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Chapter 9

Anthony

Anthony didn’t see Freddie for the rest of the night, and after a couple of old fashioneds was doing his best to forget.

The bar was cute, a mix of the historic and the tacky, covered in memorabilia and black and white pictures from the old days. Hollywood icons like Bette Davis and Katherine Hepburn. Burt Reynolds’ nude magazine spread. It filled a need that Anthony had to connect with his gay ancestors. He didn’t have many blood relations, and sometimes the lack of a sense of history made him feel lost, a lone gay wanderer through an unkind world.

He’d pounded the first drink, but he’d slowed down with the second and surveyed the clientele. There were a couple of cute guys, including a blonde twink with a swimmer’s build, wearing a skin-tight beige tank top. He’d glanced at Anthony a few times, and normally, Anthony would be all over it, but tonight was different.

The idea of going home with the guy was unappealing. Which was ridiculous. He was exactly Anthony’s type.

The drunker he got, the more he couldn’t help thinking about Freddie. Freddie was the polar opposite of Anthony’s type. Tall and muscular and strong instead of small and soft. Anthony liked to be the one in charge. Freddie kept trying to impose his rules on Anthony. The bodyguard made him crazy, with his black suits and his perfect face and his broody silence.

That wasn’t right. Nothing about him was perfect. Except for maybe the kiss. It had been both tender and incredibly sexy.

If only it didn’t come from such an annoying person. Anthony had been a little harsh with Freddie, considering he’d just saved him from being kidnapped. But Freddie knew more about this whole affair. Anthony was tired of being left in the dark.

Anthony finished off the third old fashioned and settled up. Getting tipsy had solved none of his problems, and he had rehearsal the next day. No need to end up even more hungover. He made his way back to the hotel room, swiping his key card and steeling himself for Freddie’s presence as he opened the door.

The room was empty. A wave of disappointment ran through Anthony, and he wasn’t sure why. At least now he’d have a peaceful night’s rest, without the guy sitting in the corner like a sleep paralysis demon.

It wasn’t to be. He couldn’t get comfortable, and sleep eluded him. Some time around five in the morning, he forced himself out of bed. Still no sign of Freddie.

Not that it should matter. He wasn’t speaking to the guy, anyway.

The rest of Anthony’s stay in San Francisco was uneventful. Freddie kept his distance, standing at the back of the theater during shows and tailing Anthony as he made his way through the city. Instead of an intrusive warden, he was now a silent shadow.

Anthony didn’t like it.

Cosíopened to rave reviews, with one reviewer calling Anthony’s rendition of his big aria “transcendent.” The critics were happy, the subscribers were happy, Rosemary was happy, and Anthony…

Anthony should have been happy. He wasn’t.

When he got to the opera house for closing night and climbed the aged wooden stairs to his dressing room, the full weight of his exhaustion hit him. His schedule had always been grueling, but usually the energy of live performance canceled that out. This time, though, he didn’t feel energized. He hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a week, and rehearsals for Barber of Seville in Barcelona started in two days.

Anthony opened the door to the dressing room. He hung his jacket on the hook by the door and turned to see a small vase containing three white calla lilies. Small and delicate, they looked as if they were made of porcelain. Next to them on the vanity sat a note written in a beautiful, slanted script.

Anthony -

Your voice blooms on stage like these calla lilies: delicate and perfect. It’s an honor to have heard you.

Regards,

Freddie

Anthony stared at the piece of paper in his hands. It wasn’t a lengthy missive by any means, but the words seemed honest.

Something settled in Anthony’s chest, and a flush of warmth hit his face. Why should he care if the bodyguard liked his singing? The audiences liked it, the critics liked it. He barely knew Freddie. Why did he matter so much?

But the gesture did matter. He had bought the flowers. Written the note. He was more thoughtful than Anthony had given him credit for.

Anthony tried to put Freddie out of his mind for the next two days, with mixed success. He spent most of his time poring over the score to Il barbiere di Siviglia. Rossini was his bread and butter, and Barber of Seville was Rossini’s most popular opera, but Anthony hadn’t performed it for almost two years. He needed to refresh himself on the music.

Anthony was waiting to take off for Barcelona, engrossed in the score on his tablet, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Freddie was coming down the aisle, dodging the open doors of overhead bins.

When he reached Anthony, Anthony couldn’t help himself. At the sight of Freddie, he could only think of the calla lilies, and of his kind words. He smiled at Freddie. Freddie’s mouth went up just the tiniest bit at the corners as he passed.

Butterflies kicked up in Anthony’s stomach. Why was he acting like some kind of teenager? Freddie’s note had been very sweet, but he was still an enormous pain in the ass. Anthony shook his head, frustrated with how bashful he felt.