Heartstrings

by Riley Sierra

  After a dizzying minute, Cal removed his hand from Blake’s cock, lowering it further below the covers. Blake hitched his hips up, allowing Cal access, and soon enough he felt the gentle press of one of Cal’s slick fingertips against his opening. Even just that tiny pressure was enough to cause a flutter in his heart, heat rising through his entire body. Blake reached down between them, picking up where Cal had left off. He wrapped his fingers partially around Cal’s cock, partially around his own, and began to slowly thrust his length against Cal’s.

  Cal groaned, his fingers twitching, and he pressed in against Blake’s hole with greater force, his fingers slick with Blake’s own precum. Blake whimpered as Cal’s fingers explored him. He developed a slow, insistent rhythm, thrusting against his hand and Cal’s dick, each stroke sending shudders of pleasure through him.

  He could tell he was having a similar effect on Cal, who tensed atop him, sweat beginning to shine on his features. Blake leaned up and licked a drop right off his cheek, leaving a sticky trail, and as he leaned back down, Cal pushed a finger entirely inside him.

  At the high-pitched whimper that drew from Blake, Cal snickered breathily.

  “You like that, don’t you,” he murmured.

  “I like anything you do to me,” Blake said, candid and honest, opening his eyes to peer up into Cal’s. Cal stared down at him, the intense darkness of his eyes furthered by the darkness of the bedroom. Something about being pinned beneath that stare was just as erotic as being pinned beneath Cal’s body. Blake’s hips bucked, their cocks slickly thrusting together, and Cal began to work another finger into him.

  Cal’s hot length throbbing against his, Blake buried his face in Cal’s shoulder, rocking his body hard, impaling himself further on the fingers pressing into him. Urgency building in him like pressure, his heart pounding against his ribs, Blake tried to hold on as long as he could, tried to prolong the pleasure and the contact. He wanted nothing more than to touch Cal forever, to spend whole days writhing beneath Cal’s body, and feeling like he had to give Cal up soon lent a frantic edge to his every action.

  Soon, Blake recognized the tightness coiling in his stomach for what it was. He knew he was close. He picked up the pace of his hand, stroking Cal’s length hard and fast, squeezing the root of his shaft and dragging his fingers upward, the friction of Cal’s hot skin beneath and against him so, so good.

  Cal ground his entire body down against Blake, pressing him into the bed, his fingers delving into Blake’s body even as the first contractions began in Blake’s muscles. Blake tightened around Cal’s hand, crying out, pleasure peaking through him in waves. He grabbed Cal’s cock, thrust his own against it over and over even as he began to come. That was all Cal needed. Soon, Cal’s shaft was thrusting erratically into Blake’s palm, their joined breath heavy with effort. He came with a groan of release, hot seed streaking over Blake’s stomach, both of them sweaty and sticky and messy and spent.

  They collapsed into the bed, Cal still atop Blake. Blake wouldn’t have had it any other way. He wrapped his arms around Cal and held him there, uncaring of the mess they’d made. He needed Cal close. He needed Cal by his side. Their past hurts only made them stronger now that they were together again.

  Minutes passed in silence, the room quiet and dark around them. Blake could tell Cal wasn’t quite asleep yet due to the rhythm of his breath. His own eyes half-closed, he trailed a fingertip along the lines of Cal’s finely-developed deltoids, admiring the muscle by touch rather than by sight.

  “If you’re worried,” Cal murmured against him, “don’t be.”

  The words warmed Blake. He made a little home for them inside his heart and kept them there.

  “I was,” Blake admitted. “But I’m not now. Any separation, anything that comes between us, it’s temporary, right?”

  “Mhm.” Cal murmured, pressing a sleepy kiss to the side of Blake’s neck. “Exactly.”

  When Blake finally drifted to sleep, he did so with the fingers of one hand woven with Cal’s. That kept any anxious dreams at bay.

