“Y’think?” His parents had been corporate lawyers: great with conflict, encouragement not so much.
Nod. “She’s lucky.”
“Well, she’s not old enough to dance Coffee. Frankly, the music is too sexy. But mad beautiful. We spend a lot of time arguing about it.” Jerome smiled. “Welcome to every dinner at my house.”
Wink. “If you insist.”
Somehow they’d stopped talking about ballet.
A hot hollow opened behind Jerome’s heart. “Uh. Good.” Smile.
“You look happy, Jug. I’m really glad.”
He glanced at his daughter cocking her confused frown at him. “She knows what she wants.”
Wince dropped his gaze to his dozing son. “Lucky. A lot of people never know.”
“That’s not—” Jerome swallowed and tried again. “Wince.”
Wince blinked. A shivery silence dragged between them like swords scraping blade to blade.
Jerome said, “I gotta go.”
“I’ll see you, okay? At the coffee-pig-mice thing. Ballet!” Wince grinned and winked at him, gorgeous and open as the sky.
They both chuckled, somehow calm standing there facing each other in the cold all these years later. His pulse thumped in his ears. If Jerome didn’t feel happy, he at least didn’t feel lost. Regret never killed anyone.
Olivia would have loved him. Too.
An awkward moment where they couldn’t hug or shake or anything in farewell, so Jerome saluted and pointed at Flip. “Take care of him.”
“What else am I good for?” Wince crossed the street to hail a cab.
Me. But we’re bad for each other.
Jerome caught up with his daughter distractedly. What just happened? He forgot to tug on his gloves ‘til she did.
“I was right. He’s cool.” Keisha looked at him directly when he didn’t reply. “Wince.”
“I never said he wasn’t.” But I implied it. She didn’t really understand because Wince’s charm blinded people.
They doubled back up Columbus toward rehearsals.
She swiveled toward him and nodded in the cold. “Dad, I totally ship it.”
He made an old man face. “What does that mean?” She couldn’t possibly understand.
“Wince. It makes no sense, so it makes perfect sense. That you’re friends.” She tucked the tail tip in her pocket and took his arm.
“I haven’t seen him in seventeen years, Keisha.” A panicky edge to his voice made him sound like he was lying. “Give or take.”
“What?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “So you don’t like him?”
“I don’t know him.” He forced himself to speak more quietly. “Anymore.”
Had he done something to give himself away? Had Wince noticed? What was she saying exactly?
“Dad. It’s okay to like someone. He’s nice to you.” Keisha laughed at him and studied his face. “And you return the favor. I ship it.” She squinted at something in the distance. “Did Mom like him? She must’ve.” As if she’d read his mind a moment ago.
“She never met him.”
“She would’ve though. A lot.” A tight nod. “Why does he call you Jug?”
“A long, crazy story. Not for little people.” A quick memory of Thad Plasky showing up to school with black eyes, chipped teeth, and his nose taped for a week. “Because that’s what he calls me.”
An approaching van made an illegal right. Jerome covered his embarrassment by turning to watch it barreling right through the crosswalk.
“So I was right.” She pushed her hands into her coat, obviously proud of her mind-reading skills. “About Wince?”
The stage door buzzed and swung open. The security guard nodded at the desk.
“Maybe.” He blinked and hugged her. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”
“Well, yeah.” Keisha rolled her eyes. She stepped inside walking backward, laughing. “But only if you happen to be looking at exactly the right second.” Only then she turned, dropping the tail.
Once burned …
Heading around to the Koch entrance, he made his way to the front of house in the dim theater and found a seat with the teachers and kids watching the empty stage.
“Places. Places, people,” said a voice from overhead.
THE DRESS REHEARSAL WAS not a date, but it sure as hell felt like one.
