Chasing Death Metal Dreams (19 page)

Carlos was on the bed when Nate went in, but sitting up, tilted onto one hip with the sheet over his legs and stomach. He looked up, and bit his lip. “It’s kind of early to sleep. But I think I’m fucked out.”

“Me too.” Nate got in beside him carefully, not jostling the bed. “We should do something else. I have my tablet. We could watch a movie.”

The look of relief on Carlos’s face was almost comical. “Yeah. Great idea.”

Nate hid a grin. He was pretty sure Carlos was expecting the dreaded “
We should talk
”. Which they probably should, but… not now. He reached for the tablet. “What do you like?”

“At the moment? Can we watch shit blow up?”

“Sure.” He logged on and browsed Netflix.

Carlos pointed. “
The Avengers
?”

Nate had seen it more than once, but hey, it was an instant classic for a reason. “Sure, what the hell.”

He tugged the pillows up higher behind them and Carlos turned stiffly and settled in, his shoulder against Nate’s. Nate queued up the movie.

Two and a half hours later, Carlos was draped over Nate’s side, arm across his chest, as the credits rolled. “Hell, that doesn’t get old.”

Nate snickered and smacked his knee with his fist. “‘
Puny god.
’”

Carlos eased more upright in the bed and rolled his shoulders out. “Now what?”

Nate said lightly, “Another movie?”

“You pick this time.”

“
48 hours
?”

“Sure. Stick with the classics.”

“I need the john first, and some beer. Want any?”

“Yeah, I could drink something.”

Nate made a quick pit stop, passed through the kitchen for the beer, and went back into the bedroom. Coming in the room, he tripped over his chair, tipping Carlos’s jumbled clothes onto the floor. He set the beers on the bed and bent to pick up the clothes. Scraps of paper and a folded square sheet fell out of the pockets as he draped the jeans on the seat. Silently, without comment, he picked the folded sheet up and set it on the top, then gathered the torn scraps and dropped them in the trash.

Carlos said, “Nate? I’m really sorry.”

“How many times do I have to remind you that you didn’t do that?” He didn’t look up from his tidying. He might not be able to stop feeling hurt, but he didn’t have to let Carlos see it.

“I liked them. A lot.”

That did make him glance around.

Carlos rubbed a knuckle over his thin mustache, pulling his lip sideways, eyes shadowed. “I don’t know why I freaked. After all, I spent a
bunch
of bucks on silicone sheets and ointments and all kinds of crap to make the scars less noticeable. I even paid for a round of laser treatment. So why you making me tattoos to do the same damned thing made me go Hulk, I really don’t know.”

“If that was your best Hulk, you need to choose a different superhero,” Nate suggested. “I see you more as Iron Man.”

“Or Loki,” Carlos suggested. “He’s the genderqueer antihero.”

“Loki’s cool.”

“So.” Carlos kept rubbing his face. “There was one, kind of a fence thing? Where it started high and new, and got old and bent and open on the other side.”

“Yeah.”

“Could you maybe, please, draw that again and, um, keep it for me. For a while?”

“Sure.” It had been a fast design. Nate thought he could even make it better, but he didn’t want to go to the trouble just because Carlos thought it was a nice gesture. “You think you might actually wear it someday?”

“Maybe? I don’t know.”

“Enough possibility to be worth me drawing it?”

“I don’t want you to waste your time, I guess.”

Nate realized Carlos’s thin tone was an echo of his own. The last thing he wanted now was to turn a peace offering into a new fight. He walked over and got into bed beside Carlos, picked up the beers and handed him one. After popping the top of his own and taking a long swallow, he said, “Not wasted if you liked it. And drawing pictures of your body is never a hardship.”

“Thanks.”

“So. Movie?”

Carlos nodded, and they settled in. Nate selected
48 Hours
, and watched the retro image of Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy appear on the screen. As it started, Carlos said quietly, “I think I have this fantasy of standing up on stage one day, ripping off my shirt in front of a hundred thousand fans, and yelling ‘This is me. If you want the music, you get this too. I’m here and I’m queer.’”

“Mm. Do you ever think you would?”

“Well, the most unlikely part of that is me playing in front of a hundred thousand fans. I don’t know.” It wasn’t until about fifteen minutes into the movie that he added, “I don’t think so.” Nate had to struggle to remember the context.

