Heartstrings Read online

  Now, it was something different altogether. But that was the funny thing about music. It was adaptable. It could be about whatever you needed it to be about.

  Leaving his banjo hanging from his shoulder, Blake leaned into the mic and sang, his voice a low and somber rasp.

  “Now that I’m alone I can hardly believe,

  How easy it was to forget how to breathe.

  I keep turning around thinking that I’ll see you there...

  Then I kick to the surface and come up for air.”

  Glancing down into the crowd again, Blake curled a tiny smile. He sang toward the cheap seats overhead, then stole a look over toward where Cal stood. Was that woman standing next to him with him? She was gorgeous. Blake wondered what a girl like that was doing with a commitment-phobic asshole like Cal.

  The song flowed into the bridge, which picked up the pace. Carlo executed the time signature flawlessly. Blake grabbed the microphone stand and pulled it in close against himself, holding it tight in the crook of his arm.

  “They say that you never know love ’till your heart’s been broken,” Blake sang. He injected some growl into his voice for the second line, pushing off the mic stand aggressively, where it wobbled and almost fell.

  “When I see you smilin’ at him, I’ve got to keep from chokin’.”

  “Choke” was the Sinsationals’ first hit single. The crowd ate it up.

  Blake wondered if Cal could tell a few lines were directed at him.

  As the song hit its peak and wound down, Blake growled the last few lines into his mic, pouring all his frustration into the words:

  “Whoever said time heals all wounds, that fucker was jokin’,

  It’s been years since you walked out on me... and I’m still chokin’.”

  Over the course of the concert, Blake stole glances down toward Cal’s section when he could. By the end of the show, he’d determined that the Asian woman with the sleeve tattoo was definitely his date, the way they kept whispering into one another’s ears. It was somewhat surprising to see Cal with a woman at all, but hey, a lot could change in five years.

  As far as the band’s homecoming show, well...

  Blake didn’t let Cal throw him off course. He couldn’t. He marched into the show with his head held high. He played the audience with the same skill and care that he played his banjo. A consummate showman, Blake wasn’t the type who never let his feelings show onstage. Instead, he let it bleed into his work. He opened himself up. The naked earnestness of his live shows was a quality he was often praised for, but that wasn’t why he did it.

  Blake Bradley was just a man who wore his heart on his sleeve. He couldn’t help it. He’d never been able to bottle things up, not like Cal could. He had to let it out. He had to talk. When he was happy, he had to gush.

  Those emotive qualities were what set him aside from other artists and made his live shows such intimate spectacles. But the downside included nights like tonight, where he left the stage feeling all messed up, a mixed bag of emotions he was having trouble sorting through.

  * * *

  After stopping outside the venue to sign a few autographs, Blake caught a cab straight to the hotel. He shouldered past everyone who approached him, whether they appeared to recognize him or not. He was in one of those fucked-up, difficult-to-articulate moods.

  It was bad nostalgia. That’s what it was. Seeing Cal down in the crowd had taken his homecoming and twisted it into something that hurt more than it should have.

  He showered and kicked back with a Jack and Coke on his plush hotel bed, the rest of his suite empty. The tastefully-appointed decor, all slabs of distressed wood in a vaguely southwest-inspired motif, made the room feel like an expensive mausoleum.

  Draining his unfulfilling minibar cocktail, Blake stared up at the ceiling, watching shadows fall over the exposed beams as the light outside shifted.

  * * *

  And just like that, he was dragged back unwillingly to an earlier time; to a similar ceiling in a hotel with similar decor.

  The band was back in Nevada. Keys To The Old Horse had just opened up for a bigger band on Fremont Street in Vegas and had then played a side show in Reno.

  Blake was exuberant, laughing and joking and embracing everyone in the lobby, even people unaffiliated with them. Until Cal walked in. And their eyes met. And there was something in Cal that always had this effect on him, always quelled him, always stilled him whether he was floating on clouds or furious.

