Jazzy Little Christmas Read online

  No more thinking about Javier, he’d thought. No more gaping hole in his heart where his music had been. He’d finally gotten himself numb enough to forget and not care about anything at all. Bliss ‑‑ until someone had come after him.

  “Bastard,” he told Paz. “Why?”

  “I’m a lifeguard.” Yes, yes he was, by the look of the muscled arms left bare by his tank top. “And I couldn’t bear the thought of letting you drown before I had a chance to play with you. I had a hard-on for the whole damn concert. You know that?”

  “For Javier.” His voice cracked.

  “No.” Paz stroked Gerry’s arm. Gerry almost drew away in discomfort, but there was something sincere and soothing in the young man’s touch, and for one brief, crazy moment, Gerry didn’t mind being nearly naked at all. “For the music. And for you.”

  * * * * *

  Paz’s friends joked that he should have been a psychologist because he was so good at reading people and knowing what to say. He said a lot of it came from music, being able to read the emotion that wasn’t on the surface. Some instinct told him when other musicians weren’t playing freely, from their souls. The trick was being able to tease it out of other shy or nervous horn players and get them to play as well as he knew they could.

  Could he do it with Gerry? If just the mention of Javier’s name made him withdraw, what would sitting down at a piano do to him? Giving lessons was 25 percent technique and 75 percent psychology, his teacher had said, and Paz had to agree. Easy enough to tell someone to put your fingers here or your mouth there, but when it came to getting them to believe that they could play, or to trust themselves enough to stop worrying about which notes to play over the chord changes and just play, that was where the psychology, and the difficulty, lay.

  Besides, he felt like he owed Gerry, the first man other than Nate to whom he’d admitted being gay. It was Gerry’s approval that had given him the strength to come out to the whole band that night, and the confidence had made his playing grow immensely.

  Paz helped him up and showed him the bathroom. When Gerry came out, blanket still clutched around his waist, Paz asked, “You all right? Need any painkillers?”

  “No. Thanks.” He swayed a little. “How’d I get so cut up?”

  “That’s from all the fun stuff growing under the pier. I tried, but you hit the pylons at least once before I got to you. And, uh, some of it probably came from running you into the railing when I was trying to save us.”

  Gerry looked at him, but Paz didn’t know how to read the expression behind his eyes. Hurt? Shame? Guilt? Whatever it was, he seemed so lost and forlorn. Paz nodded to his old Yamaha upright in the living room. “I’ve got a piano over there. Play for me?”

  Gerry blanched and looked ill. “No, I can’t. I ‑‑”

  “You owe me for saving your life,” Paz said, thinking of that old idiom of having to get back on a horse right after one fell off. Gerry had fallen off his musical horse three years ago, and it was high time for him to get back on again. “Get your handsome ass over to the piano bench. Now.” He poked Gerry in the chest with his finger.

  “But ‑‑” Gerry clutched the blanket up around his chest. “I only have on these ‑‑”

  Paz saw his dismay and grinned. “Sorry, I’m smaller than you, and your things are in a plastic bag, all salty and soaking wet. I’ll be happy to get them if you really want, but they’re going to chafe.”

  From the look on his face, salty underwear was definitely not something he wanted to experience. “You don’t have a washer and dryer in this place?”

  “Well, yes. It’s outside and down the way, but I’m out of quarters, and all the stores are closed. Besides, it’s still windy outside. Much better to stay in, I think. Go on. Sit, and don’t worry ‑‑ I had a tuner out last month.”

  Still a little unsteady, Gerry had little choice but to go where Paz directed him.

  Gerry stared at the piano, unable to move.

  “What’s the matter?” Paz embraced him from behind and rested his chin on Gerry’s shoulder. “Did you forget how? Do I need to show you?” He slid his hands along Gerry’s arms until he clasped the back of Gerry’s hands. “Like this. Your fingers go on the keys…”

  Gerry trembled as Paz guided his hands to the keyboard. Touching the keys was a physical hurt. He loved music. Always had. But now, with every note came the memory of Javier and the hours they’d spent together practicing or gigging, not to mention the times Gerry had spent whole afternoons composing the perfect song to show off Javier’s voice.

