by Bonnie Dee
Roger knelt to hold his slippers while Jean Michel slipped his large feet into them, and she looked up with a sympathetic smile. “Here is what will happen. You will mourn for one more month. No more, no less. And then you will put away your widow’s weeds and search for a new lover. That is the way of life. That fickle bitch l’amour cannot be contained for long.”
“Wise advice, my friend.” Jean Michel refreshed his lip rouge with the aid of the mirror. “But I don’t know if I’ll be able to follow it. As they say, the heart wants what it wants.” Oh great, now he was starting to sound like Roger with her romantic platitudes. “Thank you for your support. I value having my friends around me.”
Roger dragged him into another 4711 Eau de Cologne-scented hug, then Jean Michel pulled away to go wait in the wings for his next number. Another sad ballad. What had he been thinking of with this list?
The piano began alone, drawing the crowd’s attention and setting the mood. Jean Michel glided onto the stage, his faux satin gown whispering around him, and waited for his spotlight. When the glare hit him, he blinked once, then opened his eyes wide to gaze out into the darkness, making every person feel that he’d seen them, was singing directly to them, even though the truth was he could hardly make out more than dark shapes.
He opened his mouth and began to sing—in English, for a change, but not the rhyming claptrap one heard at the burlesque shows. This was a poem set to music. A composition a friend of his had written especially for him, stolen words courtesy of Yeats.
“Fasten your hair with a golden pin,
And bind up every wandering tress;
I bade my heart build these poor rhymes:
It worked at them, day out, day in,
Building a sorrowful loveliness
Out of the battles of old times.”
Jean Michel strode the edge of the stage, singing a line to this person or that. Infusing the words he didn’t quite understand with so much significance there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. One didn’t have to completely understand poetry in order to feel it.
He stopped stage left and looked down at the table there. Only one occupant, a man with a pale face turned up to him. A man who… Jean Michel squinted against the harsh stage lights, trying to make out the face, the form, but he couldn’t see well enough.
He moved toward the steps that led down from the stage, stepped over the footlights and descended into the audience, treading carefully so as not to trip on the hem of his gown. Now in the darkness, with only the single spotlight on him, Jean Michel looked again at the man sitting alone stage left, and his heart began to thunder. His throat tightened so he could hardly choke out the next verse.
“You need but lift a pearl-pale hand,
And bind up your long hair and sigh;
And all men’s hearts must burn and beat;
And candle-like foam on the dim sand,
And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky,
Live but to light your passing feet.”
He addressed the song solely to the man at the table, every word dedicated to that beloved face, so unexpected and so welcome.
Nigel gazed back at him with rapt attention, as he had the very first night he’d come to Le Michou. If Jean Michel’s expression of adoration was anything close to the one Nigel wore, then everyone in the club watching must know they were lovers. Luckily, here no one would mind, since they were people who appreciated love in all its forms. In fact, a quiet “ahh” came from the audience as he nearly whispered the last few notes of the song, his voice choked with tears.
Once more, silence greeted the final strains of the melody played by solo piano, then great applause and whistles followed. Jean Michel reluctantly turned away from Nigel long enough to accept the adulation with a curtsy. He looked at Nigel and indicated the backstage with a jerk of his head.
Nigel nodded.
Grateful that this had been his last number of the night, Jean Michel hurried backstage and to the dressing room where he shed his gown and became Jay again. He’d cleaned off most of his makeup by the time Nigel entered the room, escorted by Phillipe, one of the other singers, who gave Nigel a saucy wink before leaving.
Jay bolted up from his chair in front of the grainy mirror, heedless of any last traces of makeup, and crossed the room to Nigel in two steps. He dimly remembered they’d parted on bad terms but couldn’t for the life of him remember why as he drew his lover close and held that trim yet solid body in his arms.
No greetings or exclamations, just a strong embrace for several minutes before Nigel finally pulled back. He studied Jay’s face with a slight frown on his own. “You’ve changed.”