“No reason you should.”

“Sometimes I just want to come roaring out of the box, you know, and make people see me. Sometimes I want something like those tattoos, where you’d have to look hard to notice anything. Where I could probably dance without a shirt in a dark club and no one could tell. Because mostly, I want people not to even know. But…” His voice trailed off.

“So you’ll wait.”

“Yeah.”

“I can do a design a week.” Nate grinned. “For practice. I might have to check your body regularly though, note any changes, maybe take pictures for reference.”

Carlos snickered. “A hardship.”

“Totally.”

Nate had to grab for the laptop as Carlos rolled out of bed. He watched as Carlos stretched, the boxers sagging low on his hips, outlining the V of lean muscles and the soft mound of his dick. Carlos stared him intently in the eyes as he ran his fingers up his chest, behind his neck, then pressed his hands together in his hair, elbows winged out, standing in front of the pale wall. His body was displayed, toned, arched, nothing hidden except for hints under the soft boxers. “Like this? Inspection?”

“Damn.” Nate looked him up and down, the movie forgotten. It was the dark eyes, he decided, that you would see first, the challenge and the heat. Then the tattooed forearms, strong shoulders and biceps, dark-haired pits, the treasure trail leading down between the arches of Carlos’s hips. And only after that, the line of darker, rougher scar below each nipple that said this man had made himself, through pain and determination. “Fuck. You do that onstage and you’ll have to fight off the girls. And probably some guys whose dicks are too inspired to be careful.”

“You think?” Carlos changed to a classic muscle-flex pose, then canted out his ass. “You’d tap this?”

“Whenever you let me.”

Carlos laughed, but some of the tension seemed to ease from him. “Well, not tonight. But I could suck you off tomorrow, if you want to pencil me in.” He reached for his clothes on the chair.

“Jerk.” Nate turned off the tablet and set it aside. “I’m working, but you can come by on my break.”

“Maybe. I have rehearsal. I’ll Snapchat you.”

Carlos pulled his jeans on over the boxers. The folded paper fluttered free again, and he picked it up with a grunt that seemed half snarl.

“What’s that? Hate mail?” Nate realized a second later that was probably not his business, but Carlos shrugged.

“Speeding ticket.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. I was actually speeding though, so it’s legit.”

“Well, of course.” Nate hesitated as one of those dark moments flashed across Carlos’s face. “Or not?”

“I’ve been stopped a time or two for looking suspicious. Once, um, never mind.”

Nate’s curiosity would kill him someday. “Once, what?”

Carlos shrugged, pulling his T-shirt over his head. Nate had figured he probably wasn’t getting an answer, when Carlos mumbled through the cotton, “Let’s just say that having a permanent tan, face scruff and a buzz cut, along with squished down boobs and an F for girl on your license, does not bring out the best in small town cops.” He slid the T-shirt into place, gave Nate a totally fake grin, and added, “Of course, revving my car sitting next to a cop at a stoplight was pretty dumb. So. Tomorrow?”

Nate wondered queasily what lay behind that grin, but he wasn’t willing to push. “Sure. I want to hear how your practice goes.”

“I’ll send pictures if Mia decides to kill Foster.”

“Is that likely?”

“Fifty-fifty. On his good days, he’s awesome. On his bad days he’s stoned out of his tiny mind and Mia wants to drown him like a rat.”

“And you?”

Carlos looked down. “I just want to make music.” He turned to go.

Nate slid out of bed. “I’ll lock up behind you.” He followed Carlos through the main room, shivering at the air on his naked body. A sudden thump made them both jump and turn. Ghost looked up at them from the base of the cat tree and opened her mouth in an imperious mew, before stalking two steps closer, her tail switching.

“How feral is she?” Carlos asked. “She looks like she wants to eat me.”

“She probably wants bacon.” Nate squatted, holding out his hand. “Hey now, Ghostlet, that was not in the least subtle, little girl.”

To his delight the cat came nearer, one step at a time, until she was close enough to sniff his outstretched fingers. She looked up and mewed again.

Carlos’s voice was a mere breath. “Should I make bacon?”

“She doesn’t need to be that spoiled. There are cat treats in that little blue jar on the counter.” Nate held his position, murmuring softly to the cat, while Carlos eased sideways, opened the container, and dropped a couple Squishy Fishies into Nate’s other hand. Nate eased the treats forward. Ghost jumped back one step, but her whiskers twitched, and she didn’t run. He held out the treat and held his breath as she eyed him a while, before taking the single step back to lip the food delicately out of his fingers.

