Chapter 11

Anthony

A nthony was awoken by a gentle shake. There was a disorienting moment before he remembered where he was and what had happened. He'd had sex on an airplane. Sort of. At least, he'd had an unexpected orgasm on an airplane. Then he'd fallen asleep on Freddie.

He was afraid to open his eyes. How could this not be awkward as hell? But he didn't have a choice. He couldn't sleep on the plane forever.

Freddie's wide smile greeted Anthony. In the short time they'd known each other, he didn't ever recall Freddie smiling. It made him look even more handsome.

"Hi," Anthony said. "What's happening?"

"We're landing."

"Oh shit. I slept on you for five hours? Shit." Anthony sat up, his face warm with embarrassment. The sleeping part was strangely more vulnerable than the coming in his pants part.

"You were perfect," Freddie said. He brought his fingers up to Anthony's cheek. His touch was soft and gentle.

Anthony smoothed his clothes out with his hands. Freddie didn't seem to regret what happened. Anthony didn't know how to take this version of the silent, hulking bodyguard. He was still gruff, but he had a sweetness about him. It was honestly overwhelming, and a bit terrifying.

There wasn't time to process. Anthony was due in rehearsal that afternoon. He needed to shower, so the two of them grabbed a taxi to the hotel.

The Opera La Rambla was a new house for Anthony, and Barcelona was a new city. As they walked to the opera, Anthony was struck by how beautiful the city was, how romantic. The bright colors and unusual shapes of Gaudí architecture were a surprise that could wait around any corner, and adorable stores and restaurants lined the tourist thoroughfare on which the opera house stood.

In the distance, the spires of the Segrada Familia sprouted up from a sea of single-story buildings, a more than one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old construction project that had just come to a close. Anthony doubted he'd have time to explore this trip, but he made a mental note to leave extra space in the schedule on his next visit.

The opera itself was a beautiful old building, with a facade of white stone and grand windows. The gold-clad embellishments shimmered in the morning sun as Anthony entered to attend his first rehearsal.

The complexities of performing at Opera La Rambla for the first time dulled Anthony's demanding and exuberant nature a bit. Most singers shared common languages they could converse in — Italian, if nothing else — even if they didn't speak the home language of the country where they were performing.

Adrijana Broz, the mezzo-soprano playing Rosina, however, was Croatian, and although her Italian diction was superb, her ability to communicate was limited. She had brought a translator with her, a stout man with wire-rimmed glasses, but he only knew Croatian and English. Many of the opera house staff only spoke Spanish and Catalan.

The schedule was tight, and the language barrier made it worse. It required every ounce of patience Anthony had not to demand that they track down a translator who knew not only Croatian but also English and Spanish.

He didn't dare complain, though. He was already on the defensive. The conductor had it out for him.

"Who's that?" Maestro Alamilla barked at Anthony as he and Freddie walked through the studio door. The Maestro spoke perfect English, with the barest trace of an accent. He did everything perfectly, and he expected the same from those with whom he worked.

"I'm—"

"I know who you are, Mr. Bianchi. I hired you. Who's the one in the suit?"

"My bodyguard, Maestro."

"An opera singer with a bodyguard? Ridiculous." The Maestro was a short, elderly man with bushy gray eyebrows that radiated angry authority. Despite his advanced age, he was spry, pacing around the space like a Pac-Man ghost.

"I've had some—"

"He can sit over there." The Maestro gestured to the opposite end of the room. "He had better not speak."

"He'll be quiet—"

"You're late."

Anthony glanced at his phone. It was three minutes before the hour.

"I have a couple—"

The Maestro tapped the gold watch on his wrist. "My room, my time."

Anthony's instinct was to argue back, but this was his first gig at the house and he wanted to work there again. He sulked over to the row of chairs near the piano and sat, fetching his tablet from his shoulder bag.

"You can introduce yourselves to each other later. We're starting with the act two quintet."

Anthony searched through the document for the quintet. He heard the translator whispering to Adrijana, bringing her up to speed. She was barely on her feet when the Maestro raised his baton and gestured to the rehearsal pianist to begin.

The quintet started with each of the five characters entering, and Anthony found it strange to be singing with people whose names he didn't even know. Adrijana had a rising international career similar to his, but the other three were local artists. He had no idea who they were, although he appreciated their enthusiasm. The maestro's rigidity didn't seem to bother them.

