Heartstrings Page 2

  “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.

  3

  Blake

  Denver was beautiful from above. The city’s skyline, the flat stretch of plains that suddenly jutted upward into distant mountains... As far as approaches in a plane went, it was up there on Blake’s list. And not just because it meant coming home.

  Eight years ago, the band that eventually became the Sinsationals had formed in Blake’s hometown of Colorado Springs. Denver was where they’d played a lot of their early gigs. The city was a well of fond memories for someone as sentimental as Blake. And some not-so-fond ones, too. But overall, coming home was exciting.

  Especially since they were headlining two big arena shows. That was a first.

  The gig wasn’t for another couple of days. Rather than take the tour buses, Blake and his bandmates had flown in early so they could catch up with friends and make the rounds at all their old haunts.

  Or at least that was the plan. Then their limo didn’t turn up.

  Standing at the arrivals gate, his back to the crowd, Blake watched planes taxi for departure. Beside him, Rhett cursed into a cell phone. He hung up in a huff, stalking over to where the rest of the band loitered.

  “There’s a wreck on the highway. The limo’s late. Driver doesn’t know how long it’s going to be.”

  Rhett said this with the same tone of voice a kid might say we drove all the way to Disneyland and all the rides were closed. Blake looked deep down inside himself and found he didn’t really care all that much.

  “All good,” he said. “I’ll just get us a cab.”

  But when he reached for his phone, Rhett smacked his wrist.

  “Fuck no you won’t,” he growled. “Our last album went double platinum in the first month. I am not taking a fucking taxi.”

  Blake shot a piteous look toward Carlo and the girls, who were engaged in far-off chitchat of their own. Erica spoke up when she met his eyes.

  “Yeah, cab sounds great!”

  Blake looked back to Rhett and slowly met the other man’s eyes. He was prepared to stare him down if he had to, but what a dumb-ass thing to fight over.

  “You’re welcome to wait here,” Blake said. “I don’t care about going in a cab and I don’t think anyone else does, either.”

  Rhett hissed out a sigh through his teeth and threw his hands in the air, spinning away from Blake and stooping down to collect his carry-on.

  “You just don’t get it. We’ve got an image to maintain. We’re rock stars now.”

  Blake was about to argue that country music wasn’t rock music, but Rhett’s phone rang. He was quietly glad the guitarist had something new to focus his ire on. Rhett was a difficult man.

  But he was a difficult man Blake was more or less bound to. At least from a work perspective. Funny, even so-called rock stars ended up with coworkers they couldn’t stand.

  After Cal had abruptly quit the band, Blake had cycled through a series of short-lived lead guitarists who had never really fitted in. Rhett was the first in many who played like he gave a damn. And while he didn’t suit the old, bluegrassier sound of the band’s old songs, he had songwriting chops that soon made that a moot point.

  The Sinsationals’ first album with Rhett on lead guitar and songwriting duties had been their breakout hit. Two years later, their sophomore album had lit up the charts. Eight months later, it was still selling. And the live shows were making a killing on top of that.

  For all the complete mess of a human being Rhett was, he had the golden touch. They hadn’t released a flop since signing him.

  So Blake was stuck with him, for better or worse.

  Blake flipped through emails on his phone until Rhett ended his phone call. He watched Rhett from the side, just kind of eyeballing him. He’s got to be a real unhappy dude, Blake thought. No way he can enjoy life even a little, acting the way he does.

  Looking at Rhett’s ungroomed, borderline-offensive mustache, Blake felt a little self-conscious about his appearance. They’d had a late night and he hadn’t had time to shower before his flight. He probably stank. A shower and a shave would do him good.

  “Good news,” Rhett said. “Finally, one piece of good news. They’re sending another limo, it’ll be about twenty minutes. I’ll be at the bar.”

  Rhett yanked up his bag, whirled about, and strutted off before Blake could comment. He opened his mouth, but felt someone nudge his side.

  Erica stood beside him, shaking her head.

  “Not worth it. Just let him go.”

  Erica Silverman: tambourine player and voice of reason when reason was badly needed. Blake put on a quick half-smile for her and offered to carry her bag.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, Blake stripped down to his boxers and left his clothes in a heap on the floor. He had fresh jeans and a couple t-shirts in his carry-on, and that would be enough until the tour caravan arrived.

  His phone buzzed: a text from an old friend asking if he wanted to catch up and watch a Broncos game. But it conflicted with his sound check, so he had to pass.

  Absently, he scrolled through his contacts, wondering who was still in town. He hadn’t been away from home that many years, but it felt like a lifetime. So much had changed. Hell, he’d changed.

  He scrolled past Cal’s name.

  I wonder what he’s doing right now, Blake couldn’t help but wonder. He had no idea what Cal did with himself these days. Or what he’d done at all since quitting the band. He’d just left without warning, stammered some lame-ass excuse. Blake could still remember the way his deep voice cracked when he said I just can’t do this anymore.

