Heartstrings (20 page)

C
al could tell
something was amiss the second he stepped through the apartment’s door.

For starters, there was garbage all over the floor.

Well, garbage wasn’t the right word. There was a subtle distinction between
garbage
and
packaging.
The mess strewn across Cal’s carpet was the latter. There was a pile of shrink wrap that looked to have been pulled off something large, a couple of big white plastic bags, now empty, and perhaps most tellingly, a cardboard box that was now empty and half-flattened.

Cal slipped his boots off and stepped into the living room. He followed the trail of debris to the kitchen, where plastic and paper rustling sounds could be heard. Blake was up to something.

A rectangular glass aquarium—Cal estimated it to be about ten-gallon sized—sat atop his kitchen counter. Beside it were the boxes for a sponge pump and a fifty-watt heat lamp. Strewn all over the kitchen floor were little plastic baggies, all empty now.

Blake was fussing with their contents on the counter itself: about a dozen different types of fake plastic aquarium plant. Some were long and ribbony like kelp, some were designed to look like weeds and corals. Blake, his face scrunched up with intense concentration, sorted through them with an audible “hmm.”

A baggie of black sand sat inside the aquarium.

And most importantly, in a little plastic cube near Blake’s open beer, a brilliant burgundy and blue betta fish swam. “Swam” being something of a misnomer, given how little space he had in the container. Cal
hated
that pet-store packaging, because it conditioned so many fish owners to think their bettas would do just fine in the tank equivalent of a fucking flower vase.

But Blake had clearly done his homework.

Cal just stared, his heart seized up, unsure what to even say. It was, without a doubt, the most romantic and thoughtful thing a person had ever done for him.

So instead, he asked the first thing that came to mind:

“What’s his name?”

He bent down, peering through the plastic container to watch the kitchen light glimmer off the fish’s scales. His long fins rippled gracefully in the water. A smile crept over Cal’s face, starting small and ending up huge. The fish was beautiful.

“Why would I name your fish?” Blake asked. He was smiling, too. It appeared to be contagious.

They spent the next hour setting the tank up, spreading the black sand across the bottom of the glass as a substrate. Cal chose three of the plants, not wanting to crowd it.

“The guy at the shop told me the black sand would help set off his colors,” Blake said, watching Cal work. Cal hadn’t set up an aquarium in years, but it wasn’t a talent easily forgotten. They popped in the filter and heater, then dropped a bit of solution into the water once they’d filled the tank all the way up.

“We won’t put him in right away,” Cal explained. “Tap water’s chlorinated and stuff. Got to let it sit for a bit, let the drops work their magic.”

Blake stepped back, wiping his hands off on the front of his button-down shirt.

“I hate to admit it, but that was actually pretty cool. I’ll never call your fish thing dorky again.”

“You don’t have the right to call anything dorky. You did theater.”

Blake dug an elbow into Cal’s side. Cal laughed and shoved him back, play-wrestling him up against the kitchen counter. Then he paused, bending down over Blake’s face, and kissed him. He kissed Blake until his tongue was sore. Kissed him for every month they’d spent apart. Kissed him as apology for every dumb thing he ever did.

Because one thing was clear: Blake Bradley loved him. Going to a pet store and listening to some excitable fish enthusiast talk him through a proper tank setup, all so he could buy Cal a single fish embodied the qualities of their relationship that Cal held so dear.

They took care of one another. They nurtured one another. Every part of him felt better and stronger when Blake was around. He couldn’t believe he’d managed so long without him.

* * *

T
hey left
the tank water overnight. Cal hated to leave the still-unnamed fish in that stupid holder, but he knew it wasn’t for much longer. Better safe than sorry.

Waking in the morning, his naked body all tangled up with Blake’s, Cal’s first thought was
everything is warm, everything is good.
His second thought, upon attaining slightly more consciousness, was
fish!

After a slow and delicious shower together, Cal and Blake donned their bathrobes and marched into the kitchen. Blake eyeballed the fish in his little box while Cal made coffee, rummaging about the kitchen behind him.

“All right young soldier,” Blake said to the fish. “You’ve been tasked to recon some new terrain. God be with you.”

Cal looked over his shoulder, affection blossoming in his chest. Yeah, his boyfriend could never, ever tease another human about being a dork. Or being dramatic.

The toasty smell of coffee permeating the kitchen, Cal and Blake set their new fish free into his brand new home. Cal submerged the cube into the tank, its lid removed, and let the betta swim out at his own pace. He zipped out immediately, no caution to the movement whatsoever, and within minutes he was shimmying around in the much wider waters of the aquarium.

Satisfied, Cal tossed the plastic box in the trash.

“So what are you going to call him?” Blake asked, peering around Cal at the fish.

