Chasing Death Metal Dreams (5 page)

It was late, and past time to go to bed, but he was more wired than tired. He didn’t have to work till two in the afternoon anyway. He grabbed his sketchbook off the desk and flopped onto his bed, the pad in his lap. There were sharpened pencils ready in a cup on the nightstand, and he flipped to a clean page, grabbed a 2B and a graphite in 4B for that dark hair and the shadows, and began.

Carlos’s face developed under his fingers, with those challenging eyes and the faint haze of hair on his upper lip, the rounded face and arched eyebrows and lush mouth. He used the 4B with abandon to create the mass of curls on the top of Carlos’s head, then short choppy strokes to suggest the shorter crop on the sides. After a while he paused, grabbed the eraser to take out a finger smudge, and inspected the result.

It wasn’t bad. There was something wrong about the neck and the way it led into those muscular shoulders. But he thought he’d caught the expression about right, the smoldering, challenging look Carlos had given him, right before lowering his mouth to Nate’s dick.
Damn, that’s one sexy guy.

He tore the page out carefully and set it aside to spray later, put the pencils down and wiped his fingers. He had a variety of pens and chose his favorite Speedball. The lines went down fast and sure, a caricature— nose longer, hair wilder, that lower lip impossibly full, lean, strong arms marked by tattoos. He wished he’d had a chance to see them properly, but he put in the daggers on each forearm, substituting a scrawl for the words he hadn’t managed to read on each, and drew an imagined tracery of scrolling lines across the chest. On a whim, he added himself standing alongside, a little taller, skinnier, his black hair wispy over his forehead, his chin an exaggerated point, his brows thick, straight and dark.

Do these two things go together?
Even the lines he’d used were different, fat and heavy and curved for Carlos, thin and flyaway and light for himself.
Probably not.

And that was okay. It had been a one-time thing. Hot as hell. Jerk-off fodder for the next few months, for sure. About time he had a new fantasy guy anyway.

He began to sketch again randomly, impressionistic fantasies built from scenes of the night. He drew a band onstage, dressed like zombies, their instruments flying out of their hands. Then a rubble-strewn path where rocks and chains and knives lurked under the litter. Eli onstage, burning in the fire of his music, flames wreathing his hands and rising from his hair. Hours later the bed was strewn with pages, his hand cramps could no longer be ignored, and his head was empty. He set the pad aside, dragged himself to the bathroom to wash up, stripped and fell back into bed. Sleep caught him before he had time to do more than tug the sheet up over himself.

****

Chapter 3

Carlos growled, “
Mondays
,” under his breath, eased his grip on the phone and kept his voice calm. “Yes, Mrs. Kingston. I know we were closed on the weekend. I understand you couldn’t get hold of us. But this is the third time you’ve canceled your appointment less than eight hours ahead. There’s a small charge…” He held the receiver farther from his ear. Her indignant squawking was plain even over a six-inch gap. “I’m sorry, ma’am… It’s not my policy… No ma’am, I don’t have the power to make an exception… I’ll have the office manager call you.”

At least, these days angry people couldn’t slam the phone down. There was just dead air as she clicked off. He grimaced and set his receiver back on the hook. Shannon, the hygienist, sighed. “I take it Mrs. Kingston isn’t coming. Again.”

“You take that right.”

“I’ll tell Dr. Donner.” Shannon tuned and headed back toward the exam rooms.

Carlos began gluing stamps on the waiting stack of appointment reminder cards, his busywork for slow moments. Today had sucked— late patients, no-show patients, complaining patients. Not that he envied Shannon or the dentist who had to actually work on them. But then, he didn’t make the money they did either. He stuck a stamp on crooked, hanging over the edge of the appointment card, and swore under his breath. Of course it wouldn’t come off without ripping in two. He hid the torn stamp-corpse in the trash, and put a fresh one on.

Dr. Donner came into the waiting room with Shannon behind him. The dentist rubbed at his graying hair and sighed. “Well, Kingston was the last client, so why don’t we take advantage of her blowing us off again and get out of here early? Carlos, close out the books and then you can go. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Great!” Shannon’s bubbly mood made a fast comeback. “I can save an hour of daycare. Thanks, Dr. D.” She hurried back toward the employee break room.

“Carlos.” Dr. Donner lowered his voice. “A word?”

