by Liv Rancourt
Soundlessly, carrying the bag with the cord and the sequins and the glue, Jon moved in his mother’s direction.
“Hey, I brought you the stuff from the fabric store.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her bones were more prominent than he remembered, and there was a line of gray at the roots of her hair. She didn’t stiffen, but she didn’t relax, either. “Everything okay here?”
“The nurse came and made him do his exercises, so now he’s asleep.” She spoke quietly, barely above pianissimo, articulating every word.
“It’s good for him, though.”
She gave the suggestion of a shrug, as if her arms were weighted down by weariness. “He wouldn’t agree.” The stroke had left his father with weakness on the left side of his body. They were all waiting to see how much he’d recover.
Jon leaned against the counter, the granite chilly under his palms. “Are you hungry? I could cook those steaks for supper.”
“Sure.” Her smile wasn’t any more enthusiastic than her neutral tone.
She’s tired. I get it. “Do you suppose after Dad wakes up he’d mind if I practice for a while?”
“Nothing too loud. He can be sensitive to sound.”
“I’ll leave the Liszt for later.”
Her smile warmed by the smallest increment. She’d never liked Liszt anyway. He shifted his weight, ready to head up to his room for a minute, when she stopped him by putting a hand on his arm.
“You’re a good man, Jonathan Spencer Cunningham, and I know he doesn’t show it, but your father appreciates what you’re doing.”
He covered her hand with his, surprised by her use of his full name. “Thanks. I just wish I could do more.” He also wished he could believe her.
“No, you go on and live your life. You make us proud.”
He squeezed her fingers. They were as chilly as the rest of the room. Mom had always been his biggest fan. She’d also been love-blind when it came to his difficult relationship with his father. He’d come home for her, and it’d been worth it.
Lost gigs and all.
Whatever. He hadn’t come to Seattle thinking about a hookup, but hell if he didn’t need to spend an hour with someone who might make him laugh.
Bo Barone.
Had Jon seriously carried a crush for all these years?
SOME TWENTY-FOUR hours later, Bo Barone himself stood in the doorway of the Court, light from overhead giving him the suggestion of a halo. Jon slowed his pace but couldn’t squelch his smile. Bo looked good, his hair styled in a pompadour, black-rimmed nerdy-hipster glasses in place, and a down jacket that had REI written all over it.
“Hey, you look, uh, the place looks great.”
Icy rain spit on them, and Bo waved them toward the warmth. “Let’s go in.”
Jon held on to Bo’s grin from the doorway to their table. The place was crowded, the trendy, semi-industrial vibe designed to amplify the background noise. Diners might have to shout to be heard, but they’d look good doing it.
Jon managed to take off his woolen coat, hang it on the peg near their table, and find his seat without blundering. Telling Bo he looked great wouldn’t have been the biggest faux pas ever, especially since it was the truth. But still, he didn’t want to come on too strong.
“Oh my God. This time of year kills me.” Bo’s cheeks were glowing pink, likely from the shift from cold to warm.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just so busy. I mean, I’ve been baking nonstop, and there are all these parties, and this morning my sister called to see if I could come up with some ornaments to take to the hospital where she volunteers because she’s run out of time.” He threw up his hands. “When am I going to be able to make a bunch of ornaments?”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“School teacher. First grade at St. Thomas.” Bo leaned forward on his elbows. “I guess it’s easier for me to see what you’ve been up to than the opposite.”
“Busted.” Jon gave a rueful shake of his head. “My manager does a good job of keeping the website updated.”
If anything, Bo’s cheeks turned brighter red. “And I can be kind of a stalker.”
Barking a laugh that startled both of them, Jon made a show of opening the menu to cover his embarrassment.
“I mean, I just….” Bo turned toward the front window as if the blurry street scene had drawn his attention. “We used to be friends, you know? But then when high school started, you weren’t around, and someone said you were doing an online school or something while you studied piano.”
“Something like that, yeah.” Jon didn’t mean to sound defensive, but it had never occurred to him there were people from school who might have missed him when he didn’t turn up for ninth grade.
