Heartstrings (7 page)

F
rom the moment
he was aboard the bus, Cal could sense Blake’s eyes on him. He wasn’t able to ascertain whether it was an unusual amount of staring, or whether it signified anything. Blake was an intense guy. He could be overwhelming at times. Getting used to that again was jarring.

After a while, Cal needed a break. He thanked Lily for her help, collected the sheaves of sheet music, and retreated back to his bunk, where the quiet rumble of the bus lulled him into relaxation. Through a gap in his curtain, he could see Erica on her bunk, knees drawn up to her chest. She was scribbling in a notebook, her features wrinkled in frustration.

Cal considered reaching out to her, asking if she was all right. But was that really his place? He hadn’t been the new guy anywhere in so long that he’d forgotten how to properly do it without stepping on any toes.

In the end, his concerned nature won out.

“Everything all right?” he asked, pulling his curtain back a few inches. “I couldn’t help but notice Rhett being charming earlier.”

Erica’s pen stopped scratching. Her hand stilled. She looked over at Cal with a quick smirk and a roll of her narrow shoulders.

“That’s just him,” she said.

“What a winner.”

Cal rolled over onto his back, folding his arms behind his head. He wondered how a guy like Blake ever got mixed up with a guy like Rhett. They didn’t seem to have a thing in common. The rest of the band seemed irritated with him at best.

“He gets easier to put up with over time. You know, exposure breeds immunity.”

“Right, so he’s the common cold?”

Erica laughed.

“Exactly.”

Deciding that she didn’t seem too upset, Cal gestured to the notebook in Erica’s hands.

“Writing new material?”

“Drawing,” she said. She flipped the notebook around to him, revealing a tangle of twisting vines and roots all sketched out in ballpoint pen. The pattern they wove wasn’t quite recognizable as anything Cal had ever seen, yet he could tell it wasn’t just chaos. The little twirls and twists were pleasing, like something that might make a cool tattoo.

“I like that,” he said. He wasn’t just being nice; she had talent.

“Just ideas for a poster,” she said. “Haven’t got it nailed yet, but I’m headed in the right direction.”

“That’s about all you can ask for sometimes,” Cal said kindly. He’d been there.

The gentle scratch of pen on paper started up again and Cal took that as his cue to let her be. He shifted onto his side, surprised at how comfortable the bunk was. Within minutes, the motion of the buss and the soft white noise of Erica’s pen had him on the verge of sleep.

He dozed, dreaming of vines and roots. New growth pushing up through the soil. Sprouts turning their faces toward the sun.

* * *

C
al was once again amazed
by the well-oiled machine that was the Sinsationals upon checking in at their hotel in Salt Lake City. The band’s managers had organized everything. He wouldn’t even have to carry his own pack to his hotel room if he didn’t want to, although he did. He just showed up and collected a key from Palmer and that was all she wrote.

At least that was all she wrote until Cal showed up at his hotel-room door to find Blake moving his own stuff in.

“Uh.”

It wasn’t the most dignified way Cal had ever started a conversation.

“Hey!”

Blake held out a hand for Cal’s pack, which Cal surrendered unthinkingly.

“We’re rooming together?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Short notice change in reservations. They didn’t have another suite available. But fret not, this isn’t some box with two double beds in it.”

Blake swung the door open and led Cal inside.

If the bus had seemed opulent, the suites at the Little America were ridiculously so. The hotel room—if it could even be called that—was bigger than most apartments Cal had ever lived in. It had a sprawling lounge, two bedrooms winging out on either end of it, and a full kitchen tucked in alongside the bathroom. A big brick fireplace dominated the lounge, unlit at the moment.

The coffee table had a bowl of fresh fruit on it, grapes and little tangerines and kiwis, and Cal was pretty sure they weren’t even fake.

“We won’t be fighting for space in the bathroom while you curl your hair in the mornings,” Blake said, lighthearted and playful.

“Well thank God.”

“It’s not a bad idea to room together,” Blake said. “I need to see how rusty you are.”

Cal arched up an eyebrow, momentarily unsure if that was meant to be a double entendre or something.

“You said it had been a while since you played,” Blake clarified.

“Oh. Yeah.”

After dropping their things off, Cal and Blake set up shop in the lounge, unpacking their guitar and banjo kits all over the sofa. Cal eased down onto the floor, resting his back against the couch’s legs, the guitar resting across his thighs.

The guitar itself was a fine piece of craftsmanship, understated in its quality. Blake’s father was a carpenter, so that wasn’t entirely surprising, but Cal was still impressed. The instrument felt solid in his hands, well-balanced and weighty in all the right places. He hadn’t tried it with the pickup plugged in, but if the sound was anything like it was when it was fully acoustic, it would be beautiful.

Picking through the sheet music from Lily, Cal selected a page and turned it over toward Blake.

“This one’s on the set for tomorrow’s show, right?”

“‘Half a Tank’?
Yep, sure is.”