  Paz hugged him tighter, and, oddly, Gerry was grateful for the physical contact.

  “It’s all right. Play. Play for me, for the horny college boy in the audience that couldn’t wait to get you alone.”

  “I didn’t know sax players could be so raunchy. I thought that was for the trombones.” God. What was he doing? Flirting? Paz was cute. Good-looking. His type, if he’d ever managed to look beyond Javier. Maybe it would be worth it, to humor the young man who’d rescued him.

  “Oh, we’re not raunchy ‑‑ just tenacious. Have to play as loud as all those damn brass players, you know.” Paz squeezed Gerry's shoulders for encouragement. “Just start with something simple. It’s Christmas. What’s your favorite tune?”

  Gerry put one finger on the keyboard. On A. He pushed down. Delicately he picked out Good King Wenceslas with a single finger.

  A mistake. Gerry’s entire body shook. He knew why he’d picked it. Nina Simone had used the tune on one of her albums and mixed it with another song entirely, Rogers and Hart’s Little Girl Blue. It was still there, etched in his memory, and it wasn’t Nina’s voice singing over it but Javier’s.

  He jerked his hands away from the piano as if there’d been a snake there instead of the innocent black-and-white keys. He stood too quickly and knocked over the piano bench in his haste to get away. Blundering past Paz, he got as far away from the piano as he could and faced the wall with his face buried in his hands.

  Dammit. This isn’t going well at all, Paz thought. Gerry stood in the corner between the patio door and the iconic John Coltrane poster. Paz couldn’t tell if he was crying, but he was definitely shaking, all the way down to the shiny green boxers outlining his gorgeous ass. The blanket lay tangled in the legs of the overturned piano bench.

  Paz walked up to him and began to massage Gerry’s shoulders. He still smelled like the ocean. Paz probably should have offered him a shower, but… “What’s wrong?” He wasn’t crying, after all. Paz wondered if he’d cried when Javier left. “Tell me.”

  “It’s a block. Writer’s block. Composer’s block, rather. I can’t write anymore. I can’t play anymore, not since ‑‑”

  “Not since that asshole Javier left you for no good reason at all.” Paz took off his neck strap and looped it around Gerry’s head. “Come here. Let me show you what I know about writer’s block.”

  Once Gerry turned around, Paz kissed him, long and full on the lips. Gerry didn’t resist, probably still too lost in his own pain to really focus. “It’s only a tune. One little Christmas song. He’s gone. It’s over, and I’m here.” Paz leaned forward so his mouth was right next to Gerry’s ear. He said, softly, “Play for me. Play with me.”

  Gerry hung his head. Paz kept his cheek touching Gerry’s, nuzzling him, rimming the other man’s ear with his tongue. One hand went to the back of Gerry’s neck to massage it, trying to get him to relax. The other hand still clung to the neck strap so Gerry couldn’t move away.

  Paz almost felt guilty at being so forward, but Gerry didn’t resist. A minute later, the trembling ceased, and Gerry actually leaned into Paz’s touch. He was like a cat, maneuvering his body so Paz would touch him where it felt the best.

  This was wrong. Had to be, the way he was taking advantage of a half-stunned Gerry. The pianist was lonely and scared, and hadn’t had another man in three years. Paz couldn’t help but imagine what tensions must have built up inside him, and how t
hey might need to be released…

  Gerry must be feeling them, too. Paz groaned when he felt Gerry’s cock, hard and erect, thrust between his legs. Damn the shorts that got in their way. Paz felt his own erection starting. He wanted Gerry. Had, ever since that concert, and now Gerry was here, turning to clay under his fingers…

  Gerry found the bottom of Paz’s tank top and pulled it up and over Paz’s head. A moment later, Gerry swung him around so Paz’s back was pressed to the wall, and then it was Gerry in control. Hot lips pressed against Paz’s. A searching tongue entered his mouth before releasing him to search down his neck and shoulders.

  Paz noticed that whatever Gerry had lost, it certainly hadn’t been his ability to read another man sexually. Paz rolled his head along the wall, lost in the ecstasy of finally living out his dream. He was here with Gerry and his hands…

  A swift tug and Paz’s shorts were undone, slipping down to his feet. Gerry pressed against him, his erection rubbing at Paz’s through the silk boxers. The sensation sent another jolt of pleasure through Paz. Gerry’s hands slipped inside the elastic band of Paz’s boxers and teased him, fingering his balls and gently manipulating them until Paz thought he’d go mad from the touch. His mouth found Gerry’s again and kissed him.

