Jazzy Little Christmas Read online

  FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS:

  JAZZY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

  Nica Berry

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  www.loose-id.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Jazzy Little Christmas

  Nica Berry

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

  Carson City NV 89701-1215

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © December 2007 by Nica Berry

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-59632-398-2

  Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: C. B. Calsing

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Gerry composed Latin jazz tunes in his head every time he and Javier made love. A bossa nova as he trailed his lips down Javier’s neck and chest, fingers tapping a beat to the rhythm of Javier’s heart. A faster merengue as Gerry bent down to mouth Javier’s cock, the heat rising and Javier’s breathing turning to gasps. The seductive guaguancó, the dance that involved a pelvic thrust…

  Javier groaned as Gerry rammed into him. They took turns, but Gerry knew Javier preferred being on the bottom, and Gerry loved having him there. He played Javier’s body like he did his piano, and knew him just as intimately. For example, fingering Javier’s balls just so meant…

  Another groan muffled by the pillow. Gerry slowed his thrusts. Back to a slow, playful bossa nova. When Gerry lightly stroked up and down Javier’s spine with the back of his hand, his lover shivered as if he’d been left out in the cold.

  “Bastard,” Javier said. He clawed the sheets. A thin sheen of sweat made his face shine in the warm San Diego sunlight streaming through the window. “You always make me wait.”

  “This is what you get for taking too long on your solos. I told you I’d get you back.” Gerry finally surrendered to his lover’s frustration and slid in and out of him faster. “Besides, I thought you wanted to be all nice and relaxed for your gig.”

  “I won’t be relaxed at all if you don’t ‑‑”

  Gerry rammed him, hard, and that was it.

  Javier sang in tune, even when he orgasmed, letting out a string of words in Portuguese. Gerry came a moment later when Javier’s spasming body clenched around his. For a long time afterward, they lay together, spooned.

  “I wish you didn’t have a gig tonight. Christmas Eve should be spent at home with the one you love.” Gerry held his lover’s naked, warm body close to his, massaging Javier’s soft cock. “Come back as soon as you can. I have an early Christmas present for you tonight.”

  “You’re so sweet.” Javier got a wistful look on his face. “I’m… I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

  He rolled out of bed and stood, giving Gerry another look at his handsome body. Javier was a gym rat ‑‑ worked out four times a week besides the dancing he did on stage during gigs. “You can’t hold still in a Latin band,” he’d say. The consummate front man, he could get an audience on its feet with a few come-hither looks or a shake of his handsome ass.

  Javier went to the bureau and dug through one of the drawers until he found one of his thongs. The red one. Gerry hooted. “Wearing your leathers again?”

  Javier looked sulkily over his shoulder. “You know those show everything, including underwear seams.”

  While Javier took a shower ‑‑ and sang, of course ‑‑ Gerry pulled on a pair of plaid pajama pants and an old T-shirt. No reason to dress nice yet; that was for when Javier got home tonight.

  When he stepped out of the bathroom, Javier looked stunning, as always. The black leather pants hugged his crotch and buttocks and made Gerry hot for him all over again. Silver thread wove through the fabric of his black shirt, and would sparkle under the stage lights. He went through his jewelry box on the bureau and put on his favorite rings and a pair of silver hoops in his left ear.

  “All this effort for a lousy gig in some rich man’s backyard,” Gerry said. “You’re gorgeous. I love you.” He used a finger to trace the neckline of Javier’s shirt. “My heart, my muse.” He nuzzled Javier’s neck, smelling the shower-fresh scent of his skin, the coconut fragrance in his hair. “Don’t go. Stay here. I’ll write you a new ‑‑”

  A horn blared outside.

  “Miles is here,” Javier said. He grabbed the knapsack with his wallet and songbooks. “See you later.” A quick peck on the cheek and he was gone.

  * * * * *

  Gerry arranged the last cloth napkin on the table. Perfect.

  He’d taken his time setting the table, using a red tablecloth with sprigs of evergreen set artfully between the holly-patterned dishes. A bunch of dried mistletoe hung over Javier’s chair. And on his lover’s plate… Gerry smiled. He couldn’t resist touching the small box he’d set there, wrapped in holly paper that matched the dishes. And inside, the ring, size nine, a platinum band with diamonds embedded in it. Javier liked jewelry, and the more it sparkled the better.

  Nina Simone crooned in the background, singing her version of an old Scottish folk tune. Gerry sang along softly. “Black is the color of my true love’s hair. His face, so warm and wondrous fair…” The same was true for Gerry’s own true love, Javier. Javier had been born in Brazil, but he’d moved to the States when he was nine. He spoke English, Spanish, and Portuguese with equal ease, and there was nothing like hearing Antonio Carlos Jobim tunes sung in their original Portuguese.

