Page 34 of The Tenor's Shadow

Chapter 11

Anthony

Anthony 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.”

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