FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS:

JAZZY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

Nica Berry

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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 theUnited States of America

Editor: C. B. Calsing

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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 warmSan
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.

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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 inBrazil , 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,

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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 toParis . Can you believe it? After
that, we’re touringEurope . 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,
theMatterhorn…

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

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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 fromL.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

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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 atOceanBeach 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.

“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 onCoronadoIsland . 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

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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.

He finished up the burrito and was wadding up the paper wrapping when a memory clicked in Paz’s
mind about the last time he’d seen a shirt that color on a man. “That’s…no, it can’t be.”

“Who?”

“Gerry Benson. He’s a pianist. I haven’t seen him in about three years, since he did a guest artist concert
with my band at school. I knew he lived around here, but I haven’t heard anything about him after he
won a Grammy.” He remembered the fuss about the Grammy; neither Gerry nor Javier had been there to
accept it. Evidently they’d had some sort of a break up and weren’t playing together anymore. Paz never
found out the details, but he knew that Gerry hadn’t played anywhere since.

The man came close enough to see. It was him. Older, scruffier, but definitely Gerry. He looked
worn-out and lonely, the way he staggered toward O.B. Pier, not looking at the violent water, not paying
any attention to the dirty, raucous gulls fighting the wind. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“He drunk or something?” Annie finished off her burrito and reached for a second.

Gerry staggered, but not like he was drunk. More like he was deep in thought and utterly oblivious to his
surroundings. He continued down the pier, heedless of the water splashing around his ankles.

“Watch my horn, will you?” he told Annie. “And call for help. I’ll be right back.” Since she drove him
back and forth toCoronado for work, he kept a stash of lifeguarding gear in her backseat. He grabbed
the bright orange rescue tube and headed toward the pier. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need it, but better safe
than sorry.

There was still no one else in sight, everyone probably scared away by the wind and choppy waves. It
really wasn’t a smart idea to be out there at all. Instead of going to the path, Paz ran up the stairs on the
side of the pier.

“Gerry?” he called, but the wind carried his voice away. He cupped his hands around his mouth and
tried again. “Gerry!”

No response. Gerry reached the low point and leaned over the railing. A wave of water slammed into
his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. If he did, he didn’t care.

Suicidal, or just out of it? Paz couldn’t tell. He started running, but it was a long, long way down the pier.

Gerry leaned further over the railing as if mesmerized by the leaping water.

Paz ran full-out. “Gerry! Don’t!”

Too late. A huge wave arced over the pier. When it subsided, Gerry was gone. Paz didn’t even think
twice; he yanked off his jacket and shirt and kicked off his flip-flops. He looped the rescue tube’s strap
over his head and one shoulder, and leapt over the side into the water, praying that he and Gerry
wouldn’t be smacked against the concrete pylons.

Please let me find him. Please. It took less than a minute to drown. The shock of the cold water made

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him slow, and wasn’t something Paz ever wanted to swim in without a wet suit. With the buoy floating
along behind him, he flailed around underwater, searching for the feel of cloth amidst the rough and slimy
things that lived beneath the pier. Another quick breath and Paz dove underwater, just barely escaping
being slammed into one of the pylons.

Please, please!He was running out of time. Another breath -- and there. A lump of fuchsia hovering in
the water. Paz surged toward it, ducking under the water to bypass another monster wave, and reached
out. His hand brushed cloth, and he grabbed. Instinct from so many lifeguarding drills kicked in; Paz
positioned the buoy between his chest and Gerry’s back and wrapped his arms underneath Gerry’s.
There. Gerry’s head was above water, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger. On the south side
of the pier, closer to the shore, were huge underwater boulders, deadly if a wave smacked them down. If
they were swept under the pier, they were goners.

There was a chance; the waves were high enough to hit the side of the pier. If he could get close enough
to grab the chain-link along the railing and hang on…

They’d have to be damn lucky, but it was either that or risk getting trapped underneath the pier. And
even when he went toward the railing, he’d have to do it just right, or they could both be hurt.

He took a deep breath, prayed, and rode a wave toward the pier.

There. He felt rough metal and grabbed. The wave receded, but he held on. Gerry’s dead weight hurt
until another wave buoyed them up again. Paz had to fight to keep Gerry from getting squashed between
him and the lower edge of the pier. “Hang on,Ger. Just hang on,” he said as much for his own comfort.
They’d made it this far. Only a little longer.

