by Jerry Cole
“Behind the Curtain”
M/M Gay Romance
Jerry Cole
© 2016
Jerry Cole
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is intended for Adults (ages 18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It may contain graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. May contain scenes of unprotected sex. Please do not read this book if you are offended by content as mentioned above or if you are under the age of 18.
Please educate yourself on safe sex practices before making potentially life-changing decisions about sex in real life. If you’re not sure where to start, see here: http://www.jerrycoleauthor.com/safe-sex-resources/.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images & are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.
Edition v1.07 (2018.01.07)
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Dedicated to Veda! Thank you for the support.
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Authors Note
Books by Jerry Cole
Chapter One
Beyond the thin veil of the scarlet curtain, just past the yawning pit, in the darkness where what is familiar becomes surreal, a crowd of people stirred and muttered, waiting. They sat in complete darkness, the curtain a massive blindfold, hiding from them the wonders of a world they could only observe and never touch. In this darkness, the red-gold splendor of the theater's extravagant decor was swept away. The palatial geometric reliefs that paneled the ceilings, the swells of art deco flourishes and standards that embellished every corner, every arch, the delicate filigree lamps that had not much earlier filled this room with warm honey colored light. All this grandeur was swallowed in darkness, narrowing the focus of that murmuring hoard to a single point. The stage. And from then on, their eyes would follow wherever directed, no longer themselves but vehicles for the observation of an event. When sitting in a dark room with all attention fixated on a single thing, a single story, you become a channel for that story, and everything that is you dissolves like sugar on the tongue. You are gone, and only the story remains.
Or at least, that was how it had always been for Nicholas. But Nicholas was not in the audience that day. He was on the other side of the curtain, the other side of the equation, a position normally just as devoid of individual will. Swept up in this altered reality, a narrow world where the walls are an inch of painted plywood and one can never look to the left, it became easy for him to forget his identity and become someone else. A man in the iron grip of predestination. The events of his life, the clothes he would wear, even to the very words he would say, all prepared and rehearsed and ready on his tongue long before the inciting dialogue could be begun. Just a puppet in the hands of a playwright, and in this case one long dead. Certainly there was a uniqueness to his performance, a quality that only he could bring, a fragile glimmer of the human soul that lingered beyond the character. But it was only a particularly fine piece in a device crafted by someone else. He still could be its conduit and add little to it himself.
At least, that was so before tonight. Tonight, everything changed. In the dark beyond the curtain, on the day that could change his life or ruin his career, Nicholas peered through the gloom across the stage to the wings where a young man, beautiful, noble, and hopeless, was waiting for him. That was his only audience tonight, and by his review, Nicholas would live or die.
***
"Cyrano de Bergerac!"
There was a collective groan from all assembled. A little less than twenty people shifted in their creaking plastic chairs and complained.
"I was hoping for something with a little magic..."
"I thought we were promised Shakespeare this season?"
"Why can't we do a musical for once? Nobody wants to see straight plays anymore!"
The white, fluorescent lights of the classroom they gathered in washed out their faces to pale, whining caricatures. Stale donuts bought from the grocery store clustered disappointingly cold and sticky on a fold out table against the wall, next to a coffee pot borrowed from the teacher's lounge, the coffee within it not worth the dishwater it had been brewed with. Nicholas, leaning back with his ankles crossed in one of the entirely insufficient plastic school chairs, struggled to remove the sticky residue of the donuts from his fingers with a paper napkin.
"Now, now, settle down!" a heavyset man in a green coat, his red hair as bright and wild as if he set the top of his head on fire, waved his hands to quiet them all. "Cyrano is a beautiful play full of glorious poetry and captivating duels! The tale of a man—poet, swordsman, scholar, adventurer—accomplished in every way! And yet dragged down by his single flaw, a comically large nose."
There was a smattering of giggles as the red-headed man mimed a long, sweeping nose with a delicate affectation. Nicholas now had paper napkin stuck to the spots of sticky donut residue. He scowled at his hands and, feeling like a barbarian, tried to wipe them on the leg of his jeans instead.
