A Summer Soundtrack for Falling in Love

by Arden Powell

  “For sure,” Kris said faintly. Angel waved goodbye over her shoulder and left him there, wondering what exactly “good for Calloway” meant, and if that meant it was bad for Kris. He needed more information before going to see Rayne again, and if he needed information about paparazzi rumors, he needed to find Cassie.

  She was sitting behind the drum kit on their otherwise empty stage, tapping out a beat as she nodded along to the rhythm. Kris watched her for a minute, wondering what might have happened if they’d stuck together in their old high school band after all, before he stepped up to get her attention.

  She set her sticks down and grinned from ear to ear, which was a strong indicator that something had indeed happened last night, and she knew exactly what it was.

  “Guess what!”

  He really didn’t want to. “What?”

  “Calloway propositioned Rayne last night. It was filthy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were the real thing.”

  Kris’s throat went dry. “What did Rayne say?”

  “Why? You jealous?”

  “Cassie.”

  She rolled her eyes. “They didn’t start screwing in the middle of the festival, obviously. Here, check this out. The pics from last night are already online. The label must be ecstatic—look at them! Don’t they look good together?”

  She handed him her phone, the screen lit up with tiny pictures. They were too small for Kris to see many details, but didn’t leave much to the imagination. Either Rayne and Cal were that dedicated to their performance, or there was something more going on between them. Kris bit his lip and scrolled down.

  “This is a video. That’s, uh. Daring.”

  “It’s not a sex tape, genius, it’s an interview.”

  Succumbing to curiosity against his better judgment, Kris pressed Play. Rayne and Calloway swam into focus, Rayne’s arm slung casually over Cal’s shoulders, with Cal’s hand at his waist. They appeared intimately at ease together, and though Kris knew Rayne had been high, he didn’t look it.

  “So are you two serious?” the interviewer asked.

  “It’s too soon to say,” Rayne said easily. “Maybe it’ll turn into something and maybe it won’t; we’re just enjoying the chance to hang out at the festival.”

  Cal nodded along. He obviously wasn’t as practiced as Rayne at acting for the press, but Kris was sure he’d get there. Rayne was the best teacher he could hope for, after all.

  “So where does your burgeoning romance leave your guitarist, Kris Golding? You’re familiar with the rumors that you two were an item on the down-low, of course?”

  “He’s not into guys,” Rayne said immediately, and Kris winced. “We always made it very clear to everyone—press and fans alike—that what we did was just a performance, and I stand by that.”

  “Kris is a solid guy,” Cal added, leaning into Rayne’s side and entangling their fingers. “He’s a good friend and a great bandmate, but there’s really nothing else there. I’m not a home-wrecker.”

  The interviewer laughed obligingly. “Okay, so Golding isn’t interested. What about you, Rayne? You never had any feelings on your end? I hate to push this,” she added, “but my viewers would be out for blood if I let it slide.”

  Kris held his breath as he waited for Rayne’s reply.

  “No, none of that, I’m afraid,” Rayne said, and he winced apologetically at the camera as if in sympathy for his disappointed fans. “I don’t get involved with straight boys anymore, no matter how enthusiastic they are. I learned that lesson ages back, and it’s not an experience I’m keen to repeat.”

  “Fair enough. Are your shows going to change, if you and Calloway do get serious?”

  Rayne and Cal shared a glance. They were sitting so close they were practically in each other’s laps, having apparently decided subtlety was the enemy.

  “We’ll have to discuss that when it comes up,” Rayne finally said. “For now, Kris and I are toning down some of the more risqué performances, just while Cal and I get our bearings.”

  “The fans are very invested in your perceived relationship with Golding,” the interviewer pressed.

  Cal intervened before Rayne had to.

  “They put on a hell of a show and I’m not trying to mess with that,” he said. “I’m sure we can work something out to everyone’s satisfaction. The fans don’t have to worry about a thing.” He smiled broadly and pressed a kiss to Rayne’s jaw, lingering there until Rayne laughed and obligingly turned to meet his lips.

