by Jet Mykles
“Fuck no.” Zane glanced toward the bar and the blonde behind it. “I got a definite shot with Addie, and she’s not off until two a.m.”
Rabin tilted his phone up to check the time. It wasn’t even midnight. “Fine. I’m headed home.”
Zane’s hand shot out to grab his wrist. “What for?”
“I’m beat.”
Zane clearly didn’t believe him.
“Aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but…” Zane let it trail, but he didn’t need to finish. Rabin knew. Zane hadn’t gotten laid for weeks. He’d said so himself earlier.
“Look, tonight’s not the night. Besides, we should take a look at those songs before we go into the studio on Wednesday. We don’t need to be shit-faced tomorrow when we do it.”
Zane’s blue eyes shuttered, watching his hand as he dragged it back to wrap around his glass. “Yeah. Right.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck you.”
Zane shook his head, still hunched over his glass. “Those songs, man. I don’t know.”
Rabin leaned back against the battered leather seat. “What?”
“I’m not…comfortable with them.”
“Now you tell me this?” He tapped the table with the tips of two fingers. “What aren’t you comfortable with?”
Zane sipped his drink, buying time. “It’s not our style, man. It’s not the Knights.”
Rabin snorted. “It’s not our old style, sure. That’s the point. The old stuff wasn’t working.”
“Nah, you’re wrong. The old stuff works. The stupid record company didn’t have a clue what to do with it.”
Rabin was talking before Zane finished the word stuff. “We’re not doing this again, Zane. The old stuff didn’t work because it didn’t—”
“That’s what they said—”
“—work, and we need something new. That’s the whole point—”
“—and you’re right we need a new twist, but some of that new stuff we were working on before—”
“—of moving out here, of working with Brent—”
At the mention of Brent’s name, Zane’s lips snapped shut, and he glared at the fake wood paneling on the wall beside them.
“What?”
One side of Zane’s upper lip lifted. “What is it with you all of a sudden? When did he become God?”
Rabin blinked. Okay, this was new. “What?”
Zane downed the last of his drink. “Ever since New Year’s, it’s been Brent this and Brent that. Jesus, if I didn’t know you were straight, I’d think you were hot for the guy.”
Rabin slammed his fist on the table, making the empty glasses jump. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.” Now Zane looked at him, eyes full of drunken fire. “When did you decide he was all that?”
Rabin’s heart raced. He stabbed one finger into the table. “We talked about this. You agreed to this. We moved, for Chrissakes. What’s this crap about Brent all of a sudden?”
“I know I agreed. Christ, what was I supposed to do? We weren’t going nowhere, and this was something. But you need to shut up about Brent-fucking-Rose and concentrate on the Knights.”
“Bugger me, I thought I was. I got us a studio. I’ve been composing.” What have you done? But he didn’t ask that. That question only ever started a bigger fight.
Zane shook his head. “Those songs, man, those weren’t Knights songs. Those were Heaven Sent songs.”
“Bullshit. Brent and I worked on those together.”
“Yeah, sure. Can’t hear much of you in ’em. Was that even you playing?”
“Of course it was. Fuck you.”
Zane leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table. “I know you wanted to try something new, but that crap’s too radical. Too different. We need to work on some real stuff. Get the right guys and do some real music.”
Rabin stared at Zane, unable to believe what he was hearing. Here he’d been excited. He thought the stuff he and Brent had worked on had great potential. He drew in his anger, not exactly easy with a few drinks in his system. “I wish you’d said something before.”
“Wasn’t time. Figured it was better to talk to you in person.” Zane wiped a hand over his face with a sigh. “Didn’t mean to do it like this.”