All November, Jerome had wrestled with himself, terrified he was overanalyzing but afraid of missing his chance, if one existed. Impossible. He kept hoping they’d bump into each other before or after school, but no deal. He saw Flip with a nanny a couple of afternoons, but no Wince. He found their number in the school directory, but it went undialed ‘til Keisha called with her invitation.
Wince couldn’t come ‘til one. He’d see the second act, Keish’s bit with Mother Ginger at least.
“He’s been on a tour,” she said. “He sounded weird. Tired.”
“Weird how?”
“Dad, he’s your friend.”
By eleven a.m. Jerome was a mess. By the intermission, panic set in.
He’d slept like hell the past three nights. Distracted at the gym. Now he paced just inside the stage door, waiting for Wince and his son so they could run backstage before the second half got started. He forced his breath slower as if he were benching three hundred pounds.
If nothing else, they’d talk. Right?
“Sorry, Jug.” Wince’s hair was slicked back in a wavy helmet, parted no less, and he was wearing a suit. Madman makes good. He was out of breath and glazed with sweat in the cold air. “Sorry, I’m late.”
Jerome whistled. “You look sharp.” At least he’d put on khakis and a sweater. He saw a lot of rehearsals with dance moms. He never would’ve thought to wear a suit, but Wince looked like a million bucks. “I feel underdressed.”
“You look great. You always look great.”
He shifted his weight uneasily.
“Sorry I missed the first half.” Since when did Wince sweat? “Label meeting. I tried to get away faster.”
He waved away the worry. “First act is pretty much opening presents and fights.”
“So I know this show’s a holiday thing. Candy and fairies. And Arabian coffee?”
“Yep. Mice, sugar, princes, plums.” He counted the nonsense on his fingers. He took a breath and asked, “Where’s Flip?”
“Sitter.” Quick blink.
Was he nervous too? A thin tendril of hope worked into Jerome’s chest.
Wince said, “I gotta be honest: my kid wasn’t interested in tights and nuts.”
Jerome caught his eye then. “Unlike you?”
Wince snorted, which made him snort. A bright bloom of pleasure behind his ribs. He hadn’t laughed, not inside-laughed, in a long time. Christmas coming and Olivia had been gone three years, the scar faded smooth by now. Oh. She hadn’t been able to see Keisha in a Nutcracker since right after she got diagnosed. All that time, where does it wind up?
Wince studied his face and stance, getting a read the way only he could. “You okay?”
Jerome finally exhaled and held the backstage door open. “Sure. Yeah. Long story.” Olivia had heard about Wince plenty, urged him to reach out for years. What would she think? Most likely, she would’ve grinned and kicked his ass and told him to make a damn choice, Jerome. Ten years of soap scripts had fed her unshakeable faith in happy reunions.
Wince blinked, but he didn’t press. “Well, today it’s just us.”
“Old times.” Jerome smiled at him.
“Speak for yourself.” But sure enough, he smiled, still eager as a stray dog. He held up a bouquet of orange roses. “For Keisha.”
“She’ll love that; only, we can’t go to the dressing rooms ‘til after.” Jerome put a hand at the small of Wince’s muscular back and
steered him past the rigging.
As they snaked toward the front of house, a few dancers eyed their progress cagily. Jerome nodded at the dance captain who’d been so patient about letting Keisha watch the Coffee rehearsals.
Wince clocked the ceiling and the cyclorama. “Gah. Some setup.”
Jerome smiled. Band manager. “I forgot. You’re in theaters all the time.”
“Well, not this high end, but yeah. Same idea.” As they neared the stage, Wince craned to check out the stored set pieces. He muttered conspiratorially. “So what’d I miss?”
Jerome kept his voice low as they cut through the wings. “First half, little girl gets a nutcracker that turns into a hot soldier. He fights mice and takes her to check out junk food.” Stop rushing. “For real.”
“But with tutus.”
Jerome shrugged. “I guess. And dance belts: don’t ask. S’pretty old school.”
“Nostal-gic.” Wince’s grin made the idea into a dirty joke.