“And then we heard you went to Juilliard, and I was all, whoa, that’s cool.”
The waiter interrupted them. He was young, didn’t even look twenty-one, and he reeled through the dinner specials without pausing for a breath. Jon ordered a manhattan, because he was out in a big-city restaurant on December 22, and Bo ordered—
“I’ll take a cosmo, chilled and up, with a cherry.”
“Sure.” The kid scratched down their order on a pad and took off.
“A cosmo?” Jon’s lips twitched as he struggled not to smile. “How very nineties of you.”
Bo gave him an exaggerated blink. “I like a good cosmo, thank you very much.”
Jon chuckled into his fist. Bo’s prim little smile was killing him. “Far be it from me to complain.”
“Anyway.” Bo dragged the word out. “Remember when we were in Miz Callahan’s class and she made us write essays about our future? We were supposed to list the top three things we wanted to be and chart a course for one of them.”
“Uh….” Jesus. Embarrassed again. Did Jon remember middle school at all? He must. He remembered Bo in a way that had him adjusting himself. “Miz Callahan was the English teacher, right?”
“Mmhm.” Bo ran his gaze up and down Jon. “She was our English teacher, and for your edification, you didn’t actually follow the instructions for the assignment.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Well, none of us were too surprised. You wrote about being a professional pianist, and only about being a pianist, and when she asked what you’d do if that didn’t work out, you said, ‘It will.’” With a shake of his head, Bo fixed Jon in his stare. “Ballsiest thing I’ve ever heard. You were absolutely sure of yourself, and look….” He fluttered a hand in Jon’s direction. “You were right.”
The room got hotter, and it had nothing to do with the thermostat. Bo’s smile made him feel like a rock star instead of a semiobscure classical pianist who could discuss the differences between meantone and modern tuning more easily than the latest movies. Jon blinked at the menu, which might as well have been written in Swahili. “So, uh, what’s good to eat here?”
Bo’s laugh was sprinkled with glitter. “Try the steak frites. It’s beefy, and there are enough fries to share.”
The waiter reappeared with their cocktails. As soon as he left, Jon raised his glass. “Shall we toast? To old friends and new memories.”
Bo clinked their glasses together. “I might have to thank your mother in person.”
“My mother?”
“For sending you into Bonnie’s for the cord.” Bo nodded. “She did me a huge favor.”
Jon sipped his drink through a grin. She did me one too.
Chapter Three
LORD HAVE mercy on my soul. Jon Cunningham was just too delicious. His resting-stern-face melted away when he smiled, and every time, Bo would gay gasp. Or he’d come close to gasping. They were in public, after all.
“So tell me about what it’s like to be a rising star in the world of classical music.”
Jon blinked, his expression firming as if his true self had ducked behind a mask. “Don’t know about the rising star part, but….” He paused to sip his manhattan, poised and polished, and Bo bit his lower lip to keep
from arguing the point. Give the man some space.
“I, uh, don’t have time for much besides practice and travel. There’s always a new piece to learn, you know?” He took another sip of his drink, his gaze distant. “Honestly, it’s about discipline more than anything else. That and a steady supply of melatonin so I can weather the time changes.”
“Gotta admire you. I mean, even if I played an instrument, I couldn’t travel.”
“You get used to it.”
The mournful undertones had Bo stifling the urge to pat Jon’s hand. “I’m sure you got used to it, but I don’t fly, so that’d be a big ol’ nope for me.”
That brought another smile, this one tinged with surprise. “How can you avoid flying? That’s, uh, un-American or something.”
There were some pretty damned good reasons Bo chose not to fly. Fortunately, the waiter popped up like some kind of genie out of a bottle of self-tanner, changing the subject.
The only thing Bo liked less than flying was talking about why he wouldn’t. He put a lot of stock in being everybody’s most reliable gay uncle. Weirdly paranoid thinking didn’t fit his image.
