Heartstrings

“
L
ook at you
,” Cal whispered. His voice sounded foreign in his own ears, husky and dark with want. Surrounded by the finery of the suite around him and all the dizzying distractions Las Vegas had to offer, all Cal cared about was the man standing before him.

Years ago, Cal remembered hiking up in the mountains outside Colorado Springs, passing beneath the metallic legs of a line of giant power poles, the cables above him thrumming with electricity so intensely that it vibrated in his chest. That strange electric buzz was the only sensation that ever came close to the effect Blake Bradley had on him.

Then Blake said the words that drove that electricity to whole new levels:

“Do more than just look at me,” he begged, peering up into Cal’s eyes. He lifted a hand, trailed it teasingly down the front of Cal’s shirt, fingertips just barely brushing over the front of his jeans.

Cal pulled Blake’s towel-clad body close to his own, letting him feel just what kind of an effect those words had on him. He held Blake to him for several seconds, a part of him still marveling that after so many years, his hands still remembered just what Blake’s body felt like.

Then they were stumbling into the bathroom, Cal shedding clothes as he went, stepping into hot and humid air. Cal stepped beneath the spray of the shower first, turning and offering an outstretched hand, beckoning Blake to join him.
We waited so long for this,
he thought.
Now we don’t have to wait anymore.
And that knowledge made him greedy.

Cal admired the lean lines of Blake’s body in the warm fog. As soon as he stepped into the shower, Cal pulled him close, possessive hands exploring every inch of the body he’d missed so much. Nothing stood between them now, not their hang-ups or inexperience or propriety or even clothes. Cal abandoned himself to the pure, fierce
want
that drove him forward. The side of him that wanted nothing more than to grab Blake by the hair, tip his head back, and have at his throat with lips and teeth and tongue.

Crushing Blake’s body between the wall and his chest, hot and eager and slick with water, Cal kissed him with every ounce of lust he’d bitten back for so many years. He caged Blake with his thighs, pinning him in place, a wordless promise of
now that I’ve found you again, I’m never letting you out of my sight.

“Fuck,” Blake gasped against his mouth. “I missed this. I need this. I need you.”

“Shh,” Cal whispered after another frantic kiss, breath rasping hotly in Blake’s ear.

The time for words had passed.

B
lake Bradley tipped
the brim of his black suede cowboy hat down over his eyes. The glare from the arena’s lights was blinding. Also scorching hot. A black suede cowboy hat
really
wasn’t appropriate wear for a sweltering indoor venue, especially coupled with flannel and jeans, but it was all part of the aesthetic.

Or, as Blake was starting to think of it lately, the costume.

Nodding gratefully into his microphone, he plucked a little roll on his banjo before addressing the crowd.

“Thank you so much,” he said. “We’re so grateful, so humble to be playing here for you tonight. Thanks for spending your hard-earned cash on our show.” He paused, tipped a little wink toward the double-decker stands, which twinkled with cell phones and the occasional lighter.

“Or your parents’ hard-earned cash,” he added. “Some of you look a little young.”

Blake was no stranger at playing to the crowd. As the front man of Blake Bradley and the Sinsationals, it was his full-time occupation. They were on show thirty-one of a forty-six-stop tour. He’d had some practice.

Looking over his shoulder to his drummer, Carlo, Blake tapped his boot on stage. Carlo picked it up and they counted down together, a three-two-one, then sailed into the next song. This was one of their newer hits, a country-pop number that had hung out on the top twenty charts for a surprising (and in Blake’s mind unreasonable) duration.

One of Rhett’s songs. Blake avoided Rhett Ballard on stage, giving the guitarist plenty of room. Things were tense between them these days. There was no need to stir up any more trouble than already existed.

Blake plucked and rolled and hollered his way through the song, then flipped his mic to the crowd so they could sing the chorus. It sounded like all twenty thousand of them knew every word. When he snuck a glance over, Rhett was smiling.

But Rhett’s smile wasn’t like Cal’s smile. It was smug. Something about it was vaguely contemptuous.

Cal.

The second Blake thought of him, he had to still his hand so he didn’t fuck up the bridge. He played through, the heat of the arena no longer bothering him. In fact, his sweat had turned chilly.

He threw himself into the music wholeheartedly. The fortunate thing about good country and bluegrass, Blake had found, was that they were just as cathartic for the person who played them as they were for the listeners. By and large, Blake’s life was going fine. But there were still moments he loved to disappear into a good song.

So that was what he did for the rest of the show. Fingers flying over the strings, voice belting out lyrics both lonesome and joyous, he closed his eyes and let himself fall ’till he was submerged in the music.

The crowd picked up on the fact that something had changed. They sniffed that uptick in his intensity and reflected it right back to him. He basked in it, let it wash over him. Sometimes, Blake wondered what it said about a guy, what kind of person needed to be adored by twenty thousand screaming fans three nights a week in order to feel good about himself.

