by Lou Sylvre
Finally, Lara asked, “What?”
The descending winter sun shot slanted beams through clouds and into the room. Suddenly—clean, with a full belly, in the delicious warmth of the gold-lit kitchen—everything felt different to Oleg. Things seemed… possible. Maybe he would see the busker again. Maybe he’d even talk to him. A new leaf, he thought. “Sure,” he said, giving his sister a grin. “I’ll go to the Market with you, sis. Why the hell not?”
Chapter Three
BECK HEARD that thought, never see him again, every time he remembered the singer for the next two days. He got ridiculously sick of the repetition and supremely annoyed that he kept thinking about the guy at all. Once, on Sunday, he let himself get so preoccupied that he forgot where he was and—while plucking out an upbeat rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” for a fair-sized crowd—loudly ordered the mental image, “Get the fuck out of my head!”
One person slipped him a twenty, apparently having compassion for the insane, but everyone else quietly moved away.
Nice work, Beck, he told himself, thinking this could be the year he finally had an apartment and then fucked it up, adding one more misery to the shitpile ghosts of Christmas past.
Can’t do that, though. Parcheesi needs me.
Sadly, the thought of the formerly stray cat who loved and needed him only made him feel worse, and that’s when he realized just how lonely he’d truly become. Just how hungry even for smiles and conversation with someone who knew him, who cared. Just how deep the well of his hunger for the sex, for the kiss, for the touch of a man who loved him. He wondered if maybe he would never have those things again, and that made him feel like the old, bitter man he would certainly age into if that happened.
Maybe that was why, later that day when he saw George, he fooled himself for a little while. His ex-boyfriend was, for once, by himself. He stood nearby, his shapely legs in sexy stockings under an ankle-length fur—hopefully faux—coat, which surely he needed, as his red velvet hot pants were not exactly designed for winter warmth. When Beck finished the medley of carols he was playing, George stepped gracefully closer, close enough for Beck to hear his whisper.
“Hey, big man. I’ve been missing you. Thought I’d stop while I had a chance and see if maybe I could buy you lunch.”
Beck’s first reaction was to be pissed. “Big man” was an old joke between them, a moniker George had stuck on him when they’d been threatened by some fellow homeless who happened also to be haters. Beck and George had talked about moving out of the tent city to get away from them—maybe going to a different city for a while. George hadn’t wanted to go.
“Don’t worry, Beck,” he said in a pique, “it’s my five-foot ass they’ll be wanting to beat.”
Without thinking, Beck replied, “Maybe so, but I don’t want you to be hurt!”
George had smiled then as if shyly accepting a compliment. “Aw, that’s sweet, baby. But, being my big man and all, you can just open up a can of whoop ass on ’em, and we’ll both be fine.”
Now Beck wanted to tell George he didn’t have a right to call him by pet names, that he’d forfeited that right when he’d chosen to walk off with his sugar daddy and leave Beck brokenhearted and still in the streets. But this didn’t seem the time or place, and anyway, Beck was no good with words. Instead, he only said, “Don’t call me that.”
George’s look of mock surprise was apparently meant as a tease, because he put a cajoling tone in his voice. “Oh, don’t be like that, Beck. We’re still friends, right? Come for coffee, at least.”
Beck intended to say no, but somehow “okay” came out of his mouth, and within a few minutes he was walking beside George, automatically shortening his long stride to keep pace with the petite man, just as he’d done a thousand times when they were together. If that’s what we ever were.
George led him to Storyville Coffee on the top floor of the Market, a shop Beck rarely patronized, preferring to drink cheap brewed coffee and keep more of his hard-earned cash. Once there, George ordered coffee for him without asking him what he wanted, which grated on Beck’s temper. It had been sweet when his lover always knew just what he would want, but he didn’t like it one bit when his former lover got it just right. To make it worse, even though Beck said he wasn’t hungry, George got a sea salt caramel roll and chocolate cake with fruit.
