A Summer Soundtrack for Falling in Love

by Arden Powell

  When Rayne came out from the bathroom, Kris was flicking through his phone, looking at conversations he’d had with people months ago, old acquaintances he’d never deleted from his contacts, even after leaving Kansas and assuming he’d never see them again. He felt like a different person now. Would any of them recognize him anymore?

  “Your turn,” Rayne said.

  He wore nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, inviting Kris’s attention. Rayne didn’t seem to know how to be shy, not about his body or anything else. Kris took the bait and whistled as leeringly as he could while pretending to be unaffected. Rayne laughed.

  It was hard not to look, though, and Kris didn’t fight the urge for long. Rayne was broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with the faintest suggestion of abs. His skin was warm and rich in the low lamps of the hotel suite, like the darkest shades of amber: gold where he caught the light, and brown in the shadows. He moved like a panther, elegant and self-assured, tiny rivulets of water running down his body over his tattoos as he crossed the room. Kris wet his lips and glanced away.

  “You’re dripping everywhere.”

  “I’ll leave a big housekeeping tip.” Rayne flopped onto his back on the other side of the bed.

  Kris headed for the bathroom before he could see how far the towel shifted.

  In the shower, he lathered up in complimentary body wash and shampoo. The water was hot, the pressure was perfect, and Kris was not reliving the last kiss they’d shared onstage.

  In fact, he wasn’t fantasizing about Rayne at all. This preoccupation was just a matter of bad timing. He hadn’t gotten laid in over four months since he and his girlfriend had broken up before he left for New York, and they’d been drifting apart for longer before that. They had parted on mutual terms, and there was no bad blood between them, but still—he was getting antsy. And since Rayne’s attention onstage was the only action he was getting, it was only natural for him to get a little distracted. It didn’t mean he wanted to do anything about it.

  Rayne was the kind of tall, dark, and handsome that could make even the most heterosexual man grudgingly admit he was good-looking, and Kris was far from straight. Some might say Rayne was too pretty, but Kris liked that. He liked how Rayne could switch from being a total dork offstage, overenthusiastic, with a braying laugh, to the sultry, slinky predator who stalked around in front of the crowd, and he liked how Rayne was equally sincere in both roles. But they never kissed except during the show. Sex was for the stage, and the stage alone. Passionfruit was equally close, but then, they were odd too. Kris didn’t have any kind of baseline for normality anymore. His parents didn’t comment on it, his sister jeered and congratulated him, and he hadn’t talked to Brad since that phone call in the tattoo parlor.

  Would it be easier if he’d been a Chokecherries’ fan prior to meeting them? No, it was better this way. Less awkward. He shouldn’t overthink things. If he were smart, he’d leave what they did onstage onstage like they’d agreed, and that would be that. He’d compartmentalize.

  He sighed, turned the water all the way to the cold side, and stood under the spray until he was shivering. Getting involved with a bandmate was way too risky when his position in the band was so tenuous. Besides which, he still didn’t feel ready to come out. It was ridiculous; he was as safe as he would ever be, and the fans and the press all assumed he was some kind of queer anyway. But his heart stuttered when he thought about making that final leap and saying it out loud, so he bit his tongue and kept it under wraps.

  Back in the room, Rayne, now dressed in pajama bottoms, was watching something bright and loud on the television.

  “I thought hotel nights were for hookers and booze,” Kris said. “You’re watching a musical.”

  “If you want hookers, you can get your own room,” Rayne said. “There’s booze in the minibar, though.”

  Kris fluffed his pillow and joined him, settling in to get comfortable. “Nah, I’m good. What is this?”

  “An Indian movie. I used to watch them with my mom all the time, but I haven’t been keeping up the last couple of years.”

  “Like Bollywood? Aren’t those movies all singing and dancing?”

  On screen, a man in a chariot slashed through an enemy army.

  “A lot of them,” Rayne agreed, “but not this one.”

  “Holy shit, that was epic.”

  “Big budget.” Rayne nodded.