"Though he is in love with the beautiful Roxanne," the redheaded man went on, "he dares not confess for fear of rejection. When he learns she loves the handsome but foolish Christian, he agrees to write poetry for Christian to recite for Roxanne, to woo her in his place because he does not think himself deserving. The play ends in tragedy as Christian realizes Roxanne has fall
en in love with Cyrano's words, and cannot love him for himself. Before he can reveal to her who she is truly in love with, he dies. Cyrano, to guard Roxanne's memory of her lover, resolves never to confess. Years later, as he lies dying, all is revealed, and Roxanne declares her love for Cyrano only for him to die in her arms."
The man wiped a tear from his eye, and if it was an overly theatrical gesture, it was only appropriate considering the place and the man in question.
Nicholas now had blue flecks of jean lint stuck to his fingers alongside the bits of napkin. The terrible donuts appeared to have been glazed with glue.
"We will be holding auditions at the end of the month," the red-headed man said as he began to wrap things up. "As you know, our numbers have rather dwindled of late, so these will be open community auditions."
There was a second chorus of disappointed groans.
"I know, I know," the man waved them down again, "but we just don't have the numbers we used to. I'd rather have a few amateurs running around than shut down entirely. If you have friends or family who are theatrically inclined, be sure to invite them to try out. Now, on to other business..."
As the meeting wrapped up, Nicholas lingered, picking at his sticky fingers in mild aggravation as he waited for the red-headed man to finish packing up his scattered notes and scripts.
"So what made you decide on Cyrano?" he asked, bending to catch a fallen piece of paper and hand it back to the other man, "Not that I'm not excited. But it seems like an unusual choice for you, Walter. You never went in for the historicals before."
"Cyrano de Bergerac is no mere historical!" Walter gestured emphatically with a script. "It is poetry! Some of my favorite lines in all stagecraft are in here. Not to mention, all the sword fights are bound to draw a crowd."
He dropped the script into his bag and gave Nicholas a serious look, normally jolly face drawn with severity.
"And we need a crowd, Nick," he said. "We won't survive without one. As it is I can barely pay the licensing fees on the scripts, let alone rent for the space, materials, and costumes. Ugh!"
He shuddered in dismay of how easily base money trampled over his dreams. Nicholas smiled, amused by Walter's theatrics rather than worried.
"I've known you for years, Walter," he said. "You won't let this place go under. You'd just as soon give up breathing."
"Exactly," Walter snapped his small, cheap brief case closed. "Which is why I'm going to need your help with this. Don't forget you owe me one!"
"I owe you far more than one." Nicholas laughed lightly and began to lead Walter out of the little classroom they borrowed from the local elementary school and down the hall. "I would be entirely lost without you."
"And more importantly," Walter cast him a dirty look, "ever since you chased off Eric Matthers and we lost his father's patronage, we have almost no funds to work with. We can barely rent theater space in this city without Mr. Matthers' approval."
"That whiny little twit was an abominable actor," Nicholas scowled as he defended himself. "I don't regret it one bit."
"Well, I do," Walter muttered. "I would rather have put up with his insufferable diva behavior every day than see this acting troupe collapse."
"We would have collapsed a lot faster if I hadn't run him out," Nicholas countered. "He kept demanding lead roles when he had all the acting talent of a dead fish and threatening to withdraw his father's money if you didn't coddle him. If we want to succeed, we should be putting on the best plays possible, not letting ourselves be turned into a playground for a rich, talentless idiot."
"Rich being the operative word," Walter countered as they left the school behind and stepped out into the bright winter day. "We could have worked around an incompetent lead actor. We cannot work around not having a space to act in."
"Of course we can," Nicholas replied, grinning. "We're in New York! Anything can happen."
Down the front steps of the school building, the city hummed with human life like a hive. The streets thronged with cars and bikes on their way home for the evening. The school let out only an hour and a half or so before their meeting. Sunlight still glimmered golden over the buildings as it tumbled toward the horizon, not yet ready to scream red and orange through the haze and smog, but getting there. A chill breeze swept down the street and through Nick's long, chestnut hair, picking up the tied back curls. He squinted his startlingly bright blue eyes against it, plunged his sticky hands into the pockets of his trim gray wool coat and nestled deeper into his scarf, like a bird fluffing its feathers.
"You must have been living in a different New York than me for these past five years," Walter laughed. "This city is carnivorous. It eats dreams."
"Then we will just have to be too quick for it." Nicholas nodded in approval of his own declaration as they made their way down the sidewalk toward the subway. Walter sighed like he was giving up.
"Whatever satisfies your soul is truth, I suppose," he said.
