by Lane Hayes
“I might have stretched the truth a bit…just for fun,” I said casually.
“You mean to piss off your conservative stepmom,” she corrected with a half laugh. “Your plan backfired. She wasn’t pissed. She raved about Charlie. She’ll probably tell Dad, you know.”
“Good. I hope she does.”
Karly let a long silence fill the connection, as though it might magically erase the need for words. I knew what she wanted to ask me. I could have let her off the hook. But it just wasn’t that easy for me. Words could be so hard.
“How do you feel?” she asked after a minute.
I scoffed. “Fine. I have a headache, but it oughtta clear up after my second cup of java. How are you doin’?”
“Fuck you, Ky. You know what I meant.”
“Are you whisper-swearing in front of my niece?” I admonished playfully.
“She’s having a tea party with her stuffed animals. She didn’t hear me, but I hope you did. This isn’t easy for me either, you know. Stop being a dick.”
“What do you want from me, Kar?” I let out an exasperated huff. “I don’t do feelings. Not for him. I’m not a monster, though. If he is dying, I’m not glad he’s dying. I guess I’m numb. I don’t know what to think.”
“That’s fair. I’m the same way.” She paused a beat, then continued in a rush. “I’m going to see him, and I think you should too. And if you don’t want to see him…maybe call him. I’ll text you his number. You don’t have to decide today. Think about it.”
“Yeah, I don’t—”
“Did I tell you I took Lacey on the new merry-go-round at…”
I tuned my sister out and let my mind drift. I listened for the rhythm in her cadence and worked out a beat to complement her high pitch and lilting tone. I moved inside and set my mug on an amp before grabbing my bass from the wall and perching on the sofa arm. I wrestled with the chords until I found what I was looking for, humming occasionally so Karly knew I was still there…sort of there anyway. Once the music had me, I wouldn’t be able to hear at all. But I had to get this down before it faded and a piece of me faded with it.
I tapped my foot on the coffee table for impromptu percussion, then glanced across the sofa and froze. I propped my bass against the amp before leaning over to rescue a black polka dot sock wedged between the cushions. I examined it with a dopey grin on my face. Charlie wasn’t the kind of guy who randomly misplaced a sock. He had a deep appreciation for order that he admitted was borderline compulsive. I could just picture his face…his beautiful eyes, his sweet smile, and his uncanny ability to get under my skin and stay there. It felt like he was with me now. Or like he was supposed to be here.
Any second now, I expected an enormous wave of regret and shame to consume me and remind me that last night was a big fucking mistake. I should have been freaked out by what we’d done on so many levels, but I wasn’t. Most people would have taken one look at my baggage and run for the hills. He stayed. And I couldn’t help thinking he’d saved me…from myself.
I hung up with my sister so she could supervise the teddy bear tea party, then set my bass beside me and took a picture of Charlie’s sock and texted it to him.
I’m keeping this.
He immediately sent a laughing emoji. Where did you find it?
In the sofa.
The other one should be nearby.
I don’t see it. You must have slutty cocks. Sorry, socks. Damn autocorrect.
Charlie sent another round of laughing emojis, then called me.
“Slutty cocks and socks. You officially have my attention. What are you doing?” he asked.
“Missing you,” I replied automatically.
He hummed sweetly as though pleased. “Yeah? I haven’t been gone long.”
“I wish you were still here. I would have made you breakfast, you know.”
“Oh. What’s your specialty?”
“Cereal.”
Charlie guffawed merrily. “So you mean I would have made breakfast.”
“We probably would have gone out to eat. My cupboards are bare.”
“I see.”
“Let me make it up to you. Meet me for breakfast tomorrow morning at that pancake place on Sunset,” I blurted.
I held my breath and rode out the silence while he mulled over the offer. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. What time? You don’t have to tell me now. Text me.”
“Okay. What are you doing today?”