About thirty seconds in, the maestro had already stopped them.

"Watch the tempo! All of you are behind. You most of all, Antonio."

"I don't think I was—"

"When I say you're behind, you're behind. From the top, again."

Anthony opened his mouth to argue, but the pianist launched back in.

Over and over, the maestro stopped them, beating his baton on the music stand to keep the rhythm. Anthony had dealt with demanding conductors before, but this was the worst he'd encountered.

After they finally got all the way through the piece, the maestro threw his baton across the room. It hit the wall with a thud and slid to the floor. His assistant ran over to fetch it.

"That's enough. Antonio, ‘ Ecco, ridente ' is next. The rest of you are dismissed."

Anthony swallowed as his stomach churned with anxiety. He didn't look forward to tackling his first big aria with Maestro Alamilla. If he wasn't up to snuff, the maestro might throw the baton at him .

In the end, nothing got bruised but his ego. The maestro made him sing the first stanza over and over, not allowing him a word edgewise and refusing to move on until Anthony had mastered it to his satisfaction.

A few times, Anthony glanced over to where Freddie sat on the floor, his back against the large dance mirror. He somehow looked suave in the awkward position. Maybe it was all the heat he generated as he stared daggers at the maestro. At a particularly difficult moment, Anthony saw Freddie visibly restrain his impulse to spring to his feet.

Anthony didn't actually want Freddie to beat the conductor up, although the thought of it made him smile.

When he was finally dismissed, Anthony's body sagged with exhaustion. They'd been working for over an hour on one aria, and he was already tired from the trip. He and Freddie walked back to the hotel in silence.

"I could take care of him."

Anthony looked over at Freddie. His face was set like carved granite stone. He wasn't kidding.

"What does that mean?"

Freddie shrugged. "Depends on his response. Some men are more stubborn than others."

"No thank you. I'd like to work here again, and I can't afford bad publicity in the lead-up to Milan. That's the big one."

"Still."

"Your boss wouldn't be mad?"

"He'd understand. I'd explain it."

"Oh. No, I don't think so." They passed an adorable gelato shop. It had a cute little walkup window with carved wooden shutters. Anthony was tempted to stop and get a treat. He'd earned it, after all. But room service waited back at the hotel. He should eat a meal before moving on to dessert.

"Why is Milan so important?"

Freddie's question brought Anthony out of his dreams of ice cream.

"It's difficult to get booked there. It's seen as a stepping stone, a big one. Once you've done well in Milan, all the important international houses start to take notice."

"You're doing well already." Freddie's tone was insistent. "You're busy."

"I am. I want to be less busy."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd rather work less and get paid more. It takes a while before you can negotiate up."

By the time they arrived back at the hotel, Anthony was exhausted and starving. After shoveling down a serving of bland room service chicken tenders and taking off his pants and sweater, he crawled under the covers. Freddie hunkered down in the upholstered chair by the window.

"Uh…" Anthony didn't know exactly what to say. They had done something on the plane, but he wasn't sure what it meant. He tucked the blanket up under his chin with a sheepish smile.

"Hmmm?" Freddy questioned him with a low hum.

"You, uh, don't have to stay in the chair. You could sleep here. With me."

Freddie was quiet for a moment.

"Tempting," Freddie said, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. "But I need to stay alert."

Anthony furrowed his brows in confusion. This had ‘lame excuse' written all over it.

"You have to sleep." Anthony pushed, wanting to get a real answer.

"Here and there. But I have to be ready."

Anthony rolled over, curling up into a ball. Had he misread the situation? He thought Freddie was interested in him. He'd been so sweet on the plane, so tender, and sexy as hell. Had Freddie just been toying with Anthony to stop his protests at having a bodyguard?

And what kind of sleep would Freddie get sitting in a chair? At some point, he needed a decent rest. Even if he was some variety of mutant super soldier.

Anthony closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him, but it was a losing battle. His brain wouldn't quiet down, and it was vulnerable sleeping in front of a man he felt…well, something for, even if he wasn't able to define it. He couldn't get comfortable, and the pressure to be ready for the next day made everything worse.