  To this day, Blake had no idea what this Cal had been referring to. The band? Or him? Maybe all of it.

  “He probably still hates your guts,” Blake said aloud. He often talked to himself when trying to talk himself out of bad ideas. Calling Cal for old time’s sake was worse than just a bad idea. It was borderline disastrous.

  Sometimes, though, Blake wondered.

  He wondered how things might have gone if he’d never approached Cal that night, half-drunk since they got paid in booze back then. He remembered the sound of Cal’s laugh, the shine of his dark eyes in the dim light of the parking lot. Blake had never noticed it until then, but his guitarist had the sexiest smile, a little smirk that made you wonder what he was thinking.

  He hadn’t pressured Cal into anything. Cal had reciprocated. It had been mutual and willing and almost frighteningly hot.

  And then a few months later, it was all over.

  No. He wouldn’t call Cal. And he’d probably have to jerk off in the shower now to rinse that memory away.

  4

  Cal

  Cal
had to admit his reservations about the show were misguided. Packed into general admission, three beers deep, Yanmei shouting along to all the opening band’s songs right in his ear—it was great. He was having a fantastic time. She was right: he didn’t get out much these days. But the two bands who opened up for the Sinsationals were doing a great job of reminding him just how much fun live music could be.

  Still, when the house lights went dark and the crew scurried up onto the stage in preparation for the main act, Cal felt his stomach clench. He felt strangely nervous, like a man prepared to accept bad news. Or like a kid who’s been called into the principal’s office with no clue what he’s done.

  “You want another beer?” Yanmei asked. Cal nodded with enthusiasm.

  She squeezed off into the crowd, leaving Cal alone with his thoughts. Which weren’t great company for the moment.

  Almost as soon as Yanmei stepped away, a short blonde woman in a black tank top sidled up next to him. Cal could tell with one glance what her intentions were. She was eyeing him up like a piece of meat.

  “That your girlfriend who just took off?” she asked. Cal blinked, taken a little aback by the question.

  “Uh, no?” he answered without thinking.

  The woman’s eyes—framed by a thick swish of dark eyeliner, a look Cal might have appreciated if he appreciated that sort of thing—lit up. She smiled—and again, it was probably a perfectly beguiling smile—and boldly put a hand to Cal’s side. He didn’t quite smack her away, but he took a step back, putting some deliberate distance between them.

  “So, you been a fan long?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation away from something awkward. Cal wasn’t exactly in the closet, not to those who knew him well, but he wasn’t openly out, either. Dating and sex were mostly abstract concepts to him these days, regardless of gender. Anything along those lines was a conversation he preferred to avoid.

  “A few years,” the woman said with a quick smile. “If you ask me, their old stuff was better. But everybody says that about every band, don’t they?”

  “No,” Cal found himself agreeing. “Their old stuff was definitely better.”

  I hope she doesn’t recognize me, Cal thought. But that would be tough. He hadn’t played any high-profile shows and he’d been skinnier then. God, and he’d had that horrible goatee...

  Yanmei returned with a couple of giant plastic cups in her hands, rescuing Cal from both the invasive woman and a trip down memory lane. He took his drink with profuse thanks. As soon as Yanmei returned, the blonde woman gave her a lengthy look, then departed.

  A lot of Cal’s male friends had made comments to him over the years about not being able to understand women, like they were some mystery of the ages. Cal agreed. But privately, men confused him just as much. Which was why he was happily single and married to his job.

  The background music cut off. The lights dimmed yet further. A hush fell over the crowd, then an excited cheer. Black silhouettes barely discernible in the dark arena, the Sinsationals filed up the steps and took the stage.

  Cal stared at the thick, dark outline closest to him. He could tell purely by the shape of it that it was Blake.

  The lights flared up, the band kicked into a high-energy song, and Cal forgot how to breathe.

  * * *

  Under the glitter of golden stage lights, Blake Bradley looked larger than life. Taller than Cal remembered. Ethereal somehow. And that wasn’t just because he was a gorgeous human being. There was something about him, some unquantifiable stage presence.

  There always had been.

  While Cal had filled out thanks to hours upon hours in the gym, Blake had grown hard and lean. He’d shaved the sides of his head and acquired just the right amount of stubble, that semi-disheveled look that was so popular these days. He wore tight-fitting jeans and a white wifebeater that flattered the muscular outlines of his chest and stomach. The green canvas jacket he wore brought out his eyes, even from so far away.

  Cal was mesmerized.

  The song wasn’t one he was familiar with, but that didn’t stop him from getting just as caught up in it as the rest of the crowd. The guitar hook was infectious, simple but rambunctious in a way that pleased his inner guitarist. Blake had his banjo strapped to his back, but he hadn’t played yet. He just cradled his mic with both hands, crooning into it, leaning into the mic stand.

