Venetian Masks (7 page)

“Funds are a little tight. I have a business proposition for you.”

Before Jeff could ask for clarification—and he really wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it anyway—the waiter brought them small white plates containing tiny fish on one side and even tinier shrimp on the other.

“
Sarde in saor
and
schie
,” Cleve announced, which wasn’t especially informative.

But then Jeff took a bite and decided he didn’t care what he was eating, because it was really tasty. He concentrated on his food, savoring the flavor and spending a few minutes with the happy delusion that Cleve had actually been attracted to him—as opposed to the reality of Cleve deciding he was an easy mark for whatever scam he was running. Well, at least he was getting a good meal and attractive company out of it.

Only after the waiter cleared away their empty plates did Jeff meet Cleve’s eyes again. “Business proposition?” Jeff asked.

Cleve smiled. “Yeah. You’re in town for how much longer?”

After a quick mental calculation, Jeff said, “Five days.”

“Perfect. How ’bout you hire me for five days?”

If Jeff had been eating, he would have choked. As it was, he just sort of sputtered for a moment until he found his tongue. “Are you a… a
gigolo
?” Was that the right term?

Cleve’s warm eyes went flat and hard. “I fuck who I want to. I’m not a goddamn whore,” he hissed.

This time, Jeff’s flush was from mortification. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“’S okay,” Cleve interrupted, the muscles in his face relaxing. “I can see how you got the wrong impression. I only meant that I could be your personal tour guide. You know, show you the sights, the good places to eat, stuff like that.”

As if on cue, the waiter arrived with something that looked like spaghetti, only black. The pasta glistened with olive oil, and chunks of something unidentifiable nestled among the strands. The waiter opened a bottle of white wine and poured them each a glass and then left the bottle on the table before hurrying away. Cleve waited until Jeff took a bite.

“Mmm!” Jeff said after he swallowed. “This is great.”

“
Spaghetti con seppie in nero
. Squid ink noodles.”

“Squid ink?”

“Yep. And the wine’s a nice pinot grigio.”

Jeff made another humming sound of approval when he tasted the wine. He had to admit, whatever this guy’s angle was, he was a good judge of cuisine. Left to his own devices, Jeff would probably have been eating a sandwich for dinner, or maybe more pizza. Certainly not squid ink. He felt rather cosmopolitan.

Cleve took a piece of crusty bread from a basket on the table and used it to sop up some of the sauce on his plate. For just a moment, before he wiped his mouth with a napkin, olive oil glistened on his lips. Jeff groaned quietly and turned his attention back to his own plate.

“So what you get,” Cleve said after a while, “is someone who can show you around. I know this city inside and out, and I promise I won’t steer you wrong. You’ll have a vacation you’ll never forget. And you’ll get some company too—company who can translate as needed.”

Jeff used his own napkin and gave his companion a long look. “And you get? I’m not rich, you know.”

Smiling as if he’d already won, Cleve refilled their wine glasses. “I’m not asking for much. I don’t need much, really. You pay for my meals and tickets, and… one hundred euros a day. It’s a bargain. You’d pay way more for a real tour guide, and I won’t be taking you to any crappy tourist traps.”

At least some of what Cleve was saying was true. Jeff had priced tour guides back when he and Kyle were going to travel together, and most of them charged over a hundred bucks an hour. Of course, most of them were probably professionals, not gorgeous guys of questionable honesty and obscure background. He should refuse—that was the safe and rational thing to do. But dammit, Cleve was so fucking handsome and, he had to face it, Jeff was lonely. Besides, the bitter, mean part of Jeff’s brain was pleased at the idea that Kyle was back in boring Sacramento with his boring boyfriend, whereas Jeff could be rambling around one of the world’s most romantic cities with a really hot guy at his disposal.

“I have to think about it,” Jeff said carefully.

“Sure. We can just hang for now. Enjoy dinner.”