Once they’d ordered—steak frites for Jon and the risotto for Bo—they discussed their Christmas plans. Well, Bo shared his in glorious detail. All the baking and all the crafting. Christmas Eve dinner at Mom’s, and Midnight Mass at St. James. The annual Christmas Day feast that started sometime after noon and ran until the last person turned off the lights on their way out the door.
“I swear between the cooking and the cleaning”—and the damned ornaments—“I’ll be a zombie come the twenty-sixth.”
“Sounds hectic.”
Bo had to be grinning like a fool. “But fun. Are you guys planning—” His dad is sick. Don’t be an idiot. “I mean, are your parents still living over on Interlaken?”
“Yup. Your mom still over on Aloha?”
“Yes, and you remembered.” Bo put a hand to his chest, a little choked up. His father had died when he was in the sixth grade, and after all these years, Jon hadn’t asked about him.
“I try.”
Bo fought the urge to fan himself. The moment turned so heated they could have charbroiled Jon’s steak without a grill. “So, Mr. World-traveling-piano-genius, I have a lovely collection of holiday balls. Would you like to come and see them?”
Corniest come-on ever, but Jon grinned so Bo didn’t care.
“I would love to see your… balls. Someday.”
Bo pressed his lips together. The two of them had been just as goofy in junior high. Jon raised a single eyebrow, and Bo lost it. He cracked up, and so did Jon. They laughed, a little louder and a little longer than the moment deserved. Only the arrival of their dinner brought them down from that shared high.
The food was good, and their conversation swirled with nuance. They may have been a couple of geeks in junior high, but things weren’t quite the same. In those days, Bo had only the barest suspicion regarding his preferences. It wasn’t something he and Jon would have talked about. Fifteen years had brought about some changes, though, and over the course of their dinner, they meandered between reminiscing and silly flirting.
They split the bill and paused for a moment in the restaurant’s entry, pulling on their coats. Sometime during dinner, it had started to snow, and now the ground was frosted with a thin layer of white.
Bo snapped up his jacket, trying not to stare too obviously. Jon’s coat was tailored wool, single-breasted, and lined with blue silk.
And possibly had an Armani label.
Broadway—the hangout for Sir Mix-a-lot’s posse and the Dick’s where Macklemore filmed a video—was quiet, wrapped in a snowy hush. A car passed, wheels hissing through the slush, and the few pedestrians walked quickly to get where they needed to go.
“So, what’s next?” Jon asked. A swath of straight dark hair fell into his face—or did he shake his head deliberately to hide behind his bangs?
“We could—” Bo scrambled for something clever. “—walk?”
Okay, not so clever. At any rate, Jon brushed his hair-shield away. “Sounds good. I could use some exercise.”
Hoping his move wasn’t too forward, Bo took hold of Jon’s arm. They headed south, toward Seattle Central College and conveniently close to Bo’s apartment. Jon rustled in his pocket and pulled out a pair of black leather gloves.
“Oh.” Bo swallowed down a gasp. He had a thing for black leather gloves.
Jon managed to put them on without pulling his arm away, a detail that bolstered Bo’s confidence. There were mysteries to Jon Cunningham that Bo would love to solve.
With synchronized steps, they dodged a cluster of street kids huddled in the doorway of a Vietnamese restaurant. Jon’s citrus-and-spice scent carried through the cold air. “Aveda?” Bo wondered, unaware he’d spoken out loud until Jon chuckled.
“It’s what was in the shower.”
His cheeks hot, Bo fumbled for a response. “Guess I just like a good product.” Because hair care is so butch.
“You’ve got great hair, and that doesn’t happen spontaneously.”
The compliment made him blush even harder. “Thanks. I like how your hair has a mind of its own sometimes.”
Jon shook his head to flip the offending bangs out of his eyes. “Willy’s always after me to get it cut.”
Willy? Another man? Bo managed to keep from tripping over his own feet, but it was a near miss. Don’t be an idiot.
“I swear, she’s the main reason I’m not still running around in the Levi’s and T-shirts I wore in school.”
She? Okay. Not another man. “Willy is a musician too?”
