by Lane Hayes
“Nope. See ya,” I said maturely before slipping through the open door.
The blast of fresh air felt amazing. I sucked in a cleansing breath and got a lungful of secondhand smoke with it. A group of twentysomethings huddled under the eaves veiled in a cloud of e-cigarette exhaust. Their retro-punk look was kinda badass but they smelled like a bunch of fucking Strawberry Shortcakes. I rubbed my arms against the mid-January chill and stepped to the left to avoid the contact sugar high. And Declan.
“Hang on!”
I rounded on him as I stepped under the eaves. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Come on, Jus. It doesn’t have to be like this. We were friends and—”
“And now we’re not.”
“Christ!” He rubbed his scruffy jaw absently, then held up his hands. “I’m sorry. But I really wish you’d move past this and—”
“Fuck you!” I shoved him hard. A few heads turned when he stumbled backward. I braced myself for attack, knowing he was more than capable of kicking my ass. Declan was built like a swimmer, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He was lean like me, but strong as hell. However, my surge of anger gave me a momentary advantage. I moved into his space and stabbed my forefinger on his chest. “You did your best to make me look like a fool once. It’s not happening again. I don’t know what you and Xena are up to here but—”
“Same thing as you, you fuckin’ hothead. We want a break.” His voice softened when he continued. “There’s opportunity here, Jus. And there’s room for more than one band. You were great up there, and those songs were amazing. Are they new?”
I furrowed my brow so hard, it gave me a headache. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk to you again’ did you not understand?”
“Fine. I get it. But I think we could help each other out. We could—”
“Am I the only one hearing this bullshit?” I yelled, raising my hands in the air. “This guy has the gall to screw me…literally, and then—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled.
I gritted my teeth and glared at Dec. When the heated standoff went on for a beat too long, I glanced away and spotted the sexy older man from inside the club. He stood under a lamplight, smoking a cigarette and observing me nonchalantly. The way you might a child throwing a tantrum on an airplane, with a measure of sympathy and annoyance.
I caught his stare and something in me went a little wonky. It was the best explanation I had for my bout of madness. I pointed at the stranger before jumping sideways toward him, while shooting a manic look at Dec. “Look, we’re done here. If I don’t kick your ass, my boyfriend will. Won’t you, babe?”
The stranger lifted his brow and shrugged before replying in a deep, sexy voice. “I guess I’ll have to.”
“See? It won’t end well. So, let’s not pretend we’re friends, Dec. Let’s not pretend we ever will be. I’m nothing to you, and you should know the feeling is mutual.”
“Listen to me, Jus—”
Xena stuck her head out the door just then and called for Declan. “We’re on. Let’s go.”
Dec nodded before turning to me. “Come inside. We can talk after our set.”
“No.”
He growled angrily. “Fuck, you’re stubborn. Remember tonight ’cause you’re gonna need me someday, Justin. And you’re gonna be very fucking sorry you didn’t pay attention,” he snarled before finally moving away.
I balled my hand into a fist and pulled my arm back. But before I could punch the wall like a real dumbass, the stranger called out, “Boyfriend. Cool it.”
I jerked around and froze as if I’d been slapped. I raced through a series of breathing exercises and swallowed hard before moving toward the man under the lamplight. I paused a few feet away and stuffed my hands into my pockets. Damn, he was even more handsome up close. And a little intimidating.
“You’re still here,” I said lamely.
The stranger turned to me with a slow-growing smile that lifted one corner of his mouth. And fuck, I was right. He was hot.
“Well, I thought you might need someone to rescue you.”
“Yeah. No, um…”
“Yes and no?” he teased.
“No. I’m fine. I just—can I bum one of those?” I asked, gesturing to the cigarette in his hand.
He nodded, then reached into his pocket. He slid one from the package and lit the end from his cigarette before handing it to me. I found myself watching his every movement—the bend of his head and the flick of his wrist. There was something old-fashioned and intimate in the ritual that made me think of black-and-white movies where a shared smoke and a drink were the ultimate icebreakers.