But in the roar of the moment, it was so easy to forget all that. It almost felt like old times, when it was just him and a handful of his pals drunkenly chugging through Johnny Cash covers in dimly-lit holes.

Almost.

By the time he said his final good nights to the crowd, Blake was tired. Which was a shame, because being up on stage? That was the easy part.

* * *

T
he Sinsationals waved
their goodbyes and finally exited down the steps and backstage. The crowd was still cheering even as the house lights went up.

“You were great out there,” Blake said to Carlo, clapping him on the shoulder. The shorter man grinned and smeared sweat off his forehead.

The six of them, sweaty and exhausted, filed into the dressing room. Blake made a beeline for the fridge, his eyes on a can of Red Bull, but a heavy body in black leather shoved past him, knocking him off course.

“Fucking watch it,” Rhett snapped, shrugging his bomber jacket higher up his shoulders. Blake took an involuntary step back, mostly so he had enough room to look the much taller man in the eye.

“Pardon me, Lord of the Green Room.” Blake rolled his eyes and shoved past Rhett to the fridge, yanking it open.

Rhett slammed it closed. He leaned over Blake a moment, causing the hackles of the back of Blake’s neck to rise. He felt that ages-old instinct, readied himself for the coming fight.

But it never came. Rhett scoffed and pushed away, as if he had better things to do with his time than harass his bandmates. At least for now. He stormed off through the dressing room, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

Everyone else did their best to look anywhere but at Blake.

This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence these days. Rhett’s little outbursts were the price they all paid for his talent and songwriting, Blake supposed. It had to be worth it, right? Even if he made road life a living hell.

Blake gathered up his can of Red Bull and took a sip. It was Red Bull, so it wasn’t exactly
good,
but it was cold and it would keep him awake a bit longer.

Dropping heavily onto a sofa, Blake tilted his drink up in recognition as Carlo sagged down beside him.

“You killed it as always,” he said. Carlo, unmoved by the compliment, just laughed a little.

“You looked like you were a million miles away, man.”

Blake wasn’t sure what to say to that. Carlo wasn’t wrong.

Before he had to answer, Lily and Erica strolled by, waving en route to the door.

“We’re going to grab unspecified carbs from the hotel restaurant,” Lily said. “Anyone else up for it?”

Carlo hopped up, always a fan of unspecified carbs. Blake sent them off with his best wishes and heartfelt thanks for their work. It was important, he thought, to let the people you worked with know you appreciated them.

Rhett could learn a thing or two.

Things had been so much easier with Cal. Back when the Sinsationals were a dive band, Cal Lindsay had been their lead guitarist. He was unlike Rhett in every way. He played with a sparkle, but he was a low-key and grounded person. The type of guy a band on the rise could use.

He’d also been Blake’s best friend. And briefly, a little more than that.

Now he was none of those things.

So really, it made sense that Blake had gone cold when he’d thought of Cal earlier. The man was basically a ghost to him.

“
A
ll right
, buddy. Is this the way you want to end things?”

Calvin Lindsay cracked his knuckles, standing in the shadowed interior of The Garage, one of Denver’s least illustrious watering holes. But damn it, it was
his
dive.

And this prick causing trouble had to go.

Cal faced down a beefy drunk, the man’s cheeks red with a combination of alcohol and anger. He’d hassled the bartender, Yanmei, for her phone number three times. The last time she’d refused, he’d thrown his mug across the bar.

So now, as The Garage’s owner and also Yanmei’s best friend, it was Cal’s job to ruin this motherfucker’s night.

He loved his job.

When the big guy stood, Cal eased back slightly. He’d give the man a chance to end things peacefully. The last thing he wanted was someone calling the cops
again.

But would-be Romeo had no intention of leaving quietly. Rather than taking the time for a verbal response, he threw a punch right at Cal’s face. But Cal had tangled with his share of drunk idiots before. He ducked nimbly, then swooped behind his assailant and grappled for his wrist, twisting it up and back and pinning his arm between his shoulder blades.

“Move again and I break it.”

The guy did not move again. Not until he turned to spit in Cal’s face when Cal threw him out the doors and onto the gravel parking lot.

“We’d better not see you in here again.” Cal’s tone was cool, warning.

“I don’t need your piece-of-shit bar or your piece-of-shit girlfriend,” the drunk snarled. Cal pointedly cleared his throat.

He didn’t leave the parking lot until the man had staggered off. Cal was glad he hadn’t driven in.

Back at the bar, Cal found Yanmei waiting for him, tying off the last bits of broken glass in a plastic bag. She chucked it into the trash, where it rattled noisily.

“Thanks for that,” she said.

Cal broke out into a grin.

“Anytime. I’m just glad he didn’t try to get handsy with you. He’s lucky I only turfed him on his ass. You probably would have shanked him.”

Yanmei brushed that off with a cool smirk, amusement in her dark eyes.

Oh yeah, she was tougher than she looked. But putting customers in the hospital wasn’t good for business, even in a bar like his.