A moment later the waiter reappeared, this time with a large platter, which he set in the middle of the table. He gave them each a small plate, had a brief interchange in Italian with Cleve, and then wished them “Buon appetito,” the meaning of which even Jeff could decipher.

“This is
bollito misto
,” Cleve explained. “Mixed seafood. Some of it’s steamed or grilled with a little olive oil, but some of it’s raw, like this tuna.” He used his fork to spear a chunk of purply-red fish, which he shoved into his mouth. “Oh, man. That’s good,” he said after swallowing.

Jeff wasn’t a big sushi fan. He was always a little suspicious of the stuff. But Venice was on the water, and he’d already seen the nice fresh wares at the fish market. So with a mental shrug, he tried some tuna. His eyes nearly rolled up in his head when the flavor hit his palate. “Oh my God.”

“I know.” Cleve laughed. “It’s not even in the same galaxy as the crap your mom drowned in mayo and put on Wonder Bread.”

“Whole grain. My mom wouldn’t let me eat Wonder Bread.”

A strange, almost wistful look appeared on Cleve’s face and then immediately disappeared. “Dig in, my friend. We got scallops, sea bass, sardines… oh, and these little guys over here are baby octopus.”

It was all completely delicious. Jeff followed Cleve’s lead and cleaned his plate with the bread, which was also fantastic. By the time the fish were gone and the wine bottle empty, Jeff’s stomach was very full and he was feeling slightly buzzed. Kyle had always teased him about being a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

A fairly long conversation ensued between Cleve and the waiter, at the end of which the waiter nodded enthusiastically and left for the kitchen. Cleve ran his fingers over his jaw, which was dark with bristles. Jeff was slightly envious—he could never grow much of a beard, and Kyle had liked to tease sometimes, calling him babyface.

“So while you’re still considering my offer, why don’t you tell me something about yourself,” Cleve said. “That way if you say yes, maybe I’ll have some particular ideas where to take you.”

Jeff’s response was uncertain. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, you haven’t been to Venice before, I got that. Where have you been?”

“Nowhere.”

Cleve lifted a single eyebrow. “What? You’re some kinda monk or hermit or something?”

“No, just boring. I’ve been to places in California and once I went to Canada. That’s it. Oh, my parents took us to the Grand Canyon when I was a kid.”

To Jeff’s relief, Cleve didn’t look judgmental. “Cool,” he said with a little grin. “So you’re a virgin. What do you do when you’re not globe-trotting or IT-ing? Or working out,” he added. “’Cause I can see you do that a lot.”

Dammit, Jeff was blushing again. “I read, mostly. I like to watch geeky stuff. You know, the kind of things with lasers or sword fighting. I… I don’t know. I guess that’s about it.” He winced. “Boring.”

“Naw, man, it’s fine. Normal. I could really go for some normal right now.” For some reason, that last sentence rang with more sincerity than anything he’d said over the last two hours. Jeff wondered briefly what could lead such a good-looking man to crave dullness.

When the waiter came this time, he had a tray. He started removing things and placing them on the table: two slices of cake, two espressos in white cups, a bowl of sugar cubes, and forks and spoons.

“Tiramisu,” Cleve said, pointing with the tines of his fork.

“Oh, I’ve had that before.”

“But you haven’t had Venetian tiramisu, dude. Try it.”

Jeff did, and it was the best he’d ever had.

Cleve smiled triumphantly and stirred two sugar cubes into his espresso. “What made you decide to visit Venice, Just Jeff?”

“It was… it wasn’t really my idea.”

There went that eyebrow again. “What? Someone put a gun to your head and forced you?”

Jeff took three bites of cake and a sip of espresso and then stared over Cleve’s shoulder at a murky painting hanging on the wall—maybe a ship, but he couldn’t be sure. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Cleve didn’t look offended. “Sure, man. How about… your family. You have a mother who’s a health nut, right? Who else?”

“Just my dad,” Jeff replied carefully. “He’s retired.”