  Intrigued, Kris kept his eyes glued to the screen as the battle raged on, men getting torn apart in slow motion. “So movies were a thing for you and your mom?”

  “She was an actress in India before she moved to the States with my father. He’s Persian. I got more of his looks, but I got her flair for the dramatic.”

  “That’s so cool. They must be proud of you, following in her footsteps, huh?”

  “My dad died a few years before I started the band, and my mom moved back to India not long after, to be with her family.” Rayne seemed wistful, but not sad. “I hope he’d be proud of me. I know she is.”

  Kris shuffled sideways to fit himself under Rayne’s arm, nestling in against his chest. “I bet they both are. Look at you, man. You’re living the dream.”

  Rayne hummed.

  “Do you miss them?”

  “Sometimes,” Rayne said, after a moment. “I still visit my mom, and I’ll always miss my dad a little bit, but I’m okay.”

  Kris gave him a comforting squeeze. “Is India really like this?” he asked, nodding to the movie.

  “Kind of? I mean, this is fantasy, but it’s recognizable. You could come see it in person, if you wanted.”

  “Is the tour going through India?”

  “No, but we could go on our own. The rest of the band’s already been, but the two of us could visit. I could show you around.”

  Kris twisted around to look up at him. “Seriously? I’ve never been outside the States before. I’d love that.”

  “I’ll make it happen,” Rayne promised.

  Kris smiled and settled in to watch the movie. He’d already missed the beginning and his vision was starting to blur, making the subtitles a challenge, but the cinematography was beautiful. On screen, an elephant reared up, balancing on its hind legs. “You should get an elephant,” Kris said sleepily. “Make it part of the show. Or, like, put it in your next video or something. That would be awesome.”

  Rayne seemed to give that thought way too much consideration. “I don’t think we could use it in the live show. A video would be good though. I should ask Brian.” He dug out his phone and started texting.

  Two minutes later Brian called. “Absolutely not.”

  Kris giggled into his pillow.

  “No wild animals. Never mind the liabilities—do you know how hard it is to wrangle a bus full of musicians? And you want to add an entire elephant to the mix? No. Stop watching TV and go the fuck to sleep, Rayne. And Kris? I know you’re listening, and I know this was your idea. Sleep. Now.”

  He hung up.

  “I’ll work on him,” Rayne decided.

  “Maybe we can start with like, a horse, and work our way up.”

  “Or a snake,” Rayne said around a yawn. “A big ball python or something. They’re exotic. They’d look great in a video.”

  “For sure,” Kris agreed. The camera panned over an ancient cityscape as the soundtrack wailed. “We can get a snake. A snake must be easier to wrangle than a horse or an elephant.” He tried to think of everything he knew about India, which wasn’t much. “You want a peacock? They’re Indian, right? They’ve got those at the zoo just roaming around, mingling with the visitors and stuff. I bet we could steal one.”

  “You want to steal me a peacock? That might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  A delightful shiver shot through Kris at the word romantic, but he crushed it down. “Fuck yeah, I’ll steal you a peacock. Also, you should probably raise your standards, but that’s your business. But I will absolutely steal you a giant bir
d to further your rock star aesthetic if that’s what you want.”

  Rayne tugged him sideways so Kris sprawled the rest of the way across his chest. “You’re the best. Don’t get arrested though.”

  “Why not? That’s totally rock and roll. How’s anybody going to take me seriously if I’ve never been arrested?”

  “Brian would have a heart attack and cancel your contract,” Rayne pointed out. “And then I’d have to leave you in jail to stay on his good side.”

  “That’s cold, man.”

  “That’s show business.”

  A jungle stretched across the TV, calmer now that the battle had passed, and Kris’s eyes kept drifting closed of their own accord. Listening to the background music, he could pick out similar themes in The Chokecherries’ songs: an undercurrent of Indian influence he’d never noticed before.

  “Early night?” Rayne asked.