  Gerry slipped Paz's boxers down and off. Paz yanked the neck strap from around Gerry’s neck and sent it flying across the room. Gerry swung him around again and pushed Paz backwards until he was on the couch and knelt between his spread legs. The feel of Gerry’s tongue on his cock and balls sent a delicious heat through him, far more expert than poor Nate. Gerry swallowed his cock as far as he could, and did some delightful little thing with his throat.

  Heat surged through him. Much more and Paz wouldn’t be able to keep from coming.

  Gerry seemed to sense it. He released Paz’s cock and rubbed his cheek alongside it. “Javier. Sing for me…”

  Paz went cold. Gerry wasn’t making love to him, but to the ghost of his disappeared lover.

  “Stop it,” Paz said, and when Gerry didn’t: “Stop it right now!”

  This time he grabbed a chunk of brown hair and forced Gerry’s head away. “I’m not Javier!”

  * * * * *

  The words echoed in Gerry’s skull long after the bedroom door slammed shut. I’m not Javier.

  The throbbing in his chest brought him back to reality. Not Javier. Paz. A sax player. Gerry remembered him, a nice college kid, shy but sincere. The fumbling way he’d tried to tell Gerry he, too, was gay ‑‑ and the uproar after the concert when he’d kissed his boyfriend. Gerry and Javier had talked about the incident on the ride home that night and laughed at the way it had all turned out.

  What the hell had he been thinking of? Kneeling on the ground with his face in another man’s crotch…

  …and enjoying it. So had Paz, until Gerry had made a horrible mistake. He wracked his brain as to what might have made him slip up besides the hospital drugs, which had been steadily wearing off. They weren’t really all that similar. They shared the same black hair, but Javier was Brazilian, Paz Mexican-American. Javier had been taller, his hair longer, and a few years older. Paz was more down-to-earth, more realistic.

  And, Gerry’s heart nagged him, more sincere. For all that he’d known Javier’s voice and body, he hadn’t really known his lover’s mind. Otherwise he would have known that Javier was only with him for the fame and the fucking.

  Gerry hugged his chest. Damn Javier. And damn himself for being so blind. There’d been several gigs Javier had done without him that had gone later than they should have. Most often, the ones with Miles, and by the time Javier got home, all he wanted to do was sleep without even cuddling, and he barely put up with the goodnight kiss. But by morning, he’d be in the kitchen, singing as he made breakfast, and Gerry would push the doubts out of his mind.

  He knew exactly why his feet had led him to the pier, storm and all. Javier had used him, and taken every shred of self-worth with him when he left. Now, Paz was trying to give all that back to him, but Gerry didn’t know if he was ready to accept help like that, especially from someone he barely knew.

  He rapped lightly at the bedroom door. “Paz?” No answer. “Look. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I owe you, but…I’ll just go home.” How he’d do that, he didn’t know. He had no idea in what part of the city he was, and nothing to wear. “Okay? Thanks for everything, really, but I’m going to head out now.”

  “No, you won’t.” The door swung open. Paz had slipped on another pair of cargo shorts. His erection had either died or he’d spent the past few minutes getting rid of it himself. “Not until you play for me. I’ve waited too damn long.”

  “I told you. I can’t ‑‑”

  “Then I’ll start.” Paz stalked past him, retrieved his neck strap from the floor and hooked it on his tenor. He sucked on the reed to wet it, and blew.

  Gerry turned away, determined not to listen, but something in the tone made him turn around again. Paz had his eyes closed and played as if there was nobody around. Gerry felt like a voyeur as he watched the younger man’s body sway. Only a simple tune, O Holy Night, but it was good. He added several little flourishes just to prove he knew how to play, but it was the feeling behind it that kept Gerry listening. He needed to be a part of that, needed to play…

  Gingerly, he righted the piano bench and sat down. His fingers hovered over the keys, trembling, before he finally gave in to the music. Only one little fumble before he found the right key, and he was there, supporting Paz’s melody, embellishing below as Paz did the same above.

