Jingle Bells and the Jinx

Chapter 1Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er! “Jingle all the way!” Though a lighted faux pine wreath on the door, a tiny Christmas tree on the dresser, and a battery operated candle on the bathroom vanity made the posh but monochromatic taupe Boston hotel room almost festive, it wasn’t quite enough to lift Warwick’s mood. “Bah, humbug!” A fitting mood, he thought, seeing he and Ebeneezer were both Brits and both cursed. “How could it be gone?” Flat out, all alone on the massive bed, Warwick talked to himself and sulked. If there was ever any doubt he and his love life had been jinxed almost as soon as there was hope for love again, that hope and doubt were both now erased. Seven musical notes and a yellow scarf, those were the signs, the very tent poles to Warwick and Dom creating a life together. Now, the scarf had disappeared. Somewhere between Europe and America, it had been lost. “Oh, what fun it is to ride…” The electronic keyboard, the singing—if one could call it that—and the other rhythmic accompaniment coming from the room adjoining almost brought Warwick a smile. Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er. “One horse open sleigh, hey!” The squeak of bedsprings was no longer an assault to Warwick’s ears, not like it had been when Dom, the noisy neighbor, first moved in next door last summer. “Jingle bells, jingle bells…” The warbling did, however, have Warwick wondering if Damiano Roma became a world renowned concert pianist because his opera diva mother, Antonella Roma, realized singing would never be her son’s forte. Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er. Still unemployed after his move back to the UK, when the Roma’s personal assistant up and quit the day before the commencement of Antonella and Dom’s U. S. Christmas tour, Warwick felt he had no choice but to accept the job himself when approached. No choice at all, since the former assistant quitting was sort of his fault, at least to Antonella. Either way, after three months in Europe—three months apart—Warwick and Dom were back in America, back in Boston, but were they back together? According to Dom’s mother, not for long. Christmas Eve afternoon was sunny and bright, but an entire month traveling across the country, an entire month of bad luck—sfortuna—had things looking bleak. Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er. “…ride in a one horse open—” Crash! Warwick bolted upright. “The curse!” Something large had hit the wall beside Warwick’s bed, large like, say, an average-sized Italian pianist with an infectious smile and a huge, loud, and often captivating personality. There was a clank, a thud, the crinkling of plastic reminiscent of a package of Oreos only louder, and possibly some Italian profanity. “Dom!” Warwick rushed through the door that connected their rooms, dragging his painful injured leg and holding his broken glasses in place. “Are you okay?” “Jingle bells, jingle bells…” Eee-er, Eee-er, Eee-er. “I fell off the bed.” And apparently climbed right back up on it. Most of the bedclothes were on the floor with the left side’s night table lamp, and if Warwick wasn’t mistaken, there was a tear in the textured taupe wallpaper betwixt a dent precisely where Dom’s shoulder would have hit. “Well, perhaps that’s why beds were made for lying in, not jumping on,” Warwick said. “Naked.” “Am I naked?” Not only naked, but also wet, Dom began bouncing again. “I’m blind, remember?” “I do…And yes, you are definitely naked.” Dom’s hair was slick and curly, all of it, top to bottom, head to toe, front to back, evident when he twirled around. Warwick pushed at his neon orange glasses where they were taped back together at the bridge to get a clearer look. “Not even a towel this time.” “I’m still wearing a keyboard,” Dom retorted. “Does that count as clothing?” “To most, likely not.” “Hmm.” Dom’s eyesight had not deteriorated much since he—the professional musician scared his talent would fade with his loss of vision—and Warwick—the recent widower afraid to love again—had found one another late last summer. Dom could still see what he called a pinpoint of light and bright color. “Be careful!” Warwick said. The jumping continued, though the singing and playing had momentarily stopped. Did Dom not realize the sheet around his ankle was a hazard, the lamp from the bedside table on the floor, its detached ivory shade crushed into the shape of a taco, evidence