Little fucker knows I won’t be able to resist. Worse, we’ll have to share, because I want them both. There was nothing like life on the poverty line to make one’s mouth water at the scent of gourmet sweets, and of course George knew that. Deciding he might as well enjoy the decadence while he could, he resolved to ignore the company and accept the gift. Bribe. Whatever.
Ignoring George wasn’t an easy thing, though. Never had been. For maybe five minutes, Beck managed to savor his macchiato—the best he’d ever had—and tiny bites of the sweets, gazing out the window, looking past snow-loaded rooftops to the white-clad hills fading into the colorless afternoon sky. Then George reached out and laid his hand over Beck’s.
It felt electric, and Beck hated it. He pulled his hand away to lift his coffee and sip.
“I really do miss you, Beck.”
“Bullshit. Why this, George? Why did you want to ‘do coffee’?”
George blew out a breath through flared nostrils, a signal Beck remembered, and he knew it meant George was angry.
“You’re a big phony, Beck. You know that? You pretend you’re done with me. You’re too good for me, or something.” He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper and leaned in close enough to blow his breath across Beck’s ear. “We both know, approve of my life or not, you’d love to have me wrap my mouth around this fine hard length of cock anytime. Right now, for instance.”
Beck had seen it coming. He’d known George would drop a hand into his lap and discover that, yes indeed, George’s ultrasexual personal brand turned him on, had him hard right there in the coffee shop at just the thought of those skilled lips sliding over his flesh. He’d known it would happen, but he wasn’t quick enough—or determined enough—to stop it. And it had been so long since anyone had touched him that when George gave him a squeeze he damn near came right there.
“Fuck, George,” he said, and it came out a strangled whisper.
“If you want, big man.”
“Back off!”
George did, but he looked like the cat that flipped the goldfish bowl, and he said, “Offer’s on the table.”
“What is it with you, George?”
Beck didn’t speak loudly, but he let every bit of the anger and resentment he felt occupy his words. George literally flinched, though he recovered quickly, masking the sudden fright with insouciance.
“You and I—we were a thing,” Beck said. “I thought we loved each other. But when you hooked up with your prince, you made sure I knew just what a foolish idea that was. And now… just the other day you strolled by all haughty on the arm of your latest… whatever he is—”
“He’s my daddy, you might say, Beck—or maybe you’ll get it if I say he’s my Christmas Music. Money in my pocket. Gives me everything I want except one thing. He doesn’t give me a really good time, if you know what I mean. So why did I come see you today? It’s been too long since I had something tasty.”
Beck sat speechless, motionless, every part of him but his treacherous cock wanting to walk the fuck away from this shallow man who’d broken his heart but didn’t even seem to have one of his own to break in return. Just when—knowing he’d be sorry—he was about to grab George’s manicured hand and lead him to a quiet corner behind the shops, just when his throbbing, anticipating cock was about to win, George spoke up once more and everything changed.
“Besides,” he said, “I had a free afternoon, and you ain’t doin’ anything important—you never are. I thought I’d suck on a pretty cock to pass the time.”
And just like that, whatever it was Beck had thought he saw in George was gone for good. He saw through the too-m
any layers of makeup, the cheap-style expensive clothes, the phony confidence. It was all a façade, and beneath it was unholy December in human form. Nothing real, nothing light there at all. Beck took a deep, releasing breath and shook his head. “Damn, George. I don’t know what you really want. I don’t think you do either. But suddenly I find I’m not even tempted.” He stood up, needlessly straightened his clothes, and picked up his mug to down the dregs of the sweetened brew. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and turned to leave.
Then he turned back, picked up the chocolate cake and took a huge, “big man” bite, and returned the pitiful remains to the plate. Mouth too full to speak, he waved as he walked away, leaving George to figure things out on his own.