“That’s the word. So you’re in time for Candyland.” The ribbon of hope looped into a bow and squeezed his heart.
A heavy stage manager in black sweats corralled the corps, “In five. That’s your five minutes.” The stage lights pulsed bright then dark. The crew scurried for preset.
Jerome veered left behind black masking, almost to the edge of the actual stage. “Wait, Wince, c’mere.”
“I don’t wanna miss Keisha, man.”
“Two secs.” Jerome tugged him forward, holding his shoulders and standing behind him. “See?”
From where they stood, all 2,500 seats of the theater glittered at them in the dimmed house lights like a glass waiting for wine, but no one could see them. Not from before or behind. The swept stage gleamed under kaleidoscopic pastel lights, and the whole building seemed to hold its breath.
“Jesus,” Wince whispered.
“Best view in the house.”
Standing close, the warmth between them rose. Jerome’s chest and Wince’s back were an inch apart. His chin hovered over Wince’s shoulder. The wings seemed unexpectedly quiet, and the sound of their breathing amplified.
Wince swayed against him, lightly, just resting his strong back against Jerome’s torso, the bouquet held at his side brushing both their legs.
Neither spoke.
Slowly, warily, Jerome’s hands rose like muscular shadows as Wince turned to face him like someone waking up from a dream. They stood pressed, breathing together in the wings.
The stage manager voice from out in the house. “Three minutes. Three minutes. Places, please.” The stage turned mauve and peach then deep blue.
One breath together. Two.
“We should find our seats. C’mon.” Wince looked terrified in his sharp suit. “Well, say something.”
“That doesn’t matter.” Jerome raised his head in wonder. “I am a stopped clock.” He took Wince’s free hand and pressed it against his heart.
“A what?” Confused grin.
“Clock. I get to be right twice, even if I’m broken.” The lights from onstage raked the wings, turning Wince violet and tangerine for a minute, then leaving them in brief darkness. “But only if my timing’s right.”
Wince stood very still, under the candy light. “It always was.” His face crinkled in a smile, and his thumbs hooked Jerome’s belt loops.
Jerome lowered his face.
Wince’s eyes shone in the sudden dark, and without thinking, Jerome kissed him.
“J—” Wince may have been saying something, but the words vanished into their mouths and Jerome pulled him close; if he never had another chance, he wasn’t going to waste this one.
Once burned, once burned. He opened his eyes. Not wanting to miss anything.
Wince pushed one thick arm around Jerome’s ribs, holding their chests together as his mouth opened. He pulled away to tip his head and come back licking at Jerome’s mouth under the lambent shafts of pink, amber, teal that swept over them.
Somewhere on the other side of the stage, the muted kat-tump-a-bump of toe shoes as dancers took their places for Act Two and the Land of Sweets. His hands were shaking, his legs too.
“Hey, fella. Easy.” A quiet laugh from Wince and a rustle of roses. “Jug. Hey. Hey. Easy. I’m right here.”
Jerome straightened, self-conscious and nervous about his daughter somewhere back here dressed to dance for Mother Ginger. “I wanted to, y’know. So much. And I didn’t know if—” He snuck another kiss, quick, and then another. And then he stepped aside. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” A nipping kiss pressed at the corner of Jerome’s mouth like punctuation. “We’re gonna have an accident, an incident. Look at me.”
Jerome nodded. Wince beamed at him with easy, tested affection. And this time he was right, a stopped clock, a cracked nut.
Olivia spoke in his head, You only get the chances you take.
“There’s no rush. We’re okay, man. We’re both grownups.” He took Jerome’s hand and gripped it, not letting go. “Well, you are.”
Jerome squeezed back. He felt crazy and hopeful. What would they say to their kids? Would they go on dates? What would their friends say? His parents? Did he even care?
“Hey. Hey, Jug. Later.” Wince tapped Jerome’s forehead, as if he’d read his mind. “Leave it ‘til later.”
