Heartstrings Read online

  This was about to get ugly.

  “Shall we put it to a vote, then? See if that’s true? You’ve crawled so far up your own ass, Blake. We’re not your fucking employees.”

  Blake took a deep breath. Cal could tell he, too, was nearing the boiling point.

  “How you feel about me has nothing to do with what you did. You’re late. You’re probably drunk again. You’re probably in no shape to—”

  Whatever Blake’s reasoning was, Cal never got to hear it. Rhett lunged forward and drew his arm back, his fist cracking against Blake’s jaw. Blake staggered backward with a surprised shout, putting a hand to his face. Then Rhett swung his other fist, knuckles connecting with Blake’s eye socket.

  Blake went down.

  Cal saw red.

  The sound that tore out of Cal was more aptly called a howl than a yell. He threw himself at Rhett, sloshing the cup of hot tea directly into his eyes, then tossed the cup aside and tackled him through the green-room door.

  The door knocked open, Rhett falling through it onto his back, Cal landing atop his stomach. Cal grabbed Rhett’s upper arms and pinned them to the floor while Rhett yelped from the burn, the skin around his eyes and cheeks gone pink.

  Startled gasps erupted from everyone seated inside, who now stared at Rhett and Cal, stunned.

  “Blake’s outside. He might be hurt. Someone go check on him,” Cal said, fighting to keep his voice level. Someone, he didn’t see who, shot up and hurried outside.

  Rhett struggled in Cal’s arms, but Cal held him in place, years of bouncer work on his side.

  “Listen to me you piece of shit,” Cal hissed. “You pull anything like that again and I’ll put you in the fucking hospital.”

  That was all he had time to say, because people were crowding around him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him back. He snapped his head up, ready to growl at whoever it was, but he hesitated when he saw the hand belonged to Paul Palmer, the band’s manager.

  “Easy there,” he said. “Whatever Rhett’s done, it ain’t worth going to jail over.”

  Cal’s blood was still boiling, but he heard the reason in that. Slowly clambering up off Rhett, who remained on the floor, he flexed his knuckles one last time and bit back the string of curses aching for an excuse to fly off his tongue.

  Blake. How was Blake?

  Cal blew Palmer off, stalking back the way he came and into the hall. Blake sat on the floor, Lily crouched down so she was eye level with him. Blake’s left eye was swollen, the type of swelling that promised a black eye in the not-so-distant future. He looked dazed.

  Every potential worst-case scenario raced through Cal’s mind. Was Blake concussed? Did he have brain damage? Was his jaw broken? Was his eye socket broken? Both? But when Cal took a step closer and took a knee down, Blake tilted his head up.

  “That was super romantic,” he said, voice tinged with a sarcastic note that was more endearing than accusatory. The words were slightly slurred thanks to the swollen state of his lower lip, which had been split down the middle, a hint of blood smeared across his chin.

  “I’d have done worse,” Cal said. And he meant it.

  Together, Cal and Lily got Blake up and into the green room while venue staff hustled for an EMT. Blake sagged back into one armchair and Rhett was sitting in another, hunched over, elbows on his knees.

  For a moment, it seemed the two men had looked at each other a little too long. Cal worried it was about to start right back up again. But instead Blake just shook his head and wiped his hair out of his eyes, running his tongue over his swollen bottom lip.

  Palmer was on his cell phone in another room, the sound of his voice booming through the thin wall, though the words were indistinct. When he hung up, he stepped into the green room, hurried.

  “I’ll inform venue security. Doors haven’t opened yet; they’ll be able to clear the line away with minimal fuss. We’ll discuss the state of tomorrow’s show once you’ve both seen a doctor.”

  In an instant, Blake shot up to his feet.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “There’s no reason to cancel the gig.”

  Palmer, a husky middle-aged man built like an aging bull rider, stared Blake down with a disbelieving tilt of his head. The man had a commanding presence when he wanted to, one of the reasons why Cal was happy to take a step back when he intervened in the fight.

