She had two gay grandsons and still believed we faced dangers on every street corner, even though Anthony had been out since he was like thirteen, approximately…many years ago… Fuck, I had to do math here. He was forty-two. He’d been out a long time, and yet Nonna never stopped worrying.
She was also a violent, scrappy little lady. She could wrap her fingers around a wooden spoon and go, “If you ever get bullied for the gay thing, I’ll mess a fucker right up.” Then she’d do the Sign of the Cross and send a quick apology to God for cursing.
The gay thing.
Never mind that my brother was six-two and had trained in kickboxing since he was ten; our five-foot-nothing little grandmother was gonna take care of any bullies. With a wooden spoon.
“Let’s order pizza.” There wasn’t much else to do. I’d set up my keyboard in the bedroom window, my clothes were stowed away in the closet, my guitar was under the bed, and I’d left some personal items in the nightstand drawer, in the bathroom, and on the kitchen counter. Because I wasn’t moving to Manhattan without my sundae glassware and collection of sauces and maraschino cherries.
“Do they have that here?” Anthony asked with a straight face.
I snorted and sat down at the table with my phone. “Ray’s delivers. Does that work for your highness?”
My family hated Manhattan, including Anthony, which made no sense. We were the Italian-Irish Americans who’d grown up in a Latin neighborhood in Williamsburg, the part that hadn’t been taken over by rich hipsters and artists. In short, we’d lived and breathed old-school culture and Catholicism our entire lives, and Anthony’s first words as a toddler had been, “I’m gonna leave this place one day.” Probably in Spanish. At least, according to Pop, and grumpy old men never exaggerated. But apparently, my brother’s idea of leaving was to move ten minutes south to Park Slope. Granted, Park Slope had a better LGBTQ community, not to mention house prices that made any queen gasp dramatically.
Anthony was dating one of those.
While I ordered us a large pie to share, he grabbed two beers from the fridge.
Speaking of Anthony’s queen… “Don’t tell Shawn I’m working for Tina again,” I said.
I wouldn’t trust that guy to keep it to himself.
“Give me some credit,” Anthony replied and cocked a brow. “Don’t mistake my silence for approval, though.”
I wasn’t. I knew he didn’t like it.
“I can handle your reluctant support a lot better than his catty digs,” I said. “Speaking of, when are you breaking up with him?”
He sighed heavily and patted his pockets, presumably for his smokes, but he knew he couldn’t smoke here. “I thought we could skip that topic today.”
Fine, but I’d keep bringing it up. He and Shawn didn’t make sense. My brother was a mellow, rough-around-the-edges, sweet, jeans-and-T-shirt type of guy with a passion for music, woodworking, Sunday dinners with our family, and working with kids. Shawn was an egotistical diva who took advantage of the fact that Anthony was lonely.
My brother deserved better.
“I’ll try again soon,” I assured. “Maybe at dinner on Sunday.”
“Can’t wait.” He yawned and checked his phone. “Damn, it’s past ten already.”
Shit, really?
“You could take your slices to go,” I suggested, knowing he had work early. On Saturdays, he was in his workshop at the ass-crack of dawn to repair and sometimes build instruments. It was his side gig.
“I probably should.” He scrubbed a hand along his jaw and glanced over his shoulder. “It’s one hell of a view you got, though.”
I followed his gaze and looked out the window. “Yeah, it’s somethin’.” And tomorrow I’d block it out before Gideon arrived. Which reminded me… “Don’t you have a teenage student who’s autistic?”
I taught children of all ages at Anthony’s place, and it was always with the goal of them learning to play instruments. If they had a diagnosis, they were on the high-functioning sides of whatever spectrum.
Whereas Anthony had actually gone to college and used his degree in psychology to combine music with therapy. Or rather, music was a type of therapy, especially for children and teenagers with autism who found rhythm soothing.
“I have a few.” He lifted his brows a bit, maybe confused by the random topic change.
I went with the truth. “The client I’m seeing tomorrow is autistic, so I was wondering if you had any general advice.”
He shook his head slowly and rested his forearms on the table. “Nothing beyond what you already know. Ask before assuming, pay attention to his body language, and don’t initiate touch until he says it’s okay.”
A little bit of a problem there, considering I’d be blindfolded.
“How old is he?” Anthony asked.
“Forty-four,” I replied. “He said he’s got Asperger’s, but I thought you told me they stopped diagnosing that one.”
“It’s probably an older diagnosis, then.” He shrugged a little. “As long as you communicate properly, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
And what if what I called communicating, Gideon called chitchat?
Oh, whatever. Time would tell. It wasn’t my first rodeo, and I was good at reading people. Once upon a time, I’d been one of Tina’s most popular escorts. I was quick on my feet, and that helped.
By eight thirty the following evening, I was clean as a whistle and sitting on the edge of the bed, eating Chinese food naked. Asshole waxed, area around my cock trimmed, balls and face shaved. I was as cute as I was hot. Though, I doubted Gideon would take full advantage tonight since we weren’t getting the test results until Monday. But he was free to feel me up and explore good and proper.
I felt a sense of melancholy that I didn’t understand, but it could be the song playing on my laptop on the kitchen table. Anthony had sent me the live recording from our last gig, and the cover we’d played, “Cages,” was special to me. It wasn’t so much the lyrics as it was the two of us playing together. Up onstage was where I loved working with my brother the most.
I stuck some noodles into my mouth and caught sight of my reflection in the window as Anthony’s voice filled the air. He sang as if he’d been through all the circles of hell and come back to tell the world about it. It was both strong and raspy. A voice with a force to be reckoned with. Mine was gentler and lower, and I couldn’t hit the highest notes that he did with ease.
My reflection blended in with the city lights and the silhouettes of the skyscrapers, and I cocked my head and drew my hand through my hair. I was due for a cut soon, but I usually waited until Anthony pointed it out. Because he’d share some story of how I’d inherited our mother’s hair. It was wavier. Anthony would weave his fingers through it sometimes and smile a little in a way that told me he was thinking of her.
Then he’d say, “Time for a cut, bambino.”
These two months couldn’t go by fast enough. As much as I was loving living in my own apartment in Manhattan, my dream was to go into business with Anthony. With $20,000, we could expand. We could build the recording studio we had the equipment but no space for, we could hire another teacher and start more classes…