“Standing,” he deadpanned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means my ass is sore as hell, thank you very much. Anything that requires sitting for long periods is out. Don’t ask me to go to the movies and don’t…”
I leaned against the cushion, snickering as he listed the things he wouldn’t be doing today…Charlie-style. I could have listened to him all day. He was so mercurial and fast-moving that I felt honored to have his full attention. I wanted to tease him and ask him a million questions to keep him talking. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but he kept those ghosts at bay.
Until my cell buzzed. I glanced at the contact information my sister sent me before turning my phone upside down. I sensed a change in Charlie’s tone and realized he was saying good-bye. I came up with a new round of silly questions and closed my eyes. He was real. Nothing else mattered.
Charlie slid into the vinyl booth across from me the following morning at the IHOP, wearing a giant pair of sunglasses and a stylish yet colorful ensemble. No one else on the planet could pull off an orange-and-white checked oxford shirt, a pink V-neck sweater, and blue khakis and get away with it. He leaned forward as he lowered his glasses theatrically.
“Words can’t describe how hungry I am.”
“Try ravenous.” I rolled my eyes at his dramatic entrance before motioning to the waitress that we were ready to order. “What happened to ‘good morning’?”
“Good morning. I should warn you, I feel a serious bout of stress-eating coming on. I’m about to gain five pounds before your eyes. I’ve been so good for weeks and I can’t take it anymore.” He opened the menu and closed it as our waitress approached with a pot of coffee.
“Shall I give you a few minutes to decide?” the older woman asked politely as she poured.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. Decisions have been made. I need the biggest stack of pancakes you can fit on a plate. And lots of sides.”
“I like your style, honey. I suggest the original stack, your choice of eggs, bacon and a side of hash browns.”
“Done. I’ll have scrambled eggs, please, and instead of hash browns, can I double my order of bacon?”
“I can’t do that with a combo, but you can order a side of bacon.”
“Okay. Make it two sides,” Charlie replied, handing his menu over.
They both turned to me expectantly. “Uh…I’ll have the number one, eggs over easy, please.”
“You got it. I’ll put your order in now, boys.”
I waited until she’d moved on to the next table to address him. “Are you really gonna eat all that?”
“Yes, and I’m not sharing. Fine…I may share the bacon, but the rest is all mine. I’m careening toward a ledge. Carb overload might slow me down.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really. I’m just nervous.”
“About what?”
“Everything. You and me, fixing my snafu with the band…you know, life. I need to figure out a new plan we can execute quickly so we can get Zero’s first album out at the beginning of the year. My goal is fame within a year and rich and famous within two.”
“You don’t have to worry about you and me. We’re fine and we’re in this…whatever this is…together. And for the record, none of us cares about being rich or famous, Char. We just want to make music.”
Charlie fixed me with a sharp look. “Oh, please. That’s what they all say. I know it’s an uphill climb, and there’s a ton of social media noise to conten
d with. Everyone will want to know what you’re wearing, who you’re sleeping with, and you’ll have to worry about—”
“Hey, you’re not listening. I’m never gonna worry about what anyone else thinks. I don’t care about fame or fortune or anything else that’s gonna mess with my head. I’m here for the music. Period,” I assured him. “What’s the point in future-tripping anyway? Take it one day at a time. Me, you, Zero…”
“It’s not that easy for me. I haven’t slept well in days. I wake up at three a.m. worrying about things I can’t control. Like what if the music comes with things you guys don’t count on, like fans who get too personal and want pieces of you? I know how this works. The second Zero releases an album, the real promo starts. Millions of people will want to know about your sex life, your family life, your previous relationships, your previous career, your—”
“Millions of people?” I scoffed. “I doubt it, Char. I’m not that interesting.”
“We had sex this weekend! I’m a guy. That’s very fucking interesting,” he hissed loud enough for the couple next to us to do a double take.
I gave our neighboring table an apologetic smile before turning to Charlie. “Lower your voice. Hey. What’s going on with you? You’re shaking. How much coffee have you had this morning?”