The fiddle part was simple enough, designed to harmonize with the banjo. Looking it over, Cal was confident he could come up with something.

“Why don’t you give it a go and I’ll join in after getting a feel for it.” Cal settled back against the sofa’s legs while Blake relaxed in one of the high-backed armchairs.

Nodding once, Blake gathered up the banjo and slipped on his finger-picks. This time, he wasn’t playing the big inlaid monster. Which made sense, as Cal imagined it would be loud as hell in a hotel room. The little Gold Tone model in Blake’s arms was still a pretty piece of craftsmanship, but it wouldn’t lead to noise complaints.

Blake began to run through the song, a poppy and upbeat number. Every so often, Blake struck a chord with his banjo, hinting at the general chord progression so Cal could pick up on it. It wasn’t complicated. In fact, the song only had four chords. But simple wasn’t always bad. And he did like the rhythm.

Slowly growing more confident, Cal put his fingers to the strings. At first, squinting down at the notes on the paper, he just fingerpicked along to Lily’s part. The notes blended nicely with Blake’s banjo. There wasn’t much to the song, but it was uplifting.

As Cal grew bolder, he shifted to strumming, rocking the heel of his palm against the guitar’s body, keeping time. Blake hummed but didn’t sing, keeping the melody, and Cal found himself wishing he could hum along too, if only he knew the tune.

Once they’d completed a full verse, Cal was feeling more confident. He strummed along easily, a high-low rolling rhythm that complemented Blake’s banjo beautifully.

The fact that the song was an unfamiliar, poppy tune soon ceased to matter. Cal sank into the music like it was a warm bath, the sound lapping at him, taking him back to a time when life was simpler.

When he looked over toward Blake, his fingers still working the frets, he saw Blake was staring at him. The stare was unguarded, open, but with that characteristic Blake Bradley intensity that made a hot shiver run through Cal’s body. Blake was looking at him with
intent.

But given the current state of their relationship, Cal didn’t know what that intent was anymore.

His breath quickening, Cal forced his gaze back down to the guitar, watching his hands play over the fretboard even though he didn’t have to. He buried his concern in concentration, buried his uncertainty in the music.

This was what he’d feared, getting so close to Blake again. Like a moth drawn to the light, afraid he’d fly too close and singe himself again. The music wasn’t why he’d left the band all those years ago, nor the lifestyle. He missed both bitterly.

No. He’d left because of Blake. Because he didn’t realize he’d fallen for Blake until it was too late. By the time Blake had given him a taste, by the time they’d slept together, his feelings ran too deep. He tried to bottle it, tried to be grateful for the parts of Blake he got to have, but every time Cal found himself alone when Blake went home with someone else, it hurt as if he was dying.

Now Blake was looking at him, eyes burning as though his mind was full of ideas, and Cal wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Fortunately, a knock at the door spared him.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it rattled out of him in a tense sigh the second Blake stood up to investigate, their mingled music drawing to a halt.

J
olted to his feet
, Blake repressed a frustrated groan as he went to answer the door. The music he and Cal were making, it was perfect in every way. The way Cal looked, bent over the guitar as though it was meant to be in his arms, the intense focus on his face—Blake found it difficult to care about anything else.

But duty called. Someone needed him. He tore himself away from Cal and answered the door.

Lily stood in the doorway, her arms folded tightly across her blouse. The tendons on her neck stood out from how hard she was clenching her jaw. Blake could tell in a heartbeat that something serious had happened.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Erica and Rhett had it out again. In the lobby this time. It was
bad
.”

Blake took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

“Hospital bad? Or just gossip-columns bad?”

“The latter. Palmer’s doing damage control downstairs. Rhett stomped off and said she should watch her back.” Lily unfurled her arms and turned her hands up toward the ceiling, helpless. “I’ve seen them bad before, but Rhett’s never been like this. He was a hair’s breadth away from being
violent
with her, Blake.”

Blake stepped back from the door and motioned for her to come inside. She followed in his wake, peering down at Cal, who still sat on the floor with a halo of guitar accessories spread out around him.

“Hey, Lil,” Cal said, but his greeting was tentative. It was obvious something in the room’s atmosphere had changed.

“You know why she’s upset with him, right?” Blake asked Lily, sinking down onto the sofa. He moved his banjo case so she had room to sit.

“Yeah. She told me. Only just now, though. Jesus, is he a full-blown junkie? Is this going to cause problems?”

“I’d say Rhett’s behavior is already causing problems,” Cal chimed in. “Substance abuse problems or not.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. But he also wasn’t being very helpful right now.

“So what happened?”

“I’m not sure. I walked into the middle of it. From what I can tell, he made some dumb comment and she sassed him back, then within seconds they were screaming at each other.”

“Witnesses?”

“Oh yeah, loads.”

Sighing, Blake fell back against the arm of the sofa, drooping over it. Sudden exhaustion sapped at him, draining away the levity he’d felt when playing with Cal. Things felt so good when it was just the two of them hidden away in their little music bubble, but the reality of the band kept crashing back in.