“She’s my manager.” Jon paused, and Bo scooted himself a bit closer so their shoulders and hips bumped as they walked.
“She was seriously annoyed when I told her I needed to come home for Christmas.”
“Why?”
The snow let up, changing from fat drifting flakes to tiny stinging bits of ice. Walking got colder, less comfortable.
“I get booked pretty far out, and she… um… had to cancel a couple of gigs, including two that had been booked for over a year.”
“But your dad had a stroke.”
“True, but the show must go on, you know?”
“No.” Bo squeezed Jon’s arm. “Family wins.”
“Yeah, well….” Jon stiffened, and while he didn’t pull out of Bo’s grasp, they weren’t quite as close. “My dad and I don’t get along very well, and I guess I hoped if I came out here, we could… fix things.”
Bo let a few beats pass. “It’s hard to repair a relationship when you’re not in the same place.”
“Exactly.” Jon’s laugh was tinged with bitterness. A gust of wind tossed a spray of snow in their faces, and they both flinched. “Maybe I should go back to my car.”
“You know….” Half-blind from the snow on his glasses, Bo girded his loins for possible rejection. “My apartment’s only about another block away.”
Jon relaxed some, or at least the shoulder and hip bumping picked back up.
“And I have a fireplace and a Pres-to-Log.”
Jon’s expression was blurry. “I suppose Mom and Dad are both in bed right now.”
“And you wouldn’t want to wake them by coming in so late.”
“True.” They stopped at a crosswalk even though there was no traffic coming. “I really must be in Seattle.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re standing here waiting for the light to change.”
“Jaywalking is bad for you.”
Jon laughed, and then Bo laughed, and when they calmed, they were somehow holding hands and standing face-to-face. Jon traced a fingertip along a curl that had flopped down over Bo’s forehead. The contact made Bo shiver.
They stared at each other with an intensity that shut out everything else: the snow, the neon, the random passersby. Bo tilted his chin: the better to invite a kiss. He would have initiated something, but he’d have had to st
and on tiptoe to reach Jon, and he wanted to be sure.
Jon’s leather-wrapped fingertip slid down along Bo’s jawline, stopping on his chin, right under his lower lip. “I’m trying to remember something,” Jon whispered. “Did we want to do this when we were friends before?”
Bo snorted a laugh. “I was pretty clueless in those days, but if I’d wanted to kiss anyone, it would have been you.” Small white lie, but it served the moment.
“Mmhmm.” Jon dipped his head, his hand wrapping around the back of Bo’s neck. “Me too.”
The admission might have melted Bo right where he stood, but the steady pressure of Jon’s hand kept him upright. Jon lowered his head farther till their lips were a breath apart. Impatient, Bo lifted his heels to close the gap.
Their lips met, and for a long beat Bo froze. I’m kissing Jon Cunningham. Then Jon tugged him closer, and Bo wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist. Yes, he was kissing Jon Cunningham, and if this was his only shot, he was going to make it memorable.
Jon kissed with the same careful attention as he did everything else. He played with Bo, teasing his lips with tiny flicks of his tongue. Bo groaned in response, losing himself in a surge of heat. His dick got hard, and he didn’t try to shift his hips away. Jon had every right to know what effect he was having.
Besides, Jon’s bulge was jammed up against Bo’s hip. Fair is fair.
They stood there for one cycle of the light, and then another. Bo’s glasses were in the way, so he grabbed them and stuffed them in his pocket.
He ran his fingers through the silky strands of Jon’s hair, all but humping his leg. Jon went from running his tongue along Bo’s lower lip to sliding it in deeper. The heat, the taste, it was all too much. They kissed way too hard for the corner of Broadway and Thomas, and finally Bo had to pull away.
“Come on,” he gasped. “We’re so close.” Pointing in the direction of his apartment building, he tugged at Jon.
Who didn’t move.
“I think,” Jon said, “I should go home.” Snowflakes caught in his hair, little chips of crystal under the streetlights. “It’s three days till Christmas, and like you said, I can’t repair a relationship if I’m not around.”