“One cup.” He set his big glasses back on his nose and turned to the window. “This is the real me, Ky. I’m a mess. I’m usually better at concealing the crazy, but I haven’t been able to relax since…you know.”
I regarded him for a long moment, then patted the empty space beside me on the bench. “Come sit next to me.”
He ripped his glasses off and gaped. “Next to you? Are you nuts?”
“Nope. Come here. Just until your food arrives.”
“Why?”
“Stop asking questions and get over here. If you’re uncomfortable, you can go back.”
He heaved a dramatic sigh before sliding from his side of the booth and flopping gracelessly beside me. “This feels like one of those odd psychology experiments, like facing the wrong direction in an elevator. People will stare.”
“Who cares? Pretend we’re sitting at a bar watching a football game.”
“Ew. I would never do that,” he huffed, resting his thigh against mine as he cradled his mug. “You misunderstood. I’m thinking of you. I don’t care who looks at me. In fact, I hope everyone notices the time and attention I put into choosing this outfit. Of course, in this part of town, you’ve got to do a hell of a lot more than sit next to a guy to get a second glance. If I dressed more like you and we got caught making out at our local pancake parlor, we’d trend on social media for sure. Kinda hot idea, but I couldn’t pull it off. Please tell me I don’t look straight today.”
“Nah, you look gay as fuck,” I assured him.
“Thank God.”
We held eye contact for a long moment and busted up laughing for no particular reason.
“I brought your sock, by the way.”
“Oh, right. My slutty sock.” Charlie glanced at my crotch with a mischievous smirk. “Gee, I thought you were just happy to see me.”
“Your sock is in my truck, smartass. Stop staring at my dick. You’re gonna give me a chubby.”
Charlie threw his head back and guffawed. “A chubby? I’d be honored. That always cracks me up. Sounds very…jock-ish. Or skater boy-ish, or…”
I sipped my coffee while he went into a monologue about stereotypical wardrobe quirks. Or something like that. I had a hard time concentrating with him so close. He smelled good this morning. Like designer cologne and toothpaste. I quelled the fierce urge to grab his chin and stick my tongue down his throat to taste him. It wasn’t easy. Just sitting next to him was a true test of willpower. I didn’t get it. The moment I’d spotted his BMW in the parking lot, my pulse had gone into overdrive.
I hadn’t walked away wanting more from a sexual encounter with a guy in years. Maybe suppressing family drama pushed Charlie to the front of my consciousness. The crazy thing was…well, it was Charlie I was talking about. Our unapologetically fabulous manager who specialized in social media trends and sarcasm. He was a self-proclaimed expert in a wide variety of subjects ranging from seasons three through six of RuPaul’s Drag Race and The Real Housewives of Orange County to the influence of bands like Led Zeppelin and Queen on modern music, and how to create a cyber ad campaign and turn an online presence into cash. He was smart as hell and fearless with it too.
But his vulnerable side kicked me in the gut. I felt a strong compulsion to do whatever I could to calm him. And maybe sitting next to each other was a strange approach, but it seemed to work. He was more relaxed already. More in control. His speech was animated and melodic. Sometimes sexy and joyful or silly and irreverent. In tempo, but never boring. Like music.
He’d turned to face me, setting his knee on the bench against my thigh. He was in constant contact with some part of me. Touching my shoulder or my hand as he spoke. I liked it. Of course, when our food arrived, he hopped up and moved back to his side to give himself more elbow room to eat. He thanked the waitress profusely as he arranged his side dishes in a half circle around the pancakes.
I picked up my fork and gestured at his feast. “You’re never gonna eat all that.”
“Never say never, Ky. You do the talking for a while.”
“Okay, briefs or boxers?”
That got him. Charlie swallowed a bite of pancakes and shook his head in dismay. “Talking, not asking questions. But the answer is boyfriend briefs…of course.”
“What color?”
“Today?”
“Yeah. Right this very second. Some guys wouldn’t remember unless they always buy the same package of Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities, but you’re not that guy.”