When was the last time he’d eaten? Back on the bus? Yeah, that probably wasn’t helping.

“Tell you what,” he said to Lily, regarding her from his slouch. “How about we all go out for a nice dinner tonight? Without Rhett.”

“He might take that badly.”

From the floor, Cal piped up again: “Yeah, and he’ll probably take it badly if you invite him, too.”

Lily chuffed out a small laugh. It was a relief to see her smiling.

“I’ll go see if Erica’s feeling up to it. She’s had it with him.”

“I can’t blame her. Maybe we can all just crash in her room and order pizza or something. Something low maintenance. I don’t want to stress her out.”

Being a leader had always come naturally to Blake, which was one of the reasons why he’d stepped into the front-man role so readily. He didn’t mind the herding-cats aspect of running the band at all and he thrived under pressure. But this? Someone actively making his band members miserable? It was getting hard to take.

Blake and Cal saw Lily off with a wave. Even after she left, the room felt quiet, empty now. Like the lack of music was a tangible thing.

“I don’t like the way this guy’s jerking you all around,” Cal said, leaning against the closed door. He frowned off into the middle distance.

“Me neither,” Blake confessed. “But we’re kind of stuck with him.”

“If he’s this much of a pain in the ass, why not just kick his ass out? Vote him off the island, so to speak?”

“It’s complicated.” Blake turned away from the doorway and walked deeper into the room, grabbing a few grapes from the fruit bowl on his way past. He breezed through the lounge and into his bedroom, then threw himself down onto the bed on his back, sprawling out.

He could hear Cal’s footsteps following him, though they stopped at the entrance to his bedroom. When he looked up, Cal was standing in the doorway, as if he couldn’t bring himself to enter.

Blake chomped a few grapes, swallowed, and stared at the ceiling.

“Rhett’s got primary songwriting credit on almost every song from the last two albums. He’s threatened to take his copyrights with him and go start his own outfit in the past.”

Fury flashed over Cal’s features. He took a step into the bedroom so he could slouch in the doorway, staring at Blake in astonishment.

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“That’s unbelievable.” Cal shook his head. “He just lords this over you guys? What a jackass.”

Clearly, telling Cal the reality of Rhett’s place in the band hadn’t been a smart move. Cal looked like he was ready to march down into the lobby and put a boot up Rhett’s ass.

“I know,” Blake said. “It’s not... ideal. I’m just trying to be diplomatic. At least until the tour’s over. Then we’ll figure out what to do with him.”

“Can he even do that? Follow through on his threat? Take his songs away?”

Blake nodded into the duvet, returning his eyes to the molded fixtures of the ceiling.

“He could sue us for the discography, yeah. Things are... messy, at this level.”

“I’ll say.” Cal was quiet for a long moment, then when he spoke up again, there was an almost mournful note in his voice. “Things sure have changed, haven’t they.”

They sure had. Sometimes Blake felt as if the band had evolved right out from under him. He was lucky Cal was back, if only because that grounding influence from his past was probably the only thing keeping him sane right now.

* * *

L
ike Blake had told Cal
, things were messy.

The next day, they got even worse.

After spending all morning practicing with Cal, whose rhythm guitar was coming along great, they loaded into a couple of vans and headed over to the venue. Rhett wasn’t there to catch a ride, but Blake wasn’t that concerned at the time. Rhett often did his own thing. Blake let him. It was easier for everyone.

Except he wasn’t at the venue when they arrived, either.

And after the techs had set up everything for sound check, Rhett still hadn’t arrived.

Blake was starting to worry. Had his fight with Erica been that bad? Was this some sort of straw on the camel’s back scenario? Pacing backstage, agitated, Blake sent Rhett a text. He aimed for casually inquisitive, hoping he didn’t sound too much like an overbearing parent.

Rhett had caused a lot of problems before, but he’d never missed a practice or a sound check. He’d never been late for recording sessions. And he’d never,
ever
missed a gig. Regardless of how much of a self-centered prick he could be, he’d always been just professional enough.

Now Blake was starting to wonder.

Unable to deal with the concerned chatter in the green room and the cautious frowns on everyone’s faces, Blake took a walk. He had to get out, had to clear his head, had to think straight. He paced down one of the tunnels that wound beneath the arena, all gray paint and pipes overhead. He didn’t pass a single soul.

What was he going to do?

Cal hadn’t practiced lead guitar. If it was necessary, he imagined Rhett’s guitar tech could fill in at the last second. But there would be questions. Media attention. Photographic evidence. He’d done everything he could to keep the band together, to keep their public image relatively undamaged.

This was the sort of thing that didn’t start gossip. It started full-on speculation pieces. Spreads in
Rolling Stone.

Blake whipped out his phone and pulled up Rhett’s number. A text wasn’t enough at this point.

The line rang and rang and rang until Rhett’s voicemail picked up. Blake hung up with a curse.

“All right,” he said to himself, in the silence of the arena’s underbelly. “The show must go on.”