"That's one of your quotes, isn't it?" Nicholas scanned his memory in search of the attribution, "Is it Thoreau?"
"Whitman," Walter corrected and Nicholas scowled. Walter was a great lover of quotes and Nick, despite continued efforts, almost never guessed them correctly.
"I’ll tell you what," he said, piqued by the quote and by Walter's doubt in him, "You say I owe you for chasing out Matthers. So I'll find us a stage. I will bring you the Grand Guignol or nothing else."
"Unless you have grown much deeper pockets since the last time I bought you dinner," Walter gave him a sideways, doubtful look, "I do not believe we shall be going to Paris any time soon."
"You know me, Walter," Nick laughed. "Have you ever known me to lie? I bet you I can get us a stage in the Grand Guignol, and I will."
"I'll regret it," Walter sighed, "but I'll take that bet. Find me a stage like that, for a price we can manage, and I'll buy you dinner for a week."
"A month."
"A week and not a day more or we'll be putting on this play without lights."
"Deal."
They shook on it, and then plunged down the stairs into the heated crush of the subway at rush hour, like a pair of kingfishers into a raging river. They parted there, each taking different trains. Walter, to the rent-controlled place in Manhattan he maintained a death grip on since the 1960s, and Nicholas to the far cheaper place he rented near a fish market in Brighton Beach. Coming to Flatbush for every meeting of the theater troupe was a pain, but the majority of the group was either attending Brooklyn College or living, usually with families, in Ditmas Park or Midwood. As the outliers Walter, the troupe's founder and director, and Nicholas, who was nothing special aside from being Walter's friend and devoted to the group, would just have to commute.
As Nick stood, sardine-like, in the press of bodies on the train, he allowed himself a moment to worry about the future of the Green Carnation Theater Troupe. He hadn't dared express his worry in front of Walter. Walter was an echo chamber for worry. Bringing up a concern to him was asking for it to be amplified and returned to you seven-fold. Opening nights were often a three-ring circus of trying to put on the show, manage any of the sundry disasters that always accompanied an opening, all while preventing Walter from discovering any of those same disasters and panicking.
But Nicholas hadn't been oblivious to how the troupe had been struggling lately. They were well-known around their area, their shows reasonably well attended. But since Nick chased out Eric Matthers, finding funding and theater space and even just keeping their troupe big enough to perform had become an extreme difficulty. He refused to regret it however, clinging to his righteous indignation like the subway safety handle he was presently hanging from.
He refused to regret anything, as a matter of principle, but in particular he refused to regret that. He scowled at the mere memory or Eric Matthers. It was true he was a diva, demanding lead roles, and then hampering the entire production with his pampered behavior, but that Nicholas might have ignored for the sake of Walter and
the company. Walter was not aware, but Eric rendered himself obnoxious in a way that was entirely unendurable.
He was still dwelling in these bitter thoughts when the train took the usual sharp turn near Sheepshead. He gripped the handle tighter in preparation, but a man standing near him, face buried in a city map, was clearly not expecting the sudden extreme jostle. He toppled forward and Nicholas, acting on instinct, leaned forward to catch him. The stranger landed hard against Nick's chest, Nick's arm around his back. His map was crumpled against Nick's collar, and he looked up at the other man with wide, startled eyes.
Nicholas' first thought was wondering if he had seen that face before somewhere, on television or in a magazine or on some stage. Surely, he thought, a face like that wasn't unknown. The stranger in his arms was the picture of masculine beauty, from the strong line of his jaw, to the proud arch of his aquiline nose, to the long blond lashes that framed his dark eyes.
"I'm so sorry," the man said, trying to find his feet and move away.
"Are you an actor?" Nick asked, talking over the top of him. The man, looking startled, shook his head.
"No," the man replied as Nicholas released him, struck by the impressive swell of muscles under the jean jacket he was wearing. "Veterinary studies, actually."
He had an accent, Nick noticed, not terribly thick but noticeable, something Southern, possibly Virginian. But they could fix that. A few weeks of coaching while he was learning his lines, no big deal.
"Do you want to be?" Nicholas asked, staring at the man with searing intensity, as though he could charm him into cooperating like a cobra ensnaring a bird. Now that the man was standing up straight, trying to straighten out his crumpled map, Nick saw the stranger was an inch or two taller than he was. Perfect, tall always played well. He'd need a haircut. Those cherubic gold curls were lovely but too messy for a period piece.