A Still, Small Voice Page 2

  “Fucking scumbag!”

  Noah nodded, agreeing, the tequila slowing his troubled mind. “As I was being escorted out of the school, one of the police officers made a point of stopping long enough to shout his congratulations to Paul.” Noah bristled at the memory. “He’d heard that Paul had proposed to Cherie and that she’d accepted.” Noah refilled his glass and swallowed half of the clear liquid, not really noticing the burn this time. “Two weeks of fucking me senseless, two weeks of him telling me that Cherie’s history—and I believe him—and then he fucks me again by believing that stupid little cunt!”

  “Just be thankful you found out what an asshole he is.”

  Noah couldn’t bring himself to admit that the reason it hurt so much was that he’d fallen in love with Paul. Hearing that Paul would be getting married to that conniving and manipulative guidance counselor had hurt more than all of the other things that had been done to Noah that day. What was worse, Noah knew that if Paul showed up at his doorstep, he would forgive the man anything, even this.

  Chapter One

  Six years later

  NOAH looked at the call display and groaned. He was a mere ten minutes from home, trying to get there in only five by weaving in and out of traffic without speeding on the busy downtown streets, when he punched the answer button. “Hello, Aiden, and yes, I know I’m late, but it couldn’t be helped. There were some problems with the new programming, and I had to fix them before I left. I’m just pulling up to the loft right now.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Noah realized that Aiden knew he wasn’t because Aiden was at his loft. “What the hell are you doing at my place and calling me because I’m not at the club yet?”

  “Because, sweetums, you have the CD with the new musical numbers on them. Remember?”

  “Well, you have a key. Go in, get the CD, and I’ll meet you at the club in about fifteen.” Noah pulled his car onto his street, praying that he wouldn’t catch the red light two blocks from his building, since that red lasted at least five minutes.

  “I’m in the loft now and I can’t find shit, darling,” Aiden said, his pleasant tone belying his true feelings. Noah could tell. Aiden had developed this annoying ability to remain charming and polite after working his way through university as a telephone agent for a marketing research company. Aiden had also learned from that particular job how to tell someone to go fuck themselves while actually telling them to have a good day.

  “It’s in the player, the one in the living room.” Noah barely made the green light and nervously looked around for any cop cars. He was still wary, six years after his ordeal, of having anything to do with police. When he saw a car or an officer, he still found himself heading in the other direction, his irrational fear that they would somehow recognize him suppressing all certainty that he was being far too paranoid.

  “I’ll admit I’m not a young woman anymore, darling,” Aiden said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I’m almost certain that Vivaldi is not part of the new act.”

  “Well, did you try looking beside the CD player?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Crisis over,” Aiden announced. “I’m heading to the club now, sweetums, so you just be sure to get there post haste, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I’m right outside the building. Grab my bags by the front door and come and get in the car.” Noah didn’t wait for a response and flipped his phone shut.

  After several minutes, he saw the door open and then Aiden, mired down under a garment bag and a makeup case, head toward the car. He tossed the bags in the backseat and lowered himself into the passenger seat of the BMW X-6. He’d barely closed the passenger-side door when Noah checked his side mirror and pulled back out into traffic.

  “Did you lock the door?”

  “No, darling,” Aiden said as he pulled the sunglasses from the top of his head and covered his eyes with them. “I left it open with a huge glittery sign I made while I should have been looking for the CD that reads, ‘Always wanted outdated urban quasi-chic? Now’s your chance! Everything must go!’”

  “Just once, I wish you could act a little more human.” Noah checked the rearview mirror and glanced over at his best friend. “A simple yes would have sufficed.”

  “Ah, but then I was never a simple girl, was I, sweetie?”

  Noah was relieved that the rest of the trip to the club was spent, mostly, in silence, the only interruptions being those when Aiden would tell Noah to turn down this street or that alley to make up for lost time. Noah, who—of course—didn’t listen and kept to the main roads, ignored his friend and tried to get his mind ready for the show. He and Aiden had developed a new routine, and the choreographed steps had seen them take their show to an entirely different level. Not only were they singing live, just as they’d always done, but now they would be incorporating four gorgeous male dancers whose bodies had had Aiden salivating for weeks. Noah had not really taken to the idea yet, still fearing that they were straying too far from their roots, the ones that had earned them such a dedicated following and even gotten them featured in a front-page write-up in the local gay rag.

  Noah pulled up at the rear entrance of the club—where the door was painted with a shocked blond looking over his shoulder, something Noah had always found to be in very bad taste—and parked his car, pushing the fob twice just to be sure it was locked. He hoisted his garment bag and makeup case over his shoulder and followed Aiden into the club. They had just slightly more than an hour to get themselves dressed, made up, and ensure that their voices were warmed up enough to sing the medley of tunes that they would be singing. Noah always sung the high parts, while Aiden was there more to provide a bit more atmosphere than for any real singing ability. It was one of the reasons that Aiden had chosen his original drag name of Demi Vox and why Noah’s drag name had become May Estes during their original act, back before Noah’s teaching career had ended so abruptly. They were, of course, supposed to be sisters, but they easily explained away their different last names as the result of the combined fifteen failed marriages between the two of them. There were another dozen or so campy factoids that had become part of the routine over the years.