  Cal looked at him across the room and everything went muffled because his senses just couldn’t keep up with the outside world when Cal was looking at him like that. His eyes were dark as stiff liquor and full of promise and suddenly Blake wanted very badly to be alone with him.

  Then back in their room, the creak and groan of the bed as Cal tackled him down onto it, his kisses searing. They got so little time alone together, so it had to be quick and it had to be intense and in the sea of men and women he slept with on the road, coming back to Cal was like finding a safe harbor. Something familiar.

  With Cal, it wasn’t like it was with everyone else. The random men and women he met while touring wanted Blake Bradley the musician, the nascent rock star. They wanted fame and power and the intoxicating contact high that came with it.

  Blake let Cal own him in a way nobody else got to. With Cal he was soft, pliant, obedient. He let Cal push him down into the mattress and claim him, Blake writhing in exquisite agony beneath his stocky body.

  And that was how it always went: Cal atop him, worshiping him, pinning him, using him up, wringing every last drop from him.

  Cal, the tanned muscle of him hovering over him, a contrast to Blake’s paler skin. The methodical way he started off so gently. He always started off slow, the firm grasp of his hand sending fire racing through Blake like his body was dry grass. His achingly hard cock, needy for Cal’s touch. For anything. The hard, steel-string-callused fingertips, the unbearably hot wetness of his mouth, anything at all.

  Always taking his time, Cal would work Blake up to a frenzy, leaving him panting, his mouth slick with spit, his eyes wild with desperation, his entire body arching up lest they spend one second not touching. Then the agonizingly gentle way Cal would tease his hole, pressing just barely against his entrance before beginning to slip inside, hot sweat and cold lube burning and chilling Blake simultaneously.

  Cal took such good care of him. He let Blake accommodate him, get used to the feel of his body against and inside him, and only then did he shove Blake facedown into the mattress and fuck the anxiety right out of him. Under Cal’s spell, Blake could just let go, let himself be handled roughly for a night.

  Yet in spite of how rough the sex got, there was an undercurrent of trust, of tenderness, because Cal would never hurt him.

  Blake’s eyes snapped open. He’d dozed off. He woke with a head full of bittersweet memories and a throbbing erection aching awkwardly in his tight jeans. And a bad idea.

  Cal hadn’t said a word to him since Blake had called and begged him not to leave the band. But he’d been poking around at the concert. Whatever that meant. Maybe Blake could stop by Cal’s dad’s bar, see how he was doing at least. Leave a gift for him that had been collecting dust in Blake’s old house for years. A peace offering.

  It was one of those roads that would probably lead to disaster. But from where Blake was sitting—frustrated, horny, sleep-deprived—it didn’t sound too unreasonable.

  6

  Cal

  Saturdays at The Garage were generally nice and easy. From seven in the evening they had a weekly darts tournament that kept the regulars occupied. The Nuggets game, which Cal put on the bar TVs mostly for his own benefit, started a bit later.

  Coming right back to work the day after had helped, but he’d left that concert in a weird mood.

  All the same, it hadn’t been a bad experience. Maybe he was being too charitable toward himself, but he felt like he might have finally gotten over Blake. Even in
the moment when he was pretty sure their eyes met, it didn’t twist in his gut like the dagger he’d expected.

  He was growing up and getting over. Who could have thought.

  “Hey, boss?” Yanmei hollered from the door to the kitchen. “Mick says we’re out of pineapple rings, I’m gonna whiz to King Soopers.”

  Cal turned and gave her an affirming wave. One of The Garage’s specialties—if you could call any of their food special—was the Hawaiian, a burger that came with Canadian bacon and pineapple. Cal couldn’t stand it, but it was a best-seller.

  With Yanmei off on an errand, Cal took over the running of both ends of the bar. Since the place wasn’t huge, it wasn’t that much work, but the trickle of orders was steady. He poured tap beers, mixed a couple of basic cocktails, and doled out some generous shots.

  He was tapping a fresh keg of Crooked Stave when it happened. A break in the usual chatter as a couple vacated their stools. Then someone new stepped up to take their place.