  They finished that tune, but Paz led straight into a different one, and another. Gerry followed. Christmas tunes were easy, and fun, and for the first time in years, he enjoyed playing. For kicks, they changed the style to Latin.

  Gerry hardly noticed when Paz quit playing. He kept going, lost in his own little world, relieved at finding himself able to play again.

  Paz’s quiet mutter brought him out of his reverie. “Oh, hell.”

  Gerry looked at him, recognizing the reason for the anguish in his face. “You seriously get a hard-on when you listen to Latin jazz?”

  “I seriously do, and it’s worse watching you. You have the most gorgeous hands. Did you know that? I couldn’t stop watching the first time I saw you.”

  Knowing that another man lusted after him did a great deal to ease his self-consciousness. Paz wasn’t just being flattering. He really, really wanted Gerry.

  Paz put his sax back on the stand. “So you can play, but what about that writer’s block?”

  Gerry felt sheepish. “I could get inspired from several things, but there was one very good way.”

  “What? Listening to Javier’s pretty voice?”

  “No…giving him a good fuck.”

  Paz gaped at him with such an innocent look Gerry couldn’t help but laugh. “I could hear music when I made love to him. I think in tempos and beats. They come from such a-a primal place inside me.” He grinned. “I wonder what the Grammy committee would have thought of that? I can’t write ‑‑ can’t play ‑‑ unless I fuck a man first.”

  “I don’t care what they would think. I know what I do. I want you playing again, whatever it takes. I want you to be human again, not an animal hiding in a cave. I want you to be a man ‑‑ my man. I don’t have the right, but…” His voice trembled. “I’ve known ever since that concert. It would be you. I just had to be patient.”

  “I think…” Gerry looked him up and down. “I think I’m ready to try composing again. I may just have found my inspiration.”

  Paz delicately fingered Gerry’s wounded chest. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  “I’m sure,” Gerry said, and kissed him.

  Gerry followed Paz into the bedroom, which was as sparse as the living room. The walls were bare. There was a low platform bed with blue sheets and a striped comforter. A two-drawer nightstand with a lamp and a digital clock on top stood next to the bed. Paz opened the top
drawer and pulled out a container of lube and a pack of condoms. He looked suddenly shy. “I…um…”

  “You haven’t done this before, have you?”

  Paz’s skin darkened in embarrassment. “I’ve only had one real boyfriend, Nate, the guy I kissed at the concert, but we only cuddled or sucked each other off. I think both of us were too scared to try anything further, and after that concert…well, I just couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else.”

  He was so sweet, and sincere, and terribly inviting the way he sat there with his knees bent and legs half apart. Gerry found it hard to explain his own feelings. He wanted Paz, and wanted him badly, but Gerry still doubted himself. He hadn’t had any man besides Javier in years, so what was it about this sax player that made Gerry forget his misery and actually play again?

  Did it even matter? No, Gerry decided. Another part of his mind told him that he damn well better take Paz up on his offer before he lost another source of inspiration forever. “Do you want to now? I mean, all the way?”

  “Yes,” came the unequivocal answer. Paz unbuttoned his shorts and squirmed out of them. This time, he’d forgone his boxers and now sat there naked. Gerry trembled again at the sight, and had to restrain himself from lunging at the young man. “I’ve waited long enough. Play with me, Gerry. Let me be your muse.”

  The sudden rush of heat and desire made Gerry dizzy. He slipped off the horrible boxers and crawled forward between Paz’s legs, looping an arm behind Paz’s neck for support. Their crotches ground slowly together while Gerry kissed him. More comparisons to Javier popped into his head, but Gerry firmly told them to go away. It didn’t matter what had come before. There was only now, with Paz, and learning all about his new partner.

  A little thrill ran through Gerry as he gave in to what his body craved. Bolero, one of the most lyrical styles of Latin music. It fit Paz, the strong lifeguard who’d saved his life, turned suddenly shy in bed. Gerry kissed him down his neck and to the soft curve of his shoulders, making note of how Paz responded to this or that touch. The slow beat of the bolero came clearer, and Gerry could hear a saxophone melody above it, played with the feeling Paz had already expressed.