  And their die-hard fans could not seem to get enough of the interactions, one fan even going so far as to seek permission from the duo to set up and maintain a website, complete with photos and bios. Aiden loved the idea, while Noah just went along. It was usually Aiden—or Demi—who would instigate the insults and the witty banter, and Noah was more than willing to let her garner that particular attention, especially since Demi didn’t really do much else. Noah had found it was the least he could do; he had begun to grow weary of teaching all day and performing in the club three or four nights a week. It had taken him a long time, finally, to tell Aiden that he wanted to take a little break from performing. Of course, when Noah had found himself in need of the income again after he saw his teaching career go up in flames, Aiden had been there for him and had been more than willing to work on a new act for the club.

  Noah had been averse, to say the least, to taking up the old act after he’d finally been cleared of all charges, but he’d been determined not to lose the loft and had quite simply done whatever was needed to ensure that he could make the mortgage payment and put some food on the table. He’d even sold his year-old SUV to ensure that he would have enough money to pursue school and be able to cover most of his expenses. He had paid the other expenses by taking out an equity loan on the loft. When he’d been shown the loft by the real estate agent, he’d fallen in love with it right away, his mind immediately abuzz with all sorts of ideas for decorating the space and putting his personal stamp on it. He’d had the inheritance from his father and had used most of that as a down payment. Consequently, he’d been able to take out an equity loan that saw him through another four years of technical college, which resulted in his graduating with a Bachelor of Information Technology. Before he’d even graduated, a major national bank
had offered Noah a great job leading one of the teams that would create the programming and infrastructure to allow banking to be done on mobile phones.

  And while he enjoyed leading that project, he’d also discovered during his four years at the technical college that he had a knack for programming. In his spare time, not long before rejoining Aiden on the stage, Noah had written and sold an attendance and report card program that was much more user-friendly for teachers and administrators. One of the complaints that almost all teachers had had while he’d been teaching was that the attendance and reporting programs had far too many glitches and didn’t seem to be capable of handling the needs for the various levels, such as the high school semester system. At first, Noah had wanted to see if such a program could be developed, and was quite surprised himself that he’d been able to do it. He’d approached a teacher—at another school—that he’d worked with many times at various conferences to try it out. When the feedback was overwhelm-ingly positive, this teacher asked Noah to provide several other colleagues with the program. Noah was completely gobsmacked that he’d actually designed such an efficient program. But not as shocked as when he found himself approached by a well-known software company wishing to buy the program.

  Six years after leaving the profession he’d never thought he’d leave, Noah found himself completely debt-free and with more than enough money in the bank to actually go to all the faraway places he’d always dreamed of visiting. When he stopped to think about the way things had worked out, Noah always found himself shaking his head and—almost—wanting to thank Skyler, Paul, and that annoying little police detective for making it all possible. Of course, not one of those individuals had helped him in any significant way other than forcing him out on his own, which, of course, had made Noah absolutely determined to succeed at something else.

  As he did tonight, he sometimes found himself on stage, not really paying attention to what he was doing. He’d sung these same songs hundreds of times, had gone through the same banter with Aiden hundreds of times, and had little more to do than open his mouth and sing; the rest of the time, he would offer one- or two-word lead-ins to Aiden’s insults and sarcastic quips. But Noah actually enjoyed being up on the stage; it was as if he were home somehow, in a very comfortable place where he knew nothing bad would really happen to him; it was soothing and comforting.

  The applause had its usual happy but unfortunate effect on Noah: he was relieved that nothing had gone wrong during the show, but a kind of melancholy that it was over was settling over him. It would take him a couple of hours to wind down, and that explained why, since he’d started working at the bank, their last show was always at nine in the evening. By midnight, he would be at home, showered, and ready for sleep. And that was exactly what he thought would happen this evening.

  Noah had no way of knowing, of course, that the loft just down the hall from his had finally sold. It seemed to have been perpetually on the market since Noah had moved into the building. Noah had, in fact, been the very first occupant of the building, welcoming—and saying farewell—to every subsequent tenant. He had not, however, planned on meeting the newest tenant tonight.

  Noah was dressed in his sweatpants and T-shirt, his usual sleeping attire, when he poured himself a glass of milk, and he was ready to gulp it down, brush his teeth, and then head to bed. That is, until a loud crash out in the hallway sent him to the peephole. He noticed a pile of boxes sitting just outside the door to Unit 3. He shrugged his shoulders and had headed back to his bedroom when there was another loud crash, followed by cursing. He pulled on a sweater, grabbed his keys, and headed to the door, ready to welcome and render aid, if necessary.

  “Hi,” Noah said as he stood beside the pile of boxes, watching a pair of legs walk up the stairs, torso and face obscured by yet more boxes. “Did you need some help?”