  36

  Cal

  Stepping back into his old life was weird. Cal felt like a stranger when he landed at DIA. He slung his backpack onto his shoulder and took the escalator down to the pedestrian waiting area.

  When Yanmei rolled in to collect him, they paused for a moment, eyeing one another up like some sort of well-meaning Mexican standoff. He sized her up, concerned for her well-being. She looked him over from head to toe, presumably to see if rock-star life had ruined him.

  Then they shared a quick hug and he climbed into the Forester with a contented sigh.

  By the time they pulled into Cal’s apartment complex, Yanmei had briefed him on the plumbing situation at The Garage: there was a leak in the sprinkler system. They’d had to shut the kitchen down for a few days. It turned out that the crud they kept in fire sprinklers wasn’t even water. It was some sort of brown chemical sludge that was extremely toxic to human life. Who knew?

  Cal was eager to get back to work, but was also too tired to do much other than ask if Yanmei wanted to hang around for lunch at his place. Lunch that was likely to be KFC.

  “As much as I’d love to eat greasy chicken with you, I’ve actually got a date,” she said. “Travis has a rare afternoon off. We’re going to play laser tag.”

  Cal tilted his head, watching her, amused.

  “Laser tag? Really? How old are you?”

  She stepped out his front door, laughing heartily.

  “Old enough that I couldn’t care less what Judgey McJudgerson thinks about my hobbies.”

  Cal’s expression softened a bit. He gave her what he hoped was a fond smile.

  “It’s good you’re getting out. You always told me to do more of that.”

  “Exactly,” she said. Then she bounded off down his front steps, taking the two flights down to the parking lot. The last thing he saw before he stepped inside was Yanmei waving, then ducking under the carport.

  Right. So now Cal was home again. He wished he could come up with a better word than weird, but that was how it felt. Like stepping into a life that wasn’t really his anymore.

  * * *

  Strolling around the interior of his empty apartment, Cal sought out something to do. It became clear shortly thereafter that he’d cleaned up everything that needed cleaning before he left. The trash cans were emptied, the dishes were washed, the bills were paid, and nothing needed fixing. He lived in a modest brick complex, secure and well-insulated, if older and sort of drab.

  At a loss for what to do, he considered heading over to the bar. But that felt like giving in to every stereotype Yanmei and Blake had ever had about him. They both made excellent points: there had to be more to his life than work.

  But deciding what that “more” should be was trickier. What was he supposed to do, enroll at the local community college and start taking classes?

  Without Blake around, without their relationship to explore, without at least music to play, Cal felt like he was spinning his wheels.

  You should call your dad, he thought out of nowhere. It had been a while.

  He checked the time. Early afternoon on the East Coast. If his father wasn’t out at sea, chances were he’d be around. Cal checked the battery on his phone, finding there was more than enough for a lengthy conversation. His calls with his father didn’t usually fit that descriptor.

  Like Cal, Tucker Lindsay was a man of few words unless you really got him going. But now that Cal and he lived so far away, talking on the phone had gotten a little easier by way of necessity.

  Cal sprawled out on his couch and queued up the number on his phone.

  His father picked up on the fifth ring, launching straight into conversation without so much as a “hello,” as was typical for him.

  “Well I’ll be,” Tucker said. “I figured you’d call eventually. I could only go so long getting second-hand news about my own son’s new life as a rock star.”

  Ca
ught off guard, Cal laughed. One of his dad’s friends must have shared the news. Yanmei of course had plastered it all over The Garage’s social media—free publicity, why not?—but Cal wasn’t sure his dad was the type to check up on his old bar on Facebook.

  “It was short-lived,” Cal said.

  “Doesn’t make it worth any less.”

  In the background, behind the rough rasp of his father’s voice, Cal could hear water. Waves lapping against something.

  “Are you on the boat?” he asked, grinning. After leaving the bar in Cal’s hands, Tucker seemed to spend every one of his retired days either on a fishing trip, unpacking from a fishing trip, or prepping for a fishing trip.