“Yeah?”

The dentist pointed at Carlos’s arm. “That shirt doesn’t quite fit the dress code.”

“Huh?” It was long-sleeved and high-collared. Carlos looked down and realized that steady washing had thinned the fabric until the tats on his arms showed through clearly. In this case, his left arm, where the scroll said, “
DEATH
.” “Fuck. I mean, sorry, I see that. I’ll get a new one.”

“That’s fine. I know it wasn’t intentional. But small minds are everywhere.” Dr. Donner gave him a tight smile. “As much as someone like Mrs. Kingston would benefit from a little mind expansion, my office will not be the place it happens.”

“No, sir.”

Carlos totaled up the co-pay receipts, made up the bank deposit for the safe, and closed out the register. By the time he got to the break room to strip off the offending shirt and pull on a sleeveless tank, Shannon and Dr. D had gone. He set the alarm and headed out to his car.

He needed a new shirt. Probably three new shirts, because truthfully he was down to that last one, washing it out by hand half the time. There were always better things to do with his money.

He thought about running to Target and just buying the first three shirts he saw. Who cared how dorky they might be? But it occurred to him that if he was going to wear the damned things daily for the next two years it might be worth actually paying a little attention to what he bought.

He considered calling Mia to shop with him, but he couldn’t do it. Mia loved to look at clothes, but he’d made that mistake once, and he was not ever, never, till hell froze over, clothes shopping for mind-numbing hours with her again. The problem was, he didn’t know anyone else who could dress for shit. Or did he…?

He took out his phone and tapped in a contact. He’d only pulled up that number once or twice since Friday night. Maybe four times. There was really no reason to keep it— they’d both agreed it was a simple hookup. No matter how hot Nate was, coming undone, sweat dampening that goth-vampire silk he was wearing, it wasn’t smart to go for a repeat. But Nate was the one person Carlos could think of who didn’t look like they dressed themselves from the local Goodwill, or out of their own merch box.

Not that Carlos wanted to look like a goth nightstalker.

Although the clingy shirt and tight jeans had been smokin’ on Nate’s lean body.

Not that he was fooling himself; he was looking for an excuse to call Nate.

Not that there was anything wrong with having a reason to call. Before he could second-guess himself again, he hit the number. It rang three times, long enough for him to think about hanging up, before Nate’s light voice said, “Hey. I was just thinking about you.”

“Me?” Carlos wished he could undo the squeak of surprise, but it was done. He coughed and plowed ahead. “Hey, Nate, what are you doing?”

“Right now?”

“No, next week. Yeah, right now.”

“I’m working. Why?”

“Oh. Never mind.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up. Come on by.”

“I don’t wanna bother you while you’re working.”

“I’m a barista, not a brain surgeon. Come say hello. I’ll buy you a coffee. Black. No froufrou.”

Carlos felt the smile cross his lips. “It’s too hot for coffee.”

“I’ll put ice in it.”

“I don’t even know where you work.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m at the Top Cup in Lacey. Do you know where that is?”

“I know where Lacey is,” he said slowly. Half an hour south. Not next door, but not too far.

“Where are you coming from? I’ll text you directions. Unless you’re in, like, Portland or Bellingham, and it would take three hours.”

“Lakewood. Just south of Tacoma,” he said. “Not too bad.”

“Sure, come down I-5.” Nate’s voice faltered. “Not that you have to. I mean, that’s still kind of far to come for a free iced coffee.”

“Hey, you said the magic word.”

“Coffee?”

“Free.”

Nate chuckled. “So… you didn’t call me just for free coffee, did you?”

“Uh. I have to buy stupid shirts.” He realized how pathetic that sounded even as he said it. “Never mind.”

“No. Go on. You have to buy shirts. Stupid ones. So… you want company? Advice? Someone to hold you back so you don’t buy out the store?”

“I hate shopping,” he grumped. “It’s for work.”

“Ah, that kind of stupid. Well, you’re in luck. I have a degree in shopology.”

“I have no money.”

“I’m not surprised. There’s a thrift store in the strip mall here. We’ll find something.”

“We?”

“I have a half-hour break at seven, I have the expert shopping gene, and you need shirts. Buying will happen.”