He was cold and tired, but damned if he’d let go. Numbly, he looked back at the shore and saw flashing
lights and one of the white lifeguard Jeeps. Orange-clad figures raced down the pier just as an ambulance
pulled up.

Paz braced himself against another huge wave, then spat out a mouthful of salt water. “Look at that,Ger.
We’re saved.”

Gerry didn’t answer. He hung, limp, until the lifeguards pulled them both over the railing to safety.
TheEMS workers, one male, one female, were right behind them with a backboard and gurney. They got
Gerry flat onto the backboard and lifted him up onto the gurney. Before anyone could stop him, Paz
climbed onto the gurney and straddled Gerry to check his vitals. Not breathing.

“No,” Paz said. “Dammit, Gerry!” The gurney started rolling back toward the shore and out of danger
from the waves.

Paz positioned his hands over Gerry’s sternum and pressed, keeping his speed at about 100 beats a
minute, just slower than a John Philip Sousa march. Water and blood from a half dozen cuts made
Gerry’s chest slippery. The femaleEMS , at the head of the gurney, had a breathing mask over Gerry’s
mouth and nose and squeezed it twice after Paz counted to thirty compressions. Again. And again.

Just after they reached the ambulance, it worked. Gerry coughed and sputtered. “Good boy, Ger. Good
boy.”

“All right. You’ve been the hero. Now get down and let us work.” The femaleEMS ’s voice was stern
but not unkind as her partner took one of Paz’s arms and helped him down. One of the lifeguards

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wrapped a blanket around him, and only then did Paz realize how tired and cold he was.

Annie waited just off to the side, her face pale with worry. She hugged him, and didn’t let go until
theEMS worker gently pulled them apart and helped him into the back of the ambulance.

* * * * *

The E.R. doctor pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You were both very lucky.”

Paz stood with Annie inside Gerry’s little curtained room and shivered, knowing just how close it had
been. He was tired as hell from all the paddling and struggling to hang onto the pier. His muscles would
be screaming at him later, but for now, all that mattered was that he and Gerry were safe. Gerry was
worse off, having been thrown against the railing by the water. Bruised ribs, along with a few cuts and
scrapes from rocks and barnacles, but no internal injuries, and he hadn’t gotten any water in his lungs or
been deprived of oxygen long enough for any damage.

Gerry looked fragile lying there in one of those unflattering hospital gowns. He was asleep, thanks to the
painkillers, oblivious to what was going on around him. “Does he have someone…?” the doctor asked.

“He’s my partner.” Paz ignored Annie’s raised eyebrow. Hard to explain why he’d just said that, except
he was afraid that if he left Gerry here or let him go home alone, he’d never see him again. “I’ll take him
home and look after him.”

The doctor wrote out a prescription. “Here. Give him one of these every six hours if he’s in pain. And
bring him back if --”

“I’m a lifeguard. I know what to look for.” He took the scrip and shoved it into the pocket of the orange
lifeguard shorts Annie had brought in for him. His own clothes, and Gerry’s, were sopping wet, full of
sand, and had been thoughtfully placed into plastic bags by the hospital staff. While the doctors were
taking care of them, Annie had walked out at Paz's request to find Gerry something to wear. She'd come
back from one of the nearby novelty stores in Hillcrest with a pair of shiny Christmas tree boxer shorts.

"The tamest they had," she'd said, ignoring Paz's objections. Now, she went to get the car, and between
Paz and the nurses, they managed to get Gerry dressed and awake enough to get him into a wheelchair
for the ride outside.

With Annie’s help, they got Gerry into the backseat of her Civic. Paz slid in beside him. Gerry’s head
drooped against his shoulder. Whatever they’d given him had totally knocked him out.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Paz asked Gerry as soon as the door closed. “Did you want to kill
yourself?”

He meant it in jest, but as Annie pulled out and started driving, Paz wondered how true it might be. He
held Gerry’s limp hand, and remembered the first time they’d met.

* * * * *

Paz had a thing for hands. More specifically, musicians’ hands. He loved watching how a bass player
would slide his fingers up and down the neck of an upright bass, stroking and plucking the strings. Or a
pianist, the way their fingers danced along the keys. Paz couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like
to have those same fingers dance along his skin.