  “You’re in no state to play,” Palmer said. “Either of you. I’d rather cancel the show than put on a farce.”

  Blake sucked on his lip and spit blood into the trash can, wiping off his mouth. He glanced sideways to Rhett, who stared daggers at him.

  “If Rhett can play, I can play.” Blake gave his chin a haughty lift, challenging Rhett with his eyes.

  Rhett shrugged, touching at the pinkish, singed skin of his face.

  “Oh I’m fine. But we’re going to have a talk when this is said and done.”

  Blake whirled back to Palmer, putting his hands on his hips. Cal stayed quiet. He could see the hint of panic in Blake’s eyes, and tried to imagine what was going through his mind. Was he worried this was about to be the last show the Sinsationals ever played? Was he Nero fiddling away while the city burned?

  Whatever ended up happening, this fight had changed things. There was no coming back from it. Cal accepted his part in that, knew he may have pushed Rhett over the edge. But what else was he supposed to have done?

  Palmer took a look around the green room, performing a silent mental survey of the Sinsationals and their assorted personnel. The room was dead silent. Cal reached out and put a hand on Blake’s back in silent reassurance.

  “There’s no time to cancel,” Blake said again. “We can do this. Please.”

  Cal dug his fingers into the soft flannel of Blake’s shirt, waiting. When Palmer finally conceded, Cal heaved out a relieved sigh.

  “Palmer,” he said. “I’m going to help Blake clean up. If the EMTs show up, we won’t be long.”

  Blake didn’t argue as Cal slipped an arm around his shoulders and led him off. Cal searched out the closest dressing room and pulled Blake inside, slamming the door after them. The room wasn’t much larger than a closet, stuffed with boxes of what appeared to be cheerleader uniforms. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling.

  Cal didn’t say a word. He just enveloped Blake in his arms, pulling him in. He twisted his fingers through the shaggy hair at Blake’s neck and held him close, barely breathing. It was all so spontaneous he didn’t have time to think. He didn’t have time to second-guess what it might look like, what Blake might mistake his intentions for. All that mattered was making sure Blake was safe, making sure Blake knew that someone in that room was on his side no matter what.

  Blake just went along with it, melting against Cal’s chest, burying his battered face in Cal’s jacket. He dug his fingertips into Cal’s arms, holding on tight.

  Holding Blake again felt so natural, like it was just the next logical step when playing a scale. The next chord progression in a well-known favorite song.

  “Are you okay?” Cal murmured into Blake’s hair. “Like actually okay?”

  Blake let out a weak little laugh into the leather of Cal’s jacket.

  “You think this is the first time someone’s punched me in the face?”

  Cal laughed too, in spite of himself. No, he had a feeling that had happened before.

  “I’ll be fine,” Blake said. He sounded weary but confident. “It’s your big debut, I should be worried about you.”

  Snorting dismissively, Cal briefly threaded his fingers through Blake’s hair. The motion was instinctive, totally unthinking. But he felt Blake still a little when he did it, felt Blake’s shoulders tense. Cal drew his hand back, retreating, and he felt Blake’s chest freeze against his own. He was holding his breath.

  Blake was so close to him. Radiating so much heat. Cal didn’t let himself look Blake in the eye. He couldn’t face whatever desire might be lurking there. But he did stea
l a glance at Blake’s mouth. The split in his lip had started bleeding again—or possibly hadn’t stopped.

  Reaching up, Cal pulled the sleeve of his shirt down over his thumb, then dabbed at the cut on Blake’s mouth. He couldn’t touch Blake with his bare skin. He just couldn’t. He wiped the blood away, his hand not much steadier than his trembling heart.

  When he finished, he twitched a smile down at Blake that he hoped wasn’t a nervous smile.

  Blake snuck his tongue out, licking at the cut, and Cal looked away.

  Cal was still looking at the floor when Blake murmured a quiet thanks.

  “Come on,” Blake said. “We’d better find the makeup gal. Or at least I’d better.”

  Cal could barely hear Blake’s voice over the sound of his thundering heartbeat.