  The video clip cut out, and Kris stared at the end screen for a second before handing the phone back to Cassie.

  “Cool,” he croaked. “It looks like it’s going well. I’m happy for them.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “No, you’re not. You’re being weird.”

  “No, really. If they want to get together for real, that’s . . . awesome. I’m just going to go . . . elsewhere. For a minute. And, uh.”

  Cassie watched him critically. “You want to tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to guess? You don’t want me to guess.”

  “You don’t have to guess anything. There’s nothing going on.”

  Cassie’s expression intensified.

  “Shut up,” Kris said. “It’s true.”

  He nodded definitively, turned on his heel, and left the stage. He heard Cassie pick up her sticks again, a snappy little beat following him as he went. He hadn’t lied; he would absolutely congratulate Rayne and Cal if they decided to give it a shot. But he really fucking hoped they didn’t, because Kris wasn’t just going to tell Rayne he was bi: he was going to tell him he was in love with him too, sober and for real, and he wasn’t going to risk waiting till after they left Purple Sage to do it.

  Leif rarely raised his voice or lost his temper, but when neither he nor Red nor Boar could locate the peacock when they got up that morning, he came close. He shut his eyes and forced his temper down, his hands in fists at his sides.

  “We’ll find Him,” he said, his voice admirably calm. “And find Rikki.” The boy had been causing trouble the day before; he might have retaliated by stealing the Avatar away. Leif concentrated on his breathing meditation, and gradually his temper cooled to something more controllable. Maybe Leif had been too harsh on the boy—letting Red and Boar give him that beating had been one thing, but threatening to strip his bike down and sell it for scrap metal might have pushed Rikki over the edge. “Fan out; search the grounds. Find them both.”

  He set off through the heart of the festival toward the picnic area. Eventually, the boy would need to eat. And when he did, Leif would be waiting.

  “. . . the last time you ate a real meal?” a familiar voice said.

  Leif strained his ears, recognizing it but not remembering from where until the speaker stepped into the clearing where the tables were set up. It was the young black woman he had encountered twice already—she’d hit Boar in the face with that pretzel, and hit Red later with her handbag when she interrupted their fight. And at her side was Rikki, the insolent little whelp—Leif was right that the boy had defected. The Avatar, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “You’re skin and bones,” the woman continued.

  “I’ve always been like that,” Rikki replied.

  He was all limbs, like a scarecrow that had learned to walk. His cuts were healing up though, even if he was still too pale and the skin around his eyes too dark to look healthy. But he would live; Red and Boar hadn’t done him any lasting damage. Leif was sure they would have if he’d let them; their inherent violence was getting increasingly difficult for him to rein in. He couldn’t say what would happen when he finally lost control.

  “We’ll get you some food, then you can meet the bands. Though we should wait before introducing you to Calloway, just in case. Kris is right; that sounds like a mess waiting to happen.”

  Leif blinked at the mention of Calloway. It was too great a coincidence to be anyone but his former order member, the one who had abandoned them not so
long ago. He waited until they were near enough before he stepped out from his hiding place to intercept them.

  “You,” he glowered, “have stolen the Avatar.”

  Rikki stopped dead in his tracks, one arm flung in front of his companion like he could protect her. Leif stiffened and puffed himself up, though he kept one eye on the woman in case she decided to launch another offensive.

  “Who stole it?” Rikki demanded.

  Leif paused. “You didn’t?”

  “No! I never touched it.” Rikki folded his arms over his chest and glared. Leif, broader if not taller, glared back more formidably.

  “Rikki was with me all night,” the woman cut in. “He hasn’t been anywhere near your avatar, whatever it is.”

  Leif studied her long and hard, and she bore his scrutiny with cool eyes, her chin held high. Finally, he determined she was telling the truth, and turned back to Rikki. “If it wasn’t you, then it was someone else, and you’re going to help us find it.”