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His senior year of college, the school had invited pianist Gerry Benson and vocalist Javier Serrao to play
with the jazz band. For the rest of the band, this was just another guest artist concert: learn the music,
rehearse with the guests once or twice, and do the concert. But for Paz, it was much, much more
important. Not only were they superb musicians playing the kind of music Paz had grown up around, but
they were also openly gay in a musical genre that had typically denigrated anything other than straight,
manly men. Only recently had a few jazz musicians like vibraphonist Gary Burton and pianist Fred
Hersch admitted to being gay. Gerry and Javier were the next step -- never hiding their sexuality from the
beginning and still managing to make a career in jazz.

Paz had known he was gay since his sophomore year in high school, but hadn’t told his bandmates. It
just didn’t seem right, somehow. After all the jokes on the bus going from one concert to another, Paz
didn’t have the energy to prove that a gay man could play jazz just as well, and that he wouldn’t be any
different once he told them he had a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend. He was the best sax player there,
hands down, and had been getting gigs all over town. Still, he felt like he wasn’t playing as well as he
should because he was hiding an important part of his life.

But for now, the band sat out in the auditorium to watch a mini concert by Gerry, Javier, and the
conguero they’d brought along. Paz watched Gerry sit down at the piano, hungry for the reassurance that
a gay man could play the pants off any number of straight ones. A fuchsia designer shirt was rolled up
past his elbows, the top three buttons left open to expose a few wispy tufts of chest hair. His fingers flew
across the keyboard and pounded out an intense montuno. The congas sounded in the background. The
Latin rhythm made Paz go hard almost immediately.

Yes, he thought as the music struck him. Yes, yes, yes . It was almost sexual the way the music reached
him, an intensity of shared experience that could only be better if Paz was up there alone with Gerry and
playing his saxophone.

Paz crossed his legs, grateful that the darkened theater hid the bulge in his pants. If it weren’t enough to
see those long, handsome fingers, they had to be playing the kind of music that hit him deep in his soul.
What he wouldn’t give to be up there in Javier’s place, with Gerry playing for him .

But he was obviously already in love. The moment Gerry looked up at Javier and smiled, Paz could see
it. Jealously stabbed his heart. Paz had a boyfriend, a kind, fun, secret one, but Nate was an art major,
not a musician. They’d never be able to have the bond that Gerry and Javier had through music.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and let the music wash over him. If only he were alone.
His mind went from Gerry’s hands playing jazz to playing him in the bedroom. Gerry composed such
wonderful music and was so responsive to everything Javier did vocally that Paz knew Gerry had to
show the same delicacy in bed. Paz smiled in the darkness, imagining Gerry’s hands sliding beneath his
shirt to tease his nipples, the sensitive fingers knowing exactly where and how to touch him…

Bad idea. The ache in his groin grew worse. This was not going to be a fun rehearsal. A trip to the
restroom would be an easy fix, but he wasn’t willing to miss a single note.

After the mini concert, while Javier chatted with some of the other band members as they set up for
rehearsal, Paz went to speak to Gerry. The pianist stood with one hand on the piano and the other wiping
his perspiring face with a handkerchief. Paz leaned with one arm along the length of the piano, his fingers
just an inch from Gerry’s. His tenor, dangling from its neck strap, hung low enough to hide his still-strong
erection.

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“Hot up here in the lights, isn’t it?” Gerry said with a smile. He tucked the handkerchief back in his side
pants pocket. Stunning blue eyes watched Paz from under a mop of red-brown hair.

Hot. Oh, yes, you’re hot. “Thank you for coming, and for…” His voice choked. On impulse, he
clasped Gerry’s hand, hoping that the other man could sense what he couldn’t say.

A brief moment of confusion, and Gerry smiled and squeezed Paz’s hand. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Having to
hide. The jazz world doesn’t make it easy for people like us.”

People like us. The words made Paz feel another level of kinship with Gerry. “You and Javier made it.”

“Not without effort, but it’s been worth it.”

Gerry’s hand still gripped his. Paz stared at the lovely, long fingers. “It makes a difference, you know. It
means a lot. To me.”

