People looked at me without quite looking at me. It was hard to say what singled me out—the hat, the boots, the jeans artfully distressed by Italian peasants. I thought the Western shirt with the pearl buttons and embroidered roses was a nice touch, but evidently it was over-the-top. A tad too-too. I felt conspicuous as all fuck as I pushed up to the bar to order a club soda.
I fit in about as well as a turd on a white wedding cake. It would be easier if I drank, but I didn't want easy. Fuck easy.
I gripped a not-too-sparkling glass with club soda in it and walked around to scout the place out. There was a bare space on the floor beyond the pool tables. I hadn't seen it that first time I came with Brayden. Now I couldn't stop staring at it. A microphone and a chair waited for him to sit down and start playing.
The sign said the singer's name was Falcone Redd. Was that supposed to be a country name, or was it just a ridiculous name?
Jesus.
How did he not get himself killed on a weekly basis?
Everybody kept pretending they weren't looking at me, but everybody kept looking at me. I sat down in an empty booth, and some rando holding two beers sat down across from me. He slammed one of the mugs down in front of me hard enough to make it slosh.
Like I'm drinking a beer from this guy.
Late forties, early fifties. Broken veins in the face. Not a good look for him, but I suspected he wouldn't want the name of Mom's dermatologist.
“What are you?” he asked.
“What do you mean, what am I? I'm a guy waiting for the show to start.” I gestured at the empty platform.
“The show's shit. Nobody waits for the show. So what are you? Undercover or the gay? Because this ain't no gay bar, honey.”
“I, uh, I just want to mind my own business.”
“The singer's gay. You know that?”
“Um, I guess maybe everybody knows that?”
“He don't look gay. But he's gay. Mmm hmm. He's all right though. Knows how to throw a punch.”
This had to rank right up there with one of the top three most awkward conversations of my entire life. As in, it was more awkward than the time my mother tried to tell me the facts of life when I was already fourteen.
“Um, that's good, I guess. It takes all kinds to make a world.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I've seen your picture somewhere. Yeah. Undercover cop, that's what. You testified in the, um, the Mason case. Yeah, that's it. Fucking Joel fucking Mason.”
If he'd seen my picture, it was when he accidentally clicked onto the society pages. But I didn't think it was the time to mention I'd never even heard of the fucking Mason case.
“You ain't going to get nothing here tonight. Everybody knows you're here.”
“Fine.” I tried to put a mean cop glower on my face, although I probably only succeeded because he was seeing what he expected to see. “I don't get paid extra for busting people. As long as there's no drugs getting sold on the premises, I'm happy and the owner gets to keep his liquor license.”
“Yeah. Fuck you.” He pushed out of the booth, then remembered the extra beer and grabbed it back. He drank it while he was walking away. Guess that means it wasn't roofied.
“Five-oh,” I heard him say to the guys at the pool table. Then he went on to somebody else, and I couldn't hear what he told them, but I could guess it was more of the same.
Fine. I didn't need to be loved. I needed to be left alone.
Now everybody was pretending they weren't looking at me. Pretending I didn't exist.
Perfect.
I pulled out my phone and pretended to send someone a message. Browsed Twitter, browsed Instagram. Or pretended to. Mostly, I just waited.
The lights went off and then a spotlight came on, and then Brayden was singing. Excuse me, Falcone Redd was singing.
And it was fucking awful.
He was a good guitar player, as you'd expect from a guy who once played in a rock band. It was the voice. Not enough range, and he hadn't adapted the songs to his limits, so he had some creaks and croaks in there at odd moments. Even a non-musician like me could hear that, so I suppose the choice not to adapt was a deliberate one meant to send some message.
It didn't seem like a message this crowd could much appreciate. Hell, it was downright squirm-inducing. That beautiful speaking voice, that knowledge of music... it had never occurred to me as a serious possibility that Brayden Brent couldn't actually carry a tune in a bucket. Or maybe I should say Falcone Redd couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. The cowboy drag was even more over-the-top than mine, although I must say I liked the red bandanna with the skulls on it.
I'll say one thing for Mr. Redd. He had gonads to get out there and sing like that.
The spotlight must have blinded him for a while, because he didn't spot me at first. And then he did. He smiled. “This next one goes out to someone very special. You know who you are.”
Our eyes met again. I have no clue what he thought he was singing. Something about a pickup truck, something about his cheatin' ex, something about a train. It was that kind of song that couldn't decide if it was ironic or sentimental, so it was just bad, bad, bad.
I couldn't let him see me laugh. I could not let him see me laugh. I could most definitely not let him see me laugh.
I laughed.
And then he laughed.
And all the time he was singing through the laughter, and nobody gave a damn because nobody was listening anyway, and then it was over.
“Buy you a beer?” I asked.
“I never put my mouth on a glass in this place,” he said. “In case you haven't noticed.”
“Yeah, I noticed. But there's other places.”
One of the puffed-hair women was still out front, but Brayden's truck was parked in back. He hit the key on the chain attached to his jeans, and it winked at us in the darkness beyond the streetlight. For a minute, we just stood there, him for reasons I couldn't read and me because I didn't want to move forward until he did.
