Alluring Passion: A MM Contemporary Bundle

by Peter Styles

  He thought it looked much better in his hands. They were both a bit worn, a little scarred up and callused in places. They were a pair. Plus, the wood had matured. Now, he didn’t know if that was an actual thing or if it was something he dreamed about, but older instruments sounded better to him because they had matured. They had been played, been imbued with life and love and long, hard hours of practice. They were, in short, a bit broken in.

  And he liked that.

  As he turned back to face all those people watching him, he could see that they didn’t really know what to think of him. He was a shaggy guy who probably looked like he was two minutes from being homeless, carting around a guitar that they probably thought looked like crap. A few of them were frowning, clearly disappointed that they weren’t going to get the entertainment they’d been expecting.

  They’ll be very surprised at the end of this.

  Angel grinned out at them, shaking his head a little to make his hair toss around his ears. A glance up at the clock told him he only had a few seconds before nine, so it was time to get started.

  He tapped at the mic and was rewarded with that stereotypical screeching sound, reverberating across the walls. Even those people who hadn’t been watching him now turned in his direction, their eyes burning into him. He grinned his friendliest grin, sweeping his gaze out across the crowd until he came to a stop on Chance.

  This is the first time you’ll ever hear me. I hope I’m up to your standards.

  “I want to thank you for having me here tonight,” he said, lowering his voice and speaking close to the mic. “My name is Angel Frost and I’m a boring tourist with a guitar who just randomly wandered in here. I figure I’ll play until the manager throws me out.”

  A polite ripple of laughter ran through the room, slow to start and quick to fade. Clearly, they didn’t know whether or not he was being serious. It wasn’t the coldest reception he’d ever gotten, so he mentally shrugged it off and got started.

  Strumming the strings softly with the fingers of one hand, he said, “I like to call this one ‘Carolina’.” A short and boring name. He didn’t believe in embellishing things to make them better at face value. Take it or leave it.

  And he began.

  Last night and earlier in the day, he spent some time figuring out what songs he would play and in what order to present them. However, as he started off into the first song, fingers slowly working their way deeper into the song, he threw all that out the window and summoned up an entirely new playlist. As the tempo increased, fingers working harder, plucking strings and pressing deeper into them to deepen the sound, he closed his eyes and thought of Chance. And he sang, giving it everything he had. He hadn’t ever had any training, no formal schooling in how to play or sing. He had his own system for writing out vocal notes, one which no real musician would ever approve of.

  From one song to the next, he worked his way across the strings. Never one to throw extravagance into his motion, to dance across the stage as some others did—he called those people fools—but now his body started to move of its own accord and he couldn’t help it. His body swayed. He leaned into the notes. He gestured. He threw his head back and wailed with the high parts, trembling as the plucked notes fell away. It was like sex. Better than sex. His heart pattered, blood surging.

  I feel alive. Chance, do you feel it too?

  Then, the worst thing happened.

  Splitting through the cadence of his voice, an ugly twang. Someone gasped. Something sharp stung his fingers, stuttering the motion. His hand slipped, pattering hideously against the neck. His eyes snapped open and he looked down.

  Red filled his vision. He blinked rapidly and found himself staring down at a nasty scratch that curled across his thumb and over the next two fingers. Blood beaded up, not a trickle but more serious than a paper cut.

  Broke a string.

  However, it was only the worst thing to happen if he was any other person but himself.

  “Hold on a minute here,” he said, absently as he hefted the guitar up. Only an amateur would take up time restringing a guitar in front of an audience. He should have cut his losses and walked off with a smile.

  But that wasn’t what he was planning to do.

  He grabbed the coil of broken string, stripped it off, and tossed it haphazardly to the side. And then without even missing a beat, he jumped right back into the song as though nothing was wrong. Whenever he needed that particular string, he automatically adjusted higher.

  This wasn’t the first time he had ever had to do this. In his first years wandering the highways, he often had to grab pennies from the gutter for days before being able to afford new strings. Frustration at not being able to play led him to develop a whole new way of playing, so that he could keep a steady flow of income and replace the broken strings faster. As time went on, he had to resort to that less and less but it was still a skill he had never lost. Just in case.

  The rest of his time, he played without that broken string and thought he had never sounded better. When the last song rolled off his tongue, the last word fading away, he dropped his hands and smiled out at the faces watching him. “Thank you for your time tonight, folks. I appreciated it.”

  He turned to step back and put his guitar away when the first clap came. Surprised, he turned back and watched as a small pattering of applause became a rainstorm of approval; glancing over to the side, he saw Chance standing up and clapping the hardest of all.

  Their eyes met.

  I have to tell him.

  As the applause died away, he gave the patrons of the bar one last smile and hurried to put the guitar away. Footsteps came from behind him as he straightened up.

  “Well, young man, that was quite the performance. Resourceful, too.”

  Angel looked at Lester, trying not to look as impatient as he felt. “Thank you. I really appreciated the chance to be here.”

  Lester actually cracked a smile. “I really am impressed. Can I ask how long you’re in town?”