of what could go wrong? Perhaps his arousal clouded his judgement. Every time Dom landed, his hard c**k hit his hairy belly. “It’s all good,” he said. “It’s not all good.” Warwick had seen Dom’s tan skin and all the hair neck to navel and hip to heel many times over the nearly five months he and Dom had been acquainted, but the thick, black fur and pale skin navel to hip was novel, quite enticing, and difficult not to look at. “I’m a jinx. Remember?” Dom made a sound. A disgruntled sound. A sexy sound. A growl. “Have you not been keeping track of all the bad luck?” Warwick asked. “How are your glasses holding up?” “Rather well. The concierge found some tape and I stuck them back together.” “Good thing Penny’s shoe didn’t damage the lenses. I was sure I heard glass break.” “Nope. Just the plastic part.” “Ah. One could see that as good luck, rather than a jinx.” “It was right fortunate I was here to land upon when she took a tumble off the bed.” “Lucky her.” Dom started singing and playing again. “Jingle bells, jingle bells…It’s nice you worry, though,” pausing for spoken words. “Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!” After nearly hitting the ceiling, he dropped to the mattress on his bare butt to show more hair and white flesh between his splayed legs. “Hey!” Impressive as it was, being able to jump and play a portable keyboard at the same time, Warwick was glad the show before the show was over. “Thank you.” He licked his lips. The whole show wasn’t done. “I do worry. I care about you very much, now, don’t I?” Dom slipped the keyboard strap off over his head, “And I care about you,” and put his instrument down beside him. “Good. It’s closing night,” Warwick said. “Your last performance of 2021.” “With no rehearsal this time. That’s why I was practicing.” Dom played seven notes—B, C, A, G, B, C, A—and then six more, all E’s. Jing-le bells, jing-le bells. “Your mother will kill me if something happens to you or your fingers.” “Perhaps I could put them somewhere for safe keeping.” Dom spit on two first. “Warwick?” “Yes, Dom?” “You know I’m a rather reserved, almost bashful sort of fellow, right?” “Your nakedness, two fingers in your arse, and your willy flexing hard and soft in front of me notwithstanding? Sure.” “Being naked was Penny’s idea. She encouraged me to be bold.” “As your best friend, she’s seen this reserved and bashful side, I take it?” “Come closer.” Dom beckoned with his wet finger, and Warwick took a few steps, wanting the finger in his mouth now. “Closer.” Dom patted the mattress. “I can barely see your orange glasses.” Warwick sat on the edge. “With the bright white tape holding them together.” “There it is.” Dom’s finger so close to Warwick’s nose offered up a tantalizing musk Warwick still wanted to taste, either from the finger or its more intimate source. “There you are.” “Here I am, Dom.” “Warwick?” “Yes, Dom.” “I want to be with you.” He teased Warwick some more, stroking the tempting finger across the hair under Warwick’s nose and then across his lips. “I want to be with you very, very badly.” “I want to be with you.” “Then why haven’t we f****d?” Warwick knew he should move. “I think you know why.” “Because of mia madre?” “She put a curse on us.” “Technically, she just informed us we’re cursed.” “Right.” Warwick stood. “Not by her, but rather the entire universe. Fate.” He stepped away from the bed. “The bloody gods of love.” “It could be poppycock.” Dom’s Italian accent, thicker since spending so much time with his madre, made everything sound like s*x. Especially when he was naked and touching his poppycock. “Or it could be true,” Warwick said. “One more show…So far, the bad luck has all happened off stage and mostly to me. If we make love…I don’t know, it might anger Cupid, something bad might happen, and then your mother will never like me.” “I don’t wish to talk about my mother.” Dragging the sheet still wrapped around his ankle, Dom crawled from the bed and came to Warwick. “Though we can speak of romance.” “Can you deny we’ve had nothing but trouble, just as predicted, since we spent the night together at your mother’s villa in France?” “I very much can deny that.” “Really?” Warwick asked. “Lightning struck a tree five feet away from us, I’ve a splint on my wrist, two damaged fingers, a valise full of broken glasses, another I thought was likely floating in the Atlantic ocean—” “Which then showed up.” “The bag did but not the…” “Not the