Back in 2018, my sister suggested I should write a novella that didn’t have a happy ending. A story in which the main character decided this was not the relationship for her. So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, bye-bye. I thought, challenge accepted!
Ha, yeah. Oh, I wrote the story all right. In fact, I wrote so fast it was like my subconscious wanted to do a not-so-happy story: first draft complete in less than a week. But I couldn’t leave it there.
My main character was a professional musician (Janis) whose growing success led to irreconcilable differences with her boyfriend. It kind of didn’t matter, because she was in love with her gay tour manager (Niall) anyway. Except of course it matters, because I’m a romance writer, and I hated to leave the true love story in that novella unresolved. The only way I could give Janis and Niall a happy ending was to give them a third person (Geoffrey). Thus the upbeat conclusion of A Secret Chord, which began as a F/M story and morphed into F/M/M.
By then I was obsessed with Niall and Geoffrey. I was unemployed at the time, with nothing to do in between episodes of job-hunting but write. A month later, I’d finished the first draft of A Braid of Love, a 90,000-word M/M/F novel.
A Secret Chord is entirely in Janis’ point of view. A Braid of Love focuses on Niall and Geoffrey. Each can be read independently, though obviously I hope readers of one will want to investigate the other. As an introduction to the paired works, I’ve written a new scene. In Iberico, we hear from Niall on the upswing of his personal story, but before he and Janis encounter Geoffrey. Enjoy!
Copyright 2022 by Alexandra Y. Caluen. All Rights Reserved.
Music, conversation, the friendly clatter of plates and chime of wineglasses: all the sounds Niall was accustomed to. They’d spent so many late-night hours in pubs, restaurant courtyards, and beer gardens over the past two years, since his life on tour with Janis began. He wasn’t with her tonight. She was back at their hotel, and he was somewhere else.
“You should sleep.” The drowsy voice belonged to Thiago, the dark-eyed guest musician, a cellist who’d joined Janis on stage for her concert here in Barcelona. “You could stay.”
Niall stretched, luxuriating in pleasant fatigue and overwhelming relief. It’d been years, literally years, since he’d fucked like this. Should he sleep? Could he stay? On the one hand, Thiago knew this was a one-night affair; he wouldn’t expect a sentimental leave-taking come the morning. On the other hand, walking into their own hotel in daylight could be slightly embarrassing.
Or not. Niall was occasionally recognized, but only when he stood beside Janis. No one in Spain would think twice about a tall English redhead loping in at an hour when most were addressing their coffee. If he sent a text to Janis now, she wouldn’t worry that he didn’t answer the door between their connecting rooms. Decision made, he moved a hand to brush against Thiago’s hip. “I’ll stay.” He collected himself and slid out of bed. Retrieved various pieces of clothing, found the one with his phone in a pocket, and sent the text: Thiago sends his regards. Back by 0900. Then he checked his battery – plenty of charge left, good – set an alarm, laid the phone on the nightstand, and went for a piss. In the midst of all this he found the discarded towel they’d used to clean up and chucked it on the washroom floor. Fortunately he’d avoided stepping on the used condom; he scooped that up too and binned it.
When he joined Thiago in bed, the other man was more fully awake. “You needed this,” he said, a smile in his tone.
“It’s been a long time. Yes, I did.”
“The look you gave me when we met, Díos.”
Niall huffed out a laugh. That look had, apparently, been quite transparent; Janis gave him a look of her own, one that said ‘go for it.’ He’d waffled about it through the first rehearsal, through the second, and through the dinner the three of them shared in between. He routinely managed their interactions with guest artists, and for this tour – now that he was Janis’ employee – he’d booked some of them. A musician’s bio, however, didn’t generally include hints as to whether the artist was gay, or single, or attracted to tall English redheads. Thiago’s immediate and obvious interest had been a surprise. Somewhat startling, though not unwelcome. “What about the look you gave me?”
Thiago made a cello-like sound, something between a hum and a chuckle. “I thought, mmm, sexy, how can I get him. You made it easy.”
“I did,” Niall admitted. “You’re an excellent musician and you were charming to Janis.”
“She doesn’t mind? You don’t, eh, like this?”
Niall turned onto his side, gazing at his bedmate. There was just enough light; a city hotel room was never fully dark. “We don’t. We’re very close, but not this way.”
“Tell me why.”
Hmm. Unexpected. Niall had been on a number of dates since the previous winter, as his body and heart gradually thawed from a years-long grief-stricken freeze. Janis knew him better than anyone alive, but they didn’t discuss his private life. He’d been afraid to cross a line. They’d crossed so many already. “Janis is involved with another musician, back in California. And you might’ve noticed I’m gay.”
A smothered snort of laughter. “I noticed, yes, but sometimes who cares?”
“There may come a time when we discuss it. Up to now,” Niall shrugged, the gesture sufficient.
“You love her.”
“I do. She’s my best friend.”
Thiago nodded. “Ah, I see. To be friends, to work together, it’s enough. Or perhaps,” studying Niall, having caught his slight movement of instinctive rejection, “it’s all you think you can have?”
Niall swallowed. “Very perceptive.” Thiago’s hand moved, crossing the few inches between them, brushing Niall’s wrist. He let their fingers intertwine. From a one-night affair, they seemed to be moving into friendship. Well, they wouldn’t be on tour forever; one could get from England to Spain quite easily; and one could never have too many friends.
While he was pondering possibilities, Thiago wriggled closer, inserting a foot between Niall’s ankles. “Her man, does he come to see her?”
“Never.”
“¡Que?!”
“He’s a self-involved swine who won’t inconvenience himself. Hates to travel. Hates me.” A disgusted growl from Thiago. Niall laughed, closing the distance for a kiss. “To be fair, he’s a genuinely talented musician and he’s put in a lot of work with Janis on her records. But I don’t always like to be fair.”
“Creo que no. What a stupid. If my woman was a famous jazz singer, I’d follow along all the time. I’d say, let me play with you. Bring you coffee. Screen your calls, anything.” Thiago’s turn to lean in for a kiss. “You do all that.”
“All but the music. No talent. And it’s tea, mostly, when she has to sing.”
A wicked smile. “Wine, too.”
“God, yes.”
Another kiss. This one didn’t end until they were twined together, fully aroused. Thiago lifted his mouth from Niall’s throat and said, “I want to suck you.”
“Same. Get around, let’s – yes. Oh, Christ, where are the bloody condoms?”
“Here.” The word was half a laugh. They both applied their mouths to various musky, hairy, delicious areas before reluctantly separating enough to suit up. Then they devoured each other, the taste of the latex no hindrance when it contained this hot, hard, resilient flesh. When lips, teeth, and tongues produced such stifled moans and such curses.
One day, Niall thought hazily, he’d find a person he could actually know. A person who’d be his, body and soul, the way Oliver had been. A person he could experience without barriers.
For tonight, there was Barcelona, and Thiago, and this.
The End
For a story featuring Geoffrey Anand, click here: PORTRAIT