“An only child, huh? Me too.”

Jeff was going to ask about the sudden disappearance of McKinley and Roosevelt but decided against it. Cleve would only make up another story anyway, and it didn’t really matter. Either Jeff was going to give in to temptation and shell out the bucks for the man’s company over the next days, or he wasn’t. Cleve’s fabrications wouldn’t make much difference one way or the other. Hell, nothing was stopping Jeff from making up tales of his own. Maybe by morning he’d decide he’d been raised by wolves or that he used to be an astronaut.

“What’s funny?” Cleve asked.

“Nothing. I just… it was a good dinner. Thanks.” Jeff was sincere in his gratitude at least.

And maybe Cleve could tell, because a pleased, almost shy smile stole across his face.

When the waiter brought the bill, Jeff was a little shocked at the total. But it had been an excellent meal, possibly the best he’d ever eaten, so he guessed it was worth it. Of course, he paid for both of them.

Outside in the
campo
, a chilly, damp breeze was blowing, making Cleve shiver in his thin blazer. “You decided yet?”

“I’m going to have to sleep on it. Is that all right?”

Cleve frowned slightly but shrugged. “Whatever.”

“If you give me your phone number—”

“I don’t have a phone.”

That was either another lie or very strange. Jeff didn’t know anyone under the age of forty who didn’t have a cell phone. “Fine. How about this. If I’m interested, I’ll meet you tomorrow at… ten in the morning. At the same café where we met this afternoon. If I’m not there, it means the answer is no.” Which was maybe a little cruel, but Cleve had left Jeff wondering earlier whether he’d be stood up.

“Okay. Ten it is. And thanks for dinner.”

“It was a pleasure,” Jeff replied honestly.

They shook hands, and Jeff remained at the edge of the deserted
campo
, watching Cleve walk away. Although Cleve’s strides were strong, there was something strangely vulnerable about the set of his shoulders, something sad about the sound of his footsteps on the cobbles. Jeff could hear him long after Cleve had disappeared down one of the narrow streets. Jeff sighed and walked in the opposite direction.

Chapter 5

J
EFF
was driving a convertible with the top down. He had the radio on and he was singing along at the top of his lungs, and his hair was flying everywhere so he could hardly see. He was driving so fast that the tires left the road, and he sailed through the air, dipping over fields and then soaring over treetops.

With the wind in his ears and the music in his throat, he didn’t hear the calling at first. And when he did hear it, he ignored it—it didn’t mean anything to him. Except it got louder and louder, and the car began to sink, and that’s when the calls became voices screaming his name. Familiar voices.

He followed the road around a bend, and there were his brothers, only they were small and much younger than he was. They were covered in blood and looking behind them in terror because something was chasing them. Jeff didn’t know
what
, but he knew it was fucking horrible.

“Help us!” shrieked the boys. “Help us, Jeffy!”

And Jeff thought about it, he really did. But if he landed, he’d never get the car aloft again, and the Something might get him too. So as his brothers pleaded brokenly, he stepped on the gas and the car shot back up into the sky, and for a short time he felt relief.

But only for a short time, because the blue above him turned to steely gray and thunder began to boom. Jeff knew that the Something had devoured his brothers—and now it was coming for him.

H
E
WOKE
up sweaty and breathing hard, but his throat wasn’t raw. That’s what the drugs did for him. They didn’t stop the dreams, didn’t even soften them, but the meds kept the nightmares from taking hold until later in the night—almost morning if he was lucky—and kept him from waking up in the middle of a full-fledged panic attack.

Yay for modern medicine.

He’d seen a shrink for a while. Still did, actually, at least often enough to keep his prescription going. Years ago, he’d asked the shrink when the fucking dreams would end, and the woman had looked at him with her plastic, professional sympathy and said, “That depends on you, Jeff.”

Well, apparently depending on him was a bad idea, because here he was a long time later and thousands of miles away, and the nightmares were still there.