“I’m glad.” Gerry’s warm smile melted the last of Paz’s fears. “Always be yourself, and your music will
be the stronger for it. ‘I play the truth of what I am,’” he said, quoting bassist Charles Mingus.

Paz grinned, and paraphrased Miles Davis. “If you don’t live it, it don’t come out of your horn.”

“Exactly,” Gerry said, just before the director told the band to get in place.

Paz floated through the rest of the rehearsal, hardly able to focus on the music because of the feelings
flooding through him, both the relief that Gerry understood and encouraged him, and the ache in his groin
that intensified every time Gerry had a solo.

For the concert itself, Paz coaxed his boyfriend Nate to come. The little discussion with Gerry had made
all the difference. As lead tenor, Paz had half a dozen solos, and he poured his heart into every one,
earning cheers and whistles from the audience as well as his bandmates. Even the director looked
surprised. Afterward, while the band was packing up, Paz pulled his boyfriend onstage and kissed him,
ignoring the stunned looks from his fellow musicians. He glanced over at Gerry long enough to see a faint
smile of approval. Javier hooted, obviously amused.

Paz’s relationship with Nate didn’t last much longer, not because of Paz’s method of coming out, but
because of other differences. It was that moment of stolen intimacy with Gerry that stayed with Paz and
colored the rest of his gigs. He kept looking at the hands of every pianist, bassist, and horn player he
played with, but none were like Gerry’s.

* * * * *

This wasn’t his condo. Gerry could tell that by the multicolored lights strung around the sliding glass door
and the mini Christmas tree perched on a wooden TV tray. The walls bore a Mexican flag and a few
unframed posters of jazz musicians, including Coltrane and Miles Davis. Some nut had tacked a Santa
Claus hat to Coltrane’s head. If the decorations weren’t bad enough, he had to put up with the awful
racket of Christmas music played on a tenor sax.

A live tenor sax. Gerry covered his ears, feeling decidedly less joyous than Joy to the World wanted
him to be. Whoever it was must be out on the balcony serenading his neighbors; the sound was close, but
slightly muffled.

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It stopped, thank goodness, as soon as Gerry tried to sit up. He let out a groan as pain shot through his
chest. There were gauze bandages stuck to his skin in various places -- those were going to hurt when it
came to peel them off, thanks to his chest hair -- but the pain wasn’t from the cuts. It felt more like his
ribs were bruised.

The door slid open. “Hey. Easy does it.” A young man stepped in and set his tenor on its stand next to a
flute. He hurried over to Gerry’s side. Up close he was Hispanic and handsome with black,
close-cropped hair. He wore a white tank top and a pair of khaki cargo shorts. He looked familiar, but
Gerry couldn’t remember from where.

“How --?” Gerry hissed as the sax player helped him sit up. He’d been lying on a couch, some garish
orange color, but it was a soft, almost suede fabric. It felt good on his bare --

Oh, hell. Gerry dared to peek beneath the old Mexican blanket covering him. Those skanky Christmas
tree boxers definitely weren't his. Gerry tucked the blanket tight around himself and tried not to panic.
“What the hell is going on?”

“You’ve been out of it a while because of the drugs they gave you at the hospital. They didn’t want to
keep you any longer, and I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Hospital? Drugs?” No wonder his head felt fuzzy.

“You took a short walk off a long pier. Don’t you remember?”

No. He didn’t. Either the young man was crazy, or he was. “What time is it?” From what he could see
outside the sliding glass door, it was dark outside.

The young man looked at his watch. “There’s about three hours left until Christmas.”

Nine at night on Christmas Eve. He stared at his host. “And you are?”

He laughed. “Sorry. I’m Paz. You played at my school about three years ago for a guest artist concert.
You and Javier.”

Javier. The name hit him. Hard. Gerry closed his eyes, desperate to forget. As soon as he did, he
remembered going out for a walk down O.B. Pier, and leaning over the side, wondering if there was any
peace to be found in the chaotic waves. He thought he would have been afraid, but he wasn’t, not even
when a stray column of water took his indecision away and tumbled him over the side.

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.

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“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?”

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“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.

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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 they 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.

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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.”

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“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.”

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“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.

