String Theory

by Ashlyn Kane

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Authors’ Note

  Dedication

  String Theory

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  More from Ashlyn Kane and Morgan James

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  About the Authors

  By Ashlyn Kane

  By Morgan James

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  String Theory

  By Ashlyn Kane and Morgan James

  For Jax Hall, all-but-dissertation in mathematics, slinging drinks and serenading patrons at a piano bar is the perfect remedy for months of pandemic anxiety. He doesn’t expect to end up improvising on stage with pop violinist Aria Darvish, but the attraction that sparks between them? That’s a mathematical certainty. If he can get Ari to act on it, even better.

  Ari hasn’t written a note, and his album deadline is looming. Then he meets Jax, and suddenly he can’t stop the music. But Ari doesn’t know how to interpret Jax’s flirting—is making him a drink called Sex with the Bartender a serious overture?

  Jax jumps in with both feet, the only way he knows how. Ari is wonderful, and Jax loves having a partner who’s on the same page. But Ari’s struggles with his parents’ expectations, and Jax’s with the wounds of his past, threaten to unbalance an otherwise perfect equation. Can they prove their double act has merit, or does it only work in theory?

  Authors’ Note

  WHEN WE wrote this book in the summer of 2020, we could not anticipate how the next months would play out. We were sad and scared and lonely. Imagining a world where COVID-19 had ended gave us a refuge and a place to make each other laugh, and the characters gave us a vehicle to work out our grief.

  String Theory is not an accurate account of how the pandemic played out, but it is the romantic comedy we needed to write. We hope it’s as diverting for you as it was for us.

  With special thanks to Justin and Katie. They know why.

  String Theory

  “HOBBES, WHERE are you taking me?” Jax Hall definitely did not whine as he followed his grumpy roommate down the sidewalk. On a Friday evening, the downtown London, Ontario, streets were as bustling as they ever got these days. Jax and Hobbes automatically ducked sideways to keep a “safe” distance from another pedestrian. Old habits, Jax thought bitterly.

  He shook away the thought.

  “Hobbes!” he urged, but Hobbes stayed mum.

  Jax lunged forward and grabbed his right hand in both of his and gave it a little shake. “Hobbes!”

  “A bar.” Hobbes pulled his hand free and jammed it into his pants pocket, stymieing another attempt. Jax wasn’t bothered. He hooked his arm through Hobbes’s and leaned into him.

  The gazes of two women walking toward them lingered on their hooked arms and faces, and they clearly came to the same conclusion. Knowing that some people thought Hobbes’s grumpy face was attractive—and having plenty of evidence of his own desirability—Jax leaned into his friend and batted his eyelashes to further the appearance of coupledom. After they passed by, the women whispered together, and was that a coo?

  “Why are you so goddamned handsy?” Hobbes grumbled but didn’t untangle their arms.

  Jax shrugged. “Not enough love as a child?”

  Hobbes barked a laugh. “Pull the other one. I’ve met your mother.”

  This, Jax reflected with fond amusement, was all too true. His mother had arrived like an avenging angel on the heels of the first lockdown to spend a week presiding over their house and making friends with Hobbes’s diabetic cat. Jax’s mother had never fussed or coddled a day in her life, but he could tell by the set of her shoulders and the way she glared at Hobbes that Jax’s midpandemic roommate acquisition must have had her on edge for months.

  Not that she didn’t fall in love with Hobbes almost as quickly as Jax had. What could he say? The Halls clearly had soft spots for antisocial pediatricians who grimly risked their lives while complaining at high volume about dangerous working conditions and a lack of professionalism.

  “Why are we going to a bar?”

  “Because we can,” Hobbes said grimly, and Jax couldn’t argue the point.

  “Which bar? What’s it like?”

  “That one, and you can see for yourself.” Hobbes tipped his head toward the bar at the end of the block—the Rock. The name was written in blocky text across an outline of… Newfoundland?

  Hobbes untangled their arms to yank the door open, and Jax followed him into the dim interior. To the left sat the bar, a long counter that spanned nearly the entire length of the room, front to back. To the right, Jax spied a stage with room enough for a small band, currently hosting a piano and a drum kit.

  The place was empty at this early hour—it had only just opened, according to the hours on the door—but a few staff milled about.

  Hobbes headed for the bar and slid onto a stool. Behind it stood a man with dark stubble and a toque over his hair. He wore suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was so beautifully Canadian Jax wanted to ruffle his hair. Or suck his cock.

  “Calvin, ’ow’s she cuttin’?” the bartender asked in a thick Newfie accent, but the next words came out smoother, slower. “What can I pour ya?”

  “Whiskey,” Hobbes grunted.

  Jax leaned into the bar next to him, rested his arms across it, and cocked his hip to display his ass to best advantage should anyone take a look.

  “Who’s the friend?” the bartender asked Hobbes as he unscrewed the top from a bottle of Hobbes’s favorite brand and poured two fingers’ worth.

  Hobbes grunted. “Jax Hall, my roommate, meet Sean Murphy.”