“Absolutely not,” he agreed primly.
“I’m gonna guess they match your socks. You look like a matcher.”
“You’re wrong. I’m a coordinator, not a matcher. And I’m not wearing socks.”
“That’s kinda gross,” I commented idly.
“Says the man who goes commando.”
“Hmph. Don’t your feet sweat?”
“Don’t your balls sweat?” he countered.
I chuckled. “Not too bad. I wear boxer briefs sometimes…when the feeling comes over me.”
“The boxer feeling. Got it,” he snarked. “Well, I have short socks on. The kind you can’t see.”
“What’s the point in that?”
“To not break the line.”
“What line?” I asked, spearing a bite of eggs.
“It’s fashion. You wouldn’t get it,” he said, ruining his dismissive once-over by lingering on my inked biceps a few seconds too long.
“Probably not. So…what color are your boyfriend briefs?”
“Hot pink,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“There’s gotta be a reason, and fuck knows I’ll never guess. What is it?”
“I’m not telling you. You’ll just make fun of me.”
“Me? Never. Go on…tell me.”
Charlie folded his arms defensively. “Fine. It’s my personal power pair. It’s going to be a rough day, and I need all the help I can get.”
“The guys aren’t going to be mad, Char,” I said gently.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’ll deal with it later. I may not go to the studio today. And not because I’m avoiding everyone. I have a meeting with Sandstone later and—”
“Why?”
“For a number of reasons. I need to learn from my oversight. If it’s possible to salvage this and come up with a deal that works for both sides…fabulous. If not, we move on. I can’t leave it the way it is now. It feels unprofessional and squicky.” He made a grossed-out face and shrugged.
“Is that a technical term?” I teased.
“Yes. And you know what? The one thing I’ve learned over the past few months is that this is a very sq
uicky business. Not so different from the movie industry at all. These people are sharks.”
“At least you can ask your dad for pointers. He wheels and deals behind the scenes for some big ass films. We might not be in the same league, but it’s the same general idea, right?”
He looked at his watch and sighed. “Yeah, but my dad doesn’t give advice. He takes over. If I tell him anything, he’ll assume it’s an invitation to fix my problems by calling in favors. He means well, but I don’t want Zero to make it because Sebastian Rourke asked his buddy at Sony to listen to the band his son is managing.”
“So Sony is out?”
“Not necessarily, but we all agreed they’re too big for you guys. My gut tells me that a smaller label that will grow as Zero does is a better fit. It doesn’t have to be Sandstone, but something like them would be perfect.”
“Maybe we should start our own label,” I said off-handedly.
“If I only knew how.”
“Ask your dad.”
Charlie scowled. “You obviously weren’t listening. If I told him I wanted to start my own label, I’d end up working for him. I know him. He’d want to fund the project, hire the best people, and generally take over. I’d end up in corner office with a sweet salary and a grandiose title, twiddling my thumbs, working for someone else. He’s a bulldozer. The good-natured kind you don’t see coming. He means well but…it wouldn’t work. It might for Zero, but I’d get left out. Geez…that makes me sound like a selfish brat, doesn’t it?”
“No, I get it. It’s not about control, it’s about having something of your own.”
“Exactly.”
“Everyone needs that, Char. It’s why I started skateboarding. I needed something that was mine. It has more to do with maintaining sanity than being selfish. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to see if you can be successful on your own.” I straightened my legs under the table to rub my calf against his. “On the other hand, it’s important to know when to ask for help.”
“Ah, I see,” he hummed sarcastically. “So you think I should ask my dad for help?”
“Not help. But it couldn’t hurt to ask for advice.”
“Hmph.”
I leaned across the faux-wood veneer table and stole a piece of bacon from his plate, swiping my hand away before he stabbed me with his fork. “Hey, we’re on the right path. We’ve got two shows this week, and our set list fuckin’ rocks. It’s gonna be amazing. So stop beating yourself up. Zero is coming together.”
