Venetian Masks (11 page)

“I need…,” Cleve panted after another kiss.

“Skin,” Jeff agreed. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming.

After a moment’s reluctance to move their hands, they fumbled at each other’s jeans. Jeff’s fingers hadn’t felt so clumsy since the family trip to Tahoe during his childhood, when he’d attempted a snowball fight without gloves. Cleve must’ve felt the same way, because he swore under his breath: “Fucking buttons.”

Eventually, they managed to get their flies open and their pants and underwear shoved slightly down their thighs. Then they paused to admire each other’s cocks. Cleve’s wasn’t especially long, but it had an impressive girth. He was cut, the crown was a dusky red, and he had a neat patch of very dark curls that had probably been manscaped.

Jeff felt suddenly self-conscious. Not that he had anything to be embarrassed about, but it had been a long time since anyone had paid much attention to his dick. His embarrassment fled, however, when Cleve moved their hips together and wrapped his hand around both their lengths at once.

“Oh, fuck,” said Cleve. “’S good.”

Jeff made a sort of groan in agreement.

Cleve leaned his forehead against Jeff’s shoulder and began to rock his hips and stroke their shafts. Jeff couldn’t do much except lean back against the door for support and grab Cleve’s hips. Jeff’s extra couple inches of height allowed him to look over Cleve’s shoulder and finally see his bare ass, and it was that visual as much as the sensation of them rubbing together that made him moan. Well, that and the sexy little grunting sounds Cleve was making, and the smell of them together, which was wine and musk.

He had to close his eyes because the sensations were suddenly almost too much. He lost track of time, forgot everything except what mattered at that very moment, which was Cleve against him, moving rhythmically.

“Fuck,” Cleve gasped. And as soon as Jeff felt the hot slickness of semen on his cock, he came too, gripping frantically at Cleve’s hips in an impossible effort to bring them just a little closer.

Cleve let his hand drop from their softening cocks and he sagged heavily against Jeff’s body, breathing loudly. Jeff kept his palms at the top of Cleve’s hipbones, only now noticing how nice the swell of Cleve’s ass felt against his fingertips. Then with a sigh, Cleve nuzzled his neck, licked quickly along his jawline, and moved back a few inches. Cleve chuckled and wiped his sticky hand on Jeff’s shirt.

“Hey,” Jeff protested without much heat.

“I’m the one who’s gotta walk home.”

“You could—”

“Nah,” Cleve interrupted, not meeting Jeff’s eyes. “Gotta go.”

Jeff nodded and they both refastened their jeans. Cleve was still going to appear debauched if anyone took a good look at him. His lips were a little kiss swollen, and his face had the slightly dreamy cast of a man who’d just had a really good orgasm. Jeff supposed that if he looked in a mirror, he’d see the same expression.

Apparently satisfied that he was presentable enough for Venice streets at night, Cleve smiled. “Eleven tomorrow?”

Jeff gave a blissed-out smile and a mute nod, and the door clicked closed.

Chapter 7

T
HE
dials on the washing machine were arcane, and Jeff ended up having to consult the instruction binder again. He eventually got the machine chugging away in what he hoped was a productive way and spent some time padding around his apartment wearing only a towel around his hips and another on his shoulders to keep away the chill. He wasn’t really hungry, but he finished off the strawberries he’d bought that morning, as well as the remains of the sweet bread. Just that afternoon Cleve had explained to him that the bread was a local specialty at Easter time, and that besides small rounds, it could also be purchased in the shape of a dove or a cross. Jeff didn’t really care about the religious symbolism—he just thought it was really tasty. He washed everything down with the beer he’d bought at Billa. The beer was only mediocre.

Despite the late hour, his laundry was still churning and so was his brain. This thing with Cleve—it was crazy. Not the daytime tourism, because that was actually a lot of fun, and he was certainly enjoying his trip much more than he’d expected. If that was all there was to it, he knew that someday he’d look back on his vacation fondly, the memories brightly tinted.

But that wasn’t all there was to it. He couldn’t figure out Cleve’s angle. What was the guy trying to get from him? What was real and what was an act, or a mask? Sometimes Jeff caught a particular look on the other man’s face, and for a split second he could almost find some sincerity there, could almost believe that Cleve wanted him. Only for a split second.

And Jeff knew he was foolish to think he could discern this near-stranger’s motives when his own thoughts were murky. Jeff was
attracted
to Cleve, that was certain. Who wouldn’t be? When they were out around town, women stared openly and admiringly at Cleve, and so did some men. Yet Jeff had been attracted to men before and it hadn’t felt like this. Not even with Kyle. His relationship with Kyle had fallen into place easily, comfortably. Like buying a Honda Civic: everything was just what you expected, and you could drive it without any surprises. Well, except a Civic would have proved more reliable in the long run than Kyle had.

This… thing he had going with Cleve—in no way a relationship, he reminded himself—was a Ferrari. New and thrilling and not like anything you’d had before. And also infinitely more likely to end up with an expensive crash and burn.

Probably car analogies should only be taken so far, and they were an especially bad choice for Jeff.

The washing machine came to a shuddering halt and beeped demandingly. Jeff unfolded the drying rack—a bit like giant origami in reverse—and laid out his clothing. Then he washed up and took his pills and went to bed.

E
VERYTHING
was more distinct than reality, every color bright, every edge sharp, but he knew it was a dream. That was one of the small advancements he’d made with therapy and medication: sometimes when the nightmares arrived, he realized they were nightmares. That realization didn’t make the dream images any less horrible, but at least his terror was dimmed a little.