  Jax gave his best flirty smile and fluttered his lashes. “My pleasure, Sean,” he purred. He had no desire to sleep with Hobbes’s favorite barkeep—he wasn’t about to make the mistake of getting between Hobbes and whiskey again—but Sean Murphy was a good-looking man with a lumberjack vibe that Jax found all too attractive.

  Sean lifted an eyebrow and said, “I’m sure. Call me Murph. Everyone does.”

  “Will do, Murph. Can I get a beer?” He wasn’t supposed to drink much, but one beer this late in the day wouldn’t interfere with his medication.

  “Sure. What’ll you have?”

  “Hm.” Jax licked his lips. “What’s your favorite IPA?”

  Murph didn’t react to the flirting with any sign of interest, and instead reached for a beer.

  “Jesus, kid, would you put it back in your pants?” Hobbes griped.

  “But I haven’t taken anything out of my pants yet.” Jax cast wide no-longer-bedroom eyes at Hobbes and straightened out of his seductive sprawl.

  “We serve food here,” Murph said dryly. “If anything tries to escape your pants, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Startled, Jax threw back his head with a laugh. “I like you.”

  Murph placed a bottle of microbrew IPA before him and said, “I’m thrilled, b’y.”

  After a sip of his unfamiliar but delicious drink,
Jax set it on the bar with a sigh. “The things I do for you, Hobbes. I could drown in that accent and he knows good beer. I wanna taste.”

  “I don’t think he fancies giving you a bite.”

  Jax heaved another dramatic sigh. “I guess not.”

  Murph looked between them with a raised eyebrow. “Hobbes?” he asked, and Hobbes groaned.

  “Like the cartoon,” Jax explained, happy to elucidate. “Apparently his hockey team thought his outlook on humanity was a little too dim to go on with calling him Calvin. They decided Hobbes suits better.”

  Murph barked a laugh, topping off Hobbes’s drink. “Think they got yer number, friend.” He gestured to Jax’s glass. “Ya done, b’y?”

  “I’m done,” Jax said with a grin. “So how does a Newfie end up opening a bar in Ontario?”

  Murph poured himself a beer. “Now that’s something of a chin-wag.”

  An empty bottle later, Jax excused himself to the bathroom and, on the way back, stalled as he passed the piano. He hadn’t played it in years—not since he was a kid—but his fingers itched at the sight of the slightly battered instrument, and he settled himself on the bench.

  Jax wiggled his fingers to stretch them and slowly, softly plucked out the familiar notes of “The Entertainer.” It seemed he remembered some of his childhood lessons after all. He paused as he considered. Then, with his eyes half shut, he let his fingers remember the melody to “Mad World.” He’d played it on the piano in his mother’s living room until she begged him to play something—anything else.

  “What on earth are you playing?” Murph yelled across the bar. “This is a bar, not a funeral parlor. You’ll have any patrons leaving or weeping inta their beer. Play something else, b’y!”

  Because Jax was a mature and responsible adult—he coparented a chronically ill cat—he stuck his tongue out at Murph before he turned back to the piano and ran through his mental catalog of songs he could once play. Then he smirked and cast a quick look in Murph’s direction—both Murph and Hobbes were watching him—and began to play the opening refrain to “Beautiful Life” by Ace of Base.

  Apparently over a decade without practice couldn’t erase the chords or the lyrics from Jax’s brain. Well, he fudged a few of the lines, but he remembered most of them. And Murph didn’t seem to care—he didn’t shout at Jax once, even when patrons stumbled in midchorus.

  Chapter One

  “HE’S LATE.” Naomi tapped elegant fingers on the bar top. She was dressed to the nines tonight in a red dress that set off her dark complexion, with nails and lips to match.

  “You know a lotta musicians who show up on time?” Jax asked from behind the bar. A keg needed changing out before they could open. “Relax. It’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know Ari.”

  How would he? As far as Jax knew, he’d never even been in the city at the same time as Aria Darvish, the London-born pop-violin virtuoso who was coming down from on high to perform at the Rock tonight. Apparently it was the coda to his North America tour or something.

  “No, but I know you. And you worry too much.” Jax finally got the keg connected and stood to start tapping off the foam. Then he wedged a plastic pitcher between taps to keep it open and poured her a shot of vodka. “Here. Take the edge off.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Unless you’d prefer—”

  “I will throw this shot at you,” she threatened. Jax counted it as progress; three months ago she wouldn’t have given a warning.

  “No wasting alcohol!” Murph yelled from the stage.

  Jax shook his head. “I still don’t know how he does that.”

  Naomi took the shot. “Amount of time he spent playing professionally, he should not be able to pick up a voice across the room like that.”

  “Acoustics.” Murph heaved a plastic crate of patch cords onto the bar one-handed, the other still in one of those removable splints. The patch cords normally lived by the stage, but tonight everything was pared down—just two violins, the piano, and a drum kit. Practically culture. “Open a book sometime.” He elbowed her in the ribs.

  Acoustics, Naomi mouthed at Jax.