“Whatever.” Rabin scooted to the edge of his bench. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Without another word, he stood and walked to the door, leaving Zane behind. Outside, the early summer air was mild and pleasant, at odds with his mood. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and took his time walking back, needing to think. The crap about the music pissed him off, but he was letting that go already. He and Zane didn’t always see eye to eye about their craft, and plenty of arguments peppered their past. They’d work it out like they always did. But his accusation about Rabin being hot for Brent hit a little too close to home. He was just being an asshole. Making his point, jabbing at Rabin. Rabin tried to tell himself that. But Zane would freak if he knew the truth. He’d freak if he knew that Rabin had stopped himself from calling Izzy at least a half dozen times since they’d left the apartment, just to say hi. Even he didn’t know what that was about.
Back at the apartment, he holed up in his room with the windows open to the night air. His beloved Stratocaster was out of her case and in his arms before long, and he tried to lose himself in finger work to distract himself and calm down. It worked, somewhat, at least distracting his brain from physical needs. But it brought up another gnawing ache. He hadn’t been up on a stage playing music since New Year’s with Heaven Sent. He hadn’t played his own music for other people for much longer. Other than the bits and pieces he’d worked on with Brent, he hadn’t written anything in far too long to even think about.
And Zane was wrong—those songs were mostly his. Brent had been really good about not pushing the style. What Zane had heard was stuff Rabin had wanted to do for years but had known Zane wouldn’t like. Punk and hard rock were Zane’s thing and the veil over the Indigo Knights. Funny how Zane refused to realize that “Simplicity,” their one hit, was far more of a pop tune than rock. That’s why it’d succeeded. The style was much better for them, better for Zane’s vocals even. Rabin had discussed this for hours on end with Brent and Hell. But he hadn’t figured out how to tell Zane that. He’d so hoped that Zane would just go with the new songs and accept the transition.
Lights off, he was sitting at a chair in front of his one window, staring at the building across the street, when he heard the apartment’s front door open. Fingers on the strings to still them, he listened. Zane wasn’t alone. Whispering and a high-pitched voice along with his gave that away. Rabin waited until Zane’s door closed. Waited and wondered if he’d hear anything. Then Zane’s futon frame started creaking. Not so bad, then. If it weren’t so quiet and Rabin hadn’t been listening, he could’ve ignored it.
Good. He was glad Zane had hooked up with someone. Meant he’d be in a better frame of mind in the morning. They’d hash out their differences, come to a compromise, and be ready for Wednesday.
As his fingers trailed over the strings, Rabin’s mind wandered to his own sexual pursuits. Immediately his mind filled with the image of a smooth back draped with shining black hair, of a gorgeous profile peeking at him over a shoulder, of dark eyes melting with desire. Rabin closed his eyes and could taste Izzy’s lips on his, could feel the weight of that slight body in his lap. Lifting his right hand from the strings, Rabin clutched it in a fist that he could easily imagine gripping Izzy’s cock.
Fuck it.
Carefully he set the guitar down on the floor beside him, then worked open the fly of his jeans. His cock popped out, already hard. Under cover of darkness, with just his own saliva for lube, Rabin fisted his shaft and closed his eyes, letting his mind fill with the honeyed tones of Izzy’s moans and the sharp scent of his sweating skin. He lingered over his fantasy, making it last, but the orgasm wouldn’t be denied. Wit
h a strangled grunt, he came in spurts over his T-shirt, despite having pulled it most of the way up his chest.
He leaned back in the chair, fly open, belly and chest striped with cum, and tried not to wonder what was going to happen next.
Chapter Eight
Rabin snapped his guitar case shut but kept his head down, not quite ready to show his eyes. He heard Zane ruffling papers about ten feet away, the nearer sound louder than the murmured voices in the console room. He contemplated the scuffed state of his boots and reached down to retie one of them. Once done, he thought he might have his expression under control.
He sat up. Zane looked to be engrossed in the pages of his notebook, but Rabin doubted that was the case. He’d know Rabin was pissed. When Rabin stood, Zane finally looked his way, stabbing a pencil into his hair right over his ear.
“Ready to go?” Zane asked, face as pleasant as ever. A mask Rabin wished he could see through.
