Dissonance (16 page)

“You like jazz?” Galen asked.

Cam nodded. “I discovered it at university. Classic jazz, mostly. Ella, Coltrane, Ellington. My dad loved it too. I found his old record collection. Used to sit for hours and listen.”

“You been to any of the clubs in the city?”

“Sure.” Cam smiled, remembering how he and Riley had spent weekends hopping from one club to the next. The last time he’d been to a club, he’d gone with Aiden to hear Alex and David perform from their album,
The Lake
.

“When I first moved to Jersey, I’d go into the city almost every weekend to hear music,” Galen said.

“Now you play instead?”

Galen nodded. “I like hearing music. But I love playing it more.”

“You’re very good.” Cam remembered the Rachmaninoff Galen played the first time they’d met. Or almost met. “Have you thought about getting a group together and getting some work?”

“Thanks.” Galen’s expression grew wistful. “I prefer doing my own thing. On my own time. No pressure. Just me and the music.”

“In the subway?” Cam didn’t understand why someone with such obvious talent would be content to play in a noisy train station. Galen was a bit of an enigma.

“Yeah. I like it there. Watching the people. Playing what I want. It makes me happy, playing there.” Galen stood and smiled down at Cam. “So how about some dinner?” he asked. Cam wondered why he’d changed the subject.

“Sure. Need any help?”

“You can set the table, if you’d like.” Galen clapped his hands, and Max hopped off the couch and trotted after him to the kitchen. Cam followed a moment later.

C
AM
RAN
along the path, through the rose garden, and back toward the main house. He grinned and began to sing. Miss Marquette had told him he’d played well! He wished his mother could have come to the recital, but when she got back from London, he’d tell her how well he’d played and she’d be proud of him.

“Your father was an excellent pianist,” she always told him. “He worked very hard as a boy to play that well.”

He wished his father could hear how well he’d played. Maybe wherever he was—if he was in heaven like they’d told him—he
had
heard. Maybe he’d be good enough to play with an orchestra someday. His mother had taken him to hear Van Cliburn play a few months before, and he’d imagined that was him on stage with the orchestra. He’d felt the music in his fingers and toes as he’d watched.

Maybe he’d grow up to be like David Somers, who played piano but was studying to be a conductor at university in the States. Wouldn’t it be lovely to tell the orchestra how to play the music? David seemed to enjoy it
—
at least that was what David said when he’d come to his mother’s birthday party. He would be just like David, waving his arms around like a puppeteer pulling the strings to make his puppets move.

“Your mother called,” Randall said as Cam skipped into the kitchen for a snack. “She won’t be back until tomorrow. Your uncle’s in the study. He’s staying overnight. You’ll have dinner together.”

He’d tell Uncle Duncan. Duncan would be proud of him. Maybe he’d even let Cam play a bit of the piece for him. Cam took a few biscuits from a tray, then skipped on through the house until he came to the study at the far side of the eastern wing.

Outside, the sun had just begun to set over the gardens. It would be cold tonight. Another month and it would probably snow. He loved to play in the snow. Loved it when he came back inside and warmed up by the big fireplace in the study and Cook brought him some hot cocoa.

“Uncle!” he shouted happily as he opened the study door. “Miss Marquette says I have talent. She says I might make a fine musician.”

Duncan smiled as Cam launched himself into his arms. “My good boy,” he said as he stroked Cam’s head. “My beautiful, talented boy.”

Cam laid his head on his uncle’s chest and closed his eyes as Duncan petted his hair, then his cheek.

“Do you think I could be a pianist?” he asked.

Duncan kissed his head. “You have many gifts,” Duncan said as he rubbed Cam’s back. “Such a gifted boy.”

Cam looked up at his uncle, who smiled down at him.

“You please me, Cameron. You make me very happy.”

Cam bit his lower lip as his uncle’s hand drew circles on his back, then settled low on one of his hips. He liked making his uncle happy. He felt loved.

Lower still, Duncan grasped his buttocks and squeezed. Cam didn’t like this part, but he liked that he made Duncan happy. Duncan loved him. Duncan cared about him.

“My lovely, lovely boy,” Duncan said as he nuzzled Cam’s neck. “
My
boy. Be my good boy for me. Show me how much you love me.”

He liked it when Duncan talked to him like that. But sometimes Duncan called him other things—things that made him feel strange. Bad. He didn’t want to feel bad. He wanted Duncan to be happy. He wanted Duncan to love him….

C
AM
SAT
up in bed, wide-awake and struggling to breathe.
No. It was just a dream. Just a—

He stood, took a step, then grabbed onto the headboard to steady himself. Dreams felt like dreams. This felt… different. He remembered the concert. He remembered how he’d felt when his teacher had praised him—he’d felt like flying. He remembered walking back to the house and how excited he’d been. Why couldn’t he remember more?

No. It can’t be. He’d never have….
And yet Duncan had abandoned him in the face of the criminal charges, hadn’t he?
He’s busy. He’ll call me back.

But he hadn’t called back. He hadn’t. Why hadn’t he?
Because he’s the one who set you up.

“Show me how much you love me.”

He let go of the headboard and dropped to his knees as the memories came flooding back, along with the shame and disgust.
Duncan whispering to him, his voice husky with arousal. Duncan touching him.
He
knew what Duncan wanted. Knew if he didn’t fight it, Duncan wouldn’t hurt him, and it might even feel good
.

“
That’s m
y bad little boy. See how you like it. Look what happens when I touch
you
like this. Look at how you want me to touch it. Look how hard it gets.”