Jerome smiled. “Yes, sir. I’m good for it.”
“I know you are.” They made their way out to the orchestra, not saying any of the stuff they might’ve.
Wince paused at the end of the row to let him pass and then followed Jerome to their seats in the half-lights, bumping into him in all the right places. The director and the lighting team sat about twenty rows back with the board, deep in conversation. Dress rehearsals tended to be stop/start for hours, but just now, Jerome didn’t mind sitting quietly for a bit.
As soon as they sat, Wince found his big hand in the dark and laced their fingers, black and tan.
Jerome grunted in pleasure. Wince grunted back.
“Fair warning, man. This may take a while. Plus dinner.” He and Keisha usually celebrated after the dress with a massive pile of sushi.
“Cool. I’m in no kinda hurry.”
Jerome smiled. Maybe I’m good for you too.
“What are your feelings about Christmas?”
“Uh, good?” Jerome shrugged. Was that an invitation? Before he could ask, the overture started up and the curtain rose on a confectionary castle eighty feet high.
“Jeez.” Wince blinked happily at the sudden brightness.
For some reason sitting for any dress, seeing a show come together, always made him so proud of his little girl, all that work and sweat and discipline that made her blaze onstage. Harsh joy spiraled up out of him like cinders lifted by a bonfire. He said a prayer for Olivia, another for their strong daughter, and a small one for himself. Once burned.
Wince turned and whispered in his ear, “What happens now?”
Jerome winked. “Whatever it is, it’s worth waiting for.”
Chuckle. Cellos and trumpets below and rustling from the dark wings.
Wince squeezed his fingers. “I missed you, Jug.”
“Man.” Jerome squeezed back and turned to look at his dark profile. “What took us so long?”
Wince kissed him again and whispered into his skin. “We were shy.”
Damon Suede has lived all over: Houston, New York, London, Prague. Along the way, he’s earned his crust as a model, a messenger, a promoter, a programmer, a sculptor, a singer, a stripper, a bookkeeper, a bartender, a techie, a teacher, a director … but writing has ever been his bread and butter.
Damon is a proud member of the Romance Writers of America and serves on its Board of Directors. He also served as the 2013 president for the Rainbow Romance Writers, RWA’s LGBT
romance chapter.
Though new to gay romance, Damon has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades, which is both more and less glamorous than you might imagine. He’s won some awards, but his blessings are more numerous: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year.
Three days before New Year’s Eve
SHE’D NEVER BEEN ONE to hide in a crowd, but today, she must.
A glimmer of recognition lit the eyes of some of the people waiting in the long customer service lines, their wilted, frustrated expressions softening to surprise. Or maybe disbelief.
Ducking into a crowded restaurant on Atlanta’s C concourse, Ansley aimed for the only open seat at the bar. And even more luck! There was a power socket tucked against the wall. With her phone dead and a mountain of calls to make, she couldn’t have asked for a more divine result.
“Pardon me.” She angled her guitar case around the man sitting on the stool next to hers, tripping over his luggage and computer bag. “You might want to get those out of the way.”
He glanced at her, his blue eyes bright and clear. “Not mine.” The man gestured toward the packed in travelers, reaching for outlets, hailing one of the harried servers. “Take your pick.”
“People should know better than to leave their stuff around—” Truly, it wasn’t that big of a deal. She was tired and hungry. Drained, just like her cellphone battery. But, then again, weren’t they all?
“Sorry, they’re mine.” A dark suit reached for his bags, his brown eyes landing on Ansley. “Hey, aren’t you—”
She waved him off with a mock laugh. “Ansley Moore? I get that all the time. Nope, but don’t I wish. I just look a lot like her.”
The man frowned. “Really? You sure you’re not—”
“Would I be sitting here if I was?” She arched her eyebrow, pulling her best face. “Please.”
“Guess not.” The suit grabbed his bags and backed away.
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 29