  “Next six days.”

  The man glanced down at his perfectly shiny shoes, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say next. “Well…I wondered if you would be interested in playing here again. How much song material do you have?”

  “Way more than enough.”

  “I see. I want you to know I don’t normally do this but…how would you like to play here every other night? As in, not tomorrow but the next day, and so on. I understand if you’re busy…”

  “Lester?” Angel interrupted. “I would like that very much. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “My shift starts at three.”

  “If I come back here for, say, an early dinner, could we discuss this more?”

  Lester nodded. “Sure. And that dinner…it’ll be on the house. You can pick up your share of the tips either now, if you stick around, or you can grab it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  If he hadn’t been so confident about how he did, he wouldn’t have been so abrupt but now all he wanted to do was get to Chance.

  Chance’s eyes lit up as he approached. He jumped up to his feet and ran the remaining few feet between them, wrapping his arms around Angel’s neck. Angel folded his arms around Chance and kissed his lips, then his cheeks. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re amazing!” Chance said. His face lit up. “And you did so good when the string broke! I can’t believe you were able to keep going.”

  “Just something I picked up through the years.” Angel laid his cheek against Chance’s and then pulled back to look deep into his green, comforting eyes. “Listen, we need to talk tonight.”

  “About? Oh!”

  “Right. Is there anywhere you want to go tonight?”

  “No.” Chance shook his head. “And we need to do this now, while you still want to.”

  They wove their way slowly through the bar, pausing often as they were accosted by thanks and greetings. Ang
el put on the mask he always wore when put in this kind of situation, accepting what came to him because he knew what he deserved but unwilling to entertain it for very long.

  Piling back into the car with the guitar tucked away safely in the backseat, Angel drove back to the hotel. His heart was still pounding from his performance but now his stomach twisted and his nerves were on end. The story he never told, the one that was his own, was about to be spoken. He always endeavored to never think about it, to put it behind him, but here it was. This time, he couldn’t escape.

  They let themselves into the room and went over to the bed, shedding their clothes as they went. Climbing up onto the bed, Angel lifted up the covers to wrap both of them up in the warmth beneath. Chance slid into his arms and they embraced, hugging onto each other tightly.

  Chance didn’t say anything. Angel wished he would. Anything to distract from this moment, to have the opportunity to back out of it and do anything else. However, the time for that sort of thing was long gone.

  “It seems so lame now,” he finally admitted into the silence.

  Fingers ruffled sweetly through his hair, thrumming lightly down the back of his neck. “So? Simple things can be really hard.”

  And wasn’t that the truth?

  “I didn’t grow up with my parents,” Angel said. “They were both Air Force. Mom worked on the plane engines. My dad flew them. Best navigator in the whole division. At least, that’s what the sergeant told me when we met at their funeral.”

  As the words came, he remembered. He didn’t want to, but his voice had never worked on its own. Whenever he spoke, images came with it.

  Seeing his parents for a month or two at a time and then being without them for six months, a year, even more. So hard to remember them now, though he’d seen enough pictures to last a lifetime. What always stood out most to him were the ever-present lines of grime stained into his mother’s hands and the way his father looked at her when she spoke. On the rare occasions when Angel thought of them, that was how he remembered them.

  They didn’t want him to grow up under the care of strangers, in boarding schools and temporary homes, so they gave him a permanent one with his mother’s brother and his wife.

  He didn’t understand for years that his aunt and uncle never wanted a child. His uncle accepted the burden because of family obligations, but there was never any love; his aunt hated having an unnecessary distraction in what used to be an uncomplicated life. She resented Angel. And he didn’t figure that out for years either, because there was never any yelling or abuse. Just, he wasn’t accepted. Wasn’t wanted. He understood that, just not the rest.

  And he tried so hard to earn their favor, to perform some miracle that might get him the acceptance he wanted.

  “I took music lessons in secret from a buddy at school,” Angel recalled. He could still remember the feel of that first practice, his freshman year of high school. The stinging fingertips, the aching wrists. The look of surprise on his friend’s face when he came back for another lesson because, in his words, “Most people quit when they realize learning hurts.”

  But not Angel. His aunt was a pianist, often spending hours at a time in her music room with the door shut. Only delicate notes filtering perfect and light from behind the locked door gave any sign that she was alive, at those times. She was musically inclined, and he thought that if he could impress her…

  Sophomore year, when he felt he had learned enough, Angel came before his aunt. He had said, “I want to show you something. Please, Aunt Jessica? It’ll only take a second.”

  “Fine,” she groaned, following him reluctantly up the stairs to his tiny attic bedroom. Something flickered in her gaze when she saw the guitar lying on his bed. At the time, he thought it might be surprise.

  It turned out to be contempt.

  She laughed him out of the house and proceeded to drill it into his head that any simpleton could learn such a dumb instrument.

  But he didn’t stop taking the lessons.