Truthfully, I didn’t know why I asked. I didn’t smoke. But I needed something to do with my hands. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, making it harder than normal to stand still. Between my solo gig and my run-in with Dec, my brain buzzed ominously. I wondered if I’d forgotten to take my meds.
“You okay?” the stranger asked.
I blew out a stream of smoke and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. He’s not my favorite person. No big deal.”
The man studied me for a long moment. He made me nervous. The air around him seemed to crackle with electricity. Or maybe that was the switchboard in my cranium firing on all cylinders at once, because he wasn’t really doing anything. He just stood there looking so…self-assured, put together and calm. Like a buoy in a storm.
“You done for the night, Boyfriend?” he asked conversationally.
I chuckled softly. “Yeah. Thanks for embracing your role.”
“Anytime. You were good in there,” he said, inclining his head toward the club.
“Thanks. I was.”
The deep timbre of his laughter moved through me, warming me from within. “Modesty’s overrated.”
“It was four measly songs at a dive bar. Nothing to get excited about.”
“Original material?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
We were silent for a moment. I watched the tendrils of smoke cross his features as he exhaled. He looked mysterious, like a detective or someone who knew things. The deceptively cool type who thrived under stress or—
“Are you a producer?” I blurted.
“No. Are you looking for one?”
“Fuck, no.” I leaned my arm against the chipped stucco and gave him a thoughtful once-over. He was built like a football player, but he had the eyes of a poet. There was something earnest in his gaze that made me think he was taking internal notes. The way I sometimes did, but with a less manic edge. “I know I should say the exact opposite, but I’m not exactly ready for that stage in the game. I need a few other things first…like a bassist. Oh yeah, and a manager to take the reins from me before I sail this ship into an iceberg.”
His eyes twinkled. “You’re not dramatic much, are you?”
I huffed. “Unfortunately, it’s all true.”
“So you’re in a band?”
“We’re trying. It’s safer to say I’m in between bands at the moment,” I corrected.
“That’s right. Gypsy Coma. What’s your name again?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I sighed, feeling suddenly defeated. “That’s not who I am anymore. I’m starting over.”
“Without a name?”
“Yeah. Anonymous.” I cocked my head. “What about you?”
“I’m not tellin’. I don’t want a name either,” he quipped.
I snickered. “Sounds fair. I’ll call you Boyfriend or…Blue.”
“Blue?”
“Yeah. You have pretty eyes.” I winced. “Wow. I can’t believe I said that out loud. I’m not flirting with you. I just—”
“Was that your ex-boyfriend?” he intercepted.
“No. He’s my ex-girlfriend’s new guitarist. Maybe they’re together, but nah, I doubt it. They both need the spotlight. Sharing a stage for an hour or two is one thing. They’d never manage it in real life too.” I waved impatiently. �
��Whatever. I don’t want to talk about them. I’d rather hear about you. What do you do for a living? Or is that top secret?”
He blew a plume of smoke in the air and smiled. “I’m a writer.”
“An author, a journalist, a blogger or…what? There’re a million kinds of writers.”
“True. I do a little bit of everything, but mostly in music. I’m good at jingles and hooks,” he said with a wink.
“So are we talkin’ commercial jingles or pop songs?”
“Like I said, a little of everything. Have you heard the Mason Hardware commercial on the radio?”
“Really? ‘Mason’s hardware helpers walk the aisle to make sure you leave with a smile…’ That one?” When he inclined his head in acquiescence, I chuckled. “Wow. That’s cheesy.”
“What can I say? Velveeta pays the bills. What about you?”
“I’m a bartender. And a barista too. I like the coffee shop gig better, but it doesn’t pay as well. I’m looking for something new.”
“Can you tell me where? Or is that ambiguity infringement?”
“Ambiguity infringement,” I repeated. “I oughtta write that down. Do I have to give you credit, or can I steal it?”
