Venetian Masks Read online

  The response was sharp and succinct. “No.” Then Cleve closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he looked tired and regretful. “I’m sorry. This shit—it won’t touch you. We’re gonna focus on you. You’re the man in charge, right?”

  Jeff snorted. “Since when?”

  “You are. You… you have the whole world just ready for you, you know that? You can go anywhere, see what you want, or you can go back home to people who love you. And find someone a million times better than the ex. Do you have any idea how much some people would give for that?”

  “Like you?”

  Cleve shook his head slightly and worked his jaw, and Jeff took pity on him.

  “I got an e-mail from the ex today,” Jeff said.

  “Yeah? Bastard trying to crawl back to you?”

  Jeff poked viciously at a noodle with the tines of his fork. “Hardly. He wants closure, he says. Mostly I think he wanted to gloat and convince himself he’s not a prick.”

  “Gloat, huh?” Cleve asked pensively. Then he seemed to decide something. He set his napkin on the table and stood. “C’mon. Let’s blow this place.”

  Jeff paid the waiter and followed Cleve back into the gloom. They didn’t go far; when they reached a covered arcade near a canal, Cleve called to a gondolier who was leaning against the wall, looking excruciatingly bored. Whatever Cleve said to him made the guy grin broadly. “Give him twenty euros and your iPhone,” Cleve commanded, and because Jeff knew better by now than to question why, he complied.

  Cleve spent a few moments looking around thoughtfully, then grabbed Jeff’s arm and dragged him over to one of the carved stone columns that supported the building above them. “This is good. You can see the campanile behind you.” He tugged at Jeff a little and then stood beside him, pressing their bodies intimately together. “Look happy to be here, baby,” he whispered in his ear.

  Jeff really didn’t have to act. He knew it was all a show for the camera, but for that minute, he was happy to be there—in Italy on a rainy day with the sexiest man he’d ever met breathing warmly in his face. So he smiled as the gondolier snapped some photos, and he didn’t squirm with embarrassment when Cleve brought their mouths together in a long, deep kiss. They cupped each other’s heads as they kissed, Jeff’s pinkies against the damp and tender nape of Cleve’s neck. For a short time, it was as if the gondolier and the camera weren’t even there.

  Eventually, though, their makeshift photographer laughed and said something lewd-sounding, and Cleve broke off the kiss to smirk at him. Jeff got his phone back, but Cleve immediately took it away to scroll through the pictures. “Yeah,” he said with satisfaction. “Send Mr. Closure a couple of those.”

  And the really bizarre thing was that, at that very moment, Jeff did feel closure. It was as if a door had shut very firmly, and suddenly he didn’t care anymore what was on the other side. Let Kyle have his lawyer and his penthouse—Jeff was having a bona fide adventure, and however things turned out in the end, his experience during a few Venetian days felt more valuable than long, boring years in a mediocre relationship.

  “I’ve seen Kyle’s new boyfriend,” he said with a grin. “He’s balding and I think he specializes in tax law.”

  From the covered arcade, it was a long, wet walk to Piazza San Marco. Cleve was clearly troubled—he kept glancing around nervously, as if he expected something to jump out at him—but he made an obvious effort to keep the conversation light. He spoke about what the city was like at Carnevale, and told a story about a man he’d recently seen who was texting so obliviously that he stepped right into the lagoon. “Couple bystanders had to fish him out, and then his girlfriend stood there and screamed at him while he dripped onto the sidewalk. Tourists took pictures. I bet he’s all over YouTube.”

  The big square was much emptier than usual, with the tourists huddled in arcades or under café awnings. Because it was almost one o’clock, Cleve made Jeff pause to watch the bronze giants on the clock tower strike the hour on the big bell. “Five-hundred-year-old robots, Jeff. I bet some medieval IT guy helped them design the thing.”

  Jeff chuckled, imagining himself in hose and tunic and a silly hat with feathers. Would he get to wear a codpiece?

  Museo Correr made up the south end of St. Mark’s Square. The outside was long and low, elegantly colonnaded, the sort of place where you could easily imagine royalty hanging out. The inside was even more impressive: marble and gilt, fancy domes and crystal chandeliers. Even if Jeff wasn’t usually into museums, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the enormous paintings and beautiful statues. He liked the exhibits that showed Venetian life throughout history, and he was especially pleased when he could recognize some of the locations in centuries-old drawings and paintings.