  “No, this is the last of it,” the disembodied voice said. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “Not at all,” Noah said, dismissing the little nagging voice that told him he should recognize the basso profundo. “I was just heading to bed, actually.”

  The large hands let the boxes fall to the floor, and then there was a smiling face. A face Noah did recognize. There was a moustache and beard, but it was the same face he had thought he would never see again. As the smile faded, Noah realized that his new neighbor had recognized him as well.

  “Noah.”

  It wasn’t a question, more a whisper shared between two people who had once shared a bed and the hopes that it might become something more. At least that was what Noah told himself. He’d come to realize over the past six years that it was something only he had felt. He also told himself that he’d never really loved the man who was standing in front of him, had only thought he’d loved him because he was lonely and in need of something to hold onto after his father had died so suddenly.

  There would have been no way for this new neighbor to have known that Noah lived in this building, their relationship—if it could be called that—having ended many months before Noah had decided to invest in real estate at all. Still, Noah found himself standing in front of the face he’d never been able to get enough of, never been able to see as anything but a permanent fixture in his life.

  His first impulse was to run back to his loft and shut the door. And then spend the rest of his life peeking out the hole to see if he could avoid him. Noah planted his feet, squared his shoulders, prepared to meet his past head-on, and smiled. “Paul, how are you?”

  “I’m doing okay,” Paul said, leaving Noah to wonder where to go from there. After a few moments, Paul spoke again, and Noah thought he sounded genuine. “How have you been?”

  “Fine,” Noah said flatly, not really feeling like he wanted to make small talk. Nor did he feel like he owed it to Paul.

  “I didn’t know you were living in this building. Or are you just visiting someone?”

  Noah wasn’t sure if Paul was using the word “visiting” euphemistically or not, but decided to keep his answers vague and to the point. “I live here.”

  “When did you buy a loft here? I thought you lived over on Wellington.”

  Paul was still standing with his legs and back straight, and Noah felt like laughing at the tableau they must have presented. “I moved in here after you decided you didn’t want to live as a gay man… two months before I was charged with sexual abuse of a minor.” Noah could tell he’d stung Paul, but he didn’t really care, although he wasn’t enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

  Paul nodded and looked like he was trying desperately to think of some segue out of their current topic of conversation. “Cherie and I are separated.”

  Noah was a little surprised at the confession but offered a slight nod. “Welcome to the building. I’ll leave you to it.” Noah looked down at the boxes, turned, and was halfway to his front door when he heard Paul’s voice again.

  When Noah turned around, he noticed that Paul had not moved one inch; he hadn’t even pulled out his keys to unlock the door to his new home.

  “I’ve already tried to…,” Paul said, his voice hushed but just as seductive as it had always been to Noah.

  “Good night, Paul,” Noah said as he kept walking backward to his own door.

  He saw Paul shrug and realized if he didn’t retreat at that moment, the chance of him doing something stupid like helping Paul or allowing himself to be used as some sort of convenient father confessor was far too great.

  “Are you ever going to forgive me?”

  “I’m tired, Paul. I’m going to bed. Good night.”

  “I had no choice, Noah.” Paul fished inside of his pants pocket for the keys to his own loft, his eyes boring holes into Noah’s tired and dry eyes. “No choice.”

  “I never said anything about it, Paul. You asked me a question, and I gave you an answer.”

  “It was the way you said it, Noah. As if you still blame me.”

  “I don’t,” Noah stated plainly. “I did blam
e you. But that was six years ago.” Noah reached his own door and put out his hand to search for the doorknob. “Six years has shown me that it was my fault for ever trusting or believing you.”

  “I never lied to you, Noah.”

  “So you said,” Noah said, remembering the conversation he’d had in his old apartment, the conversation where Paul had told him that things weren’t always as they appeared. He’d often wondered why Paul chose those words. And maybe one day, he’d figure it out. But right then, he was tired. Noah turned the doorknob and pushed open the door, stopping just short of crossing the threshold. He turned briefly and saw Paul still standing there, adrift in a small sea of cardboard boxes. “If you need anything, the president of the condo board is in Unit 4.” Noah pointed across the hall. “Your neighbor. Her name is Jenny, and she works as a nurse, so it’s hit and miss if you try to get ahold of her. The rest of us just slip a note under her door. She’s pretty good about getting back to you within a day or two.”

  Paul nodded but said no more. Noah was glad of it; he wanted to get back to the safety of his own loft and the comfort of his bed. He walked into his loft, shut the door, and turned the three deadbolts. Nothing had ever happened to the building, and it was next to impossible for anyone who didn’t live in the building to gain access unless someone let them in. And that was not something any of the tenants did. Each of them, including Noah, would question any strangers that came into the building and, at the first sign of trouble, would contact the police.

  Noah entered his bedroom, turned off the bedside lamp, and lamented that it would not be possible to call the police for the kind of trouble that Paul’s presence would mean for his well-ordered new life.