“Is there a reverse of a safeword?” I asked. “Is there a way to apologize? To take it all back? Because I made a mistake. A big mistake.”
“Maybe buy me the beer first.” But his chin dipped, an unconscious nod, and I knew I was forgiven. Halfway to forgiven, anyway.
He opened the passenger side door and leaned in to stash the guitar case behind the seat. Scooped up a change of clothes. It fascinated me, seeing Falcone Redd transform into Brayden Brent. He did it right there in a pool of darkness next to the truck, not bothering to glance around to see who was watching, although I did my share of glancing around for him.
He tossed the ten-gallon hat and the skull bandanna behind the front seat, unbuttoned the shirt with the pearl buttons to reveal a black Alabama Shakes T-shirt, and braced himself against the bumper to pull off the shitkickers. Ostrich skin, the real deal. More expensive than you'd think at first glance. Those taut hips slinked out of the loose jeans. How does a man that size slink?
His eyes glinted gold as he caught me staring at the furry columns of his muscular thighs. Son of a bitch. He was doing all that slithering on purpose, the tease.
The new jeans were more tailored in subtle ways. The new boots were scuffed black motorcycle boots.
The belt...
I swallowed as I realized a pair of old-fashioned stainless steel handcuffs dangled from the belt.
Falcone Redd was gone. Brayden Brent was here.
My own transformation couldn't be as dramatic, but I did make a point of taking off the cowboy hat and the bolo tie before I climbed in the truck.
Chapter Eighteen
A college town, no matter how small, tends to have a wide assortment of drinking spots. This one was the quiet place. The booth had shiny red leather seats and a tea light flickering on the table between us. A waiter brought the drinks.
“Why do you do that to yourself?” I asked.
“Do what? Perform?”
“Perform those kind of songs in that kind
of place. Your voice isn't right for that kind of music.”
He shrugged. “It's the gig that was open. And nobody's listening anyway.”
My eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
“What? You don't like the lo-fi sound as adapted to the old-school traditional country classics?” Brayden was laughing and, fuck, it was so damn good to see the light of laughter in his eyes.
“I guess I don't. I'm going to go further and guess that nobody does. The owner's having a joke at your expense or a joke at the expense of the customers or a joke at the expense of every-fucking-body.”
“You got that right. The owner's one of these guys who doesn't have any fucks left to give.”
I suspected the bar's owner was also a member of filthy town, but it didn't seem like the right time to ask.
We both lifted our drinks, which gave us a small moment of silence. Then he said, “Tell me what you think I'm doing, Nicky.”
God, it was good to hear somebody call me “Nicky.”
“You're testing yourself,” I said. “Pushing yourself out of your comfort zone. Maybe sometimes it starts a fight, if somebody challenges you on the lo-fi crap or they think you're being a little disrespectful.”
His smile got wider.
“Not a real Fight Club, but sort of. There was a guy in the place who told me you had a reputation for throwing a good punch, so I guess you passed the test.” Fuck, how I'd missed studying the good sculpture of that handsome face. “Fucking artificial test, though.”
He kept smiling. “All tests are artificial by their nature, Nicky. If they weren't artificial, they wouldn't be tests. They'd be real life.”
Hmm. Maybe he was right.
Another beat of shared silence as I thought things over.
“So, you know, about me freaking out and using the safeword. I know I need to talk about that.”
He nodded. Waited.
Nobody could do this for me.
Deep breaths. Chilly like...
Oh, hell no. Now was most definitely not the time for the chill-as-fuck polar bear.
It was time to let my honest emotions show, even if it felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done.
“I always trusted you. I did. It was myself I didn't trust.” I paused, but we both knew it wasn't enough.
He didn't rush the moment. Didn't pelt me with questions. Eagle eyes can be patient.
I'd looked down into my beer but now I lifted my head again and forced myself to meet his gaze so he could read my sincerity. “I understand what you were doing. I even understood it then. I just didn't like it, I guess. I didn't want to stand on my own two feet. I did want to lean. I can't explain why. It's like... I just found you and you were so strong and a part of me just wanted to wrap myself like a vine all around you.”
“I've seen a pattern sometimes, where the sub surrenders too much to the dom.” Brayden still smiled, but it was a wistful smile. “I could have explained what I was doing better, but at the time I made the judgment that it would be more meaninful for you to discover your strength for yourself. Maybe I was wrong.”
“You weren't wrong. I had to have some space to come to grips with my confusion and finish up my college, but I felt so lost. I felt like everything I'd ever been taught was a lie.”
He touched a hand to the back of my hand. Just a touch, but for the moment it was enough.
“If you just swooped in and filled me up, it would have been like something a cult guy would do, wouldn't it? Pointing out the lies in my current life and then saying, ‘Look, I'm here, I'll fill you up with my truth.’”
He thumbed my chin and then kissed the corner of my mouth. “That's exactly it. Our thing, our town, it could look and feel like a leather cult. I knew I had the power to take you apart and put you back together, but I wanted you to take you apart and put you back together.”
“I should thank you for that. I know I should. But, fuck, it was so hard.”
