They ended on his bed together, Jacob cradled in his arms. «Peter, do you travel much? Ever been to Montreal?»
«No, I'm very tied to the hotel. I've always been happy with that, to tell you the truth. I bought it nearly fifteen years ago now. I must have been just a bit older than you are now. I was lucky. I came into some money from a great-uncle. He left it to me because I was gay. And out.» «Really? Wow. It doesn't usually work that way, does it?»
«No, it doesn't. It's a funny old world. He said he wanted me to have the money because I had the courage to be myself. Luckily for me he didn't know me very well. I'm not brave. I just have no talent for acting.» «Why a hotel?»
«So charming young cellists can come and stay with me?» Jacob grinned and ran a hand up and down the inside of Peter's thigh. «This is one of the great careers for English majors. To tell you the truth, I think I'm a bit of a homebody. I like good company, and this way I can stay snug on my island, cook and read and talk to handsome men every day.»
«Sounds like a fine life. But it's a small island, Peter. You don't ever miss the city?»
«No, I'm happy here. In fact, my…my friend, Sebastian. This little town is too big for him. He needs to head off into the wilderness alone most every year. He makes me feel like a real big-city boy.» Jacob was quiet, his hand stroking Peter's chest. «Jacob, that music you played earlier.»
«You mean the Clapton song? 'River of Tears'? I saw your face while you were listening to it. Does that song mean something to you, Peter?»
«I don't know.» His hands traced a line down Jacob's back, a gentle touch over the healing bruises. «The music was so evocative, it reminded me of something, but I don't know what. Sorrow, or loss.»
«It feels like that to me, too, Peter. Sorrow and loss, but also a way out. Not so much like a man running away, but like a man walking away, walking away strong. Saving himself.» Jacob sighed, his breath blowing warm across Peter's chest. «I like that song. I played that for myself. I'm gonna write some music for you one day, Peter. Music that feels the way I feel right now, while I'm wrapped around you all warm and sexy and happy and safe.» «Can you write music like that, Jacob?» «Yeah, I can. I've got extemporaneous written all over me.»
Peter laughed. «You've got extemporaneous written all over you? Okay, close your eyes and spell it. I bet you can't.»
«Sure I can! I was the Pacific Heights Elementary Spelling Bee champ. I spelled 'Albuquerque' to win. Wait, I'll show you.» Jacob scrambled off the bed and pulled his jeans on, no underwear. «The music, I mean. I don't have my spelling bee trophy hidden in my cello case. Don't move. I'll be right back.»
Peter laughed a few minutes later when Jacob wrestled his cello in through the bedroom door. He pulled it out of the case, set the case in the corner, fitted the instrument between his knees. «Peter's song,» he said, closing his eyes, and the room filled with mellow rich notes, as dark as red wine, as rich and silky smooth as Jacob's hair. Peter lay across his bed, his body warm and liquid-happy, listening to Jacob play for him.
He only heard the notes that one time, but the music stayed in his memory for the rest of his life. He would hear it sometimes, echoes of notes in his dreams, when he dreamed of Jacob.
Chapter Two
Casper's voice was as smoky and blue as a New Orleans jazz club at two in the morning. They had the karaoke unit out in the living room, practicing for the Elvis concert at Tiny's Place. Casper wasn't singing an Elvis song, though. He was singing that Brook Benton song, «Rainy Night in Georgia.» When he was done, Jesse and Phillip stood up and clapped. «Wow, Casper. That was –«
Travis stood up and pushed past them out of the living room. «I gotta go. Get some sleep before I go on duty tonight.»
Casper nodded and watched him walk out of the room, a frown tugging at his eyes. He turned to Peter and shrugged.
«Okay, here we go.» Jacob turned the screen of his laptop so Jesse could see it. «I think go with a classic fifties Elvis look – 501's and loafers and a white T-shirt. You can roll a pack of smokes in your sleeve and sing 'Hound Dog,' 'Jailhouse Rock,' something like that.»
Phillip reached for Jesse's black hair, ran his fingers through it. «I guess we could slick you up with a little olive oil from the kitchen, give you a ducktail.»
Jesse nodded. «Maybe you're right. We can't sing 'Kentucky Rain,' not with Casper singing a sad, rainy song.» He looked over at Peter. «So Tiny's rule is nobody sings 'Down in the Ghetto'? How come?»
Peter shrugged and held up his hands. «I don't really know, Jesse. It's possible I wasn't listening to Tiny at all, at the last hundred of these I've attended. Like maybe my ears were stuffed with small foam rubber earplugs.»
Casper laughed, and Jesse turned back to Phillip. «We'll have to go for cute ass in tight jeans and hope the audience is full of homeboys.» He stroked his jaw thoughtfully. «And drinking heavily. Who's coming? Me and Phillip, Casper, Peter, Jacob…»
«I'm not going,» Jacob said, back at the computer. He was pulling up lyrics so everyone could practice. «I've got to pack. I'm leaving for the airport about thirty minutes after you guys get back. I'll have just enough time to hear about the winner. Mike, how about you? Think you can sing like Elvis?»
Mike shook his head. It was after six, and he still hadn't shaved or taken a shower, but he came down to get some of the tea Peter set out for the guests, about five ginger scones, crackers with pecan and blue cheese spread, tiny cucumber slices with salmon and dilled sour cream. The teapot was full of Earl Grey. «Sorry I'm not up to much, guys. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more…» He shook his head. «So what's the prize, Peter? For the winner?»
«Grand prize is dinner for two at Tiny's Cafe. He makes a mean meat loaf sandwich, two thick slices of meat loaf with tomato gravy on Texas toast, and you get seconds on the mashed potatoes, gratis. He also has the biggest moose burgers in town, half a pound at least, and…»
«Oh, God! Don't say another word.» Phillip leaned forward, holding his stomach. «I already feel sick, just thinking about it. Okay, who's the ringer?» Peter hesitated. «I really shouldn't…»
«Oh, come on, Peter. You got a local Elvis who's gonna blow us all out of the water?»
«Well, Tiny himself does a mean Elvis. He's got a voice like you wouldn't believe, even better than Casper. He's just gotten a bit big for those costumes. But when he was younger and thinner, he was the most famous Elvis in Alaska. He can still belt out a song strong enough to rattle the windowpanes. But I've got my money on Casper if he can convince the judges to let him sing Brook Benton. Or at least 'Kentucky Rain.' Sad songs about rain are very popular in Alaska.» * * * * *
Peter pulled the hotel's van up to the front door about seven, and Casper, Phillip, and Jesse climbed in, dressed in Levi's and white T-shirts, hair slicked back. Jacob walked down the steps with them, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shearling slippers on his feet.
«I'll be home in time to say good-bye to you, Jacob. Before you have to leave for the airport.»
Jacob nodded and looked off toward the dark waters of the harbor. He was shivering a bit in his T-shirt.
«Go back inside where it's warm.» Peter leaned down and kissed him, hands on his shoulders, watched him walk back into the hotel and close the door behind him.
Tiny's Elvis contest was the monthly social occasion for the island. Elvis impersonators, men and a few women, came from all over the southeastern part of Alaska to eat moose stew and sing like The King.
Tiny greeted them at the door. He was enormous, probably 6'6», with a huge belly unconfined in tobacco brown Carhartt overalls unbuttoned on the sides. His Harley T-shirt didn't cover the wondrous Subic Bay tattoos he'd gotten in the Philippines as a young sailor. With his black beard and crooked teeth and frizzed ponytail, he was the least Elvis-looking person in the room.