Oh, God!
Had he wanted it? Had it turned him on?

He barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited. He coughed and dragged himself over to the sink to rinse his mouth clean. The bitter taste lingered even after.

Duncan? God, no.
It wasn’t possible.
Duncan would never….
But even as he thought this, more memories surfaced. Not bubbling up this time, but washing over him in a torrent. The boathouse. The study. His bedroom. Duncan’s room. He’d woken up in Duncan’s bed only to run back to his own and hope his mother wouldn’t notice.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? Because if you tell them, they’ll know you’re filthy and they’ll send you away. I’m the only one who can protect you from yourself, Cameron. The only one who understands what you need.”

But a few years later, Duncan hadn’t wanted him anymore. Duncan didn’t love him anymore. And Cam had thought—no, he’d
known
—it was because his body was changing. He was dirty now. Not the boy Duncan loved. Not deserving. No longer special. And now Duncan was trying to get rid of him for good. Lock him away.

Cam leaned against the bath, barely able to catch his breath. His hand—the hand that held the bottle of Benadryl—shook. He vaguely remembered opening the medicine cabinet.
Just do it. Get it done with.
No more nightmares. No more bullshit. No more lies. No more Duncan. No more pain.
No more Cam
.

What had Galen said?
“I take a few of those and I sleep like the dead.”
If he took the whole bottle, would he just disappear?

Tears rolled down his cheeks. How long had he been crying, for fuck’s sake? He’d woken up from the dream crying. Had that been an hour ago? He considered getting some toilet paper to wipe his nose, but the thought that he might even care if his face was covered in snot when he was about to do this nearly made him laugh.

Shame imbued every fiber of his being, and he shivered again at the memory. How his body had responded. He should have known it was wrong. Why hadn’t he said no?
I let him touch me
. Like the boys in school, behind the storage shed. He’d let them touch him then. He’d sucked them off when he hadn’t wanted it.

You didn’t tell them no. You didn’t scream.
Had he wanted it?

“Filthy boy,”
Duncan said as he showed Cam his hand, sticky with semen.
“You like it, don’t you?”

The contents of his stomach—what was left of the dinner Galen had made them that Cam hadn’t already vomited—came up without much fanfare. Disgusting.
He
was disgusting.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then poured a handful of pills out of the bottle. How many would it take?

He turned the bottle around to read the label: 120 pills. Little pink pills. A few swallows and he’d forget everything. He poured the rest into his hand and set the bottle down. Better too many than too few. He turned on the tap and picked up the plastic cup Galen had put there for him, then filled it to the brim with water. One, maybe two swallows and he’d just fall asleep. Easy.

“Cam?”

Startled, Cam dropped all the pills into the sink and the water splashed onto them. Again, that strong hand on his shoulder. Cam pushed Galen’s hand off as he spun around. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, walking in on me?” he shouted.

“You sounded like you were sick, so I came to check on you.” Galen looked as startled as Cam. He’d clearly figured it out, though. Was the man a fucking mind reader?

“I’m fine,” Cam said, knowing the lie was obvious but not giving a shit.

Galen pressed his lips together, eyes wide. “No.” He’d always backed down when Cam had bullshitted him before. Not this time. “You’re not fine.” He walked over to the sink and looked down at the pink gooey mess the pills had become. “You were going to swallow these, weren’t you?”

Cam laughed, but it sounded tight and high. Nervous. He didn’t know why he was nervous. This was his business, not Galen’s. “They spilled,” he lied again. Galen kept his gaze fixed on him, making him more nervous still.

Galen’s expression flickered with something like anger as he scooped what was left of the pills into his hands and unceremoniously dumped them in the toilet. The sound of the flush made the entire thing seem surreal. Galen returned to the sink and washed his hands, then rinsed the remaining mess down the drain. Through it all, Galen said nothing.

“I’m going back to bed,” Cam said. The last thing he wanted was to talk about what he’d just done. Almost done. How pathetic! He couldn’t even kill himself without fucking things up.

“No. Not this time.” Galen’s voice was firm. He planted himself between the sink and the door so Cam couldn’t get past him.

“Let me out. I just want to go to sleep.” What the hell was the man’s problem?

“Not until you admit what you were trying to do.” Cam saw no anger on Galen’s face, only calm determination. He’d never seen Galen look determined. He’d begun to wonder if the man cared about anything.

“I told you. I spilled the pills.” He’d always been a shit liar.

“Stop it, Cam.”

“Fuck you.” Cam tried to push past Galen. He’d had enough of this. At that moment, he didn’t give a shit whether Galen kicked him out on his arse. He wasn’t going to stay here and listen to the fucking lecture he knew would come next. He could just hear it.

“You need help. You need to talk to someone.”

“Get out of my bloody way.” Cam pushed on Galen’s shoulder, but Galen didn’t budge. He was far stronger than he looked.

“Not until you admit you were trying to kill yourself.”

The words hit Cam like a slap in the face. He let go of Galen and stepped back until the small of his back made contact with the sink. The porcelain felt cold through the thin T-shirt he wore. “I wasn’t try—”

“The first time, I might have believed it.”

Galen sounded so bloody calm, Cam wanted to punch him. “What are you talking about?” he snapped.

“That night in the subway. At the edge of the platform. You almost stepped off the edge.”

“I didn’t—”

“Stop bullshitting, Cam. We both know you thought about how easy it would be just to step off that platform. How everything would just go away if you did.” Galen didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even frown at him.
Fucking smug.

“It’s none of your bloody fucking business. None of this is. Now move.”