Ninth Avenue. So Mike took Gio’s hand. He really liked the way their palms pressed together; he liked the softness of Gio’s skin. Gio turned and smiled at him.

Mike wondered if they’d get a cab, but Gio led him across the street, so perhaps not. He didn’t mind because the weather was so nice. Once they got above Fifty-fourth Street, the crowds thinned a little, which made walking easier.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Gio said, “You’ve got music in you after all.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t sing. I always thought… for me, singing was like letting the music out. It was always in me, like a butterfly flapping its wings in my chest, and singing was how I released it. You have something of that within you too. I can see it. You don’t sing, but you
dance
. That’s how you let your music out.”

Heat flooded Mike’s face. “Oh, it isn’t all that. It’s just something I do to stay sane.”

“Exactly. Otherwise, the music gets pent up inside you. You need an outlet to express it. Some of us sing or take up an instrument. You show the music in you with your body.”

The awe in Gio’s voice surprised Mike. He didn’t think it was such a big deal. “It’s nothing, really. I just… like it.”

“It’s beautiful.
You’re
beautiful. And so sexy. I had no idea until tonight. I mean, I knew you were sexy, because that’s obvious, but tonight you showed me something else entirely.”

Mike had never been good at taking compliments, but that gave him a heady rush. He squeezed Gio’s hand. He wanted to return the sentiment—he had loved dancing with Gio, had been so totally turned on when Gio had pressed against him on the dance floor, had found Gio’s movements poetic and sexy in their own way. But he couldn’t come up with a way to say that without it sounding totally cheeseball. “I…,” he tried but stopped speaking, unsure of how to say what he wanted to say. “You’re wonderful, Gio.”

Gio chuckled softly.

As they approached Lincoln Center, Mike heard music. It was a little late for there to still be a performance—it was well past eleven, when the opera usually let out—but soon he saw that there was a busker sitting in front of the fountain, playing a cello.

Gio tugged Mike toward the cellist. He stopped and swayed for a moment. “That’s lovely,” Gio said.

Mike had no idea what the guy was playing, but it was nice to listen to and obviously took some skill.

Gio said, “That’s a Bach concerto. Even if I weren’t familiar with it, I’d know a Bach piece anywhere. No one ever wrote music like that, before or since. The note patterns are so distinctive.” When the piece ended and the cellist dragged his bow across the strings one last time with a flourish, Gio applauded.

Mike thought to pull out his wallet and give the kid a dollar, but Gio beat him to it, walking toward the man and handing a bill to him directly instead of just tossing it into the open cello case. The way the guy’s eyes widened indicated to Mike that Gio had given him more than just a dollar.

“Play us something romantic,” Gio told the cellist.

The guy appeared to think for a moment, and then he nodded and placed bow to string. Mike didn’t recognize this piece, either, but Gio definitely did, letting out a gleeful little noise, kind of a squeak in his throat. He grabbed Mike and pulled him into his arms, and soon Mike found himself slow dancing with Gio to some achingly beautiful piece of music. The lights from Lincoln Center shone on the sidewalk and reflected off the water in the fountain, creating an effect almost like candlelight, as if there were thousands of little flames surrounding them. Gio grasped Mike’s shoulders and led him in a dance that wasn’t quite what Mike was used to, but he figured out how to follow. It was a little odd; Mike knew he was a big guy, and as such, he was used to leading, but Gio’s hold on him was firm and confident.

“It’s from
La Bohème,
” Gio explained. “Beautiful and tragic. But this song is from early in the opera, when there is still hope. Oh, it is gorgeous. I have always loved Puccini.”

It was possibly the most romantic moment of Mike’s life. He had a handsome man in his arms, he was dancing to the music of a single cello, and it was just them at the Lincoln Center Plaza. Warmth spread through his chest, and he felt giddy and dizzy and so very happy, and then all those feelings seemed to get lodged in his throat. He wanted to tell Gio that this was amazing, but he found he couldn’t make words.

Then the song changed. Mike didn’t know this song either, but there was something hauntingly familiar about it. Gio knew this one of course, too, and he tightened his hands to fists, grabbing onto the fabric of Mike’s shirt. His body went tense suddenly. Mike moved, encouraging Gio to keep dancing, to forget about whatever was bothering him. Gio clutched at Mike and then pressed his face into Mike’s shoulder. There was an odd fluttering sensation against Mike’s collarbone, but then Gio picked his head up and Mike realized he was singing softly.

It was in a language Mike didn’t know—Italian, probably—but the look of anguish on Gio’s face went so deep it could not have been acting. Mike kept dancing, kept moving Gio in slow circles around the cellist, tried to encourage Gio to stay with him.

Then Gio whispered, “
Vincerò.
”

And Mike understood. This was “Nessun Dorma.” Emma had played him a recording of it at his request the evening after his lunch with Gio. She’d had a Pavarotti recording on her MP3 player. He recognized the song now, recognized its meaning to Gio.

The cello was rich and vibrant, ringing out in the night. Then it was silent.

Gio pulled away from Mike. Mike didn’t want to let him get away, and definitely not when his hold on things was so loose. He reached forward and wiped a tear from Gio’s cheek. Gio reached up and clutched at Mike’s forearm.

“I still miss it so much,” Gio said softly. “Every day, my soul aches because I can no longer do that. I can’t sing. I’ll never have that again. I’ll never be Calaf shouting into the night that I will win the princess.”

Mike reached for him and pulled him back into his arms. “But you’ve won me.”

Gio squeezed him tight. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”