what?” Warwick didn’t want to speak the words aloud. “There’s a crutch in my room I’m supposed to use for my sprained ankle, and I still have to wear a bloody eyepatch outdoors, in crowded places, or when I don’t wear my glasses, which to circle back a bit, have broken for the eleventeenth time in three and a half weeks. Sounds like a curse to me. That first tour bus driver, Kai, he called us Jingle Bells and the Jinx. Guess which one I am.” “Ah.” Dom caressed Warwick’s cheek, and that made Warwick nearly forget everything he’d just mentioned. “But what of the good luck? What about our second bus driver, Ferdi? What about Dario and il micio?” Dom knew speaking Italian would make him irresistible. “Il gatto.” “She is a beautiful cat.” “Yes. And you’re a beautiful man.” Dom’s lips were a fraction of an inch from touching Warwick’s when—BUZZ—Warwick’s cellphone interrupted the moment. “I should check that.” “Wouldn’t you rather kiss me?” “I want to kiss you every time we’re close enough to do it, even if it did get us in trouble with your mother and Lorenzo.” “Forget about him,” Dom said. “Speak more of kissing me. Or perhaps just do it.” BUZZ! “It’s only my British aloofness that stopped me from snogging, fondling, and possibly putting my mouth all over you, even your willy, whilst we sat in that movie theater together after so many months apart.” “No naked jumping on the bed for my stoic Brit?” “I’ve seen the dangers. First Penny, then you. Besides, that’s your thing.” “Every hotel,” Dom said proudly. “Incandescent lights.” He pointed to the full, lush, seven-foot Christmas tree in the corner opposite the toppled lamp. Dom’s room was identical to Warwick’s, except for those two things. “Red, blue, green, yellow, pink.” “Every hotel,” Warwick said. “Because pink are my favorite.” “Easiest to still see.” “Yes.” “I rather enjoyed being forceful for my demanding celebrity client.” “I never demanded certain Christmas lights,” Dom reminded Warwick. “You thought of them yourself, because you l—” BUZZ! “I assume that’s your mother.” Warwick stepped away. “Speaking of demanding celebrities.” “I should really see what she needs.” “Needs is a subjective term.” Dom nearly fell. That damned sheet! “Be careful!” “I’m fine, and Mamma can wait.” “I’m on duty,” Warwick said. “Twenty-four/seven.” “Hmm.” Dom’s breath behind Warwick’s ear made it hard to concentrate on anything but. “She wants…Mmm. She wants me to pick the olives and feta out of her Greek salad.” “Are you serious?” Dom’s hands on his bare hips showed frustration with disbelief. “That’s taking the diva thing to the extreme! If you pick the olives and feta out of a Greek salad, you know what you have? An American salad. Why didn’t she just order that? Give me your phone.” “I don’t think I shall.” “Warwick, you’ve been letting her get away with such behavior since before we left France. I can think of at least three tasks she had you perform that were nothing short of preposterous; the sequin bit, the wig caper, and a crystal jar filled with—” “I know what it was filled with. I’m the one who filled it, aren’t I?” “Next thing you know, you’ll be giving her a milk bath when what I really want is for you to bathe me in yours.” “Well…” It took a moment to form words. “No. But she has texted to command that I go to Nordstrom for beauty cream.” “Shopping at noon on Christmas Eve? Why not just flat out tell you to go to hell?” “Is that something she’s mentioned wanting to tell me?” Warwick wondered. “No.” He didn’t know whether to believe Dom or not. “I’m going to call and tell her beauty cream can wait,” Dom said, “and she should eat around the olives and feta, so I can eat your cazzo and your culo.” “I wish you wouldn’t.” Warwick knew the Italian word for ass, and that cazzo had several meanings, all vulgar, some pleasantly so. He hoped to soothe the angry beast who played music with a gentle trail of fingers down his arm. “I mean, I rather wish you would, I suppose, if I’m being honest.” He ran those same fingers beard to pubic hair down Dom’s front almost to his cazzo. “With full reciprocation. I just don’t want you telling your mother.” Warwick’s phone buzzed again. “Now what?” Warwick read the text. “You know that thing we just said we wanted to do to each other?” “Yes.” “Your mother has forbidden it.” “Forbidden it?” Dom wouldn’t need a phone. His voice was loud enough to be heard nine floors up. “She used those words?” “She did. A conjugation of, plus, ‘Under