“It’s yours,” he said, turning so we faced each other.
The casual maneuver brought him fully into the light. Fuck, he was hot. And his eyes were gorgeous. I wanted to trace the lines at the corners but not smooth them out. They added character and hinted at untold stories. The tingle of awareness I’d felt when I first saw him in the bar was stronger than ever.
“Where do I work, or where do I want to work?”
“Yes. Tell me everything. This session is free.”
I threw my head back, laughed, and felt my shoulders relax as some of the pent-up tension left my body. “Thanks. I’d take a part-time job almost anywhere except a gym or an office.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong with a gym?” he asked, clearly amused.
I noticed his smartwatch light up and then vibrate like a cell phone. Someone wanted his attention, and I loved that he gave it to me instead. Any second now, our friends would come looking for us, and the real world would interfere. I wanted to keep him to myself for as long as possible.
“People exercise in gyms. And then they gloat about it,” I scoffed. “I practically grew up at my local YMCA. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sure you do. But some people actually like to exercise... You know, for general health and well-being purposes.” He chuckled when I rolled my eyes. “All right. I won’t try to convert you. Where do you work?”
“I pour coffee at Aromatique and—”
“I haven’t been there in a while, but I like that place.”
“Me too. And…I bartend at Vibes.” I paused for his reaction. A facial tic or a nod or something to indicate he knew it was a gay club. He looked seriously straight, but I hoped he was seriously bi. Not that it mattered—nothing was happening here. “Have you been?”
“No. Is it on Santa Monica?”
“Yeah.” Bingo. I was right.
“Next to the new ice cream place,” he continued. “I waited ten minutes in line for a scoop of designer mint chip.”
Okay. Maybe not, I mused as my gaydar flipped back to neutral. Everybody liked ice cream. I couldn’t work with that. And suddenly, it seemed like something I needed to know. I could have just asked, but he wasn’t a random dude at the club. He had an air of sophistication and polish that demanded respect. Like a college professor or the sexy boss you secretly lust after even though you know you’re out of your league. I had numerous fantasies of the high-powered executive, lowly employee variety all the time. The kind that usually involved staying late to work on a secret project…over a desk, on a conference table, in an elevator. Neckties and shirts undone, suit pants unzipped or lowered just enough to get his thick cock out and—
Oops. Now I’m hard.
I straightened from the wall and pretended to take one last drag from the cigarette before putting it out on the trashcan next to the parking kiosk. Then I clandestinely adjusted myself and rejoined him.
“Scoops is always packed. Even in winter,” I said conversationally.
“True. I don’t usually have the patience to wait, but I was with an eight-year-old at the time. It’s amazing how cooperative that monkey can be when there’s ice cream involved,” he commented affectionately.
Talk about an erection killer. My X-rated daydream came to a screeching halt, quickly replaced by visions of a soccer-dad lifestyle complete with a house in the burbs, a hybrid SUV, three kids, two dogs, and a beautiful wife.
“You have three kids?” I asked, unable to keep the irritation from my voice.
“Three kids?” he repeated incredulously.
“Well, you said something about getting ice cream with your son and—”
“Nice try. I never said I had a son.”
“Gee, I could have sworn you mentioned your wife and kids and…whatsa matter? Is this anonymity infringement?” I teased.
“The term was ambiguity infringement, smartass,” he huffed without heat, turning to dispose of his cigarette. “And I was talking about my godson.”
“My bad.” I rubbed my arms and shot a faux-innocent smile at him. “I didn’t mean to get too personal.”
“Yeah, you did.” He stepped in front of me, closer than he’d been before. “I’m single.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“What about the guy you kissed before you went onstage?”
I winced. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. We’re just friends. Tegan’s our drummer. He was going to play bass tonight, but—ugh. I don’t want to think about the mess I got us into. Let’s talk ice cream. What’s your favorite flavor?”
“I love it all.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Name two.”
“Mint chip and chocolate.”