  17

  Blake

  The music couldn’t stop, not for anyone. Blake and the Sinsationals took the stage.

  At the last second, Blake had told the makeup team he didn’t want any cover-up. He strode up into the spotlight with his split lip and his rapidly developing black eye for all to see.

  As they kicked their set off, he stole a look across the stage to Cal, hoping to give him an encouraging smile. Instead, he found Cal staring at the back of Rhett’s head, his eyes narrowed. He’d only seen that murderous look in Cal’s eye a couple of times before, and it could be chilling.

  He decided to let Cal simmer down on his own. Rhett, to his credit, was acting as though nothing had happened. But Rhett was, at least in some ways, like Blake: a showman, a performer. He understood that, no matter what happened, canceling a gig with that little notice wasn’t an option.

  It remained to be seen the havoc he’d wreak as soon as the curtain fell.

  So Blake launched himself into the set with abandon. He sang like he was fighting for his life. His fingers agile, he lit up his banjo like never before. He didn’t miss a note. He added extra trills. He played like this was the last show he’d ever play. Because depending on what Rhett did, it might be. At least the last show of the Sinsationals in its current incarnation.

  Blake wondered how other bands had got through this. He tried to imagine himself as Sting or Stewart Copeland, or Stevie Nicks. How had they gotten through it, other than by being infinitely more talented and savvy than him?

  He didn’t know. All he could do was make sure the music didn’t stop at least for tonight.

  Maybe he was lying to himself, maybe he was just trying to make himself feel better, but he could swear the band sounded better. Fuller. There was something more rounded in their sound, a jangly undercurrent threading through the usual riffs.

  Cal. He was hearing Cal.

  Once Blake’s latest banjo solo concluded, he lifted his hands from the instrument and touched the earpiece in his hear. Yes, it was Cal’s rhythm guitar he heard. Warm and soulful and marching, beating like a living heart through the song.

  It was beautiful. Genuinely beautiful. Blake wished he could just shut up and listen.

  And while it was obvious Cal didn’t have their entire set memorized, he’d always been a master of improv.

  The soothing rhythm of the music Cal made helped calm his fury and desperation. He wasn’t sure what he felt more when the set began: intensely angry with Rhett or terrified for the future of his band.

  But Cal was an anchor. A part of him had never stopped expecting to turn to his left and see Cal there onstage, slightly stooped over his guitar, that focused squint in his eye. So when Blake did look, the sight was familiar in the best way.

  As the show was winding down, Blake decided to address the elephant in the room.

  His forehead beaded with sweat, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped himself down. He winced theatrically when he touched his left cheek.

  “Y’all have probably been wondering why I’m sporting a shiner tonight,” he said. “I uh, I could have put on a bunch of makeup and pretended nothing happened. But that’s not very country.”

  Applause broke out, along with a couple wolf whistles. Blake laughed and gave his head a tiny, self-deprecating shake.

  “I gotta admit: I got in a good old-fashioned disagreement.” He slanted his eyes sideways, eyeballing Rhett to see how he’d react. Rhett was staring at him, expression skeptical, his arms folded.

  “All I have to say is you Salt Lake City fellas don’t mess around if you think someone’s puttin’ the moves on your gal. Though I swear I wasn’t.”

  Blake put up his hands as if to say see? I’m entirely innocent!

  With that, they launched into “Can’t Catch a Break,” a radio chart topper about a down-on-his-luck type of guy. It was a perfect segue. The crowd exploded, laughing and cheering. Blake hoped he’d averted controversy for another day.

  Deep down, a part of him ached that Cal’s first gig back had to be like this. Some parts of him that weren’t deep down ached, too. Mostly his face.

  He poured his heart and soul into the performance, because whatever came afterward was going to hurt even worse.

  * * *

  Palmer kept Blake and Rhett separated after curtains. Probably for the best. The adrenaline Blake rode through the concert kept him afloat, but afterward he crashed. Hard. He didn’t chug any energy drinks to stay awake this time. He wanted to sleep for days.