no circumstances are you and Damiano to…’ is it fare l’amore?” “Yes. Fare l’amore…It means make love.” “I know.” Warwick still had one hand on Dom’s naked torso. “I just wanted to hear you say it, even if we never get to. Also,” he headed for the door, “Cantante has to wee.” “The way you say wee is oh so very charming, and I love hearing you speak the dog’s name or mine.” “Like ‘Fare l’amore,’ you say both better.” “Cantante.” “Mmm.” Warwick let the three syllables play in his mind as he stared at the lips from where they’d come. “I’m to refer to the dog as ‘the dog,’ since my attempts at Italian pronunciation blister the ears.” “Mia madre is a tough cookie.” Dom went to his phone. “Leave her to me.” Everything he’d brought was laid out just so, something he’d been doing a while, but had really perfected at the Calais School for Blind Arts. When one could not count on the sense of sight, organization was key, he’d been taught. Warwick tended to pace about when jabbering or texting, often in and out of several rooms. Most of the time, he set his phone down wherever he ended the call or shoved it in his pocket after chatting. Dom, Warwick had noticed, always stood in one place while chatting on his mobile phone, then set it right back down where he’d picked it up when done. “You really needn’t bother, Dom.” Warwick followed him to the dresser. “I really do.” “Perhaps if I continue to do a good job, I’ll win your mother’s favor, and the curse will go away.” “What if there’s nothing but total blackness for me by then?” Warwick’s breath caught. “I’m sorry I take time and sight for granted.” “Don’t be sad or sorry, Il mio tesoro.” Dom touched Warwick’s chest. “Your orange glasses work as well as your special yellow scarf. I can find you, and I’ll bet they look incredibly handsome.” “You were always good at finding me.” “And oh so glad I did…three times now.” “Except the third time was the exact opposite of a charm.” “Call mother.” Dom’s voice changed from flirty to stern when he spoke into the phone. “I still find everything about us charming. And I want to be with you. Now.” It changed again, back and forth. “Mother…we need to talk.” After four words in English, Dom went on a while in Italian. Warwick recognized his name and also possibly “damned feta,” “wee,” and “Nordstrom hell.” Dom’s expression was forceful, his voice raised slightly, but he ended the call with, “Ti voglio bene, Mamma.” It was a phrase Warwick knew, similar to one he’d looked up online and had been practicing quite dutifully for a future date. “Dio mio!” “How did it go?” The exasperated “My God!” offered a hint. “She wants us to read something. Metamorphosis or something like that.” “By Kafka?” “I don’t know,” Dom said, “but somehow, it will change our lives. She had a copy put into braille…Something about Cupid and Psyche.” “Cupid? The bloke in the diaper who shoots people with arrows to make them fall in love?” “I guess. Odd how you just mentioned him yourself. Just now, and back in DC.” “I guess I think of that sort of thing whenever I’m near you.” For Warwick, falling in love with Dom was a fait au complet to use one of two languages he wasn’t terribly good at yet. “That would be a different Metamorphoses, with an E. Also known as ‘The Golden Ass.’” “Maybe she’s gotten a good look at yours.” Dom gave it a slap. “Hey, now.” “So, you know it…this story?” “Not really,” Warwick said. “Only in general terms. Mythology…Venus…Cupid…” “Well, she wants you to go get it,” Dom relayed, “walk Cantante, and then we both go shopping for her blasted face cream and read it in the car. She’s already called for one.” “Then I suppose I shall go. Did she say why she wants us to read Metamorphoses?” “What else?” Dom asked with a sigh. “La maledizione danatta. Still with the damned curse.” “Ah.” Warwick knew deep down Dom believed his mother a love and romance expert, with generations of evidence from fables and sacred ancient scripture to back up her claims. He’d quoted Antonella Roma’s proclamations many times as he and Warwick grew closer over the summer and looked for signs she’d told him to seek, just as Warwick had looked for signs from his late husband, Lawrence. If Antonella Roma now swore Dom and Warwick’s relationship—their love—was doomed, considering everything that had happened across twenty-some days, two continents, three countries, and fourteen states, all culminating with the missing yellow scarf, how could Dom doubt it was true?