Aria (23 page)

“We’ll be serving dinner shortly.”
“Bourbon.”
“On the rocks?”
“Straight up. And make it a double.”
“Of course, sir.”

“
A
IDEN.”
“Hey, Chuckie. Long time no hear. How’s New York?” Aiden
balanced the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he finished
up an e-mail to his mother.
“Aiden, we need to talk.”
Aiden frowned. He’d never known his agent not to take the bait.
Something was wrong. It wasn’t as if the reviews of
Tosca
had been
disappointing. In fact, they raved about Aiden’s performance. Then
what?
“I’m listening. Shoot.”
Chuck took a long breath. “There’ve been two more
cancellations.”
“What the fuck?” He shot up off the couch and, in his anger,
nearly dropped his laptop on the tile floor.
He’d been staying outside the city at David’s villa during the twoweek run of the opera, and he’d been enjoying the downtime between
weekend performances. The light rain of the night before had left a soft
shimmer over the Italian countryside, but when he looked outside, he
saw none of it through his anger.
“Calm down, Aiden. You’ve got plenty of other—”
“Which gigs?” he demanded.
“The one in Wales and the one in Antwerp.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing. At least, not at first. I’ve got a friend who works in the
front office of the Wales company. I gave her a call when I didn’t get a
straight answer from management. She only told me that someone put
pressure on the board not to sign the contract.
“I made a pest of myself with the Belgian guys. They finally
admitted that they’d been offered a large donation to use some other
singer.”
“Who?”
“The singer?”
“Yeah, the singer. Who’d they offer the role to?”
“Jorgen Johannsen.”
“Johannsen?” Aiden scowled. “He doesn’t even like singing
Verdi. When I was at Covent Garden, he was rehearsing a Mozart
opera. Swore up and down he’d never take another gig singing the
heavy stuff.”
Covent Garden.
It was all the evidence Aiden needed. He was
sure none of this was a coincidence.
“Aiden?”
“Yeah, Chuck, I’m still here. Sorry.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“Do me a favor. Talk to the Wales woman again. See if you can
find out anything about this big donor she mentioned.”
“You thinking you might know Mr. Moneybags?”
“I’ll let you know. When you find something out, call me. Leave
me a message if I don’t answer. Okay?”
“Sure.” There was a pause on the other end; then Chuck added,
“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you? Because I don’t
think—”
“I won’t do anything stupid. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Call me as soon as you know anything.”
“Will do.”
Aiden tapped the phone and tossed it onto the couch, then sat
back down and opened the laptop. It only took him about five minutes
to book himself on the next flight to London.
“
T
ELL Lord Sherrington that Aiden Lind is here to see him.” “Mr. Lind, let me check his sched—”
Aiden walked past the secretary’s desk, through a set of double
doors, and into a spacious office with a wall of glass that looked out
over London. Aiden had never been to Cam’s new offices at Canary
Wharf. Even as angry as he was, it was hard not to be impressed. Forty
floors up, Aiden could see the Thames below and, beyond it, Stave Hill
Ecological Park with its lush trees and grass. Clearly, business was
good.
Cam was seated behind a sleek glass desk—Italian design,
knowing Cam—leaning back in his chair, and speaking to a man Aiden
didn’t recognize. When he saw Aiden, he stood. “We’ll finish this later,
John.” The man looked surprised but did not protest, exiting the office
a moment later.
“Aiden,” Cam said, walking over toward him, “it’s so good to
see—”
“What the hell are you doing?” Aiden demanded, coming back to
himself. He was so angry he could barely think straight. He only knew
he needed Cameron to hear this, to make it clear to him that regardless
of his money, Cam couldn’t push him around.
Cam’s brow furrowed. “What on earth has gotten into you,
Aiden? I don’t understand what you’re talking—”
Aiden slapped Cam across the face. He hadn’t meant to do it, but
the urge came upon him with such ferocity that he couldn’t help
himself.
Cam blinked, looking both confused and hurt, touching the place
on his cheek where Aiden had made contact, an unspoken question on
his lips.
“I’ve had enough, Cam. Enough of the bullshit. Enough of you
denying that you had anything to do with it. I thought I’d made it clear,
months ago, that I’m tired of you stabbing me in the back and then
pretending you’re sorry for fucking me over.”
Cam said nothing. Was he trying to understand where Aiden’s
anger was coming from? This thought infuriated Aiden all the more—
how the hell could the man
not
understand?
“You know,” Aiden said with a bitter laugh that echoed about the
large office, “I loved you once. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with you. And even after I left you, I doubted myself. My decisions.” He swallowed hard and continued, “But now, after what you’ve done to my life and my career…. Does it make you feel better to know that my
life’s a mess because of you? Is that what you wanted?”
“I haven’t—”
“That’s what you said the last time. You said you hadn’t done
anything. It was all bullshit.”
“I know I shouldn’t have talked to the reporter after you left. I
admit that I’d hoped she’d get through to you where I couldn’t have. I
didn’t realize she’d go after you in the States. But I haven’t done
anything since. I had nothing to do with the photograph at the club.
Truly I didn’t.” Cam appeared genuinely contrite, but then again, he’d
always been well practiced in the art of contrition.
“You should be happy.” Aiden’s jaw tensed, and he nearly spat
the words. “Thanks to you, Sam and I are barely speaking to each
other.” He knew that Cam’s little scheme hadn’t been the problem at
home, but in that moment he didn’t care.
“I… I’m sorry.”
“Like hell you are.”
“Please believe me, Aiden, I hadn’t intended—”
“You’re really good, Cam. You should be proud of your
handiwork. I’ve lost nearly eight jobs now thanks to you.
Congratulations.” He bowed theatrically. “What did you figure? That if
you took away both my music and the man I love, that I’d come
crawling back?”
“No, I—”
“Don’t even answer.” Aiden took a deep breath. “There’s nothing
you can say that will make it better. I don’t even know why I bothered
to come here. What can I do, anyhow? You’ve made good on your
threats. Bravo! Now stay the fuck out of my life.” Aiden stormed out of
the office, heading straight for the elevator and watching the doors
close right as Cameron came down the hallway.
Two minutes later, he headed out of the building into the steady
rain that had begun to fall. Funny how the London rain used to make
this place feel more like home. Now he hated it. The traffic on the
street whizzed by, but he ignored it. He’d normally have hailed a cab to
take him back to David’s apartment, but he needed to walk. He needed
to think. He was still too angry, not only with Cam, but with himself. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Sam had called again. That
made three calls Aiden hadn’t returned. He wanted to talk to Sam, but
he was afraid if Sam asked him why he wasn’t coming back to Philly
next week, as they’d originally planned, he’d say something stupid. Like
Maybe this entire relationship thing was a mistake.
He was
tired of trying to live up to Nick’s memory. Tired of being second best.
Fucking Saint Nick.
He knew he wasn’t being completely fair to Sam,
either, but it was easier to be angry with Sam than with himself. He walked to the corner to cross onto West India Avenue. “Aiden!” he heard a voice behind him call. He turned around to
see Cam running down the street after him.
Fucking hell.
Would the man not simply disappear?
“Aiden, please,” Cam yelled, “give me a chance to explain!”
As if!
Aiden turned back to the street and stepped over the curb. He
didn’t see the taxi on the roundabout until it was barely a foot away
from him. The last thing he saw was the wide-eyed expression on the
driver’s face. He heard the sound of the horn, but it was too late.