  “So rock and roll.” Kris snuggled deeper into the pillow, Rayne’s heat a constant burn against his side. “Going to leach your body heat a bit longer, then I’ll move back to my side.”

  “I knew you were just using me.”

  Rayne ruffled Kris’s hair until Kris batted at him. On screen, a chariot horse blinked at the camera like it was judging them. Kris didn’t care.

  Something nudged him. “Hey. You awake?”

  Kris blinked groggily, willing his eyes to focus. The clock on the bedside table read 3:03. He had been awake, more or less, drifting in that heavy in-between place and flirting with consciousness. “Mm?” Rayne was a warm presence against his back, and Kris rolled over to face him. Their knees bumped under the covers as Kris propped himself up on one elbow and yawned. “What’s up?”

  “Want to talk to you.” Rayne looked delicious in the dark, his hair unmanageably mussed from the pillow and his eyes soft from sleep.

  “At three in the morning?” Kris asked around another yawn. “Okay, sure. Talk about what?”

  “There’s this band going to Purple Sage—Dead Generation. They’re signed to the same label as us. They’re new, but they’re good.”

  Kris woke up properly. This must be about Rayne’s secret from the club. “You want to add them to our opening act?”

  Rayne shook his head. His hair fell in his eyes, and Kris was momentarily distracted.

  “Their front man, Calloway, got outed in a gossip rag the other week, and he and the label have decided to roll with it. They’ve asked me—the label has, I mean—to step in for a publicity stunt. Something to put the narrative back in their control.”

  Kris blinked and tried to make any kind of sense out of Rayne’s words. He must be more asleep than he’d thought. “Sorry, what? You’re going to have to spell it out for me, man. I’m not versed in all this cryptic industry talk yet.”

  “Me and Calloway,” Rayne said. “They want us to go on a few dates, let the paparazzi get a few pictures, spread a few rumors. Just for the length of the festival.”

  “They want you to . . . pretend to date some guy. Oh my god, they’re pimping you out!”

  “No, that’s— Well, sort of. It’s an image thing. Now that he’s been outed, the label has to decide how to reinvent his brand. They chose me. Everybody loves me, and I’ve been out since before I signed. And the papers have been dying to dig into my personal life for ages now. Two birds, one stone.”

  “This is what Brian was talking to you about in the White Rabbit?” Kris asked incredulously.

  “You knew about that?”

  “I overheard you talking to Angel about something that night. You had said it was business stuff.”

  “Right, well, Brian’s not impressed with the idea either, but I said I’d consider it.”

  “Okay,” Kris said, slightly dazed. “Fake dating. That makes sense. It’s so obvious; why didn’t I think of it?”

  Rayne rolled his eyes fondly and prodded Kris in the shoulder. “I’m not pretending the music industry is remotely sane.”

  “So are you going to do it?”

  Rayne was still for a moment. Rayne being still meant he was deep in his thoughts, and that was never a good thing. He was the kind of guy who made split-second decisions and never looked back, like lightning in a bottle. He wasn’t careless, but he wasn’t given to overthinking. Kris leaned in and tapped him on the forehead, right between the eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Rayne said finally. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “What? Why? What have I got to do with your fake love life?”

  “Right now, you are my fake love life,” Rayne pointed out, and Kris’s heart gave a thrilling thud. “A good chunk of people—fans, tabloids—think we’re a thing, and they’ll keep thinking that as long as we keep doing what we do onstage, no matter what we say. If Calloway and I do this stunt, it’ll throw all that for a loop, so I thought I’d better ask before deciding.”

  Not six hours ago Kris had been fantasizing about Rayne in the shower. Now, lying nose to nose in bed together, his thoughts weren’t much further ahead, and that wasn’t helpful when Rayne was trying to talk about something important. Kris forced himself to concentrate and consider Rayne’s proposal. “Would you having a fake boyfriend affect our shows?”

  “Brian’s advising us to drop the make-outs while I go out with Calloway, but he says that’s up to us. People will talk about it either way.” Rayne smiled wryly. “The press loves a scandal.”