Carlos bit his lip, but a happy Nate was pretty irresistible. And maybe there’d be a few spare minutes in that half hour for something a lot more fun than shopping. “Okay. Send me the trail of breadcrumbs. I’ll see you a bit before seven.”

The coffee shop where Nate worked turned out to be at the end of an older mall, next to a dry cleaner and a hardware store. Carlos parked, strolled across the lot to the storefront, and pushed open the glass door. It was a small place, deeper than wide, with round tables for two or four, and a short counter at one side. A few middle-aged customers sat at the tables with their cups and electronic devices. The board up above the counter listed a wide array of hot drinks and cold, but the pastry case had pretty meager choices. The girl behind the register smiled as he approached. “What can I get for you?”

A couple of feet down the counter, Nate looked over from behind the espresso machine and grinned. “This one’s on me, Mandy. Hey, Carlos. What’ll you have? Hot or cold?”

“Hot. Coffee.” It occurred to him that Mandy no doubt knew Nate was gay, which meant she’d probably guess he was too. Shouldn’t be a problem unless she was a local metal fan, which judging from her Lolita goth look, was unlikely but not impossible. Well, it was too late now to do anything. He straightened his shoulders, slouched his hips, leaned an elbow on the tall part of the counter. “Hey, Nate.”

Nate’s lips twitched, giving Carlos the uncomfortable feeling he’d spotted the straight-guy act, but he just said, “Pick a seat, any seat. I’ll bring it over.”

Carlos picked a table in the corner, looking out on the parking lot. The mall was pretty deserted. When Nate brought his cup, he said, “Seems quiet.”

“It comes and goes. There’s a theater a block down; we get customers between the shows. My break’s scheduled now for a reason. Give me five minutes.”

Carlos drank his coffee, which was pretty damned good, and waited as Nate conferred with the cashier, then took off his blue apron. Under it he was wearing— surprise— all black, in painted on jeans and a shirt with long cuffs and loose sleeves. When he came back over, Carlos reached out and twitched a fold of silky fabric. “Dress Like a Pirate Day?”

Nate smacked his fingers away, but not roughly. “Philistine.”

“Ooh. I bet you went to college.”

Nate looked a little surprised. “Didn’t you?”

“Nope.” Tío Ramón hadn’t been happy with him, since his parents had been sending money to put in his college account for years, but it’d been needed for other, more urgent purposes.

“You still knew what it meant.”

“Didn’t say I was dumb, just uneducated.” He was a songwriter, and he loved words. Anyone who thought he should talk like a laborer could get screwed.

“Sorry. Bad assumptions.”

“S’okay.” He reached out again to pat Nate’s shirt. “So what do you call this? Flutter-goth?”

“I call it better than that rag you’re wearing. Finish your fucking coffee and come on.” Nate fixed him with a demanding look.

Carlos smiled into his mug and sipped the last bit slowly, but not too slowly because a half-hour break would be all too short. He set the cup aside and stood. “Okay, where’re we going?”

“Four doors down.” Nate led the way out of the coffee shop. “There.” He gestured.

The store was a small consignment and thrift shop, at the other end of the mall. Nate was clearly known in the place, because the guy sitting at the counter started to get up as they entered, then just gave them a wave. Nate turned to Carlos. “So what do you need? Besides a makeover?”

“Three shirts.” Carlos held a hand in front of Nate’s face with three fingers up and wiggled them. “One. Two. Three. Stuff that’ll work for my day job.”

“Which is?”

“Receptionist for a nice, suburban dentist who doesn’t want my tats showing.”

“Any of them?” Nate’s eyes dropped to his chest, where most of the black scroll was visible.

“Mainly these.” He held out his arms and turned them over.

Nate reached for him, running his fingers over Carlos’s forearms. It was odd and a bit ticklish, but something about his close attention made Carlos feel warm and reluctant to pull back.

“Nice daggers. Kind of boring lettering. The blood drops could use some three-D effects.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” Carlos stepped away.

“Sorry. Did you design those?”

“Huh? No, just picked them.”
While high on pot, on the theory that getting wasted would be good for my needle anxiety.
It might have helped him stress out less, at the time, but it sure hadn’t done much for his judgment. He wasn’t going to disown his tats now, though. They’d served their purpose all right, making him look more butch. The
blood
and
death
parts might have been overkill, but his philosophy was
no regrets
. “I like them.”