Let’s have a GREAT BIG Tuesday Teaser welcome to S.J. Frost, author extraordinaire…
Last week’s winner: Nikita!
Hello! I’m S.J. Frost, an author of sweet and sexy gay erotic romance stories. Rock stars, vampires, fantasy heroes…I enjoy stretching my writing muscles in many different themes, but there are a few consistent things with each story I write. They each contain love, passion, and romance between men. I’m currently published by MLR Press and Ellora’s Cave. For more info on my work, please feel welcomed to visit my website: http://www.sjfrost.com/
My thanks to ZAM for having me as a guest for Teaser Tuesday! Good luck to all on guessing which of my stories this snippet is from!
****** walked further into the room, turning in a circle to fully take it in. Electric guitars of numerous styles and brands hung on one wall with bass guitars and acoustics. Of the electric, ****** guessed there had to be over thirty. Against one wall, dark walnut shelves displayed several violins and violas with two cellos and a full-sized harp sitting close by. On the other side of the room, shelves and wooden tables held still more instruments, though many of these were exotic, some of which ****** didn’t even know existed until that moment. He moved across the room to them, his fingers all but twitching to touch.
**** could see on ******’s face how he battled for control to not finger the instruments. “Go ahead. You can touch them. From the moment it’s created, an instrument’s only wish is to be held by a loving and skilled hand.”
****** gently laid his fingers on a zither near its strings and caressed the wood. “It’s true, isn’t it? Sometimes I think they’re almost living, the way each one has a unique voice. ***** thinks I’m nuts. He says, a Strat is a Strat. But to me, every instrument has a subtle pitch difference that makes it its own, and when it gets held in the hands of someone who respects and understands it, the sound of that instrument becomes as individual as the soul of the person playing it.” He looked over his shoulder at **** and smiled. “You probably think I’m mental, too, for thinking like that, don’t you?”
“No, not at all,” **** said softly, in awe at the serene beauty that came over ******’s face when he was surrounded by instruments.
****** stopped before the violins, admiring each one. “They’re so beautiful. I’ve always wanted to learn to play, but I haven’t had the chance.”
**** headed over to him. “I could teach you. I’ve seen all the instruments you can play. Picking up one more would be easy for you.”
****** turned a hopeful smile on him. “You would do that?”
“I would love to.”
**** pulled down a violin case from the top shelf and set it on one of the lower ones. He opened it, revealing a violin inside with a rich brownish-gold finish. Though it lay silent, as the light in the room washed over it, ****** swore he could hear the echoes of the countless songs the instrument had known, and all the emotions its voice had evoked from its listeners, joy, sadness, hope, seemed to have become as much a part of it as its neck, body, or stain.
**** lifted the instrument from its case with the tenderness of a father lifting his child from its crib. He set it against his left shoulder to check the tuning, placing a soft white cloth where his chin would go since the model didn’t have a chinrest, and when the final adjustments were made, he said, “It’s been a while since I’ve played, so don’t laugh at me if I screw up.”
****** shook his head and sat down on the stool for the harp. “Never.”
**** raised the bow and closed his eyes, calling the song he wanted to play to his mind. The music flowed through his mental ear, telling him the notes he needed. He settled the bow on the strings and played the first gentle notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D major.
******’s lips parted, the pure, divine sound of the violin stealing his breath to add to its essence. Like a heavenly being residing in the mortal realm, **** wove the notes together with expert fingers and created a blanket of music that wrapped around them both. Though the piece normally called for more violins, ****’s rendition and skill made it so the other instruments weren’t missed. Enraptured, ****** stared at him, at his lips that looked so soft, at his fingers of such deft skill, and in that moment, the newly awoken part of himself became fully alert, and he knew then it was his very soul that **** had roused. It responded to ****, called to him, and there’d be no silence within himself until **** was his.