  Gerry continued to sing along. “The purest eyes, and the strongest hands. I love the ground on where he stands…”

  And soon, very soon, Javier would be standing here, muscled arms tight around Gerry’s shoulders, Gerry’s nose bringing in the familiar masculine scent that came from spending too long under the hot stage lights. Javier would see the little box, and say, “Aw, Ger, but Christmas isn’t until tomorrow!” and Gerry would say, “Open it now. There’s something I want to ask you,” and Javier would snap open the box, and Gerry would go down on one knee and ask, "Will you be my partner and lover forever?" and Javier would look at Gerry long and lovingly with those liquid brown eyes and say “Yes!” They’d stand by Javier’s chair, under the mistletoe, and they might not even bother with dinner.

  Gerry got a hard-on just thinking about it. It didn’t matter how many times he and Javier made love. There was always something new to find in each other, just as there was in their music.

  Speaking of music… He checked the clock. Only five. Javier said he had a gig with Miles’s quartet until at least seven. Plenty of time to get a little piano practice in.

  He turned off Nina, and, because it was that time of year, warmed up on Christmas music. For fun, he played O Holy Night, transposing it into all twelve keys and soloing over the simple chords. In his mind, he put Javier’s voice over the changes, and smiled. Handsome Javier with his angel’s voice.
Inspiration for any man, and Gerry’s muse.

  All he had to do was think of Javier, and new songs emerged from beneath his fingers. Their latest CD, Brazilian jazz tunes Gerry had written with his lover in mind, had been a hit. So much so that they’d been nominated for a Grammy. Two weeks had passed since the nominations were announced, and Gerry was still stoked.

  An ache in his neck made him stop and look at his watch. Eight o’clock. He frowned. No sign of Javier. He checked his cell phone for messages, just in case he’d been too absorbed to hear it. No missed calls, and an attempt to reach Javier’s cell went directly to voicemail.

  He went online to search through the traffic reports for any accidents. Nothing. He clicked on his in-box and scrolled through the mix of penis enlargement and holiday e-mails.

  And there…one from Javier. No subject. Curious, Gerry opened it.

  Hi, sweetie, I’m writing this from the airport…

  Airport? What the hell was Javier doing at the airport?

  Look, Ger, I hope you’ll understand. Miles offered me this great gig, and, well, I couldn’t refuse. I love doing the Latin stuff, sweetheart, but I need a change. That’s one thing I never quite understood ‑‑ I’m Brazilian, you’re American, but you have the Latin soul I should have had. You can keep playing Latin forever. I can’t. Anyway, we’re going to Paris. Can you believe it? After that, we’re touring Europe. He’s got all these great clubs lined up, and you know the Europeans just love jazz. We’re going to visit all the places you and I wanted to see, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Matterhorn…

  Ger turned the power off on the monitor, unable to read the rest of the message. A great gig. He needed a change. Sure. Gerry knew what was implied behind those words. Javier’d been hot for Miles ‑‑ Miles Davis Johnson, named after the Miles Davis and with the ego to match ‑‑ for at least a year now. Miles played trumpet and was black, just like his namesake. He was cover-model handsome, enough so that flocks of women ‑‑ and quite a few men ‑‑ fawned over him. Miles lived the life trumpet players were notorious for: high, fast, and loud. Compared to him, Gerry was ‑‑ the pianist. The sideman. The little man in the shadows of the stage, hunched over the keyboard.

  And the one that played every night to show off Javier’s stunning voice. He knew every nuance of Javier’s tenor, just as he knew every inch of him in bed. He knew exactly how and where Javier liked to be touched, and would do anything to please his lover.

  Now, no more of Javier’s voice singing him sweetly awake, or humming while he made breakfast. He was another man’s man now.

  And Gerry was alone. He sank down onto the piano bench and slammed the lid shut over the keys.

  * * * * *

  Three years later

  12:01 a.m., and now Christmas Eve. Gerry hadn’t bothered to decorate. What was the point if Javier wasn’t here? That Christmas Gerry had tied up the tablecloth, plates and all, and taken the whole package out to the trash bin, except for the ring. That, he threw into the second bedroom along with the framed portrait of him and Javier taken during one of the photo shoots for the CD. Everything that belonged to Javier followed. He didn’t want to see it, but he couldn’t bear to throw it away.

  Now, the only thing on the table was a pile of ancient mail for Javier, just in case he came back, and their Grammy award, still sealed shut in the box in which their producer had mailed it. Gerry couldn’t bring himself to touch it, couldn’t even enjoy it without Javier. The piano, a baby grand that took up the entire front room of his tiny condo, had become a hated, unwelcome guest, and a sheet did little to hide it. Where Gerry had once found love and inspiration, seeing his beloved piano now only reminded him of his loss. If he wasn’t good enough for Javier, what was he good for? Certainly not the music world. He hadn’t won the Grammy by himself; he’d won it with Javier. Alone, he was worth nothing.

  For the first year after the award, their manager, Chaz, had called and left message after message. “Look, Gerry, I know that Javier’s gone, but I’ve got a ton of gigs lined up for you. A whole tour. New York. Carnegie Hall! For God’s sake, call me back. I don’t care if Javier’s gone. They want you just as much. There’re plenty of other talented singers out there…”

  Plenty, but they weren’t Javier. He wouldn’t have that same bond with any of them.

  “Colleges, Gerry. Universities are begging me to get you out to visit. There’s plenty of workshops and guest artist appearances. You can’t just disappear. Your career will be ruined.”

