Venetian Masks (5 page)

Jeff wondered if he’d even recognize the place right now. Leora was an interior decorator and an old friend of his mother’s. She was pretty successful, but her style was vastly different from his own. Not that he had a style, exactly. Apparently, his copy of the Homosexual Manual was missing the chapter on Fabulous Home Decorating.

His mother interrupted his thoughts. “How’s the time-share, honey?”

“Good. The building’s really old—everything here is really old—but the interior is modern.”

“And you’re eating all right?”

“No, Mom. They ran out of food right before I got here.”

She made the clicky irritated sound he knew so well, and then sighed. “Take care of yourself. Have
fun
! You’re much too serious, honey. It’s a waste.”

“Maybe I’m just a serious guy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not as long as you’re happy.”

They chatted a few minutes more about airplane food and in-flight movies, and then his mother handed the phone to Jeff’s father, who wanted to know about the weather in Venice and whether people spoke any English. Those matters settled, he devolved into a monologue about baseball. Jeff wasn’t a big baseball fan, but for his father’s sake, he always listened patiently. His brothers had loved the sport. Mike had even had a good shot at playing in the minor leagues once he finished college. But he’d never finished college.

Jeff finally said good-bye to his father and disconnected from Skype. It wasn’t very late, but his internal clock was still a little off and he was tired. He washed up, stripped, and climbed into bed, where he read one of his romance novels until his eyes grew heavy. Then he almost got up to take his pills, but paused. He’d done just fine without the meds the night before. Maybe travel was good for him. He decided to forgo the tablets and clicked off the light. The bed was a bit too firm for his taste, and he shifted around until he was comfortable.

He didn’t fall asleep right away. Almost before he realized it, his hand crept down his belly and under the waistband of his boxers.

During the last two years or so of his relationship with Kyle, Jeff had jerked off quite a lot. He’d always felt guilty about it, as if he were cheating on Kyle—which was ironic, given what Kyle eventually got up to. But they had both been putting in long hours at work and coming home tired, and their relationship had slipped from comfortable to… well, boring.

It wasn’t that Kyle wasn’t sexy, because he was. Jeff had been attracted to him the very first time they’d met, when Kyle was just a friend of a friend at someone’s noisy birthday party. Kyle was shorter than Jeff but more muscular, with very white teeth and dimples and shiny hair that was almost black. Jeff had been as thrilled as a teenage girl with a crush when Kyle had struck up a conversation with him, and it wasn’t long before they were making out in the darkness of their host’s backyard. Six months later, Kyle teamed up with Jeff’s mom to convince Jeff to buy a house of his own, and not too much later, Kyle moved in. They were happy together. They had fun. Jeff had quite possibly even been in love. But the passion faded and the sex grew predictable, and Jeff ended up furtively whacking off in the shower or when Kyle worked late. He very rarely resorted to porn, however, because that felt even more like infidelity.

The funny thing was that ever since they’d broken up, Jeff had paid barely any attention to his dick. Despite ample opportunity to spank the monkey—hell, he could lie down on the kitchen table three times a day and beat off guilt-free if he wanted to—he hadn’t, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was punishing himself, as if Kyle’s dumping him was somehow Jeff’s fault. Maybe he was trying to fool himself that he could give up the whole sex thing altogether, that it would make life easier.

Whatever his motives, tonight he let his hand wander, and his dick hardened almost at once, as if it had been waiting impatiently for him. He stroked a few times and considered getting up to fetch his laptop, maybe find some decent porn. But that seemed like too much effort, and he still felt vaguely naughty for perusing the stuff—and anyway, images were dancing behind his closed eyelids. Not images of porn stars or Kyle or the few other guys Jeff had hooked up with over the years. No, the man he pictured had red-brown hair and colorfully tattooed arms.

Maybe he had other tattoos as well. Jeff pictured himself slowly peeling off the man’s clothing, like peeling the wrapper off a bar of chocolate. He knew he’d find tight muscles and olive-colored skin, but what else? Smooth dark hair between peaked brown nipples, rippling abs, an enticing treasure trail leading to curls and a heavy cock. Maybe more ink as well, the designs bunching and stretching with the smooth skin. And if Jeff turned the man around? A solid, rounded ass, looking good enough to eat.

The man would be a talker, Jeff decided. He would murmur in Italian as Jeff explored his body, and then moan and gasp when Jeff sank into his tight heat. He would smell faintly of cologne, something subtle and a little citrusy, and faintly like olive oil, as if he were a feast. The bed would rattle and shake, and the man’s arms would be corded with the strain of his weight and Jeff’s, and they would both come at precisely the same time.

Jeff got out of his lonely bed and went to wash the stickiness from his hand and groin. He changed into clean underwear. And when he got back between the blankets, he imagined the man curled up next to him, sleepily muttering endearments.

T
HERE
was blood everywhere. Puddles of it, pools of it, enough to drown a man. It was as thick as syrup as Jeff fought to hurry through it, to reach the car that teetered on the edge of a cliff. But he was too slow and too weak. The car rolled over the edge, and all Jeff could do was stand and watch it fall into an endless chasm. Heads poked out of the windows—two almost identical faces looking up at him, mouths opened in screams.

H
E
WOKE
up as he often did, drenched in sweat, heart beating rapidly, breath rasping through his lungs. His throat felt raw, and he wondered whether he’d been yelling again. At least nobody was pounding at his apartment door, trying to find out if someone was being murdered.

Jeff climbed out of bed on slightly wobbly legs and shivered a little in the cold as he walked to the kitchen. The window showed only darkness, and he didn’t want the harshness of the overhead lights, but there was enough of a greenish glow from the microwave clock for him to find a glass and fill it from the tap. He drank the water in quick gulps. And then he just stood, clutching the edge of the counter hard enough to hurt his hands.