  “Not quite. We’re at the docks loading up. Going on an overnighter.”

  Cal stared up at his apartment’s textured ceiling, letting his eyes relax. Sometimes he could spot shapes in the stippled patterns.

  “What are you going out for?” he asked, mostly to indulge his dad and let him ramble about fish for a while. Cal always liked the sound of his father’s voice when it was relaxed. When he was talking about the things he loved.

  “Grouper, amberjacks, the whole rainbow of snapper. Maybe a mahi if we’re lucky. Always seems like you have a better chance of snagging a mahi when you use Spanish sardines. None of that Swedish crap.”

  “They import your bait all the way from Sweden?”

  “I think so, or one of them Scandinavian countries. The writing on the frozen herring looks Swedish to me.”

  Cal’s father was as red-blooded American as a person could feasibly get. He’d never left the continental United States in his life. When Cal was younger, they’d had a rocky period, a combination of Cal’s coming out and his mother leaving the house after a messy divorce. But if anything, they’d grown stronger because of it.

  “Glad you’ve got the good stuff this time,” Cal said, unable to keep up with the fishing talk in too much detail.

  On the other end of the line, Cal’s father grunted. There was the sound of something heavy impacting something else. Cal tried to imagine the scene in his head: his father in an old jacket and shitty jeans, hefting a couple of bags onto the boat, probably a good four weeks into a beard like he let himself get these days.

  Cal imagined he’d look healthy. And that was the most important thing.

  “You feeling pretty good?” Cal asked, hoping the question wasn’t too intrusive. He worried sometimes about his dad’s health, about whether he was too far away from his limited support structure all the way down in Boca Raton.

  “I’m probably faring better than you if you’re drinkin’ as much as you did the last time you and Blake used to tour around together.”

  Cal laughed, caught off guard by the jab.

  “No, Dad. I’m not. We’re too busy to drink. Or at least Blake is. I was just along for the ride.”

  “And how’s he doing? I’m glad you two finally got over yourselves.”

  Cal never told his father the real reason why he quit Keys To The Old Horse. His father just assumed they’d had some dumb teenage falling out and had called it such for years. Even though they weren’t teenagers at the time it happened. But that was kind of the way of fathers everywhere, wasn’t it?

  “So am I,” Cal said. A little lick of warmth kindled in his chest when he said it.

  “He was always a good influence on you. I worried you’d make the kind of friends I had at your age, back then. But instead he turned out to be a good egg.”

  Cal wondered if he should tell his father that he and Blake were possibly a couple again. Had his dad figured it out the first time? He wasn’t ever sure. Tucker didn’t interfere much in Cal’s teenage life. They both had jobs to do, bills to pay. It wasn’t until years later that Tucker discussed this sort of thing with his son at all.

  But before Cal could break the news, his father spoke again:

  “I’ve got to get going. Alonzo’s sister and her kid are coming with us this time. I’ve got to make sure there’s enough room aboard for all their crap.”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Cal said.

  “I wouldn’t.” Hundreds of miles away in Florida, Cal’s father laughed. “Anyway, you and Blake should come down for a trip one of these days. Spend that rock-star money of yours on something other than hookers and blow. You might even enjoy it.”

  “You never know,” Cal said, warmth in his words. “We just might. Love you, Dad.”

  “You take care,” Tucker said. He’d only dropped the I love you out loud a few times in Cal’s lifetime. A regular phone conversation didn’t quite warrant it.

  They said goodbye to one another and hung up. Cal let his arm fall down, knuckles grazing the carpet. He shifted on the couch until he achieved something resembling comfort, staring up at the ceiling still. No patterns manifested out of the texture at the moment. He thought he saw a fox, sometimes.

  The whole time he’d been away, he’d worried about getting home in time. In time for what, though? Work stuff? Even though he trusted Yanmei completely?

  Now that he was home, something felt as though it was missing. That something, he knew, was Blake.