Jay did the same, taking in every detail of Nigel. His face appeared a little more careworn, lined between the brows, and his black hair was longer than Jay had yet seen it and appeared uncombed. Even Nigel’s suit seemed wrinkled and stained as if, perhaps, he’d come here straight from his travels.
“You’ve changed too. Never thought I’d see the day when Nigel Pierpont Warren would be disheveled in public.” Jay grinned.
Nigel returned the smile, and the crease on his brow disappeared. “No, I meant you’ve literally changed. You’ve taken off your makeup and your gown and put away Jean Michel. I’d hoped to… That is to say, I haven’t ever embraced or kissed you when you were wearing all that. I’d hoped to rectify that tonight.”
“Oh?” Jay wasn’t sure what to say. Here they were coming together after several months apart, and the conversation wasn’t going much like any of the ones he’d imagined.
“What I’m trying to say is…” Nigel wiped a hand through the air as if impatient at his inability to express a thought. “When you told me your needs back in London, I didn’t really understand the importance to you of what you do. Now, I wanted to demonstrate that I do understand, and I…I love every aspect of you—Jay, Jean Michel, or any other person you choose to be.”
“Oh.” Still no words. To say he was flabbergasted would belittle his shock. Nigel had come to Paris with no letter or telegram of warning, to apologize in person to Jay. This was beyond anything he could have hoped for.
But Nigel wasn’t finished yet. “I’ve left my position at the bank. I’m selling my house, and when it and most of the contents are sold, my solicitor will send me the check. He’ll also ship me the things I’ve put in storage, as soon as I’ve settled someplace.” Nigel looked down at the toes of his unpolished shoes, then back at Jay. “I’d hoped I would have a place to stay here, but perhaps I was being presumptuous.”
“Presumptuous,” Jay repeated faintly. “No. Spontaneous, impulsive, completely un-Nigel-like yes, but never presumptuous. I am so glad you’re here, and so…surprised. What happened?”
“My eyes were opened quite roughly.” Nigel reached out and took Jay’s hand in his, stroking his thumb over the backs of Jay’s knuckles in a soothing and intoxicating rhythm. “One day I saw what the rest of my life would be like if I continued at the bank. I was forced to make a decision, and I chose freedom—and sheer terror too, I admit, for I have no references. I come to you with only the clothes on my back.” Nigel smiled. “Well, that’s not strictly true. I’ve saved over the years and made some good investments, which keep earning. Also, my house should bring a sizeable amount. Still, it’s rather frightening to step out of one’s office one day never to return. I’m not sure what I’ll do next.”
“You shall come home with me, for starters.” Jay turned his hand over so he might grasp Nigel’s. “I can’t guarantee us much privacy, but it will do for now. Besides, there’s always the roof.”
Nigel gave him a soft and seductive smile. “I do love the roof.”
Chapter Nineteen
As it turned out, adjusting to being an expatriate wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as Nigel had feared.
Where once he would’ve been beside himself at giving up
the comforts, amenities and routines of home, he now took to the changes in his life like an English duck to French water. He developed new routines, waking up in the late morning spooned against Jay’s body, walking to the local café to linger over newspapers, coffee and pastries, which had begun to cling to his waistline, hunting for a new apartment and a new job, sharing meals and long walks with Jay, and in the evenings, watching his lover sing, followed by the pleasure of taking the man to bed for long, luxurious bouts of lovemaking. It was a wonderful new life.
For the first month or so, the frustration of knowing very little French annoyed him. Nigel occasionally repeated phrases in English again and again, slightly louder each time, but Jay or Merde laughing at him broke him of that habit. The actress Coquelicot even did him the favor of coaching him, working on his French pronunciation. She aided his understanding of the bloody language greatly.
Nigel felt even more comfortable after he’d spoken to M. Lamont at Chauve-Souris. The manager who’d been kind during Nigel’s first visit to Paris was able to give a very promising lead and a reference that helped secure Nigel a job at a French bank. He felt as if he was meeting up with an old friend as he opened the ledger that first day. Numbers and he got along fine as always, and there was no need for any translators.