He should have known better than to think a change of continents would rid him of the nightmares.

Well, he’d learned his lesson. Tomorrow night he’d take his pills.

Chapter 4

H
E
COULDN
’
T
fall back to sleep after the nightmare; he rarely could. He was tired, though, and his eyes felt gritty. He hadn’t thought to buy any coffee at the Billa, but the apartment didn’t have a coffeemaker anyhow. He tried to read but couldn’t focus, so he ended up spending a couple of hours staring at his laptop screen, clicking absently from link to link. Oh, look. A Kardashian was pregnant.

He’d left the shutters open so he wouldn’t feel so claustrophobic, and when the morning rays finally brightened the living room window, he stood and stretched and decided to get on with his day. He gathered the trash into a plastic grocery bag and dropped it next to other bags against a wall outside. There were no garbage bins in Venice, and the instructions in the binder said you had to leave the stuff out between seven thirty and nine for collection. Unlike in Sacramento, you weren’t allowed to just drag it out to the curb the night before—not that there
was
a curb here—due to marauding seagulls or something.

He had to turn on the heater before his shower, but this time it was a cinch. He stood under the water for a long time, wishing he could wash away the weariness and tension that always haunted him after one of his dreams. Kyle used to massage his neck and shoulders sometimes. Jeff missed that. At least he had some nice soap he’d picked up at the store the day before. It made a thick lather and smelled of almond and lemon.

Clean, shaven, and dressed, he felt slightly human by the time he ventured out into the city. He wandered aimlessly for almost two hours and then stopped for an apple pastry and a really good double espresso. Of course the espresso was good, he reminded himself. He was in Italy. Feeling slightly brave, he decided to deviate from the previous day’s plan to visit specific sights. For now he’d just get to know the city. He walked awhile longer and was pleased that he was beginning to recognize small landmarks: the shop with the marzipan candies, the streetlight that looked like a dragon. He detoured by the fish market and was sorely tempted to buy something, but he wasn’t sure just what and whether he could communicate with the fishmongers. And then he’d have to figure out how to prepare it. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t inherited his mother’s lack of culinary skills.

A little after eleven o’clock, he crossed another big bridge—Ponte dell’Accademia. Hundreds of padlocks were affixed to the metal handrails, and the sight of them twisted Jeff’s heart a little. According to one of his guidebooks, the locks were placed there by sweethearts to symbolize their love. He and Kyle had planned to put one there, and Kyle had even gone out and bought one, a silvery Master Lock on which he’d written their initials in black Sharpie and had drawn a lopsided heart. He had left the lock at Jeff’s place, along with the Crock-Pot and other unwanted junk. Jeff had thrown it away.

There were a lot of art galleries on the far side of the bridge, and Jeff did a little window-shopping, wondering how filthy rich he’d have to be before he’d drop forty thousand euros on a piece that looked like a gigantic upside-down lightbulb. On the other hand, he did enter one shop and spend three euros on a hand-printed card with a stylized design of Venetian windows. He knew his mother would like it.

Speaking of filthy rich, Peggy Guggenheim had lived in a building that now housed an art museum named after her. She’d had a pretty impressive collection of modern art, but what Jeff liked most were the gardens, where wisteria hung in fragrant curtains and her dogs were memorialized right next to her grave. He also liked the big back terrace, which had a panoramic view of the Grand Canal, as well as an amusing statue of a nude guy who, by all appearances, was
really
happy to be riding a horse. Jeff sat on a bench, snickering to himself and wishing he were wealthy enough to put something like that in his yard. Not that he’d have a yard to put it in pretty soon, he remembered, and his mood sobered.

He had lunch at the museum, seated outdoors alongside the garden. A young French couple was there too, trying patiently to eat while their toddler of indeterminate gender whined and fidgeted. When the kid waddled over to Jeff’s table to stare up at him, he smiled slightly and waggled his fingers. He never knew how to act around children. This one just goggled until its parents called it away.

He was completely exhausted by the time he walked back to his section of the city, but the thought of locking himself away in his borrowed apartment seemed pathetic and depressing. He could have used a nap but was afraid he’d dream again, and it was too early to take his pills. So he found a café on a quiet
campo
in the shadow of a pinkish church, and he ordered a
stracciatella
gelato and another double espresso. He sat there for a long time, sipping at a glass of water and reading his Kindle.

Sometimes he glanced up for a few minutes to watch people walk by or to gaze at a gondolier making his way down the nearby narrow canal. It was during one of these brief breaks in his reading that he happened to look at a table to his right. He was startled to recognize the man who was just sitting down. It was the guy with the tattoos on his arms. This time he was alone, wearing tight jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a dark blazer. Jeff blushed as he remembered his fantasy from the night before, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Then the man turned his head slightly and caught Jeff staring, and Jeff’s face blazed with heat as he quickly ducked his head over his Kindle.

“Surfer dude or farm boy?”

Jeff jerked his head up so quickly his neck hurt. The hot guy was standing at Jeff’s table, smiling, one hand resting on the back of the opposite chair. “Wh-what?” Jeff stammered stupidly.

“With that long blond hair you’d be right in place on a longboard, but I don’t know. The freckles on your cheeks say hayloft and John Deere.”

“I’m in IT,” Jeff said, feeling like a complete idiot and inwardly cursing the complexion that made his embarrassment so obvious.

“Guess that makes you the It Guy,” said the other man in his American-accented English before pulling out the chair and slouching into it. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you? Expats should hang together.”