  Rikki looked at the woman, visibly hesitating. Leif ground his teeth together, his patience fraying. This was the longest the peacock had been away from him since His arrival, and His absence grated at him, worse than road rash. Did his god’s protection extend that far? Would his luck finally run dry without the bird? He didn’t want to test it.

  “Of course I’ll help you,” Rikki finally said, when the woman did nothing to intervene. “We’re family, right?”

  “The Avatar is more important than that,” Leif replied. Rikki wouldn’t be welcomed back into the fold, but he could serve his purpose before they cut him loose. “Come. We should talk.”

  Rikki nodded and glanced back at the woman one last time.

  “You know where to find me,” she said.

  Leif took Rikki by the arm and dragged him away. The boy kept looking back over his shoulder as they walked, his expression lost, but unafraid. The last thing Leif heard before exiting the picnic grounds was the woman uttering a heartfelt “Fuck.”

  Kris needed to work up the courage to talk to Rayne. He was sure that once his feelings were out in the open, even if they were unrequited, he would feel better than he did bottling them up and pretending there was nothing there. Once Rayne had all the facts, the ball would be in his court, and he could do what he wanted. He was pretending to date Calloway—so what? Unless they made it real, it didn’t have to get in the way. The publicity stunt had always been a weak excuse to keep Kris’s feelings from evolving.

  But then, Cal and Rayne were getting along well, and Kris couldn’t have imagined Cal’s attraction to Rayne the night before. The only difference between Kris and Cal was that Calloway was openly gay, and it was his job to make people believe he and Rayne were an item. That gave Cal the upper hand, but Kris wasn’t going to give up. Rayne could choose Kris, or Cal, or neither, but the weight would be off Kris’s chest. He would reassure Brian that what had happened with Fink would never happen with Kris, because Kris wasn’t straight, and more than that, he was in love.

  No more secrets. He was going to let it all out.

  But first, he got drunk.

  And then he got drunker.

  It was all Jay’s fault. After the first few days of touring, the bands hadn’t usually imbibed too heavily. They’d partied hard for a short time, and then the novelty had worn off and the reality of surviving bus life with a hangover sunk in, and they’d stuck to mostly social drinking. But once in a while, someone wanted to turn up, and insisted on dragging everyone else along for the ride.

  When their set ended that afternoon, Kris staggered backstage and Jay greeted him by pushing a bottle of whiskey into his hands.

  “Tonight we drink!” Jay crowed. A ragtag cheer, more confused than enthusiastic, went up around him. The peacock, which Rayne had christened Freddie Mercury, shrieked. Brian had read them the riot act about what would happen if the bird got hurt onstage, or hurt one of them, or turned on the audience, as if he were a stampeding elephant after all, and not just an overgrown and unusually vain bird. However, it turned out to be too much work trying to keep him offstage and safe. Like his namesake, Freddie had a thirst for fame, and escaped his handlers to insinuate himself in the center of attention at every opportunity, to Brian’s despair. Of course Rayne also enjoyed the extra attention, and Kris was pleased that his gift—however drug-induced—had gone over so well.

  Freddie seemed equally pleased with his newfound stardom.

  Only Calloway was uneasy about it, asking repeatedly where Freddie had come from and appearing worried when Kris told him that the bird had been wandering the festival grounds, then downright shaken when Kris offered up his drug-addled spiritual experience on finding him.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t share that story too widely,” Calloway suggested. “People might come looking for him.”

  “What, like animal-control guys? Do you need a license to tour with a bird like this?”

  “Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Maybe he escaped from a zoo or somebody’s private collection or something. It might cause trouble for you.”

  “I’m sure Brian’s taking care of any legal stuff.” But Calloway’s concern was palpable. They might be in competition for Rayne’s attention, but it was hard to dislike the guy, especially when he was so clearly distressed. Cruelty didn’t come naturally to Kris in any case, so he smiled and gave Calloway a reassuring thump on the arm. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like we adopted a stray tiger to take onstage.”