  37

  Blake

  Blake remembered his first trip to Nashville. Back when Carousel Records first invited the Sinsationals to town for a chat. The trip that led to their first big-kid record deal. Nashville had a sort of overwhelming mystique to it. Blake wondered if the feelings it evoked in him were the same as Old Hollywood felt to every starry-eyed would-be actress that moved to Los Angeles.

  The pride that welled up in Blake when he found out he’d be recording an album in Nashville—he didn’t even care what studio, it was Nashville!—was unforgettable. The shadow of it still pulled at his heart every time he flew into town.

  He knew this time it would be different. Palmer and the band’s lawyers and Blake’s personal lawyers and the label’s lawyers and Rhett’s lawyers were all convening for some all-important powwow that would decide the band’s future. Or at least start the process of deciding it.

  Truth be told, Blake wanted no part of it. He wanted to finish the tour, go out on a high note. He wanted to sit in that aquarium with Cal again. He wanted to write some music to get the sickness out of his soul.

  One of the hardest truths to face about being a professional musician was just how much time Blake spent not doing the things he loved to do. More and more, as things with Rhett got worse, Blake had started to wonder if it was even the right path for him.

  He’d stomped all that doubt down when Cal returned, though. Because playing music with Cal again felt as right and natural as walking on his own two feet.

  Maybe a change won’t be so bad, he tried to tell himself. Maybe you are meant to do this, just not here. Just not with Rhett. And maybe that’s perfectly all right.

  But as much as Blake tried to talk some sense into his anxiety, it gripped his heart in its frigid hands and held on tight. He wished Cal were with him more than anything in the world. But it would have looked strange, him bringing Cal and nobody else. And Palmer’s people made the travel arrangements last-minute.

  What a mess.

  When the receptionist finally called Blake into the meeting with all the other bigwigs, he felt like a man walking to the gallows. He hoped they’d make it quick.

  * * *

  The meeting was not quick. They’d already been at it for a while. Blake’s ass was in that seat for almost three hours. He barely had to say a word, instructed to keep quiet by his own legal counsel. It was a surreal feeling, sitting there in a chair and listening as other parties fought for his band’s survival.

  Across the long, glossy wooden table, Rhett slouched back somewhat in his own seat. He looked right at Blake the entire time, eyes locked on, an insufferable smirk curling at his mouth. His relaxed, carefree posture was the worst of it though. Like he barely had any stake in it. Like he barely even cared.

  Blake kept his mouth shut by the grace of God and the fea
r of his lawyer alone.

  All the legal terminology flew right over Blake’s head. The suits talked about statutory royalties and primary and secondary copyrights and letters of intent and good-faith agreements and Blake was only able to parse bits here and there. At one point, his own lawyer asked him to look over some paperwork. One sheet was a statement that Rhett had attacked Blake first and that he’d agreed not to press charges, another was a copy of his initial record contract, every page faithfully initialed and dated by every Sinsationals member and their management.

  After all that, one signature and one read-over was all they needed Blake for. When the group broke for lunch, they told him he was free to go.

  Unmoored and purposeless, nothing keeping him at the Carousel office, Blake headed out into the street. He took an aimless right turn and passed a long, tree-dotted grassy field. In the distance, the dome of Bridgestone Arena rose up, the skyline of downtown further beyond it. Staring up at the sky—pale blue, wisped with faint gray cloud—Blake tried to figure out some way to occupy himself until the hammer fell.

  Shoving his hands into the pockets of his blazer, Blake hoofed it down the path, easing through a couple of knots of tourists, their cameras focused down toward the ground. An elderly woman turned around a little too quickly, the lens of her hip-level camera thwacking into Blake’s forearm. He hissed and jerked his arm back, shaking out his hand.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she stammered, stepping back. She wore a visor, gray-black curls pinned back behind it. When Blake glanced down and caught the mortified look on her face, he waved a hand, dismissive.

  “Not your fault,” he said.

  “He was always my favorite, I had to get a photo.”