  There was something charmingly retro about the pose. Cal had always loved it. And he’d always wondered if Blake had continued doing it simply because Cal loved it.

  Almost everyone around him, the entire mass of pungent, sweaty bodies, knew every word. Including Yanmei, who applauded wildly when the song ended. The applause was deafening.

  Hot damn. Blake had really made something of himself.

  The pain Cal was expecting to feel never showed up. Instead, the sensation that spiked through him was a sort of bittersweet gratitude and pride. I’m so proud you got there and so lucky I got to watch you on the way up.

  When Cal could bear to look away from Blake—who was already making some jokey speech about coming home—he looked over the rest of the band. Carlo, whom he’d never been that close to in the first place, was still on drums. His heart softened a bit when he spotted Lily and Jake off to the right side of the stage, the same fiddler and bassist he’d played with.

  Everyone else was new. The guitarist, God, he looked like he’d stepped out of a seventies porno. Mustache, flared jeans. But hey, maybe that was the new band’s aesthetic. Acts had to have a visual identity just as much as a sound these days.

  Blake almost looked like he didn’t fit in, didn’t blend in with the rest. He was too indefinably special.

  But that was how Blake had always been: he shone the brightest in any room he walked into. Yet despite that, he could make himself at home anywhere. Earlier on in their friendship, back in high school, Cal had been so jealous of that.

  Cal was more comfortable with himself now, more settled in his own boots than he’d ever been.

  But he could still admire Blake from afar, still catch a little of that glow.

  Up on stage, Blake swung his banjo around into place, momentarily adjusting the strap. The instrument was a finely-constructed thing, far and away the prettiest banjo Cal had ever seen. It had an odd, shiny gray neck inlaid in alternating segments of mother-of-pearl.

  The Blake he used to know had played an open-backed Deering that looked like someone had punted it down a flight of stairs.

  But a lot could change in five years.

  Blake slipped on some fingerpicks and began to play, leading the band into their second song, which was slower than the first. It had a chugging, honky-tonk sort of rhythm to it. Freight train songs, Blake had called them once, discussing the distinctive bass and rhythm common to artists like Johnny Cash.

  Cal gulped his beer, which had started to go warm. He watched Blake play, fingers plucking at the strings, eyes closed, head tipped slightly back.

  He looked happy. Cal was glad, as much as it stung.

  When Blake opened his eyes, Cal was looking right at him. And for a split second, Cal could have sworn their eyes met. He coughed and took another quick gulp of his drink, hiding his face. He couldn’t let Blake see him, not in the crowd. That would be weird.

  But Blake played on as if nothing had happened. He looked further out into the crowd, winking at someone.

  Then Cal realized: he was just playing the audience. Every good front man knew how to make twenty thousand people feel like every word he sang was just for them. It was all just part of the show.

  Comfortable in his anonymity, Cal tried not to let the close call rattle him.

  5

  Blake

  Blake was in freefall.

  At first, he convinced himself he’d imagined it. But every time he looked down into the pit, when the stage lights were shining right, Cal was there.

  Am I going crazy?

  It was possible he’d finally cracked. Maybe the stress was
too much, everything with Rhett and trying to hold the band together on the final leg of their tour. Maybe this was it.

  But during the next break in-between songs, he sidled over to Jake, leaning in toward the bassist’s ear. He took a swig from his water, then mumbled, incredulous:

  “Your ten o’clock. Is that Cal?”

  Jake brushed his heavy bangs out of his eyes and peered down into the crowd, then let out a disbelieving laugh.

  “Good eye,” he said. Then he added, a second later: “Fuckin’ dick.”

  Blake didn’t comment. He didn’t have time to, for one. Be it high-school theater or a sold-out rock gig, the show had to go on. He wet his lips, trying to figure out how he felt. It was harshing his buzz, for one.

  Knowing Cal was watching, he felt oddly on display.

  Which was the stupidest thing for the front man of a bestselling band to ever feel. Being on display was what he did for a living, for hell’s sake. And yet...

  “Boy,” he laughed into his mic. “It’s funny. I’ve been doing this a long time. This is our third nationwide tour, second as headliners, and you know what? Coming home is always different.”

  He cleared his throat and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh.

  “I feel naked up here,” he said. Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled. “Anyway, since this is kind of a homecoming for us, we figured we’d play a couple of our earlier tunes. This one made it onto our first real album, but its roots go back further. I’d say sing along if you know the words, but the words have changed a few times.”

  Cal will barely recognize this one, he thought, leading in with the banjo. Slowly, his guitar lazy and jangling, Rhett joined in. Then Carlo started up a thumping, bassy beat, slow like a heartbeat.

  The melody was one of the oldest Blake had written. The first version had been about his high-school ex-girlfriend. Then he and Cal had jokingly changed the lyrics to be about his old van, the title changing from “Mandy” to “Ford Transit.”