Читать книгу Sacrifice - Narrelle M Harris - Страница 4

Milo lay on his back, tangled amidst the sheets and blankets. Slowly the sounds of distant traffic, a newspaper rustling, the clink of a coffee cup, drifted into his consciousness. His eyes blinked open.

The first image, which made no sense, was a black silhouette painted on the door. Then he remembered he wasn’t at home, that wasn’t his door and the silhouette must be Frank, blocking the light pouring through the window of their suite at the Hyatt.

Ha. Now he’ll have to admit it gets sunny in Melbourne, thought Milo. Like everyone born and raised in Western Australia, Frank was convinced that Melbourne weather was one long, constant drizzle.

Frank was shuffling through a pile of newspapers. Milo squinted at them. The Age. The Herald Sun. A couple of the free street magazines. He cast a quick glance at the clock – 11:45. Ah well, forget about sleeping in.

‘Morning, Mi,’ Frank called out to him.

‘Morning, Frank,’ Milo called back. He nodded towards the papers. ‘What’s the damage?’

Frank grinned from the table. ‘To you? Nothing, as always, you gorgeous bastard.’

Milo grinned back. ‘Must be good.’

‘Listen.’ Frank shuffled amongst the papers. ‘Duo ex Machina’s latest album is a fresh breeze in the stale world of pop music. Building on their indy successes and last year’s movie soundtrack hit ‘Lunchtime Legend’, Duo ex Machina prove they have what it takes. Lyrical and charming, the depth of this album takes you by surprise. This is my favourite bit. Milo Bertolone’s guitar is elegant, articulate and mischievous, providing a formidable and complex foil for the deft lyrics.’

‘Fame at last!’ shouted Milo, waving his arms triumphantly as he sat up in bed. ‘And how much do they love you?’

‘Oh, they adore me,’ Frank assured him. ‘Frank Capriano’s keyboards are surprisingly complex beneath the surface, catchy tunes. As a lyricist and songwriter, he shows a canny ability to combine melody and ideas.’

‘What do the others say?’ Milo bounded naked out of bed to loom over Frank’s shoulder. ‘Oy! Get off!’ He danced away as Frank nipped him playfully at his chest, then slapped his rump. ‘Hey, lookit, Stefanie Royle thinks we’re Gods out of the machine and into the studio. Who’d’ve guessed she knew any Latin?’

‘She also says we’re the thinking person’s Savage Garden. Whatever that means.’

‘Don’t start on that again, you grumpy bastard. I know she likes nothing better than – how did you put it?

‘Empty rhetoric and spurious analogy.’

‘But she has agreed to the press conference this afternoon, and she is up for a statue in the Street Beat Awards. So be nice. Be civil. Behave.’ He waggled his finger at Frank, then tapped him on the nose and turned to rummaging through the papers. ‘Does anyone have anything to say about Thompson’s Angel? I sweated blood over the harmonies on that; want to see if anyone noticed.’

‘There was something here. Street Beat, I think. Someone in there was making a point about how we sound nothing like the Pet Shop Boys. I thought it was- ah, shit.’

Milo peered over the top of the street press newspaper. ‘What is it?’

‘This.’ Frank jabbed a finger at the front page of The Age, which had turned up in the shuffle. The stark headline: Second Murder in Botanic Gardens. A sub-heading said: Police suspect gay hate killing.

‘Shit,’ Milo agreed. ‘The world’s full of sick bastards.’

‘Yeah.’ Frank’s voice was neutral, but his eyes sought out the grainy picture of the gardens, and another of the previous victim.

‘Hey.’ Milo smoothed his hand over Frank’s fresh-shaven face, rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s okay.’

‘I know,’ replied Frank. ‘It’s just-’

It was hard to articulate the renewed grief of Kevin’s murder, five years ago. All the events leading up to and beyond it. The pain and fear for those he loved. Headlines like these always produced an echo. Dragging his eyes away from the newsprint, Frank asked, ‘What did Street Beat have to say?’

Milo seized upon the distraction and flipped noisily to the reviews page. ‘Aha! Marcos thinks Angel’s harmonies are heavenly.’ He rolled his eyes, but a smile was plastered across his face. ‘Well, that was the idea.’

‘Got some ideas of my own,’ said Frank, grabbing Milo around the waist and pulling him close for a hug, his face pressed against Milo’s stomach. The reassuring scent of him, the pressure of the warm olive skin against his face, holding close what he’d so nearly lost all those years ago. He began to kiss a line up towards Milo’s chest, and was met by Milo’s descending mouth.

The long, luxurious kiss was interrupted by three sharp raps at the door.

‘Damn.’

‘Ignore it,’ Milo urged, his hands supplying a strong argument in favour of the command.

‘Mmmm, that’s nice.’ Frank let Milo tug his shirt free from his jeans, but the knock came again, more sharply than before. ‘But I bet that’s Selma.’

‘She can wait.’

‘No, she can’t. Not if we want to go platinum.’ Laughing, Frank disentangled himself. ‘You get some clothes on, you lascivious creature.’

Milo pouted. ‘You never let me have any fun.’

‘What do you call last night?’ said Frank.

Milo grinned wolfishly. ‘A good start!’ He started searching the floor for last night’s discarded clothes.