He tried to finish out his performing day, but his teased and lonely cock kept distracting him, so he packed up early that afternoon and went home. When he stripped and got in the shower, he intended only to wash away what felt like some kind of contamination, but when he soaped his cock, it responded to the touch with way more than the usual enthusiasm, momentarily stealing his breath.
He stood for a moment letting the hard, hot spray beat against the tender, engorged crown, then wrapped a firm, well-soaped hand around the shaft and began to stroke. He pulled hard and fast, not wanting to savor the ride, just wanting to get there. And honestly, worried the shower would go cold. Stroking, twisting, running his fingers up over the head, letting his other hand dive between his legs to tug and squeeze at his heavy, hardening balls. He kept his eyes open and stared at his own hard prick, unwilling to allow George’s lying face to have even an imaginary moment.
His orgasm was building fast, and Beck didn’t slow it down. He just wanted to come, to explode—needed to. He stroked harder and faster until he’d come close to reaching his peak, then did what he knew would send him right up and over the goal. One leg propped high against the shower wall, he pushed his long, thick middle finger into his ass and knocked against the slick pad of his prostate. He came instantly and hard, so hard his knees buckled and left him leaning against the shower wall, squeezing the last of the impossible pleasure from the pulsing nerves, panting.
The water cooled, so Beck quickly rinsed and shut off the tap, then stood stock-still, catching his breath and trying to hold on to something that had come to him, something unexpected. In the moment of orgasm, he’d seen a face, but it didn’t belong to George.
He wrapped himself in a towel and went to lie down on his bed, pushing Parcheesi away as kindly as he could. He wanted to think. He wanted to remember the face he’d seen at the moment of his climax. He’d only seen it once in real life, briefly, and he hadn’t realized he’d registered it so completely. The gold-flecked brown eyes, thick mop of dark chestnut hair, the white scar across the corner of his mouth that made the red of his lips seem darker and riper.
The face of the man who sang like an angel.
Beck marveled at his mind’s revelation, but though he supposed imagining lovers might be fun at times—or at least entertaining—right now it felt devastating. To Beck’s dismay, tears clouded his vision.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He finally had a life, a home, food, work, music… but a brief, imaginary appearance by a splendid man he’d likely never come to know had reduced him to tears, to hopeless desiring, pointless wondering. Seemingly unquenchable longing. Unwilling to let this torturous state of mind claim another minute, he rolled over and, as most who’ve slept on the streets can do, forced himself to sleep.
But a haunting voice, a song, played through Beck’s dreams.
“Snow was falling, snow on snow….”
BECK WOKE an hour later, just as dusk soaked the snowbanks in purple-tinged gray. He donned his warm coat, gloves, and two pairs of thick wool socks to pad his all-purpose high-tops, then he descended into the streets with no plan except to walk. His feet chose the direction, turning him down Madison toward familiar places. The ice-crusted sidewalks demanded his attention, something that became obvious when a young woman just ahead of him slipped and ended up on hands and knees. She was having a hell of a time getting up, but she wasn’t hurt. Her laughter was sweet, and as Beck steadied her so she could rise, he found himself smiling in return.
They walked more or less side by side for the next two blocks without saying a word, but when they got to Sixteenth she waved and their paths separated. It wasn’t until Beck had walked another solitary block that he noticed he still wore traces of the smile, and from there it was only a tiny leap to the realization that it had been a long while since he simply shared an honest smile with another human. It felt strange… good.
He continued to pick his way along Madison until he heard music coming from somewhere nearby. He looked up and found that without thinking he’d walked to one of the places he had frequently camped when he was on the streets—before the tent cities, before George. The music—unmistakably harpsichord and strings—came from Trinity Episcopal, the church that billed itself as Seattle’s most inclusive. Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t, but Beck had never been inside.