“Good choices. I like chocolate chip and chocolate. But I like the basic real stuff. Not designer brands that claim to have fewer calories in fancy containers. I don’t eat much of it, though. Ice cream is a luxury item.”
He looked at me like I was an alien. “Ice cream is essential,” he deadpanned.
I snickered as I folded my arms across my chest to ward off the chill when the wind whistled along the sidewalk. “When you’re on a tight budget, it’s a n-nice to have, not a need to h-have.”
“Hmph. It’s cold out here. Do you want to go back inside?”
“No,” I replied quickly.
“Me either.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, letting traffic and pieces of nearby conversation filter between us.
“If your friend is looking for you, maybe you should—”
“He’s not,” he replied quickly. “What about you?”
“My people know I’m weird. They probably figure I won’t stick around.”
His lips quirked in amusement. “Then come have a drink with me.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
I grinned. The casual invitation delivered with the perfect note of nonchalance was hard to resist. “All right.”
With a heightened sense of awareness, I watched him move to the valet kiosk and hand the attendant a ticket. Maybe this was crazy. Then again, that was all the more reason to follow him. ’Cause in my book, crazy was another name for adventure.
Of course, when his Porsche pulled up a few minutes later, I had second thoughts. He could be a psycho. Or a stalker. No, I wasn’t stalker-worthy yet. Thankfully, curiosity kicked in before I could overthink. Wealthy older people who slummed it at dive bars usually came with a backstory. They liked places that reminded them of simpler times when being cool meant shredding their hand-me-down jeans and using lipstick for face paint. Now they found themselves following fashion trends from people half their age who paid big bucks for jeans with holes already in them. A night at a dive bar was like a temporary time machine for those wh
o wanted to forget they had mortgages, car payments, and jobs with benefits to deal with in the morning. None of those were bad things, but they were so damn…adult.
Real adult. Not fake adult like me. My driver’s license claimed I’d been a legal adult for eight years. Most days, I wasn’t so sure. But the man whizzing down Sunset Boulevard knew exactly who he was. And what he liked.
I twisted in my seat and gestured toward the dashboard. “Your Silent Face” by New Order lit up the screen and a moment later, a synthesized violin track blasted through the stereo. “I haven’t heard this song in forever.”
“You like it?”
“Yeah. I grew up listening to this stuff. My mom was a teenager in the eighties. She liked seventies rock too. Led Zeppelin, the Stones, David Bowie. But New Wave British bands were her favorite. The Cure, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode. She liked some weird ones too, like Altered Images. Their ‘Happy Birthday’ was our official birthday song when we were kids. She would blast it first thing in the morning. Rory freaking loved it,” I said with a laugh.
“Ha. I loved that song too. Your mom sounds cool.”
“She used to be,” I said, facing forward. “She’s judgmental and unhappy now. She wasn’t like that when we were kids. Life got to her. I don’t know when exactly; it must have been a gradual thing. She was a kickass single mom. She didn’t need or want my dad’s help and when Rory’s dad left, she seemed sad but still strong, you know? She masked her pain with alcohol, put a smile on her face, and did what needed to be done. When her drinking became an issue, she gave it up and found God. I’d be all for it if she was happy, but she’s not. She won’t let herself enjoy any of the things she loved when she was younger. It’s like she’s punishing herself and us, by association.”
“Rory is your brother?”
“Yeah. He was there tonight with his boyfriend,” I said.
“He’s gay?”
“Bi. Like me. And I’m assuming you too. Or am I misreading this? I probably should have asked that before I jumped into your very fast car. Dude, feel free to drive within twenty miles of the speed limit,” I chided as he whizzed around a slower-moving vehicle on Sunset.
He slowed behind a Prius at a traffic signal and turned to me with a cocky grin. “Yes, I’m bi. And we’re just having a drink. I think you’re hot as fuck, but I promise, I have no hidden agenda. I’m not trying to shake all your secrets out of you.”
