Dissonance (4 page)

He’d forgive her for that, although he guessed it pleased her that she wasn’t the only one over thirty anymore. He didn’t mind giving her the satisfaction. “You look lovely, Ri.” He gestured to her outfit, a fitted trouser suit that hugged her perfect body in all the right places. At her ears, wrists, fingers, and neck, she sparkled with diamonds. Hardly a surprise, since her father owned a national chain of jewelry stores. Not that those stores, most of them located in the shopping malls he guessed Riley would never deign to enter, would carry the quality of stones
she
wore.

They’d met nearly ten years ago at one of his mother’s lavish parties at the castle. He’d been home from university; she’d been traveling and bored with sightseeing in London.

“Do you think they’d notice if we disappeared?” she’d asked after they’d spent an hour walking the gardens and visiting the stables.

“Unlikely.” He smiled and pulled a set of keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of her face. “How about a little dancing?”

He’d shown her a London she hadn’t known existed, including a few clubs he normally wouldn’t be caught dead in but where he knew they’d be able to score some poppers along with their overpriced drinks. She’d been openmouthed when they walked into the first club and were greeted by a sea of men in bikinis and thongs. He ran a hand over a particularly sculpted arse and she giggled. “Beach party,” he said. “Nothing quite like a man with a tight arse in a tight—”

“You’re gay?” She stared at him in surprise.

He just laughed.

“If only straight men had this much fun,” she told him as she took his arm and pouted.

Later, he realized spending time with him was her way of getting back at her overprotective parents. He’d called her his little “fruit fly,” and she loved him for it. Years later, he still got in touch whenever he came to New York, and they sometimes traveled together when she was in Europe.

“Whiskey?” she asked as she led him into the living room, which was filled wall to wall with people. He’d seen most of them at her parties before, but there were also a few particularly good-looking men he knew she’d invited just for him. “I bought some Knappogue Castle for your birthday.”

“Of course.” He offered her a charming smile. Several minutes later, a triple shot of whiskey in his glass—it
was
his birthday, after all—he sized up the room and began to make small talk with some of the guests.

As he worked his way across the room toward the large glass doors that led out onto the patio, he glimpsed a very fine-looking man in a very fine-fitting pair of jeans gazing out at the Manhattan skyline. “Nice view,” he said as he joined the man a moment later.

The man turned and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Definitely,” he answered. He wasn’t looking out the window anymore.

Cam felt the familiar flutter in his chest at the knowledge that someone appreciated him, found him attractive and worthy of attention. He couldn’t remember when he’d first felt it, but even when things weren’t going as well as they were today, it always made him feel special. He deserved it and he needed the approval. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d felt a deep-seated need for approval for as long as he could remember. “Cam Sherrington,” he said, extending his hand to the man.

“Lawrence Masters.”

“Good to meet you, Lawrence.” Cam grasped Lawrence’s hand.
Good grip.
He smiled at the thought.

“Call me Larry. Please.”

“Larry.” Cam released Larry’s hand and took a sip of his whiskey.

“You’re not from here, are you?” Larry asked with a hint of a smile that made it clear he meant the question only half-seriously.

“London.”

“Are you an actor?”

“Hardly.” Cam chuckled. “Are you?”

“I am.”

Cam wasn’t the least bit surprised. Riley dabbled in theater, as Cam had until his money had run out. “How lovely.”
How boring
.
Hot body, though
.

“I’ve got a callback tomorrow for an off-Broadway production. Avant-garde sort of thing.
As You Like It
in modern dress, minimalist sets.”

Done a thousand times and about as avant-garde as a 1960s musical with a huge chorus line finale
. “Congratulations.” Cam didn’t give a shit. Maybe they could get the conversation part of the lead-up to fucking done quickly and get the hell out of there.

“What do you do for a living, Cam?”

Damn good question
. Cam debated how to respond. British lord who’d spent his inheritance but can’t touch the assets of his family’s corporation? Sometime impresario who’d financed several productions, all of which were critical failures? Playboy—as much as he hated the term, it was fitting given his penchant for fast cars and faster men.