  Witchcraft, he mouthed back as he pulled the pitcher off the tap. Perfect timing.

  “Anyway,” Murph said, “if you two’re done lollygaggin’—”

  Naomi’s phone chirped. She picked it up with a look of naked relief.

  “See,” Jax said, disposing of the foam. “That’s probably your piano guy now, right?” They still had half an hour to doors. Plenty of time. Aria himself wasn’t even here yet.

  But she was shaking her head. “It’s Ari. I gotta go let him in.”

  “What, you’re not gonna make him go in through the legion of adoring fans at the front door?” After three months, crowds were starting to feel normal again.

  Murph rolled his eyes. “There’re twenty people out there, ya drama queen.” He shoved the crate at Jax. “See to these, would ya, b’y? Lord knows we’ll never find them back if I put them away.”

  “You can just admit you don’t like spiders.”

  “I like spiders all right. It’s the things they eat I can’t abide.”

  Jax suppressed a shudder of his own. Maybe he could convince Murph to send him out to do a supply run next week and he could add a couple bottles of insecticide to his purchases. He wasn’t afraid. Just, there was a limit to the number of legs a creature should have, and unless it was an octopus, it was less than seven.

  And then there was real work to do—hauling up cases of beer, liquor, and mixer, setting up his station, making sure the bottles of water, disinfectant wipes, and hand sanitizer had been set out behind the stage so the band could access them easily.

  You can’t be too careful, as Hobbes would say. Or at least that was what Jax inferred when he said things like Jax, for God’s sake, if you have to ride that death trap, at least wear your leathers.

  Jax happily would have worn them every day if he’d had the slightest impression Hobbes might appreciate it the way Jax wanted him to.

  But Hobbes was straight, and even if he weren’t, Jax put the chances of him screwing up anything beyond friendship at about 97 percent. Things were better this way.

  Besides, there were plenty of fish in the sea… or the bar, in this case. At least there would be, so Jax had better get back to work.

  ARI KNEW something was wrong even before Naomi released him.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said as she stepped back, composing herself. She’d grown up a lot in the decade since he’d been her violin tutor, and even though he’d seen her at least once a year in the intervening time, it always surprised him to find a tall, composed woman with flawless skin in the place of the shy, pimply thirteen-year-old. “I know you don’t really do hugs. I just—”

  “Naomi,” he interrupted with a gentle touch to her arm. “It’s good to see you too. I don’t ‘do hugs’ with fans. You hardly count.”

  “Save your judgment till you see my Spotify playlist.” But the lingering threads of awkwardness fell away. “Actually, the hug was for fortification—mine, not yours.”

  He raised an eyebrow even as his stomach sank. He knew he should have taken Afra up on her offer to organize this concert—she managed the rest of his life without a single hiccup—but she deserved time off too. She’d been cagey lately. Something was bothering her. A brother could always tell. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Gary, your pianist. He just called to cancel. He’s got food poisoning.”

  Ah. “I see. What about Rosa?”

  “Already called her. She’s on her way. But….”

  Ari hid a wince. “But?”

  “You know how they’re doing construction on the 401?” She smoothed down the end of a braid. “Well, it’s down to one lane. And there was an accident.”

  That was… not ideal. “ETA?”

  “GPS says an hour, hour and a half.”

  A headache threatened his temples, and he forced himself to unclench his body and breathe deeply
so it couldn’t take hold. Naomi knew piano. She could play accompaniment. But then he wouldn’t have a second violin.

  Fortunately they were in a good place to be looking for substitute musicians. “What about Murph?” He hadn’t played often when Ari had worked here as a teenager, but he could hold his own.

  “Sprained his wrist.”

  Damn.

  “There’s another option,” Naomi said before he could panic. “One of the bartenders also plays.”

  That would be acceptable. Ari preferred to play with someone he knew, someone he’d worked with before, but he wasn’t in a position to be choosy. They were slated to begin in twenty minutes. While concerts rarely began on time, Ari preferred to be punctual. He respected the people who had paid to see him perform. Just because this concert cost only a fraction of what the larger venues charged didn’t make the audience less deserving of that respect.

  Still…. Naomi seemed uncertain.

  “You have reservations?”

  She shook her head. “No, just… well, you’ll see for yourself. I’ll go get him.”

  The break room hadn’t changed much since Ari had played here—no new paint, just a few new chips in it. One or two of the instruments hanging on the wall had been replaced, though, and the keyboard wedged into the back corner looked new.

  At least Murph had thrown out the chair with the cracked seat. Ari couldn’t count the number of times he’d pinched his leg on that.

  Perhaps a minute and a half passed before the door opened again—just long enough for the tension to start creeping back into his shoulders. He was in the midst of another breathing exercise to relax his muscles when he looked up and completely forgot what he was doing.

  One of the bartenders referred to a tall, blond white man in a threadbare T-shirt that highlighted every ounce of lean muscle. Ari barely had time to note startling blue eyes and the hint of a smile on a generous mouth before Naomi nudged the man forward.

  “Immovable object, meet unstoppable force.”