  Kris got drunker than he had since their going-away party, maybe more so. He wound up on the bus couch with his head in Angel’s lap and his feet in Jay’s, watching Rayne tell a story about his first show with Passionfruit, and trying not to look at Cass and Stef sitting on top of each other in a near acrobatic feat of intimacy that he really didn’t need to see, like, ever. Calloway stood near the bunks, leaning against them as Rayne talked. Kris’s attention kept drifting from Rayne to Cal and back again, the alcohol pushing him to search for clues. Were they together for real? Should he ask? No, Rayne would have told him.

  “And then the drum kit caught fire,” Rayne said with a flourish, nearly spilling his drink.

  “Knocks, you have the worst luck,” Cassie said.

  “My luck’s just fine,” Knocks said, tapping his rocker boot and pointing to Jay. “It’s this little asshole who keeps fucking me over.” Knocks was more or less ambulatory since getting back from the hospital, but unable to play drums in the cast. So while Cass stayed behind the kit, he’d taken up rhythm guitar rather than sit out entirely.

  “How was I supposed to know it was flammable?” Jay asked. “It was a total accident, and I already apologized about your foot today. Anyway, you’re having a great time on guitar.”

  Knocks glared in a way that said he knew Jay was right, but he refused to give him the satisfaction of agreeing.

  “Anyway,” Cass said loudly. “We’re cool. Right?”

  “We’re fine,” Billie said. “Jay’s a live wire; we all know to give him a wide berth onstage.”

  “As if,” Cassie snorted. “You guys can’t keep your hands off each other for five seconds.”

  “Stealing all our ideas,” Rayne said mournfully. “You used to be so much more innovative, Billie. What happened?”

  “We’re not— Jay, stop it,” Billie said, as Jay dropped Kris’s feet to the cushions and rose, advancing on Billie. “It’s just for the show!”

  “Giving me a wide berth,” Jay said. “I’ll show you a wide berth—”

  “That doesn’t even make sense!” Billie howled, before Jay pounced and took him from his chair to the floor.

  Cassie whipped out her phone without moving from Stef’s lap. “Sending this to both your girlfriends,” she sang. Jay flipped her the finger without getting off Billie, who thrashed weakly, making strangled cries of exaggerated anguish as he tried to shove Jay off. Kris made himself comfortable, stretching out along the couch.

  “I feel like I should intervene,�
� Rayne said, “but the view’s too good. I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  “Fuck you,” Billie said from the floor. “I would’ve helped you, you traitor.”

  “I don’t know if I’d be complaining,” Calloway said.

  “Well, I might if it was Jay,” Rayne mused.

  “Fuck you!” Jay laughed. “I’m a fucking catch and you know it.”

  “I don’t know, you’re not quite my type . . . I mean, if it were Kris or Cal, that’s a different story.”

  “If I were what?” Kris asked.

  “Engaging Rayne in an impromptu wrestling match,” Angel said.

  “Oh. Do you want me to?” Kris asked Rayne, looking for somewhere to put his drink. “I can totally do that, hang on.” He handed his drink to Angel and got to his feet. The change in elevation brought the drunkenness on suddenly, and he had to take a moment to collect himself.

  “Don’t think you’re going to be wrestling anybody, sweetie,” Angel said, her hand on his hip to steady him.

  “Nope, I got this. Bit drunker than I thought, but I got this.” He leveled one finger at Rayne. “You stand there and hold still, okay?”

  “I’m not sure this is a great idea,” Rayne said, but he didn’t move. Calloway backed up a pace, out of the line of fire.

  “Get him!” Jay yelled from the floor.

  Kris made a valiant attempt, but the floor tipped sideways under him and Rayne met him halfway, sweeping him up in an embrace that took Kris off his feet, laughing helplessly as Rayne swung him around before setting him down again.

  “That’s not wrestling,” Kris said. “This is just, like, a hug.”

  “I like hugging better.”

  “Get a room,” Cassie called.

  It was the best idea Kris had ever heard, but he swallowed it with the rest of his whiskey and smiled and tried not to let his heart show too obviously. He had no idea whether it worked, but Rayne laughed and poured him another drink. Calloway watched them without saying a word.