  Kris took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. His brain was still fuzzy, not used to functioning at this hour, let alone making publicity decisions. Rayne was a solid presence in the dark beside him.

  Kris didn’t have any right to monopolize Rayne’s attention—or his affection, his sleepy brain added traitorously. Or his touches, or his kisses, onstage or off. Rayne was just being considerate, giving Kris a heads-up like this.

  “If the label thinks it’s a good idea . . .”

  “Brian’s skeptical,” Rayne said, “but he always is. He stressed it was entirely my choice. They’re not going to make me do anything I don’t want to.”

  “They’re just going to pointedly encourage you?”

  “Right.” Rayne sighed.

  “Do you know this Calloway?”

  “Never met him. Here, take a look.”

  Rayne fumbled for his phone before handing it to Kris, and the screen lit up with a picture of the singer in question. Calloway was heavily freckled under his sun-kissed glow, with coiffed ginger hair and a blinding smile. He was attractive, but anyone could look like a model with enough airbrushing.

  “Irish?” Kris guessed.

  “So they tell me. I’ve listened to his band, and they’re good. They’re not big yet, but they could be, given the chance.”

  “Okay. So he’s pretty, and he’s got talent. That sounds like your type, right?”

  “Evidently. So? Are you going to be my voice of reason and tell me it’s a terrible plan?”

  Kris thought about it. He and Rayne weren’t dating. They weren’t even friends with benefits. In fact, they weren’t anything at all besides bandmates trying to put on a good show, and that was exactly how they were going to stay, because Kris was a goddamn professional and he wasn’t going to ruin his shot at making it big with the band. If Rayne were involved with somebody else, even for a single week, even just for the tabloids, that would keep him strictly off-limits from Kris and his increasingly overactive imagination. A week would be more than enough time for Kris to pull himself together and get over whatever this was. It was perfect.

  “Actually,” Kris said, “I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Like you said, two birds, one stone. And you could help jump-start this guy’s career, by the sound of it. That’s got to be good karma, right?”

  “Right,” Rayne agreed. Was it Kris, or did he look almost disappointed? No, it was just the way the shadows played over his face.

  Kris plastered on a smile and socked Rayne on the shoulder. “It’s cool, m
an. Go sow your fake wild oats.”

  “We’ll have to change our shows a bit,” Rayne reminded him.

  Just the thought of their shows left Kris burning up from remembered kisses. Cold water, he thought. Freezing, ice-cold water. The least-sexy feeling imaginable. “We’ll figure something out.” He paused, then asked, “Hey, what was that other thing Brian was talking about earlier? Something about not wanting a repeat of what happened last time?”

  For a moment it didn’t seem Rayne was going to answer, and then he blew out his breath with a rueful smile. “He was worried about you and I getting involved onstage. He knows my history with straight boys, and what happened before—it got messy and ended badly. As these things do.”

  “Heartbreak and misery?” Kris guessed.

  “Something like that.” Rayne slumped lower, propped up on one elbow. “It was with Fink,” he finally admitted. “Before he got into the hard drugs. We used to fool around—not during the shows, but on tour—and I wasn’t great at keeping my feelings in check then. When I told him I’d fallen for him, he just laughed.”

  “What a dick,” Kris said, disbelievingly.

  “Yeah.” Rayne shrugged. “He said he was still straight, and what we were doing was just for fun. ‘A good time,’ he called it. I was sitting there pining while he was fucking around the whole time with any groupie who looked his way, acting like nothing had changed between us. I couldn’t do the same. After that his drug use got too bad to ignore, and you know how that turned out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was only a matter of time before he left, even if he’d stayed clean. I would have kicked him out myself, I think, heroin or not. Or Brian would have. I could barely be in the same room as him, near the end.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for him getting hooked on heroin, though. Or for bailing on the band like that.”

  “No, of course not, but I don’t think I helped. Brian’s right to warn me off you.” Rayne smiled and shook his hair back. “It’s fine, though. We’re good, right? Brian has nothing to worry about.”