‘On the chair,’ said Frank, and Milo located the things he habitually dumped in a corner, now folded and placed neatly on a cane chair near the bathroom. Then he ducked through the connecting door to the second room of their suite, trailing trouser legs and shirtsleeves.

Tucking his white cotton shirt back into his jeans, Frank answered the door as the insistent knock started again. ‘Hi,’ he began as Selma Donahue bowled in.

‘Hello, darling!’ A quick air-kiss and she strode inside – all buzzing energy, wrapped up in hair fudge and lipstick. Selma flicked her brightly painted fingernails through her short, steel-blue dyed hair as her blue gaze darted about the room, taking in the papers, the messy bed, and the half-empty tube of lubricant on the bedside table.

Her glance shifted decisively to the young man before her. In his late twenties, just taller than the average, a mop of light brown hair falling across a high forehead; a fine straight nose above a sensitive mouth; brown eyes regarding her with what she was learning was a habitual expression of seriousness. ‘So, you’ve seen the write-ups?’ Her lipstick gloss – Wild Cherry Crush – parted to reveal white, straight teeth in a triumphant smile.

‘Yep.’ Frank hitched himself against the wardrobe and folded his arms, entertained and reassured by her efficiency and drive. ‘They love us.’

‘Yes, they love you,’ she agreed. ‘And they’re going to adore you this afternoon. Everyone is going to fall in love with you both.’

‘Hey, Frank, did Paolo call back this morning?’ Milo emerged from the second room, tousled and fresh from a quick shower, dark hair clinging damply to his forehead. He was dressed in black trousers, but shirtless. He caught Selma looking at his nicely built chest and grinned before he flung last night’s grey silk shirt in a crumpled heap on the floor – making Frank wince – and fetched a black T-shirt from a drawer.

‘Nope.’ Milo, pulling the shirt on, didn’t catch the quickly suppressed terseness in Frank’s voice. ‘I called and left another message earlier, while you were still snoring. In the meantime, Selma wants to tell us how much everyone is going to love us.’

‘Oh, good, I love praise.’ Milo grinned and raked his fingers through his hair, his traditional “final touch” to getting ready for the day. His dark brown – almost black – eyes flashed with amusement at Selma assessing the result. Milo knew he had inherited his mother’s flair for wearing clothes beautifully – that and the graceful way she moved. His dark, good looks and rakish charm he’d mostly got from his Italian father.

Selma saw him looking at her. ‘I was saying,’ she said brusquely, ‘that everyone is going to love you both. If you do what you’re told.’

‘Sounds ominous. You got a script for us?’ Milo grabbed Frank’s coffee leftovers, downed a mouthful of weak, stone cold, black coffee and pulled a face. ‘I have to get some decent coffee before anything else.’

Selma ignored the sardonic edge to his voice and suffered being kissed on her powdered cheek. ‘I’ll get some coffee on the way. And I haven’t got a script. I mean I want you two to cool it in public. Be a bit aloof. I want you to give the impression that you’re single, available and-’

‘Straight?’ Milo’s mouth compressed into a disapproving line. ‘I’m not playing that game, Selma.’

Frank nodded agreement. ‘Definitely not.’

Selma shook her head sharply. ‘No, no, no, of course not. I mean single, available and ambiguous. Look at your demographic. Look at your audience. We want them to love you. We want them to adore you, to want you. Male and female, all persuasions. Not straight, good heavens, no,’ she sounded faintly disgusted at the idea, ‘but available. To everyone.’

‘But we’re not available,’ Frank pointed out calmly.

‘You’re being deliberately obtuse, sweetheart,’ Selma berated him. ‘I didn’t say you were. I said you should give the impression you are.’

Frank and Milo exchanged looks.

‘Are you prepared to stop snogging me in public?’ asked Milo.

‘If you’re willing to stop patting my arse when you think no one’s looking,’ Frank countered.

‘It’s a sacrifice, but hey. That’s showbiz.’

‘You know,’ said Frank, his voice filled with wistful sadness, ‘I used to think people would buy our music because it was good, not because they fancied us.’

‘You can cut the little production,’ Selma said sternly. ‘You are good. But sex sells. I’ve got a car coming around, so I’ll see you downstairs in five minutes. All right? Good.’ She swept to the door, stopped to say ‘Five minutes’ in a particularly stern voice, and disappeared, the door closing emphatically behind her.

‘You know, Milo, I don’t especially like this.’

‘Me either.’ Milo shrugged. ‘But she could be right.’

‘I know. Damnit. Here, better let me snog you now, if I’m not going to be allowed to do it all day.’ Frank wrapped his arms around Milo and they kissed.

The phone rang. Frank sighed. ‘That’ll be Selma.’

‘She doesn’t let us get away with much.’

‘It’s what she’s paid for.’

‘Hmph.’ Milo picked up the phone. ‘Yes, Selma. On our way now. Yep. Promise. Okay. Sure. He’s at the door now.’

Frank stuffed his wallet in his back pocket, grabbed his worn leather coat, picked up the keys and hovered by the door.

‘Yes. Yes. If you’ll just let me hang up.’ He rang off, grabbed his own wallet and jacket and sauntered out the door. He patted Frank’s bum on the way past and laughed at the exaggerated warning look he’d earned as he shut the door.