He eased himself up. “Roll over,” he told Paz, and the younger man complied. Gerry spent a few
minutes massaging him, getting to know the contours of his back, buttocks, and thighs. Still a bolero, still
a lyrical tune of discovery and trust. He reached over Paz’s head for the two pillows and then arranged
them under Paz’s stomach so his rear end was in the air and easy to reach, but he was comfortable.

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Gerry unwrapped one of the condoms to slide over his cock, forcing himself to stay a little calm, at least.
Gently. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers and rimmed Paz’s puckered entrance to
get him used to the sensation. Javier had been experienced long before Gerry had met him, so being the
first for someone was entirely new to Gerry. He felt honored that Paz trusted him so much. His
long-suffering ego inflated just a little, knowing that Paz had saved himself especially for him, and he
aimed to make the experience worth his wait.

The slow beat of the bolero sped up until it transformed into a mambo. The word mambo meant
“conversation with the gods,” and seemed particularly apt, because that’s what Gerry felt like he was
doing; sex like this came at a spiritual as well as physical level. Paz’s body was far more sensitive than
Javier’s. Perhaps it was his lack of experience, but Gerry preferred to think of it as the response of a true
artist, who left himself open to any inspiration and was able to express himself completely and totally
without fear. He hadn’t been able to do that in years, but here, now, he found that he could, thanks to his
rescuer.

Paz craned his head around, looking at Gerry with such trust that Gerry felt his heart would burst. Javier
had never looked at him like that. He’d only expected what Gerry had always been willing to give him.
Paz waited, butt in the air, looking excited and a little afraid.

More lube. Gerry teased him with one finger before sliding it inside. Paz squirmed a little when he moved
his finger around, searching for the sensitive area behind his prostate.

Paz let out a long, slow groan, and Gerry grinned. He pulled out, added more lube, and fingered him
again and again, then dared to add a second digit.

“Oh, man,” Paz said hoarsely. He shivered, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. “I can't believe
how good this feels. If I'd have known, I would’ve made Nate do this ages ago.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were saving yourself, remember?” Heat flared in Gerry’s groin. He wouldn’t
last much longer, not with Paz so ready and willing.

Gently, he reminded himself. No matter how badly he and Paz wanted it, this would be done without
hurting him. “You ready?”

Paz nodded. Gerry positioned himself between his legs and eased himself inside. Tight, and warm, which
threatened Gerry’s restraint even more. The tune changed to something more dangerous, a dark
Afro-Cuban rhythm full of lust and temptation.

Paz’s hands raked the sheets, his face a mix of wonderment and bliss. “Do it, dammit. Do it, before I--”

Gerry didn’t need a second invitation. All thought of restraint fled. He plunged into Paz again and again,
far enough so that his balls smacked Paz’s rump. Grunts and moans came from the head of the bed.
Paz’s body rocked back and forth with each impact.

Drums sounded in his head, and he was in that deep, primal place that he’d told Paz about. There was
nothing besides the music and the pleasures of the flesh, no sensation other than heat and need.

One startled cry broke through. Paz’s body spasmed around his cock, a maddening squeeze that sent
Gerry into his own ecstasy. He heard…tunes. Dozens of them. Rumbas, bossa novas, and danzons;
funk, blues, and even some good old swing. All of them piano and saxophone, the two instruments as
vital and intertwined as their bodies were now. He bent over and grabbed Paz around the waist, needing

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as much closeness as possible, knowing that Paz needed and wanted him too. His bruised ribs hurt, but it
didn’t matter. A little pain was worth this.

A final groan and Gerry eased himself out and collapsed on his side. Paz curled up beside him, drawing
one of Gerry’s arms around his chest for closeness and comfort.

“Did it work?” Paz asked.

“It worked,” Gerry said. “Better than you can believe.”

Paz lifted himself up on one elbow to look at the clock. 1:14 a.m. “What do you know. Merry
Christmas, Gerry.”

“Merry Christmas, Paz. I couldn’t have asked for a better present.”

“Which is?”

“My life and the handsome man that gave it to me.” Gerry sat upright and pulled Paz against him. “The
man I love. The man I want to spend the rest of my life -- and my career -- with.” He toyed with Paz’s
nipples, the multitude of songs still fresh in his mind. He’d write them down. Later.

“What career? You haven’t played in years.” Paz sounded worried.