“Sure.” Wearing his own mask, he led the way into the console room.
Dylan was gone, and for that Rabin was grateful. Only Brent and Todd were left. Todd twirled one of his drumsticks around his fingers as he talked, but he shut up as Rabin came into the room.
Rabin set his guitar down in the corner. “Okay if I leave this here?”
Brent raised a brow. “Sure. It’ll be all locked up.”
“Cool.” He dug his hands into his jeans pockets. “We’re off.”
Rabin looked at Brent, and Brent stared steadily back. Since Zane was at his back and couldn’t see, Rabin blinked and lowered his eyes, as much of a nod as he’d allow himself.
“Right, then. See you tomorrow.” That was it. Brent said nothing of what Rabin thought he must want to say.
Zane said nothing either, not even good-bye, as he followed Rabin down the hall and out the front door of the studio. The silence persisted until they were halfway to the train station two blocks away from the studio.
“You’re pissed,” Zane said, keeping his eyes forward.
“You think?”
“He wasn’t right, man.”
“How would you know? You barely listened to him.”
Zane shook his head. “He wasn’t right.”
Rabin bit his tongue rather than spout any number of angry remarks that leaped into his mouth. Dylan had done them a favor, coming in to play bass with them today. After a week and a half, they’d had very little luck in finding anyone. Rabin knew Dylan’s name from a short-lived pop band. He was pretty good, and he played well with Todd. Since Todd looked to be panning out as a good drummer for them, Rabin had felt a spark of hope that they could finally get some real work done. Until Zane shot it down.
“Whatever, man. He’s the third guy you’ve said wasn’t right.”
“It takes time to find someone.”
“We don’t have time!” Rabin fisted his hands and sucked a deep breath in through his nostrils.
They crossed the street before Zane continued. “We can’t just take anyone in. We tried Markus out for a few weeks and two gigs before we said he was part of the band.”
Rabin bit the inside of his lip, hearing the accusation. That time, it’d been his fault. He hadn’t liked Markus, and he hadn’t been willing to let the asshole into the band. To this day, he still thought it’d been a mistake on some level. Their former bass player was poison.
He stopped, staring up the metal stairs leading to the train platform. “Whatever. We’re gonna run out of money soon enough, and Brent’s gonna run out of patience.” He heard Zane’s little sniff and ignored it. “We need to find someone to at least fill in while we write some material.”
Zane hung on to the railing, staring in the opposite direction from Rabin. “I know.”
Rabin nodded. He discarded at least five parting shots before he finally gave up. He stepped back from the stairs. “I need to take a walk. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
“Christ, Rabin, don’t put this all on me.”
For the first time in the last hour, Rabin turned fully on his friend and let all of his anger show in his face. “I can’t talk to you now.” He held up a hand, then snatched it aside, like he was throwing something away. “Not. Now.”
Zane searched his face, then shut his own angry expression down. He nodded. “Fine.” He started up the stairs. “I may not be there when you get home.”
Was it bad that Rabin hoped like hell he wasn’t? Yeah. It meant he was way too angry. He turned on his heel and started walking. It was insanely early in the evening, afternoon really. Once Zane had discarded Dylan, it had been obvious they weren’t going to get any work done. Rabin’s dream shot at studio time was whittling away, and they hardly had anything accomplished. Zane only made halfhearted attempts at any lyrics and was quietly disdainful of the melodies Rabin and Brent came up with. Zane outright refused to sing when Brent was around. Rabin and Zane had already argued about it nightly for the past few days.
After a number of blocks, Rabin came up to another train station. He hadn’t learned all the streets yet, but he was smart enough to keep the tracks in sight. He stopped, watching a train whiz by. He needed something to do tonight. He needed to turn off and feel good.
Smiling, he dug into his pocket and drew out his cell phone.
Izzy answered on the second ring. “Hey, stranger.”
“Hey. You at school?”
“Yeah, just finished. What’s up?”