  His parents weren’t home in time for graduation, their service extended for another several weeks due to some sort of unexpected development. And they never came home. A new pilot crashed into the base where they were stationed, killing them and fifteen others, injuring many more.

  At the funeral, when Angel was to be presented with the flag for their service, his uncle took it from him and disowned him on the spot. The older man’s eyes were forlorn, clearly at odds with what he said, but with his harpy of a wife at his shoulder, there was no way for him to resist.

  Angel gathered up his guitar, a few belongings, and went wandering long before anyone else came home from the service.

  For the first few years, he tried to convince himself he was looking for a place to settle down but that stopped soon enough. There was no place for him. He wandered.

  And now here was where his heart belonged, and he had no idea what to do with it.

  When the words ran out, only silence existed between them. His shoulders were tense, his teeth gritted together painfully.

  Chance’s fingers kept roaming softly through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Angel tried to shrug but Chance’s body was in the way of the motion. “It’s okay. I am what I am. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  It was a lie, although not by much. Despite not thinking about it, time faded the pain to only an ache, like the throbbing of a once-broken bone whenever it rained.

  “I understand,” Chance said now. Angel went still, listening to him. “It didn’t happen exactly the same with me but…I’ve always been gay, you know? From a really young age, my mom always told me to do things the opposite way of what I wanted because what I wanted was too girly or weak for a guy. My dad let me do what I wanted. He died when I was sixteen. A drunk driver smacked into him on the way home from work. After that, everything kind of turned to shit and I just left.”

  Angel sighed, wrapping his arms tightly around Chance’s waist. They curled together, taking comfort from each other. Their hearts beat as one in their chests, rhythms slowly syncing.

  I promise I’ll be better for you. It’ll take a long time but I promise.

  In the dark of the hotel room, sleep was almost a guarantee. Chance relaxed in his arms, body going limp and peaceful. His breathing became slow and measured. Angel listened to it, matching his own to it.

  Just as he thought he was about to fall asleep, Chance stirred against him. “Angel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Can I be your boyfriend?”

  Warmth filled Angel’s chest, glowing tight around his heart. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 15

  The next week blew by so quickly for Chance that he found he could hardly remember any of it. Each day was different, and yet somehow almost exactly the same. They woke in the morning and showered together, hurrying through it because Miner Comforts apparently had a limited hot water supply. Breakfast came next, trying out a new café or restaurant every time; not a single one could manage to serve a good cup of tea, he discovered.

  Then, it was time to explore Colorado.

  They visited Garden of the Gods on multiple days, hiking up through all the various trails and looking out at the views of valleys below, or catching glimpses of waterfalls from behind the heads of dozens of other tourists all doing the same thing. The trails led up through the nearest low-lying mountains, weaving back and forth through jutting rock formations that were stacked atop one another at gravity-defying angles. Green shrubbery and flourishing groves of trees defied the harshness of the rocky landscape, sharply in contrast to the earth tones of the trails and stones.

  Chance could only shake his head at some of the formations, and not just because of their absurdity. The different layers and lines of the rock were exposed, a timeline of years longer than anyone could remember. If they could speak, what stories might they tell?

  Angel seemed to be having similar thoughts. At least, something was inspiring him b
ecause he spent a great deal of their spare time muttering under his breath and jotting down symbols on a scrap of paper. Chance didn’t ask what it was. If Angel wanted to tell, he would tell.

  Every other night, Angel played at the Public House. It seemed that more and more people came in to see him, although Chance didn’t know if that was the reason or if there was some sort of special on those days. He wanted to believe it was Angel, though.

  On the fourth day, they were driving around and searching for something else to do before dinner when Angel suddenly pressed lightly on the brake. The resulting jolt was nothing, hardly more than a bump, nothing to endanger anyone else on the road, but it meant something.

  “Did you see something?” Chance asked.

  “Uh…”

  That look means yes.

  “No. It’s nothing.”

  “Liar.” Chance twisted around in his seat, trying to catch a glimpse of what they might have passed. Against the early evening sky, brightly overlaying the sheet of approaching rain clouds in the distance, stood a tower of blinking lights.

  “What is that?”

  “Nothing I need to get involved with,” Angel replied shortly. “Let’s just keep driving.”

  “But what was it?”

  Angel sighed, hands tightening on the wheel. “A thrill.”

  Oh.

  For the past several days, Angel had been behaving so well, clearly making an effort to contain his urge to do stupid things. Maybe he deserved a reward.

  “What kind of thrill?”

  Angel sighed at him, trying to feign annoyance. Chance refused to fall for it, however. He sat there in stubborn silence until his boyfriend finally growled and gave up. “A bungee jump.”

  “Oh.” He thought very, very hard about that. How safe would a bungee jump be if it was part of a tourist attraction? Then again, he really couldn’t think of a situation in which there would be one somewhere without tourists. It was just one of those things, like crappy t-shirts no one ever wore and plastic yo-yos that sat in a random drawer until it was time to move. “Okay,” he said. His stomach did a backflip, flying all the way up his throat before crashing back down hard. “Turn around. Let’s go do it.”