“It’ll be easy. Trust me,” Gerry said. “But it can wait until morning. For now…” He dropped a hand to
fondle Paz’s spent cock which started to harden again under his fingers. “For now, I’d like to enjoy my
present a little more.”

* * * * *

With Paz’s help, and only a slight amount of discomfort, Gerry had gotten the gauze bandages off his
chest. The damage wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. “My wounded warrior,” Paz told him with a laugh and
steered him toward the shower.

The hot water eased some of the ache in his bruised ribs. Scabs were already forming over his cuts, and
besides, Paz said he looked sexy.

Gerry remembered the old Nina Simone tune, the one he’d thought reminded him of Javier. How things
could change overnight. He sang it to himself in the shower, and when he emerged, sang one of the later
verses to Paz. “ Oh, I love my lover, and where he goes. Yes, I love the ground on where he goes.
And still I hope that the time will come, when he and I will be as one…” He smiled and ruffled Paz’s
black hair. “ Yes, black is the color of my true love’s hair.”

Paz sang along with the last line, substituting “my” for “your.” Another kiss, and Paz went off to take his
own shower. He was still in there when someone knocked on the door. Gerry now wore a towel around
his waist instead of a blanket, but that didn’t make him any more inclined to answer the door as he was.

The knocking became more persistent.

“Paz?” a female voice said. “I brought our cinnamon rolls. Don’t tell me you’re still…occupied with your
guest.”

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Resigned, Gerry unlocked the door and opened it to see a short, dark-haired young woman holding a
dish of unbaked cinnamon rolls.

“No. He’s not.”

“Oh. Good.” She balanced the dish on one arm and shook his hand, ignoring his state of undress. “I’m
Annie. Paz’s friend. I helped him get you here yesterday. We always have cinnamon rolls and hot
chocolate on Christmas morning.”

“I love cinnamon rolls.” He stood aside to let her come in, where she helped herself to the kitchen,
putting the rolls in the oven and pulling out mugs and hot chocolate mix from the cupboard. “It’ll be a little
while before we can eat. Play me a song while I get things ready, Mr. Piano Man.”

He walked out to the living room. Now it was light outside, and Gerry could see the view beyond the
sliding glass door. Sunshine and palm trees holding still now that yesterday’s storm had passed. He could
see the roofs of a few more condos, and beyond that, the ocean. Gerry sat at the piano, filled with a
contentment he hadn’t felt in years, even with Javier.

He pounded out an intro to Joy to the World and then sang along. Annie joined him. Paz, still toweling
his hair dry, emerged from the bathroom in a pair of board shorts. A moment later, he’d picked up his
tenor and started to play along.

They kept going through various carols until the buzz of the timer, along with the scent, informed them
that breakfast was ready. Annie scooped out the gooey rolls while Paz and Gerry heated and mixed the
hot chocolate. Paz unearthed a pair of TV trays, and the three of them sat on the couch to eat.

The rolls didn’t last long. Forks clattered against empty plates. They leaned back, sated and happy.
Annie grinned at Paz. “You rescued yourself one hell of a man, you know.”

“I rescued myself one hell of a man, and a partner who likes to compose in bed.” Paz stroked the
gooseneck of his tenor. “Speaking of which -- tell me this easy way of getting your career back.”

“Let me borrow your phone.” Paz tossed him his cell, and Gerry flipped it open and dialed. Two rings,
and on came the familiar voice of his manager. “Chaz? It’s Gerry. Yeah, yeah, Merry Christmas to you
too. Hey, you won’t believe this, but I’m ready for a gig.” He looked over at Paz’s grinning face, and
winked. “Hell. Get me that tour you promised me three years ago. I’ve got this new partner who’s a
heck of a sax player. Yeah. I’ve already got some tunes in mind, and, let me tell you, I think we’ll be
making some beautiful music together.”

NicaBerry

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NicaBerry is a writer of queer science fiction, fantasy, and erotica. She's a graduate of the Clarion
Writer's Workshop for Science Fiction and Fantasy, the Taos Toolbox workshop for SF/F novelists,
and will graduate with an M.A. in Writing Popular Fiction fromSetonHillUniversity in January. She lives
inSan Diego with her two cats, where she enjoys going to the zoo and taking pictures of the animals,
especially lizards.

Check out Nica on the Web at www.orossy.com/nicaberry.

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