  They paused at a glass case containing some of the tall wooden platform shoes the locals used to wear to keep their fine clothes out of the water that accumulated on the pavement. “Fashionable,” Jeff said. “Maybe I should get a pair to take home to Sacramento.”

  Cleve was looking at Jeff, not at the shoes. “Home,” he said very quietly. “Sounds so nice.”

  “Sacramento’s not that great. I mean, it’s not horrible, but it’s not all that exciting. It’s pretty much the opposite of exotic.”

  “But it’s home.”

  “Yeah.” Jeff sighed despite himself. “Except I’m about to lose mine.”

  Cleve frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m selling my house. I bought it when Kyle and I hooked up—he was still in school then, so the mortgage is in my name. But he was splitting the costs with me, and now….” He shrugged. But then he saw the slightly stricken look on Cleve’s face and felt guilty. Here Jeff was, whining, when he at least had a home of some kind and knew he’d find someplace else. He didn’t know where Cleve went at night, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t anywhere permanent.

  “Where would you set down roots, Cleve? If you could pick anywhere in the world?”

  Cleve’s answer was immediate and direct. “Where someone loved me, man.”

  They wandered the museum in silence after that until they passed the café and, with unspoken agreement, sat down with cups of espresso. Cleve’s face was drawn, his gaze inward. Jeff wished he had a single fucking clue what was going on in the man’s head.

  An elderly couple sat at the next table. They were both reading books—the man what looked like a novel, the woman a guide to Venice in German—but sometimes they looked up at the same time and smiled at each other. Once they reached across the table and squeezed hands for a moment. They must have had problems in their lives—everyone did—but they had each other and they seemed so content. Jeff had to look away before he was overcome with jealousy.

  “I once read Death in Venice,” Jeff said for no particular reason. “Had to for one of my classes.”

  “Yeah? What’s it about?”

  “Middle-aged guy visits Venice and falls in love with a beautiful boy. He gets obsessed with the kid and follows him around—kinda freaks out the kid’s parents—but never touches him, never even talks to him. And then the old guy dies.”

  Cleve raised his eyebrows. “That’s cheery. Is it one of those ‘Oh, you’re a fag so naturally your life has to be a total tragedy’ things?”

  “Dunno. My prof said it had to do with passion and wisdom and… um, I forget. It’s been a while.” He sipped at his second espresso.

  “Well, it sounds like bullshit to me.” He lifted one corner of his mouth. “You’re not worrying about croaking from cholera, are you?”

  “No, it’s not in my top ten concerns. And I thought you weren’t familiar with the book.”

  Cleve shrugged, apparently unworried about being caught in another untruth. “Maybe I saw the movie. Anyway, you’re not middle-aged and I’m not a kid.” That mysterious shadow passed briefly across his face. “I’m definitely not a kid anymore. Plus, we touched, kiddo.”

  Jeff blushed, which made Cleve laugh.

&nbs
p; ALTHOUGH gray clouds still hung low in the sky and the air was cold, the rain had stopped by the time they left the museum, so they simply wandered for a while. Jeff bought his mother an eight-euro scarf he thought might go with the earrings, but he couldn’t find anything just right for his father.

  “Maybe I’ll find him something in Vienna,” he said as they left a shop, empty-handed.

  “That where you’re going next, Just Jeff?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ll like it. It’s a lot bigger than Venice and pretty gay-friendly.”

  Jeff splashed through a puddle. “Yeah, I saw even the official website has a whole queer section.”

  “There’s a decent club scene, if you’re into that.”

  After waiting a minute or two, Jeff said carefully, “Sounds like you know Vienna pretty well.”

  “Sure. As well as Venice, probably, but my Italian’s better than my German.”

  “You know… I wouldn’t mind a guide there.”

  Cleve stopped in the middle of the street, nearly causing a collision with the lady behind him. “I can’t,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure. I mean, of course. I didn’t—”

  Cleve grabbed Jeff’s arm. “I would. You gotta believe me on this, okay? I want to. Fuck, I’d give anything….” He shook his head and released Jeff. “I just can’t.”