T
HE cell phone on the side table rang, and Sam rolled over and groaned. It was five in the morning. He squinted at the display on the phone. Aiden. How long had it been since they’d talked? More than a week?

“I’m glad you called,” he began. “I—”
“Is this Sam?” The voice was clipped. British.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Cam. Cameron Sherrington. I used to—”
“What the fuck are you doing, calling on Aiden’s phone?” Sam

was sitting up now, wide-awake.
“Look, it’s not what you think. Aiden was with me and… well…
it’s my fault. He was very angry when he came to my office.” “And this surprises you? Put Aiden on the phone.”
“I tried to calm him down,” Cameron continued, “but he was so
angry. He didn’t believe me, that I’d never… oh, shit. I followed him
downstairs, out of the building. I don’t know if he even heard me, he
was so angry. And then he walked out into the street and….” There was ice in Sam’s veins. He could barely breathe. “Aiden.
What’s happened to Aiden?”
“I knew you’d want to know. I—”
“Tell me what happened to him, Cameron.” Sam’s throat felt
tight, and his heart beat so hard against his ribs, it almost hurt. “He was crossing the street. The taxi didn’t see him. He stepped
in front of it.”
Oh, God.
“What… I mean how—?”
“They took him by ambulance. The Royal London Hospital. He’s
alive, but I don’t know how badly he’s hurt….”
“I’ll be on the next flight.”

S
AM hadn’t even realized there was an early morning flight to Heathrow from Philadelphia. He’d tried calling Cam back on Aiden’s phone, having forgotten to get another number from him. He’d also tried calling David Somers, although he had no idea if the conductor was even in London. Neither had answered.

They’d been pulling away from each other for months now. Sam knew it. Worse, he’d
let
it happen. They’d talked, but they hadn’t been honest with each other. He’d blown it off when Aiden had told him he wanted to help out with expenses. He figured that Aiden spent enough money flying back and forth between Philly and Europe. He also hadn’t listened when Aiden had tried to tell him he wanted to help around the house. He’d told Aiden he didn’t need his help, that the least he could do for him was to wash the laundry, vacuum, and dust. But Sam knew at least in part that he
wanted
to do the chores on his own—that he liked the way he’d been doing things for the past eight years and didn’t want Aiden to do them
his
way.

He knew Aiden hadn’t been truthful when he said the rehearsal schedule had changed, and he hadn’t called him on it.
He lied, and you knew it. You just found it convenient to ignore the lie.
Why? Because he’d been lying to himself, telling himself that things were fine, that they would work things out, when really he was silently terrified they wouldn’t survive this. He couldn’t help but wonder if not asking Aiden about Becca, or the time he’d called Aiden “Nick,” were the stupid mistakes Aiden said they were. He’d finally realized that the longdistance part of their relationship wasn’t the easily surmountable obstacle he’d said it was months before. It had been so easy to rationalize it all. Now, he could lose Aiden forever, and how had he left things? He hurried into the A&E, the British equivalent of an ER, after asking for directions at the front desk.

“Thank God.” Sam strode over to the bed and hugged Aiden as gingerly as possible. “When I got the call, I thought….” His voice trailed off as he realized they weren’t alone. Cam was standing near the bed, watching them. He looked as uncomfortable as Sam felt to see him there.