  But in spite of his exhaustion, he hung around for a meet and greet with some fans who had won a radio competition. He signed autographs, took some photos, and chitchatted for almost half an hour. None of his fans deserved to have their special day ruined just because he felt like shit.

  After waving goodbye for the final time, he and Palmer caught a cab back to the hotel together. Twice, Blake tried to start a conversation, but Palmer wasn’t having it. Blake wondered just how deep in the doghouse he and Rhett were.

  As he was climbing out of the car, Palmer gave him one of those significant, heavy-browed looks. The ones he only dished out to people who deserved them.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said.

  Blake wanted to object, to point out that the fight was entirely Rhett’s fault, that he hadn’t even defended himself—that was all Cal—but shit, he was just so tired. He took it like the gut-punch it was and trudged to the elevator.

  He was momentarily startled by the state of his hotel room—lights on, the gas fireplace flickering on low—until he remembered Cal was using the suite’s spare bedroom. Blake let the door fall shut and paced inside, dragging his feet. Tiny twinges of pain lanced up through his jaw when he moved it.

  Blake made his way to the generously-stocked minibar. He pulled the glass door open and stared at the contents, his sluggish brain having difficulty deciding.

  He didn’t hear Cal come up behind him.

  “You good?” Cal asked, his voice low with concern.

  Blake let the fridge door fall shut and turned to face Cal with a tired smile. He leaned back against the countertop, tonguing at the cut on his lip again. It no longer tasted like blood, but it had become an idle nervous motion.

  “Yeah. Thought I’d grab a nightcap and sleep for years. My head kinda hurts.”

  “They checked you for concussion, yeah?”

  “Yep, both Rhett and I are cleared for full-contact practice,” Blake said dryly.

  Cal didn’t laugh. In fact, Cal looked uncomfortable. It looked like he’d showered after the show. His hair was still damp, the dark strands limp against his forehead. He’d changed into sweatpants and a threadbare Rockies t-shirt. Navy’s a good color on him, Blake thought, dimly.

  But he didn’t look happy. There was a worried wrinkle to his brow, a strange stilted quality to his posture, a shine of uncertainty in his deep brown eyes.

  Before Blake could ask what was wrong, Cal stepped closer. Much closer. The type of closeness that could only be an intentional invasion of one’s personal space. He was so close Blake could smell the citrusy tang of his hotel-brand shampoo, so close that if Blake wanted to, he could reach out and...
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  Cal moved his hand up, his palm catching Blake’s undamaged right cheek and jaw. Cal’s rough, callused fingertips were warm on Blake’s skin. He cradled Blake’s face in silence, stroking his thumb along the curve of Blake’s chin.

  Something in Blake’s brain short circuited. Things had always been so easy, so thoughtless, so instinctual between the two of them. Their friendship, their music, their hookups, everything. And welcoming Cal back into his life had hurt so much less than he thought it would. But now? Now? He felt like he was drowning. He was desperate for a clue, some hint at how to act.

  Standing this close to Cal now caused cold terror to shiver through him, a stomach-tightening dread. Like he was reading one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books but every choice would probably end up being the wrong one.

  He breathed out, Cal’s hand so close that he could smell it. Blake stood there like a ragdoll, unable to act, unable to decipher which course of action wouldn’t lead to ruin for the both of them.

  Cal took that burden off his shoulders when he leaned his mouth down, his lips just barely brushing Blake’s.

  18

  Cal

  The kiss was a there-and-gone-again affair, over in less than a second. But time seemed to pass in a strange way whenever Cal was kissing Blake, as if seconds counted as whole minutes.

  He wasn’t sure what came over him, what propelled him to do that. The stomach-tightening cocktail of fear and anger and protectiveness he’d felt when Rhett had attacked Blake had pushed him past some previously unknown breaking point. Shoved him right off the edge. Now he was tumbling and didn’t know how to arrest his fall.

  Blake put up an arm, shoving Cal back. He let Blake push him, eyes snapping open, the spell broken.

  He could still taste the faint coppery flavor of blood, just a hint of it.