“He’s Denver sports team colors,” Cal said thoughtfully. “Could name him after a Mammoth or Avs player.”

“Dude. No.”

Cupping his chin in thought, Cal watched the betta dart between a few threads of fake plastic kelp. A name didn’t spring quickly to mind. And naming a fish was serious business. Taking a break, he made up their coffee and sipped his, settling down onto a stool at the kitchen bar.

Beside him, Blake did likewise.

After a moment, Blake let out a soft snort of disbelief.

“Would you fucking believe it,” he said.

Cal picked up his head with a quick hum, curious.

Blake recited something off his phone’s screen, thumbing downward to scroll down a page. He spoke in a somewhat high-and-mighty voice, imitating a teacher or something.

“Today we delve into a fresh new single by former Sinsationals backing guitarist Rhett Ballard. Ballard, who split from the band earlier this year, says he’s always been interested in giving a solo career the old college try.”

Cal almost spit his coffee out.

“That asshole’s got an album already?”

“Nah, just one song, it looks like. I always suspected he was working on material on his own. If he’s already putting out a single he must have been. But uh, that’s not the good part...”

Cal shut up, leaning forward and watching Blake with interest.

“While Ballard’s guitar skill goes without saying, we can’t help but feel like this departure from the norm doesn’t quite work. It’s not the rollicking country we’re used to. In fact, for a man known for upbeat guitar licks and pop-country smash hits, “Southwest Moon”
is unrelentingly grim. If that’s your cup of tea, you might eagerly await Ballard’s record. We’re not sure many Sinsationals faithful will share that interest, however. Two point five stars.”

Gulping down some more of his coffee, Cal peered over Blake’s shoulder and skimmed the rest of the article. The reviewer was not a fan. While he didn’t dispute Rhett’s technical skill, the piece wasn’t kind.

“How ’bout that,” Cal said.

“How ’bout that indeed.”

Looking sideways toward Blake, Cal propped his head up in a hand.

“So what would
you
name the fish?”

Blake set his phone aside, then regarded the fish in its tank. He rolled his eyes upward in thought and stared at the ceiling. It took him several seconds before he answered.

“Roy. Like Roy Orbison.”

As weird as that suggestion was, Cal couldn’t summon any disagreement. He kind of liked it.

“Maybe just Roy,” he said. He felt Blake’s hand ghost over his own, squeezing just a hint.

“Yeah, just Roy.”

A
s far as
recording studios went, this place was no Carousel Records. And Denver was no Nashville. But Blake wasn’t too concerned by that. Dressed down in jeans and a ribbed tank top, he checked the time on his phone. Everyone was just about due to arrive.

Stepping into the studio’s control room, he caught Cal’s eye, then gave him a little wave. Cal brightened immediately, looking up from the mixing board.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t know how to really use this. Just looking.”

“Yeah, we pay a guy to do that,” Blake said, giving Cal a little bump to the hip with his own.

“I’m glad you’ve embraced that,” Cal said with a tiny, almost secretive smile.

One of the many things they’d hashed out about Blake’s return to the recording world was that he needed to understand he wasn’t a one-man army. The stress of trying to be everything to everyone on the last Sinsationals tour had worn him down to his bones. Now that Cal was back in the lineup, he’d be keeping a stern eye on whether or not Blake was overworking himself.

They fussed with the setup inside the booth itself: drum kit, several mics, an assortment of amps and pickups all in a pile. Excitement buzzing in his veins like the most potent drug there was, Blake flitted about nervously from station to station, like Roy Orbison in his tank.

One by one, the Sinsationals showed up.

And damn it, they still were the Sinsationals. Rhett Ballard and his publishing company didn’t have a trademark on
that
.

It had been a slow slog to get the band back together, but eventually Blake and his people had hammered out a deal with Carousel: they’d produce a six-song EP with Cal on guitar. If Carousel liked the so-called new lineup, they’d sign a two-album deal. Just like the latter half of the Sinsationals’ original contract was supposed to be.

Every time someone brought up the new lineup, Blake laughed. He still thought of having Cal back as the old lineup. Because welcoming Cal back into his life wasn’t just a changeup in his personal business. Cal had helped him get back to his roots in a musical way, too. Less distortion, fewer poppy choruses, more wild and crazy bluegrass with way too many banjo solos and Lily going to town on the fiddle.

After a solid month of practicing, they were ready to hit Mile High Studios and get these songs committed to permanence. And they were good songs, too. Songs Blake had faith in.

A smile tugging at his mouth, Blake looked over the faces of his band.

Erica looked better than he’d ever seen her. She’d gone back to her natural hair color, no more dramatic Old-Hollywood look. She looked healthy, with a bit more meat on her bones, her face a bit fuller. And, most importantly, she smiled way more often.