Then with a leap back, she swarmed up the pole and disappeared overhead. Nate stood and rubbed his fingers on his bare thigh. “Well, that’s progress.”

“But you don’t plan to keep her.”

“I’ll help her find a forever home. It’s satisfying. Plus…”

When he stopped there, Carlos said, “Plus what?”

“I don’t know. I guess maybe there’s some comfort in knowing there will always be another kitten needing to be tamed. Nothing ends when this one inevitably goes away. It gives me less to lose, maybe.” He bit his lip, belatedly hearing how odd that sounded.

Carlos said, “You feel that way about guys too?”

“Huh? No.” Tension pulled his shoulders tight.
I don’t, do I?
He didn’t mean to anyway. He resolved not to let his doubts show. “Nope.”

“Mm.” Carlos glanced upward. “She’s kind of cute.”

“They all are. It feels good, helping to save them.”

“Well, I should head out and leave you with your reformed attack kitten.” Carlos set the treat jar back on the counter and turned for the door.

As Nate let him out, he thought about going for a hug, but Carlos had somehow retreated into himself again, leaving a distance between them. Or maybe it was Nate who’d retreated. So he just said, “See you.”

“Yeah. ’Night.” Carlos ducked through the half-open door and clattered down the wooden steps. Nate closed the door but stood there, listening, not locking it until the roar of Carlos’s car had faded down the drive.

****

Chapter 9

¡Puta madre!
Carlos glanced up at the ceiling of the practice space for strength, counted to a hundred by fours, and said, “Try it again?”

Foster stepped away from his mike. “Gotta run. Things to do.”

“What we gotta
do
is get this song down right.”

“It’s close enough. Lighten up.”

Mia snarled, “Don’t tell him to lighten up. We have three days to Sparkfest. Can you count them?” She scrambled out from behind her drum kit and stalked over to Foster, waving fingers in his face. “One. Two. Three! And how many mistakes did you make?” She waved both hands in front of his eyes. “This many.”

Foster batted her arms away irritably. “Lay off! We have three more practices. It’ll be fine. I’m done for tonight.” He swung the strap of his guitar off his neck and hurried for the door.

Mia yelled, “You’d fucking better stay longer tomorrow!” at his back, then slammed her hand on his mike. The thump and squeal echoed around the little space. “Fucking junkie!”

Carlos sighed and looked up at her. “Want to keep going?”

“Maybe we should.” She looked at him seriously. “Maybe we need to think about dumping that guy after Spark even if we don’t have a replacement. Maybe we can find someone who’ll at least practice, even if they don’t have magic hands.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“Although if we win the contract we might be stuck with him.”

He stared at her. “Win?” The set order for the fest was typical, with the little-known bands first, popular bands last. They were set number three. Out of twelve.

“Hey, a girl has to dream.”

“It would be cool.”
Understatement of forever.
“Okay. Let’s try the new one again.”

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot they could do with just the two of them. Carlos had written the songs, so he knew them inside out, although more practice never hurt. Mia was still learning the newest one, but she was an instinctive drummer and a few more run-throughs were all she needed to start improvising. They played a couple more songs for the fun of it, despite the hollow lack of bass notes, and then stopped.

Mia wiped an arm across her face. “Well, you and me are on top of it, and if Foster shows up for the next three days able to practice, there’s hope for us yet.”

Carlos rubbed his fingertips on his jeans and set his guitar down carefully. “I almost don’t want to hope, you know?”

“Yeah.” Mia stepped out from behind her kit and rotated her shoulders stiffly. “I’ve been up and down lately, till I’m seasick. When we’re on, it’s more fun than anything. When we’re not it’s starting to feel like work, and I’ve even thought about quitting. I figure, we give Sparkfest everything we’ve got and see what happens.”

“Isn’t that just putting things off? You know we don’t have a hope in hell.”

“God, you can’t be an optimist for one fucking second?”

Carlos bit his lip and shrugged.

“I don’t mean we have to win, but there’s going to be a big crowd, maybe some organizers from other venues. If we do good, if we impress some people and get a chance at bigger shows, I’ll call that a sign. If not…”