“I run a company in London,” he said, deciding it was simpler than any of the other explanations. Not entirely true, since he wasn’t the CEO of his family’s business, but close enough for a one-nighter.

“Really?”

This seemed the right answer, since Larry’s ears pricked up noticeably. The conversation didn’t improve much over the next ten minutes, although his third drink helped his mind wander to what he hoped would be a more interesting entertainment back at his apartment.

He hadn’t counted on receiving a call. Flustered and working to hide his discomfort, he excused himself quickly. “I’m sorry. I need to take this,” he said to Larry. Without warning, Larry leaned in and worked his way over Cam’s neck with a very talented tongue.

“Answer it later,” Lawrence whispered before he returned to sucking on Cam’s earlobe.

Cam was tempted to do just that. He was already hard. Wanting that pert little arse. But he recognized the number on the display, and he pushed Lawrence away a bit more forcefully than he meant to. “I need to take this,” he repeated. Really. What part of that hadn’t the man understood?

Lawrence huffed and left the balcony with that wrinkled-up nose that made him look as though he’d smelled something disgusting.
Fuck him.

“Hello?”

“Happy birthday, Cam,” Aiden said in his resonant baritone.

“Thank you.” Hearing the longing in his own voice reminded Cam how much he missed Aiden. Not that he needed a reminder. The performance at the Met had brought that one home with acute force.

“How are you?” Aiden asked politely.

Loaded question
. If he answered honestly, he’d sound like a maudlin, heartbroken sod. Which he was, but he’d never let on that if Aiden wanted him back, Cam would be on his knees at Aiden’s doorstep in a heartbeat. His selfish heart twisted in his chest. “I’m well” was all he could manage in the end. “And you?” Cam wondered vaguely how two people who’d been as close as they had been could have such an awkward conversation.

“I’m great. Everything’s great.”

Not what Cam wanted to hear. “Congratulations on the
New York Times
review,” he said quickly, not wanting to dwell on how wonderful Aiden’s personal life might be.

“Thank you.” Cam could almost imagine the blush on Aiden’s cheeks. He was always so charming that way—understated and humble. Cam envied that.

“Listen, Cam,” Aiden said after a prolonged pause. “I need to tell you something. I don’t want you to hear it from the press….”

In Cam’s experience, it was never a good thing when someone said they wanted to tell you something, then hesitated.

“Sam asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”

Cam almost swallowed his tongue as anger and jealousy shot through his veins. “Congratulations. Listen, I need to go. I’m surrounded by people looking expectantly at me. It was terrific speaking with you, Aiden. Congratulations again.”

He downed his scotch, deposited his empty glass on a nearby table, and left the party without so much as a wave to Larry. When Riley offered to call him a taxi, he refused. He’d walk. He needed to clear his mind, although he knew the effort would be futile.

C
AM
CURSED
his love for Aiden as he wobbled down the concrete steps to the 42nd Street subway station. Riley had looked at him as if he were mad when he’d told her he was headed home. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked with the same pouty expression she wore on the rare occasion when her father refused to buy her something.

“Nothing,” he said as he’d reached for the doorknob. “I’m done. That’s all.”

“At least let me call my driver to take—”

He’d refused. Seriously, did she think he wasn’t
capable
of taking a fucking subway after a few drinks at a party? It wasn’t even midnight.

He rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. The damn telephone conversation replayed in his mind and grated on his nerves like Muzak at a cheap restaurant. He’d tried not to sound eager. Tried to sound nonchalant. He’d gotten good at that over the years. And then the brutal words had come. They’d seared his heart and left him dizzy.
“Listen, Cam…. I need to tell you something. I don’t want you to hear it from the press…. Sam asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”

He needed to walk. He needed to clear his head. He needed to shout to the heavens and hit something.

Why in hell had he bothered to look at the phone? Easy: he’d prayed it was Aiden calling to tell him he wanted him back.

You’re a fucking loser, Cameron! Nobody wants you!