  After several months with no answer, Chaz had driven down from L.A. to visit. Gerry wouldn’t open the door, but spoke through it. “I can’t do it without him. Don’t you understand? The music’s gone!” Gerry slid down to the floor with his back against the door and refused to say anything else. Chaz pounded for a while, and eventually gave up.

  “If you change your mind,” he said finally, “you have my number. I won’t give up, even if you have.”

  Now, all Gerry heard from Chaz came in the form of birthday and Christmas cards. Both of them went directly into the trash. Everything music-related, stereo included, went into the second bedroom with the door shut. Bad enough when he went to coffee shops that had jazz playing over the speakers. Every reminder of what he’d lost hurt like hell. Eventually, he stopped going out save for his walks along the beach. Thank goodness he’d paid off his condo in full, and his only bills came in the form of utilities. He’d cancelled his phone and even the Internet when all he seemed to find were stories of Javier’s overseas successes or the rare reviewer wondering what had happened to Gerry and his career. He’d sold his car, and his savings and royalties were enough to live on.

  From somewhere in the complex, strains of Christmas music snuck through his walls, along with several loud, male voices. A peek out the window confirmed his suspicions ‑‑ a late-night marshmallow roast at the firepit outside in the courtyard. They were so loud and raucous Gerry figured their hot chocolate was probably spiked with something stronger than schnapps.

  He couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t just because of the music. The past three Christmas Eves were the same ‑‑ he’d stayed up all night, because going to bed meant he’d be there alone with the memories of the way the night should have been.

  The music got louder. Gerry groaned and pounded his forehead against the window. “I can’t do this again. I can’t.” Especially while listening to drunks sing about poor elderly women getting trampled by reindeers. They were all out there having a good time with each other, and he was alone. Again.

  The condo felt suddenly claustrophobic. He had to get away. Anywhere. Now.

  Without thinking, he walked out the front door, not even bothering to lock it. He didn’t have anything worth stealing, and if it disappeared, he didn’t care. The wind chilled his skin, but he welcomed the numbing cold, wishing his heart and mind could be as numb as his toes.

  “Hey, man, watch it! You made me lose my marshmallow!” one of the revelers told him when he shoved his way past. They all laughed drunkenly. Gerry tried not to notice that they were all men, one or two of them shirtless and braving the night air. Firelight made their skin glow, and Gerry was suddenly hungry for the warmth and companionship they had.

  He forced the emotions away and kept walking, heading toward the beach, praying that the sound of the waves would drown out his misery.

  * * * * *

  After such a late gig that bled into the morning of Christmas Eve, Paz didn’t feel like going to bed. Neither did his friend, bass player Annie. Instead, they grabbed some breakfast burritos from one of the Mexican food stands and parked along the street at Ocean Beach to watch the sunrise and the waves. The place was deserted at this hour, without even the usual early runners and surfers. The lousy weather combined with the holidays, Paz suspected. Most people would take any chance they got to sleep in. Annie popped the hatch so they could sit in the back of her old Honda Civic with their legs dangling. Paz leaned against one of the amps she carted around.
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  “They’re huge, aren’t they?” Paz said, using his burrito to gesture to the unusually high waves. Several of them managed to crash over the top of the Ocean Beach Pier. “Glad I have this week off and don’t have to be out there today.” Paz’s passion was playing his saxophone, but he earned his money lifeguarding over on Coronado Island. Thankfully, few people ventured into the chilly water this time of year, so he didn’t have to go pull them out.

  “I’m glad too,” Annie said around a mouthful of burrito. Her day job was working at the copy shop in Hillcrest, the gay-friendly part of town. She claimed it was because she could work the schedule around her gigs, but Paz knew his friend liked to ogle the pretty men. “I’m surprised no one’s come to close the pier yet.” She reached back and grabbed one of the old Mexican blankets to wrap around herself. “Damn wind. Hey, did I tell you about the Norwegian that came in the shop the other day? Maybe he wasn’t really Norwegian, but he was tall and had blond hair, and I swear he’d just been to the gym. He’d be perfect for you. He was just wearing a wifebeater and a pair of tight, tight bike shorts that left nothing to the imagination…”

  That’s what he loved about her. She was always looking out for him, trying to hook him up with the perfect man. Paz half-listened as Annie rambled about her latest eligible gay bachelor, and watched the traditional O.B. Christmas tree bend in the wind. They always had a good laugh about the tree, which looked like someone picked it because they felt sorry for it rather than because it was a prime example of its kind. Limbs projected sparsely from its trunk, and half the branches were missing on one side. The ornaments ‑‑ beach balls and other inflatable toys ‑‑ flapped in the gusts.

  One, a bright pink beach ball, broke loose from its string and bounced up along the street, buoyed by the wind. It hit one of the buildings, and then traveled along the path behind the parking lot that led to the pier’s entrance. It disappeared from sight, but another bright flash of color caught Paz’s eye. A lone figure, dressed in cargo pants and an unbuttoned fuchsia shirt that flapped in the wind, shuffled along the path and turned toward the pier.