Cal had inherited The Garage from his father, and while it had taken him some time to grow into that line of work, he now found he enjoyed every minute of it. It was good, honest work. He kept his prices low so folks that grew up like he did could still afford a few burgers and beers on a night out. Now Pop could retire to Florida in peace and he wasn’t drifting aimlessly anymore.

Everybody won.

* * *

W
hether he enjoyed
his work or not, closing time still came as a relief for Cal. After the last of the regulars had filtered out, he cut the music and joined Yanmei in wiping down the furniture. Weeknights, it was just the two of them out front. But The Garage wasn’t a big place.

“You doing anything this weekend?” Yanmei asked while Cal bagged up the garbage.

“Thought I might kick back with six or seven hookers, maybe rob a bank.”

Cal hiked the trash bag up onto his shoulders and shot Yanmei a shit-eating grin. She squatted down below the bar, checking inventory in one of the fridges. He heard her voice filter up just fine, though. “Just be careful where you bury them, okay? We get enough police sniffing around here as is.”

In spite of the subject matter of their conversation, Cal felt a warm pang of appreciation for her. One of his closest friends, Yanmei had been there for him through a lot. They’d met in the cancer ward at Springs Memorial Hospital, back when Cal was still driving his dad to appointments. She had been doing the same with her mother.

But whatever she was up to this weekend, it wasn’t
that
kind of a proposition. They were close, but not like that. Especially since Yanmei was engaged.

“Anyway, no, I don’t have plans. Why are you asking?”

Cal paused in the doorway and cocked his head, waiting. Yanmei rose back up from the floor and dusted off her daisy dukes.

“I’ve got tickets to a show Friday. Travis got called into work last-minute so he can’t make it.”

Travis, Yanmei’s fiancé, was a police officer. That happened a lot.

“Sorry, I’m really not into those all-male dance revues.”

“Fuck you, it’s a country show. Never mind, I’ll ask someone who’s actually grateful rather than a fully erect bag of dicks.”

Cal carried the garbage out back, laughing. After hauling the bag into the dumpster, he wandered back inside. Yanmei had cracked a couple of bottles open. She offered one toward him.

“I haven’t been to a concert in a long time,” Cal admitted. Music brought up bad memories.

“Yeah.” Yanmei sipped her beer, regarding him slightly judgmentally. “That’s why I asked. It’s all right to get out more, you know? To go... do stuff? I’m trying to do more stuff, after Mom.”

Yanmei’s mother hadn’t made it. Cal’s dad was in remission. It was one of the things that had drawn them closer, but it still stung to think about. She was handling it well.

Cal felt his mouth twitch up into a kind smile. He clinked his bottle to hers.

“Well in that case let’s go do some stuff. What time? And what band?”

Yanmei bounced her thin eyebrows, the way she did when she thought she was up to something really clever.

“Blake Bradley and the Sinsationals. Sold out for months. I know.”

Cal tried to summon enough presence of mind to put on a neutral expression. It felt like he’d been slapped. Or actually, worse. Slapped, then maybe stabbed and kicked down a flight of stairs.

The Sinsationals were
his
old band. Though they were called Keys To The Old Horse back then. And Burma Shave before that. But that was all before Cal had left.

Back in those days, Blake Bradley had been his best friend. And, eventually, the man Cal had fallen too hard for. He’d worked so hard to avoid any news of Blake’s new band, to any exposure to their newfound success, to how happy Blake must be without him.

At least he could hear the man’s name without cringing.

But based on Yanmei’s reaction, he still wasn’t over it.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Don’t look so surprised. Your girl’s got connections.”

Cal sputtered out a weak laugh, the rhythm of his heartbeat recovering.

“You sure do.”

Yanmei pulled her shoulder-length black hair back behind her neck, then secured it with a clip. She gathered up her purse from behind the bar and slung it over her shoulder, eyeballing him.

“So that’s a yes?”

Shit. Cal didn’t know what to say. A thousand excuses all leaped to mind, but none of them seemed good enough. Especially after Yanmei’s brief, vulnerable admission that she needed to get out more. And his private admission that he probably needed to, too.

Would it really be that bad to see Blake back up on stage? If nothing else, he could get shit-faced and pretend it was someone else. The band barely sounded the same. They were pop-country now, drifting from their bluegrass roots.

Cal was not a quick thinker when it came to stuff like this. And he was also a terrible liar.

So when he heard himself accept Yanmei’s offer with a half-grin, his brain was only just catching up. Shit. He’d left it too long. There was no graceful way to back out.

But when she beamed at him, he felt a little better. It was good to see her smile like that. Cal’s inner circle was tiny, but he was fiercely protective of the people who managed to penetrate its walls. Yanmei was one of them. She deserved to have a good time.

“Pregame at Megaburger, then we can take a cab?”

“Sounds fantastic,” Cal lied through his teeth.

He could psych himself up to this. No sense in being a heartbroken wuss anymore, not after five years. He and Blake had gone their separate ways, and it was for the best.