“You up for an early dinner?”
“With you?”
Rabin chuckled. “Yeah.”
“And Zane?”
He frowned. “No. Just me.”
“You okay?”
“Truth? Not really. I could use your smile right now.” He blinked into the breeze, wondering where the hell that had come from. Not that it wasn’t true, but why had he said it?
“Oh. How sweet.”
He hung his head, sheepish. “Thanks.”
“I’d love to go to dinner. What are you in the mood for?”
* * * *
The pizzeria hostess smiled brightly at him. “You must be Rabin.”
He blinked and gave her wide eyes. “Um, yeah?”
She giggled and waved a hand. “Come with me.”
Perplexed, he followed as instructed. He saw Izzy right when they turned the corner, but that wasn’t hard to do. Once past the enclosed entryway, the small restaurant was an open space with about two dozen tables arranged artfully among huge potted plants and mounted wooden trellises. Izzy sat at what looked like a picnic bench, complete with red-and-white-checked tablecloth, picking apart a roll over a basket of more as he talked to a slim man in a dark dress shirt wearing an apron over his jeans. Izzy’s smile shone bright even in the muted light of the hanging globe over the table, and his pink T-shirt stood out against the dark wood surrounding him.
When he saw Rabin, he waved, spraying breadcrumbs all over the table. The guy standing by the table talking to him turned with a smile. Whoa, he was good-looking. Shiny dark hair like Izzy’s but with more curls and mysterious dark eyes.
“You must be Rabin,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. Then laughed at the look on Rabin’s face. “Izzy’s been talking about you.”
“Oh please, I haven’t talked him up that much.” Izzy waved his roll at the bench opposite him. “Sit, sit. Rabin. This is Oliver and Amanda. Their dad owns this place. Sit.”
Oliver patted Rabin’s shoulder and used the hand to guide Rabin onto the bench across from Izzy. “We’re also classmates.”
“Yeah, that too.” Izzy shifted, getting comfortable on his seat. “And I do not think it’s fair that you’ve got a real restaurant to practice in.”
Oliver laughed. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” He winked at Rabin. “Dad only lets me into the kitchen after hours. Says I’m not allowed until after I graduate.”
Rabin smiled at the easy camaraderie. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he called, but maybe it was better. He’d not been surrounded with
many smiles in the last few days.
Oliver set a laminated single-sheet menu in front of him. “Here you go. Can I get you something to drink?”
“A beer?”
“Any particular? We’ve got Miller on draft.”
“Sounds good.”
“Coming right up.”
Oliver left, and Rabin watched Izzy’s lips curl around the straw sticking out of his soda.
Izzy caught him at it and grinned. “So…” He leaned over the table to point at the menu. “I can certainly recommend the pizza. They serve both thin crust and Chicago style.” He rolled his eyes and groaned. “The Chicago style is to die for.”
Rabin pushed the menu away. “Sounds good to me.”
Izzy stuck out his bottom lip, grabbing the menu. “You sure? There’s lots of other stuff.”
“Nope. Pizza sounds good. The works.”
“You have had Chicago style, right?”
Rabin grinned. “I have.”
“Oh good. We brought my mom here when she came to visit the week after I started school, and she just hated it.” He shook his head, placing the menu at the end of the table. “She’s the pickiest eater, I swear. That’s part of the reason I got good at cooking, because I had to figure out a hundred different ways to make chicken good.”
Rabin laughed, then settled in for throwing questions at Izzy to keep him talking. Didn’t matter what they talked about; Rabin just wanted to soak him in. He was so up and positive, nothing at all like any of the people Rabin had been in the studio with. By the time Oliver brought them their pie, Rabin was learning the many and myriad ways to make pizza according to what Izzy had learned at school.
“So.” Izzy washed down his second slice with the last of his soda and set the ice-filled glass at the end of the table. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Rabin wiped his mouth with the red cloth napkin, stalling a little. “What?”