He didn’t suppose that he’d ever advance—his French was too meager and his new job was a low-level position. Yet he worked quickly and efficiently, and within a month had been given a raise in salary. The bank offered him more hours, but he refused them. He’d worked hard in London because he didn’t have the imagination to suppose what he could do otherwise.
He and Jay found a new apartment, better furnished, but their home soon became similar to Merde’s old one—artists, their models, half-baked poets and pretty boys showed up at their door. They followed Jay home, of course. Nigel rather liked walking in to find them chattering away in French. They slowed their conversation so he could follow it—at least slightly, on occasion. Generally, they treated him with cheerful indifference—they called him le banquier, the banker, and tried to teach him French and how to gamble.
Jay was the light that drew the others to the five-room apartment, yet he was far less pleased by the invasion than Nigel. He had apparently developed the taste for a more private home life during his time in London.
One night, Jay shooed out the Bertolette twins and one of their dear friends, a newspaperman. He didn’t even pretend to make excuses. “Leave, or I shall buy a dog and teach it to bite you,” he told Anton Bertolette.
“Woof,” barked Bruno, the other twin. They shook hands with Nigel and kissed Jay good-bye.
After they left, Jay turned to Nigel, who sat on the floor trying to translate stories in the broadsheet, Le Petit Parisien. Easy to do, since the paper had great numbers of dramatic graphics.
“The French you’re learning from our friends is awful. You sound more like a dockworker than a gentleman.”
The old Nigel would have been mortified. The new one merely smiled and said, “You are a casse couille.”
“A ball breaker?” Jay began to laugh, as Nigel had hoped he would. “At least I’ve stopped you from giving these wastrels money,” Jay scolded as he dropped to the sofa near Nigel.
“I never gave anyone more than a few sous. I’m not changed enough to become a financial idiot.” Nigel tossed the paper on the sofa and stood. “Come allow me to spend some sous on you. One of the Bertolettes told me about a new restaurant he swears you’ll enjoy, a café with a gorgeous garden and strolling musicians. I think he wanted to cadge an invitation, but I’d rather go there alone with you. We’ll eat oysters and drink champagne under the trees that are all filled with tiny electrical lights.”
Jay smiled. “And we will take a key and lock the flat behind us so we don’t return home to a Noah’s ark of characters.”
He walked at Nigel’s side, chattering about a red velvet stole he’d discovered that morning.
“A warm sherry color would look good against your skin,” Nigel said and promptly burst into laughter.
“You’re mocking me,” Jay said without heat as he settled onto the iron chair in the garden.
“Not at all. I’m laughing because I said such a thing—and meant it. And now you’re laughing. Why?”
“Because you, my dear Nigel, charm me more each day.”
“Ha, you’re the charming one.”
“Is that so? It must be contagious, then.” He beamed at Nigel, whose heart leapt.
Jay had been so restless in London, reaching for that tonic of his as if to keep gloom at bay. Now he smiled at Nigel and at the lights woven through the branches of the spreading trees and at their fellow patrons in the shadowy corners of the garden. As they talked and ate and laughed, Jay seemed content.
In London Nigel had supposed Jay eager for other partners, for more sexual adventures or at least more adulation than a single person could give him. Now…
He interrupted Jay’s wondering about Mrs. Cubbins’s actions since they’d abandoned her to ask, “Tell me. Have you kissed anyone else since I’ve come to Paris?”
“Nigel, Christ, what a question. The answer is no. And I’ve only fucked you as well.” Jay folded his arms.
“Well, then, I was a fool, though I understand now,” Nigel said softly.
Jay sniffed. “What?”
He’d have to make a better effort to explain. “You’re no longer a shadow, and I understand why. I’d thought you needed more than one person to keep you satisfied. And I was right about that. I was!”
The garden was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t see Jay’s impatient shrug. “I’ve already told you I’m not seeing other men. You are considerably less charming now, my friend. Explain, if you please.”