  Cal stood. He wiped his hands off on his apron.

  And he was face to face with Blake Bradley.

  Blake, who stood a little shorter than him, was dressed down in a simple red check shirt and a pair of Wranglers. He wasn’t wearing a hat. But there was no way in hell Cal could have mistaken him for anyone else.

  And judging by the widened state of his ever-changing hazel eyes, Blake hadn’t mistaken him for anyone else either.

  “Cal,” Blake said, like it was an affront.

  The two men stared each other down.

  “You seem surprised.” Cal kept his voice level, despite the fact that he was feeling anything but even-keeled. Seeing Blake on stage was one thing. Being this close to him, hearing Blake say his name... that was a whole separate ballgame.

  “I am. Didn’t know you were working here.”

  Cal searched for a pilsner glass on the counter top and started to wipe it down, just so he could occupy his hands. So he didn’t have to look Blake in the face for the entirety of the conversation.

  “I took over after Dad retired,” Cal said. “He’s been out of the business a couple years now.”

  Blake tipped a tiny nod of understanding, which Cal hated, because it led Cal’s eyes to the hard line of his jaw, the shaded hollows of his throat below.

  “Makes sense. How’s he doing these days? We still swap cards, but you know how he is. He’d never talk about what happened in a birthday card.”

  That managed to draw a laugh out of Cal. Truer words were never spoken. If Cal hadn’t been living close to home, he probably would have gotten a letter from his father that read Cancer in remission now, happy holidays before he’d even heard about the diagnosis.

  In spite of the genuine nature of his laugh, the smile on Cal’s face felt strange and alien, like he was a puppet forcing his face to contort ways it wasn’t meant to.

  “Yeah, he’s doing good. Playing a lot of golf in Orlando, doing some deep sea fishing.”

  “Never thought I’d see the day: your dad turned into a caricature of an old man.”

  This time, Blake shared in the laughter. The sound of it, the sudden and jarring familiarity of it, dug into Cal worse than anything from the night before. His hands clenched the pilsner glass a little too tightly. His chest felt compressed. There they were, joking as though nothing had changed between them, when every adrenaline response in his body was firing on overdrive.

  “I’ll tell him you stopped by,” Cal said for lack of a better idea on how to end the conversation.

  And he had to end it. Because if he kept talking to Blake, the carefully-constructed bunker he’d buried his feelings in was liable to erode away, brick by brick. Blake made it so easy to like him. Even when you tried your damnedest not to.

  At Cal’s words, something in Blake’s eyes went cold. He stiffened, straightening up.

  “So that’s how it is, huh?” Blake asked the question in a flat, neutral voice. Cal wasn’t quite sure what he meant by it.

  Before Cal had a chance to press him on what he meant—or just get angry—they were interrupted.

  “The actual fuck, Calvin?”

  Yanmei stood at the end of the bar, a tin can of pineapple rings in her hand. She’d opened the top of it, peeled it back, and had a half-eaten one dangling from her fingers. She looked at Cal as if he’d grown a second head. Or maybe like he was actively on fire.

  Blake turned his head, looking at her, too. Cal saw the other man’s brows knit together, as though he was puzzled.

  Maybe there was a way to graciously escape from this conversation after all.

  “Hey, you’re just in time,” he said to Yanmei with a too-big smile. “Yanmei Ellis, Blake Bradley. You two really should meet.”

  Yanmei took a bite of her pineapple, then set the can on the hardwood bartop. She frowned down at her fingers, then held her palms up to Blake in apology.

  “I’d shake, but I’m real sticky.”

  Blake coughed out a laugh and waved it off. Cal could almost watch it happen, the way he slipped back into his showman’s persona.

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “A genuine pleasure,” she said. “We were at your show last night, loved every minute.”

  “Thanks so much.” Blake looked Yanmei over with an attentiveness in his eyes that surprised Cal. But then again, he’d been a slut as long as Cal had known him. Maybe five years hadn’t changed Blake as much as it had changed Cal.