“I didn't want to break your beautiful spirit, Nicky.”
“I know you didn't want to break me.” I touched my finger to the corner of my mouth, which still tingled where he'd kissed me. “But I came so close to breaking myself.”
“I had faith in you, Nicky. I knew you were strong enough.”
“All these words I used. I wanted to be tested. I wanted to be opened. I asked for it. I wanted it, I really did. I wanted to know all the secrets behind all the masks people wear. I wanted to know what being a man really is. So why was it so hard for me when I came face-to-face with it?”
“Tell me, Nicky. You tell me. I know you can.”
“I wanted to let myself trust, but I couldn't just talk myself into it. Nothing's that easy.”
“Nothing worth having is ever easy.”
“I was afraid of what I wanted. I couldn't trust myself.” I was going around and around, and I wasn't even sure if I was making any sense, but he seemed to have all the time in the world to listen to me babble.
“I know.” He started kissing on me, little nibbling kisses that gave me space to talk things out. “I know. You know what, baby?”
“What?”
“I always trusted you. I always knew you'd figure it out.”
“But how could you trust me that much when I kept fucking it up?”
“Because I see the real you. Just like you see the real me. Who else would come looking for Brayden Brent in Falcone Redd's club?”
“Royal Anders knows. Probably lots of people know.”
“They know I perform there. The fuck they're ever going to that side of town to listen to that mess. That's triple the crazy.”
“Sing to me like you really sing,” I said.
“Here?” He looked around the booth, but we were still the only ones there.
I kicked his boot under the table. A bratty move, but it felt like a necessary move after all the heavy-duty discussion.
“See, here's the thing,” I said. “Everything you do is on two or three levels. There's the level of what things look like, and there's the level of what things really are.”
“Everything everybody does is like that.” There were sparkles in his golden eyes. Encouraging sparkles.
“Yeah, everybody levels up and down, but you... especially you, Jesus, you're the king of multiple levels and layers and mindfucks and taking me through all these changes, and I'm going to tell you something right now, and it still isn't easy for me to talk about things, but now I'm on a roll and I think I can just spit it out. I'm crazy for you, and I don't even care if it's triple the crazy. I'll go anywhere and sit through anything to be near you.”
How hard it was for me to say those words. How hard, and yet I felt a thrill of surrender that made me delight in saying them.
“I don't even know if I've really changed, or if I've just discovered what was inside of me all along, but whatever it is, I've found it. It's you. I want to be yours, I want to go back to filthy town with you, nobody else but you. I don't think it's just sex, and I don't think it's just testing myself. I think it's something beyond that. So, yeah, I want to hear your real voice. I want to hear you sing the way you really sing.”
Chapter Nineteen
Utter silence for a moment. I felt as if we'd been trapped in a photograph. A moment out of time. Here was the red booth, there the tea light. The tactful waiter had retreated beyond the frame of the picture and was now nowhere to be seen. What was once a dirty martini complete with three olives was now an empty glass that held nothing but a bright red cocktail spear.
And then he said, “Stand up,” and the photograph was real life again.
My life.
I stood up.
“Turn around.”
I did.
He took my phone and wallet, then pulled my hands behind me and cuffed them together with an audible click from the key turning in the lock. So we were doing this in public.
If it was public.
Of course, it was public.
And yet, somehow, nobody was looki
ng our way. The bartender was working a rag in glassware, holding each piece to the light in its turn to check for spots.
The other booths and tables were empty.
The waiter invisible.
This was the quiet spot, and we were somehow alone even if we weren't alone.
“You come to this place a lot?” Brayden asked.
“Some,” I said. “When I want privacy.”
“They know who you are in here.”
“Yeah, of course they know.”
He was asking if they'd gossip, and I was telling him they knew better.
“Good,” he said. Then: “Go.”
“Yes, sir.” I walked ahead of him from the booth past the bar to the door. The bartender kept drying glasses. Dude wasn't going to admit he'd seen a thing. Hell, maybe he hadn't. Not everybody possessed Brayden's keen powers of observation.
A dom had to be a good observer. So did a boxer. A bartender, maybe his job was the opposite—to be a poor observer. Someone who stayed out of other people's business and just kept the drinks coming.
The door came open in front of me—Brayden pushing from behind. His body was pressed long against my back. My cuffed hands jabbed into his taut abs.
How I'd love to spread my fingers under that shirt and over those ridges.
Outside. I kept walking toward the truck.
Brayden opened the passenger side door to reach in for his guitar case. The parking lot, which was shared with several other bars along the college drinking strip, had a small scattering of people coming or going.
A girl saw the guitar and nudged her boyfriend, and then the two of them came over, not too close, but close enough to listen.
I turned my back to the truck, the better to conceal the way my hands were cuffed behind my back.
Brayden looked only at me as he began to play perhaps one of the two or three old blues songs that even I would recognize. Robert Johnson's “Crossroads.”
A spooky song. Johnson wasn't yet a ghost when he wrote it, but he probably suspected he would be soon.
Brayden and I were at a different kind of crossroad. His real voice was rich and deep, and the few couples who gathered to listen clapped their hands when he finished singing.
Club Page 10