This dream was a little unusual at the start: He was walking in an enormous shopping mall, one so huge that the brightly lit rows of stores stretched endlessly to his left and right, while another wing extended infinitely in front of him. He looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, a fourth hall was behind him. Some of the stores sold the usual mall stuff: shoes, jewelry, clothing, cosmetics. But others carried decidedly exotic stock. The one with the blue sign reading Lawyers R Us, for example, had aisles of blandly handsome men in suits and briefcases, each with a price tag on his lapel. There was a customer in that store, and although Jeff couldn’t see the guy’s face, he knew from the back it was Kyle. Oddly, however, Jeff didn’t feel jealous or upset. In fact, he was a little contemptuous. “Buying one off the rack,” he heard himself sneer.

Jeff chose the corridor to his right and walked for a hundred yards or so until he came to a shop with a sign in an alphabet he couldn’t read. This store had no display windows in front, just blank walls that looked like medieval stone, and an arched door. He pushed the door open and found himself not in Venice, as he’d somehow expected, but in the middle of flat farmland. He was suddenly walking along a hot and dusty road, where sun-made mirages shimmered on the blacktop ahead of him. There were fields to his right and, to his left, a dirt embankment. He couldn’t see the canal on the other side of the little hillock, but he knew it was there. He could even smell the slightly metallic water.

Two boys appeared ahead of him and slightly to the left. They were in their late teens and almost identical, although one was a little taller and a little heavier. They looked apprehensive as Jeff approached. And well they might, because when he came up abreast of them, he put a hand on each boy’s chest and pushed hard. The boys went stumbling backward, over the lip of the levee, and landed with twin splashes in the canal.

Jeff stood there, staring at his palms, until he heard a sound behind him. He spun around to find Cleve watching him. Cleve was naked, but ink covered nearly every inch of his skin. When Jeff squinted, he saw that the tattoos were a cartoonlike rendering of the scene that had just played out: a tall blond man shoving two boys into the water.

“Not what I expected,” Cleve said, and before Jeff could figure out if the other man was angry or pleased, he woke up.

T
HE
laundry was still damp. That was okay; Jeff had enough clothing to get him through the day. He really did wish for a dryer, though, especially when a peek through his shutters into the
campo
showed him a gray day with the kind of chill drizzle that made passersby hunch their shoulders under their coats and keep their heads bowed.

The rain quite literally dampened his enthusiasm about taking his morning walk. He rummaged around in the little kitchen and discovered a half dozen tea bags in one of the cupboards. He didn’t often drink the stuff, but he didn’t have any coffee handy and wanted both the heat and the caffeine. As he sipped his tea and nibbled on the meat and cheese he’d bought the other day, he booted up his computer. There was a cheery e-mail from his mother, which he answered with a slightly ornate version of “Having fun, wish you were here.” His father had sent him a message too, an unnecessary and intricate description of the Giants’ chances of winning the playoffs that year. Jeff replied, saying he’d be happy to attend a game with his dad that summer. Even though he’d actually have preferred a trip to the dentist. Jeff’s boss had another crisis that was fixed with three concise lines of instructions. And Kyle had sent an e-mail as well.

When Jeff saw that, his finger hovered over the keyboard as he considered just deleting the damn thing. But then curiosity got the better of him. What did Kyle want? If he was hoping for his Crock-Pot back, he was going to be disappointed.

Finally, Jeff growled a little—at himself or Kyle, he wasn’t sure—and opened the message.

Jeff,

You’re maybe in Italy now. I hope you went and if you did, I hope you’re having fun.

Ben and I have been going to couple’s counseling. There’s nothing wrong or anything. He just wanted to make sure things go well. He’s like that. Anyway, the counselor thinks maybe I have some unsettled issues with you that need addressing. Closure, I guess. So I wanted to let you know that I really am sorry about how things worked out with us. For a long time I’d hoped for better. But I know it’s for the best for both of us, and I hope someday you’ll see that too.

Take care of yourself,

Kyle

“Closure my ass,” Jeff said to the computer. “Condescending, selfish ass hat.” He shut down the laptop, went in search of his Kindle, and—for the better part of an hour—lost himself in the budding romance of a cowboy and ranch hand.

At ten thirty, he left the apartment. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it hadn’t grown any worse either. It was a cold, steady drizzle that worked its way under his jacket collar and up the cuffs of his jeans, and looked as if it intended to stay all day. Venice looked like a watercolor painting, every surface gray and wet and a little blurry. Pretty enough to look at, but not so nice for walking. He hoped that Cleve had indoor activities planned—assuming Cleve showed up at all. Maybe he was overcome with regret over the previous night. Maybe he’d fled the city in horror.

There weren’t many cash machines in Venice; Jeff had to walk awhile to get to one. He withdrew a few hundred euros and tucked them into his wallet. He’d given up on the Rick Steves money belt the first day. The belt might be more secure, but it was a pain in the butt to use and made him feel like a dork every time he had to fish out some cash. He decided to keep a wary eye out for pickpockets instead. Anyway, if his wallet did get lifted, it wouldn’t be a complete disaster. He kept a backup credit card in the time-share, along with his passport.

Feet splashing as he traversed the cobbles, he made his way back to the
campo
where he was to meet Cleve. It was already a few minutes past eleven, and his stomach clenched when he didn’t see anyone familiar. But then a door to a nearby shop opened and Cleve exited, broad smile on his face and plastic shopping bag in his hand. “Got you a souvenir, man,” he said, handing the bag to Jeff. Jeff began to open it, but then Cleve grabbed it back. “Uh-uh. Later.”

“But what is it?”

“You really don’t understand the concept of a surprise, do you?”

“I could be surprised right now,” Jeff suggested.