Read Online (Blue Notes 2)The Melody Thief by Shira Anthony - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shira Anthony
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he wasn’t just sick, he was scared. Terrified. He’d never considered carrying a weapon, but now he wished he’d thought of it. Sure, he was a tall man, far taller than the average Italian, but what had that gotten him before? A broken wrist and a shitload of bruises.
One more block and he’d be on the busy street. Every doorway seemed to cast shadows, and he imagined someone in each, waiting to jump out at him. Maybe this time they’d have a gun.
He was sure someone was following him now. He wasn’t going to let them beat the crap out of him again. He’d beat the crap out of them first.
He whirled around. “Stay the hell away from me!” he shouted in Italian.
The man and woman behind him—obviously drunk—laughed, then quickly headed off in the other direction. He just stood there, panting, his heart still racing. His hands were shaking. He was shaking.
Safe inside a taxi a few minutes later, he relaxed back into the seat, staring out the window at the buildings as they whizzed by. He felt like shit. Worse. He felt like an idiot. When had he become so afraid?
The driver let him out in front of his building. Cary already had his keys in his hand as he punched the pass code into the outer door. He scanned the area around the vestibule and entrance, fearful that someone had followed him.
Get your shit together , he thought as he rode the elevator up to his apartment. Once inside, he latched the deadbolt and tossed his jacket on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and poured himself a double shot of tequila. He downed the drink in one gulp and refilled the glass.
His gaze wandered to his studio, and he eyed the cello case in the corner of the room. He put his glass down on the piano and walked over to the cello. He ran his good hand over the smooth fiberglass case and inhaled a slow, deep breath.
Oh, how he longed to play! How ironic, that as a teenager he dreamed of taking even a day off from practicing. And now it would be weeks before he’d be able to do anything but run the bow over the strings, and he was miserable. When had his life become music all day and anonymous sex at night?
You need to ditch the drinking and the bars.
How many times had he told himself that? He’d tried to stop. He really had. But each time, he’d gone back. How could he stop when there was nothing else in his life but his music? But now…. He blinked away tears and took a deep breath.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
He pulled the instrument out of its case and inhaled the scent of the wood and lacquer. He plucked a few strings, then replaced the cello and latched the case. After retrieving his drink, he sat down at the piano and closed his eyes. His arms depressed the keys, and the instrument responded with a jumble of notes.
He imagined Antonio, with his sandy blond hair and his face rough with stubble. For just a moment, Cary wished for more than just a one-night stand. He thought about Massimo, not the child this time, but the man he was named for. What kind of a man had he been?
A better man than you. Someone who doesn’t lie. Someone who deserves Antonio.
“Fuck you, Cary Taylor Redding,” he said under his breath. “This is all you are.”
C ARY didn’t sleep well after his failed evening at the bar. Still, the next morning was bright and relatively warm for November, and he was glad to have something to do for a change.
“Aiden!” Cary caught a glimpse of the lanky opera singer as he made his way through the paninoteca . The small restaurant looked out over a large piazza near the train station, and was hardly memorable with its utilitarian glass windows, tiny metal tables, and tile floor. Still, it was one of the best places in Milan for panini sandwiches, and at the height of the lunch hour, it was filled to capacity with a lively crowd.
It took Cary a bit of wrangling to get past the tightly packed tables and over to where Aiden waited. “It’s great to see you, man.”
The two men
One more block and he’d be on the busy street. Every doorway seemed to cast shadows, and he imagined someone in each, waiting to jump out at him. Maybe this time they’d have a gun.
He was sure someone was following him now. He wasn’t going to let them beat the crap out of him again. He’d beat the crap out of them first.
He whirled around. “Stay the hell away from me!” he shouted in Italian.
The man and woman behind him—obviously drunk—laughed, then quickly headed off in the other direction. He just stood there, panting, his heart still racing. His hands were shaking. He was shaking.
Safe inside a taxi a few minutes later, he relaxed back into the seat, staring out the window at the buildings as they whizzed by. He felt like shit. Worse. He felt like an idiot. When had he become so afraid?
The driver let him out in front of his building. Cary already had his keys in his hand as he punched the pass code into the outer door. He scanned the area around the vestibule and entrance, fearful that someone had followed him.
Get your shit together , he thought as he rode the elevator up to his apartment. Once inside, he latched the deadbolt and tossed his jacket on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and poured himself a double shot of tequila. He downed the drink in one gulp and refilled the glass.
His gaze wandered to his studio, and he eyed the cello case in the corner of the room. He put his glass down on the piano and walked over to the cello. He ran his good hand over the smooth fiberglass case and inhaled a slow, deep breath.
Oh, how he longed to play! How ironic, that as a teenager he dreamed of taking even a day off from practicing. And now it would be weeks before he’d be able to do anything but run the bow over the strings, and he was miserable. When had his life become music all day and anonymous sex at night?
You need to ditch the drinking and the bars.
How many times had he told himself that? He’d tried to stop. He really had. But each time, he’d gone back. How could he stop when there was nothing else in his life but his music? But now…. He blinked away tears and took a deep breath.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
He pulled the instrument out of its case and inhaled the scent of the wood and lacquer. He plucked a few strings, then replaced the cello and latched the case. After retrieving his drink, he sat down at the piano and closed his eyes. His arms depressed the keys, and the instrument responded with a jumble of notes.
He imagined Antonio, with his sandy blond hair and his face rough with stubble. For just a moment, Cary wished for more than just a one-night stand. He thought about Massimo, not the child this time, but the man he was named for. What kind of a man had he been?
A better man than you. Someone who doesn’t lie. Someone who deserves Antonio.
“Fuck you, Cary Taylor Redding,” he said under his breath. “This is all you are.”
C ARY didn’t sleep well after his failed evening at the bar. Still, the next morning was bright and relatively warm for November, and he was glad to have something to do for a change.
“Aiden!” Cary caught a glimpse of the lanky opera singer as he made his way through the paninoteca . The small restaurant looked out over a large piazza near the train station, and was hardly memorable with its utilitarian glass windows, tiny metal tables, and tile floor. Still, it was one of the best places in Milan for panini sandwiches, and at the height of the lunch hour, it was filled to capacity with a lively crowd.
It took Cary a bit of wrangling to get past the tightly packed tables and over to where Aiden waited. “It’s great to see you, man.”
The two men
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