A memory stirred. Someone holding him. Ruffling his hair. Someone other than his father. Someone had wanted him. Cared for him.

Where the hell had
that
come from? He brushed it off and descended the steps to the Lexington Avenue train.

It was bad enough that Aiden thought he’d tried to sabotage his career. He did everything to make sure Aiden didn’t think he wasn’t interested anymore. He’d gone to the after-party following Aiden’s Met debut—of
course
he’d gone, his company had helped bankroll the production of
Don Giovanni
—and Aiden had been MIA. So he’d decided Aiden didn’t need to know he’d been there at all.

And then the phone call. Aiden hadn’t beaten around the proverbial bush. He’d said it. Honestly. Simply. Just the way Cam would have expected Aiden to say it. And suddenly Cam didn’t care if he fucked that hot little Broadway-bound arse. He no longer cared about the party or its hallowed attendees. He no longer cared about anything except the gaping, jagged hole the conversation had left in his heart. And now, fucking New York pigeons were setting up camp in the hole. Shitting in it.

He walked from the Lexington Avenue train to the S train platform. The achingly mournful sound of a trumpet echoed off the dirty tile walls. He hadn’t really noticed them before. The intricate mosaic artwork had probably taken weeks to complete. Decades before, it had probably been stunning, but now it was covered in a film of grayish-black soot and some of the tiles were missing.

How fitting.
He looked around for the source of the music, noting the powerful smell of urine. Away from the turnstiles, a mound of blankets and a refuse-filled shopping cart occupied the far corner of the station. He guessed there was a human being under there, although he was hardly going to look. Beyond the automatic ticketing machines, he could just make out the form of a man holding a trumpet. The same man he’d seen playing at lunch. Maybe he lived
in the subway. Cam had heard stories of actors and musicians unable to get work in New York living on the street.

“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone….”

Cam walked across the empty space between the train platforms, his feet making soft tapping sounds against the concrete. He paused for a moment to watch the trumpet player standing with his back to the wall. He stared into whatever space musicians liked to stare into—that ethereal place they went when they were so focused on the music that the world around them disappeared. A dusty blond curl fell from the shaggy mop of hair onto the trumpeter’s face as he finished another phrase
. “…and she’s always gone too long any time she goes away.”

Cam drew a long breath. It was perfect. The angst of it all. The music. The echo of his steps. The blast of cool air as he neared the train tunnels.
Fucking perfect
.

The musician noticed him standing there. The man’s eyes were a beautiful hazel, almost green. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

What do you care? The man’s an unemployed musician.

The guy looked at him and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as they had the last time Cam had seen him. Did he recognize Cam? God knew there were enough articles written about him.
Esquire
,
Elle
,
Cigars Magazine
, blah, blah, blah.
Glamour
’s
“Most Eligible Bachelor” from 2008.
As if!

The trumpet player finished the song, then stopped for a moment and rested the trumpet against his hip. His lips were swollen and pink from playing. For a split second, Cam imagined tasting them. Then he noticed the torn jeans and white T-shirt with a faded Señor Frog’s logo and the words “I got wasted in Cancun” written below it.

Oh, for God’s sake, Cameron! He’s a loser with a capital L!

Well, that made two of them, didn’t it? Even if the guy could play pretty damn well—
very
well, judging by the little Cam had heard—they were both in a stinking, empty subway station on a Friday night at midnight.
Poor sod
.

“Another request?” A smile danced on the man’s kissable lips.

Cam shrugged. “Whatever you want to play,” he said, not caring how pathetic he sounded.

The trumpeter put his instrument to his lips and began.
“Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart….”

Normally he’d have listened for a moment, left a few dollars, and headed home. But something about the man and the music held him entranced. He felt an odd, otherworldly connection. Was it the morbid, surreal feel to the evening, an evening he’d known would eventually come even though he’d tried to convince himself a thousand times over he wouldn’t care when it did? Or was it the momentary feeling that he’d connected with someone, as pathetic as he was? He thought of Aiden and how he’d barely had enough for his next meal when they’d met at a party in London.