Not that the building didn’t exert its draw on him, but Beck knew he had no place in a Christian congregation. He’d discovered at age fifteen that he didn’t believe in anything resembling God. Though his mother’s death had been the catalyst for his arrival at that conclusion, it wasn’t because of any bitterness. On the contrary, his mother’s peace in her last days, the comfort the hospice chaplain had brought her, the smile she wore in the moments before she died as Mozart’s “Ave Maria” wove its prayer around her, these things almost made him believe. But his practical mind argued—had always argued—that these things were human. A touch, a voice, music, all the products of human hearts and hands. Beck didn’t believe in God, but at the time of his mother’s dying, he had decided he believed in people.
In the hard years since, the first part hadn’t changed, but the second part had. His belief in people—in families, in love, in compassion and succor—had begun to unravel the day his stepfather, citing Beck’s refusal to bow to a Christ he couldn’t believe in, had put him out of his home three months after his mother passed. Beck doubted even then that the reason given was the real one—probably it had more to do with his stepfather’s fall into a whiskey bottle. But regardless of the underpinning of John’s failure to care about his stepson, it showed Beck a side of humanity he hadn’t seen firsthand before, struck the first hard blow against his faith in people.
Now, Beck believed in old crows and cats and the joy of hot water from the tap.
And Beck believed in beauty.
Beck believed in music.
The jewel-colored glass in the windows of Trinity Episcopal shone brightly into the wintry night, warm images of saints and well-loved children. Looking at them, Beck could almost believe that their promises, the oaths rendered in lead and colored glass were real. Reliable. True.
You know better, Beck.
Yes. But the vivid red doors, said to symbolize welcome, would not be locked. He wondered, if he were to enter, would it be like walking into the beauty advertised by the glow from the windows? Would the music filling the space engulf him, hold him suspended in sound?
It seemed a crazy thought. Probably, I’m just hungry. It was true, he hadn’t eaten anything all day except the bites of cake and caramel roll George had bought that afternoon. He did feel a bit thin. But then, he’d been hungry before. And he’d passed down this street before, even slept outside this very church. Hell, he’d even listened to beautiful music streaming out from inside, more than once. But something was different here and now.
When voices joined the instruments, soared over them, he understood.
Within the sound he clearly heard the man with the angel’s voice.
How could he be so sure? Or rather—being honest with himself—how had he known even before he heard the voices?
Beck took a deep breath, drawing resolve from the cold night, and climbed the steps to do what he plainly mu
st do—open the red door and go in.
He kept his eyes down as he entered, ridiculously afraid their green shine would alert someone to his presence. When he came even with the rearmost pew, he slipped in as silently as he could and sat down. The only light in the back of the sanctuary flowed dimly from the front where the musicians and singers rehearsed. They went through the piece—something medieval, Beck thought, though he didn’t recognize it—a few bars at a time, making mistakes and jokes in equal measure as rehearsing musicians do. Then, after a few words from the woman conducting from the viola, the musicians settled into quiet. Flowing uninterrupted through the entire piece, these musicians united in a way possible only for those who have made music together for a long time.
Beck remembered when he had made music like that with his mother and sister. It struck him then—the singers in this group were a family. He raised his gaze and confirmed that truth, obvious in the similarly thick, unruly heads of dark chestnut waves, the wide cheekbones and golden almond eyes that spoke of eastern European roots. When they finished the piece this time, the rehearsal clearly ended.
Someone—the church, perhaps—had supplied refreshments. As Beck rose to leave, the smell of spiced apple cider assailed him, a reminder of his childhood, the good years before his father died, before the cancer started to win its long battle against his mother’s liver, before his stepfather had sent him—literally—out into the hard night with a twenty-dollar bill and the clothes on his back.
The warmth, the reflected crystal glow of the windows, the celestial voice—it was all too much, and before Beck could take three steps he found for the second time that day his eyes burning with tears. Tears. Something he thought he’d left behind with his broken belief in love.
A woman’s voice and a hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Hello,” she said. “Won’t you join us for a cookie? I, for one, find I play better if I have an audience, so I’m glad you were here.”