  “Say, miss Ellis, can I buy you a beer?”

  “Oh, I’m on the clock.” Yanmei ticked a quick, apologetic smile over to Blake, then shifted her gaze sideways to Cal.

  Cal spotted the opportunity and took it.

  “Hell, take a break if you’d like. Not every day a rock star offers to buy you a beer, Yan.”

  Yanmei grinned hugely.

  “I’d hug you, but you’ve got that gross apron on.”

  Cal poured them both a pint off the fresh keg and sent them on their way. Each of them separately looked back over a shoulder and eyeballed him on their way over to a side table, but Cal didn’t care. He was sure he’d have a veritable interrogation to sit through after closing time, but he just had to get away. Or rather, get Blake away from him.

  Because now that he’d brushed elbows with the man in such proximity, it was painfully obvious: a large part of him was still in love with Blake. He poured drinks and made small talk with barflies to distract himself, but all the while, something in his chest throbbed as if a piece of him was missing.

  7

  Blake

  Blake could fume about Cal turning him away like a stranger later. The awkward conversation behind him, he let Cal’s friend (girlfriend?) lead him to a small two-seater table against the far wall. They settled onto their stools and clinked glasses.

  Regardless of how things had ended with Cal, he could still use this opportunity to learn something about the time they’d spent apart. He did wonder. He’d never stopped wondering.

  “So Cal never told you he knew me?” Blake asked, watching the woman—Yanmei—over the top of his glass. She looked to be about their age, maybe a little younger. Today she had her black hair in a braid down one shoulder. She was very pretty. If she and Cal were some kind of item, he hadn’t done too badly for himself.

  “No he did not.” The woman scowled off toward the bar. “Calvin’s a pretty tight-lipped sort. He didn’t say a word, even when we went to the concert last night.”

  Every so often, she’d look back toward Blake and just grin a bit, disbelievingly. He could tell she was a little star struck. It happened.

  “Well if he didn’t tell you much I’ll respect his wishes,” Blake said with a smirk. Privately, he wondered whether Cal had let any of his subsequent girlfriends know about him and Blake. Had he really been working in a bar and pretending none of it had ever happened, for five whole years?

  Cal had never struck him as that much of an asshole when they were close.

  In fact, Cal had always been the
opposite: quietly conscientious, aware of the feelings of others around him even if he didn’t comment. Cal was a perceptive guy. Blake was willing to bet money on that not having changed.

  So that meant Cal was deliberately not bringing it up.

  Which meant he was probably into this girl. Or already seeing her. At least, that was the best motivation Blake could guess.

  “Would you at least be willing to tell me how you two met?” Yanmei looked over at Cal again. The other man was pouring a round of shots from a big bottle of Jose Cuervo, doling them out to a line of middle-aged guys at the bar who appeared to be celebrating something.

  “You two just seem very different,” she said after a moment.

  “School,” Blake said, sparing her much in the way of detail. “When Cal’s family moved over from Texas.”

  Yanmei’s eyes widened in understanding.

  “So you’re from the Springs, too?”

  “Born and raised.”

  Blake remembered the year he met Cal as clear as day. A few weeks into the school year, all the way back in eighth grade, Cal’s family had settled into Colorado Springs. Cal had seemed grumpy about starting school late and rebuffed anyone who put too much effort into trying to befriend him. So Blake had just watched him from afar, amused by the new Texan transplant but not getting that close to him.

  They were mere acquaintances until a chance meeting in high school, a few years later.

  Blake was fifteen and he’d taken to driving his parents’ old primer-gray van to school in the mornings. One bitterly cold December day, two hours after school had let out, Blake finished serving detention, eager to get his ass home. Only when he turned the key in the ignition, the van wouldn’t start. And no amount of cursing or coaxing or pleading had any effect.

  By the time he’d hiked back to the school itself, most of the buildings were locked up. He had just about resigned himself to a two-mile walk in the frigid wind to the nearest gas station to call home when he spotted someone walking across the parking lot.