  “Okay,” Jeff replied evenly and continued walking. Cleve waited a few seconds before hurrying to catch up.

  Chapter 8

  CLEVE got more nervous as the afternoon wore on, until finally Jeff said, “Look. If we’re done, I’ll pay you now and you can go.”

  “Do you want me to go now?”

  “No,” Jeff answered with complete honesty.

  Cleve rewarded him with a bright smile. “Good. I got an idea. C’mon.”

  Apparently, Cleve’s idea involved a visit to Billa, where he quickly cruised the aisles, throwing various things into the basket on his arm. When he paused in front of the beer display, Jeff pushed him gently forward. “I have some back at the apartment.”

  Jeff was pretty pleased that he knew how to bag his groceries this time.

  They each carried a bag back to the time-share. Mita was at the desk when they entered; she looked at Jeff with a broad smile that was maybe just a little smug. “So is it love yet, Signore Dawkins?”

  Predictably, Jeff’s face reddened. “Sh-she means Venice,” he stammered quickly to Cleve. “She means have I fallen in love with Venice.”

  Cleve’s expression was definitely a smirk. “And have you?” he asked, his head cocked slightly.

  “Yeah. I guess I have.”

  Mita seemed to take that as a personal triumph and looked delighted. Cleve looked happy too, although the hint of those shadows remained in his eyes. “Have a good evening,” she said to them both.

  Cleve responded with something in Italian that made her laugh and waggle her pierced eyebrows in Jeff’s direction. Jeff’s face heated a few more degrees, and he stomped off in the direction of his apartment.

  The dinner they prepared was not fancy. Cleve panfried a couple of steaks and boiled some pasta while Jeff chopped lettuce and veggies for a salad. The little kitchen was crowded with the two of them and Jeff’s drying laundry, and they tended to bump into each other as they worked. But Jeff didn’t mind at all, and Cleve was more relaxed than he’d been all day.

  Jeff cleared the brochures and things off the wooden table, and they sat down to eat. Even though the steak was a little burned on the outside and the noodles perhaps a shade too al dente for his taste, it was somehow one of the nicest meals he’d ever had.

  “Mind if I hang out with you a while?” Cleve asked when they were done.

  “God no.”

  Cleve pointed at Jeff’s laptop. “Gonna send ass hat a picture?”

  Jeff laughed. With Cleve looking over his shoulder, he uploaded the photos of the two of them making out, chose a couple of the best ones, and attached them to an e-mail addressed to Kyle.

  Kyle,

  I am in Italy and I’m having a great time. Venice is amazing. And you know what? You’re right. It was all definitely for the best.

  Have a nice life,

  Jeff

  “Is that kind of mean and petty?” Jeff asked.

  “Who the fuck cares? I just wish we could see his face when he gets this.”

  Jeff hit the Send button.

  They ended up on the couch, sort of leaning against each other, watching CSI dubbed into Italian. That was nice too. Not that Jeff and Kyle had never watched TV together, but they tended to squabble over the remote and they rarely actually touched each other while they sat. After CSI was an Italian-made comedy that was completely incomprehensible to Jeff. Cleve pretended to translate, but his translations were mostly obscene and physically improbable acts that made Jeff snort and giggle like a twelve-year-old.

  “Gotta take a leak,” Jeff announced when a commercial for Fiats came on.

  “Congratulations.”

  Jeff was only in the bathroom for a minute or two. When he came back to the living room and saw what was in Cleve’s hands, he froze in his tracks. Cleve looked up at him with his biggest smirk yet. “Oh, Just Jeff. The Vicomte’s Kiss?”

  “I… I…. It’s a historical novel.”

  Cleve held the Kindle in one hand, cleared his throat, and began reading in an overly dramatic voice: “‘Tristan LeCoeur watched as the shirtless peasant lifted the heavy bags and tossed them onto the wagon as if they weighed nothing at all. Sweat glistened on the man’s broad, hairless chest, and when he bent, his muscular buttocks threatened to tear the fabric of his breeches. Heat gathered in LeCoeur’s loins as’—I’m sure it’s very historically accurate, man.”