Carlo had gotten some more tattoos and shaved his head again. But that was typical Carlo, and nobody held it against him.

Lily was the one Blake had been in touch with the most. Partially because she lived closest, partially because she was pathologically incapable of shutting up.

Jake Davenport, the laconic bassist, had probably changed the most out of all of them. After the tour had imploded, he’d married his long-term girlfriend, who was apparently pregnant with twins. He’d grown from a laid-back pothead to a serious, determined father figure, seemingly overnight.

And Cal was Cal: amazing. Tan. Perfect. Great on the frets. Also nice to look at.

Blake Bradley and the Sinsationals were ready to ride again. And this time, their fate was in nobody’s hands but their own. Blake could take on the world with Cal beside him, and he planned to do just that.

* * *

R
ecording led to a new contract
. A new contract meant a new tour. A new tour meant life on the road again, which was a double-edged sword. Blake loved touring, but he’d grown so used to Denver. He still hadn’t moved out of Cal’s asbestos-ridden apartment and on days when they weren’t in the studio, Cal still turned up faithfully for his shifts at the bar.

The Sinsationals were about to embark on a short tour in support for their new EP, a stripped-bare acoustic record titled “Closet Full of Skeletons.” The songs were, in Blake’s eyes, among the best he’d ever written. He knew there was a certain demographic of fan they might not recapture: the listeners who’d really loved Rhett’s poppy grooves and distorted guitars. But Blake hoped the majority of their fans would at least give it a try.

And if not, well, there was a surprise coming down the pipeline. It hadn’t happened in time for this tour, but Palmer had word from a reputable source that Rhett Ballard was in dire financial straits after a drunk-driving arrest in Malibu. That combined with the lukewarm response to his solo work meant Palmer was borderline certain their team would be able to negotiate a sale of at least some Sinsationals rights.

Good things sometimes took time. Blake accepted that now more than ever.

Sitting around a small table in The Garage, the doors locked for the night, Blake and Cal and Yanmei hashed out logistics. Cal had whipped up some of his Mexican Mules again, the peppery slush at the bottom stinging Blake’s tongue as he sat and listened.

“And you’re sure you’re okay with this?” Cal said to Yanmei, his expression serious. He watched her like a hawk.

“Calvin,” she said. “This really isn’t as radical and crazy an idea as you think it is. Plenty of celebrities own bars and restaurants. And most of them don’t serve drinks and wash dishes there every night. How often do you think Gordon Ramsay cooks at all his restaurants, huh?”

“Not the same thing,” Cal groused.

“But it is pretty close,” Blake chimed in.

“Oh, so you’re taking her side?”

Yanmei, teeth flashing in a grin, held up a palm to shush them both.

“I’m fine with it if you are, boss. I swear. I mean, I expect you to compensate the heck out of me, don’t get me wrong, but a change of career might do you good.”

Cal hurriedly butted in.

“Of course! You’d be getting a substantial raise. More annually than I gave myself when I was in charge. It’s only fair.”

“Do I get business cards?” she asked, perking her eyebrows.

“Hell, I’ll just change the name on the bar’s cards to yours. Mine doesn’t even have to be on there anymore if I’m on tour all the time.”

Blake sat back and listened to them hash out their game plan. It was cute, how Cal angsted over not putting in a forty-five hour work week while also moonlighting as a country star. But it wasn’t the best way to go about things. Signing over the General Manager job title to Yanmei was the smart option. Cal could stick around as Company Director and help out when he had the chance, but he didn’t need to beat himself up over not being around to change the light bulbs and take the garbage out any longer.

As usual, it had been Blake and Yanmei’s idea. They’d drawn up a proposal together in secret before ever bringing it to Cal. Blake trusted her judgment. After all, without her meddling, he wouldn’t be falling asleep in Cal’s arms every night.

“And you’re sure
you’re
all right with this?” Yanmei asked, smirking in Cal’s direction.

Cal curled half his mouth in a modest little smile.

“It’ll take some getting used to. But yeah. I am. I trust you. And I think Blake and I have both learned some valuable lessons about not working so damn much or so damn hard.”

“Yep, it’s bathrobes and unemployment from here on out,” Blake said.

Under the table, Cal kicked his ankle.

If all went well on tour, they’d even discussed taking a vacation. Apart from the occasional trip up to the mountains, Cal hadn’t taken one of those since childhood, a fact Blake scolded him for repeatedly. Some sun would be nice. Cal had to take Blake to meet his dad some time, right? Blake could almost imagine the expression on Mr. Lindsay’s face…

They were taking things one day at a time. Together. They had the rest of their lives to conquer the world, and when he was with Cal, Blake thought he just might manage it someday.