Nigel grasped Jay’s hand and held on to it, resting them both on the table between the empty plates. “I meant all of you, Jay and Jean Michel. I’ve already told you that I love all of you and how happy I was to see you as Jean Michel again. But I hadn’t realized how incomplete you and I both were in London. You, because you didn’t have Jean Michel, and actually you didn’t have me either, not completely, because I hid too much of myself. You said as much but I see it clearly now that you have the entirety of yourself back again and me, well, because I can do this.” His thumb stroked Jay’s wrist.
Jay pulled away from Nigel, and Nigel thought he really had offended Jay, but the other man used his freed hand to summon a passing waiter.
Jay told the waiter in slow, careful French, that even Nigel might understand, “We need more champagne to celebrate immediately. My friend has gained some comprehension of the human heart.”
The waiter dropped his air of bored indifference to give a brief smile. “It’s a pity he can’t give lessons. Another plate of oysters, monsieur? They do wonders for a man, if you understand my meaning.”
Jay said, “Ha. I have no need for wonders. I have a lifetime’s worth.”
The waiter smirked and went off to fetch the wine.
Nigel leaned across the candlelit table, pulse racing, as he spoke the little declaration he’d practiced. “Mon petit chant des oiseaux, je…”
Damn French! He finished in English. “You know I’ve been hesitant to, um, open myself to you that way. I don’t know why I’ve feared it, but tonight, when we’re together I want to do it, to have you inside me and—”
Jay raised his hand to call back the waiter. “Garcon. L’addition s’il vous plait!”
He grinned at Nigel. “No need for wine, just the bill.”
Nigel lay naked on the bed, watching Jean Michel glide toward him wearing a blue-gray satin sheath dress that enhanced the smoky shade of charcoal-lined eyes. So beautiful and feminine and yet so masculine too. Jay as Jean Michel possessed both qualities in an entrancing cocktail Nigel couldn’t quaff enough of. What a pleasure to be allowed to experience both the
graceful beauty and the rough man combined in one astonishing package.
With every step that Jean Michel took toward the bed, singing softly under his breath and swaying his hips delightfully, Nigel’s erection grew larger. He rubbed himself idly as he watched his vivacious performer slowly strip off the shining gown to reveal her—his hard masculine form.
Since they’d begun their new life together in Paris, Nigel had enjoyed numerous chances to remove Jay from various gowns. He’d come to know the difference between tulle and satin, brocade and beads, and to enjoy the sensual brush of each fabric against his skin nearly as much as Jay did. But tonight wasn’t about uncovering Jay. Tonight, Nigel awaited a different sort of initiation.
Naked but for a pair of earrings that dangled from his lobes, Jay climbed onto the bed and over Nigel. Their cocks bumped clumsily together as Jay bent to kiss him with his pretty rouged lips. God, those eyes, lined in black, were so large and riveting that Nigel felt pierced by them. Pierced, as he soon would be in his arse, which clenched hard at the thought. He was ready for this. He craved it.
And Jay, without further ado, flipped Nigel over in preparation for giving him what he wanted. The grace and gentleness of Jean Michel turned on a dime as Jay took over with confident aggressiveness. He kissed the back of Nigel’s neck, between his shoulder blades, down his spine… Nigel sucked in his breath with a whimper as Jay’s mouth kissed across his arse, and he licked…oh Christ, licked down Nigel’s crack.
Nigel squirmed in embarrassment and lust so powerful his cock wept. He could come before this was over. He caught his breath and held so still he might have been a quaking rabbit facing a predator. But very soon he began to tremble for a different reason as Jay moved carefully, painstakingly priming him for entry. One oil-slicked finger and then two twisted slowly into Nigel’s rear entrance. When Nigel started to freeze up, Jay whispered delightfully sinful things until he relaxed again, and, oh, it didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared. Rather, he was stretched in a way that filled him with desire for more. It was like flexing one’s sore muscles, a tad painful but luxurious too.