  Jeff lunged for the e-reader, but he was too slow. Cleve jumped to his feet and scrambled away, waving the Kindle teasingly. “Cleve!” Jeff yelled.

  “Hey, hold on a minute. I’m learning here. Let’s see…. ‘Heat gathered in LeCoeur’s loins as he watched the man work, but that was nothing compared to the burning desire he saw in blue eyes when the peasant turned to look in his direction. “Sacre bleu!” swore LeCoeur, knowing how his peers would react if he were to openly follow the dictates of his heart. But—’”

  Jeff grabbed again, this time barely missing Cleve, who ducked away, laughing. “Give it back!” Jeff demanded.

  “And miss finding out whether Tristan LeCoeur followed the dictates of his heart? No way.”

  “Asshole.”

  “He’s following the dictates of his asshole? I guess that works too.”

  This time Jeff was a little faster and Cleve was a little slower, but Jeff’s stocking feet slipped on the slick tile floor, sending him crashing into Cleve. They both fell, Jeff landing on top with a painful crash of elbow and knees. Somehow, Cleve managed to keep the Kindle gripped safely in his hand.

  “Give it,” said Jeff, reaching.

  But then Cleve did an interesting little wiggle beneath him, and suddenly the vicomte’s adventures seemed a lot less important. Jeff gave up on the tablet and cradled Cleve’s face in his palms instead, then dipped his head for a kiss.

  “I bet old Tristan could learn a thing or two from you,” said Cleve a little breathlessly when their lips parted. He’d allowed the Kindle to slide to the floor, but neither of them cared anymore. “Should be Just Jeff’s Kiss.”

  “I don’t think anyone would buy that book.”

  “I would,” Cleve replied earnestly and kissed him back.

  The kissing was good. Even better was when Jeff dragged his mouth to Cleve’s neck and finally gave in to the urge he’d been feeling for days: to nibble and lick and suck at the skin there, feeling the corded muscles, the fluttery pulse.

  “God,” Cleve moaned. He worked his hands between their bodies and tried to unbutton someone’s jeans—Jeff wasn’t quite sure whose. But Jeff wanted more than another quick, sweaty grope, so he tore himself away and rose to his feet, making Cleve groan with d
isappointment.

  Jeff bent to give him a hand up. “Bed,” Jeff said gruffly.

  “Maybe those romance novels aren’t so bad after all,” said Cleve. “They certainly get you riled up nicely.”

  Jeff responded by swatting at his ass, which made Cleve yelp and swat back, and then they were sort of wrestling, and they really wouldn’t have made it to bed if Jeff hadn’t banged a shin on the edge of the coffee table. He wrapped his fingers around Cleve’s wrist and dragged him out of the room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom.

  “Hang on,” Cleve said when they got there. “Be right back.” Jeff watched from the doorway as he darted out of the room and down the hall to the coatrack, where he’d earlier hung his motorcycle jacket. He dug around in the pockets—there were three or four hundred of them, by Jeff’s estimation—before hooting in triumph and holding up a plastic tube and a small square box. He raced back to Jeff’s side before pushing him all the way back against the bed.

  “Do you always—” Jeff began.

  “No. Stopped at the farmacia this morning.” He smiled brightly. “I was feeling optimistic. Sometimes even I get lucky.” He tossed the lube and condoms on the bedspread and backed away. Very slowly, teasingly, he began to unbutton his shirt.

  Jeff intended to undress too. His hands even made their way to his shirt placket. But he became totally distracted by the clever movements of Cleve’s fingers, by the way the very tip of Cleve’s tongue stuck out between his sensuous lips, by the flecked brown eyes that were hotter than LeCoeur’s peasant’s. When Cleve finally allowed his shirt to fall to the ground, permitting an unobstructed view of his arms and torso, Jeff actually gasped.

  Cleve’s pecs were heavy and lightly dusted with dark hair. His nipples were brownish-pink nubs, already contracted into tempting little peaks. Tight abs led Jeff’s eyes to a dark line of hair that traced its way beneath the waist of Cleve’s jeans. All of that would have been plenty to make Jeff’s mouth water. But then there were the tattoos.