Chasing Death Metal Dreams (6 page)

“Well, I’ve seen a lot worse.” Nate colored. “Sorry, that’s the artist in me. I kind of have a thing for lettering. Now the chest piece looks good.”

Carlos tugged the left side of his shirt down a bit to show the word “
Boy
” in the scrollwork. He didn’t regret that one either. It had been his flag run up the mast, his flat-out statement to his tío and tía that there was no going back for him. He was a guy, not a girl, and nothing would ever change that. He’d written it in ink and pain on his skin, and thank you to the underground artist who worked on a fifteen-year-old. He wasn’t inclined to explain it either though.

Nate just nodded. “Yeah, nice lines. But you need shirts that will hide most of that?”

“Yup.”

“And that don’t make you look like a corporate drone. Okay. Follow me.” Nate headed for a rack of shirts and began flipping through them. “You have that great caramel skin tone, so you can wear almost any color, but I think blue is going to be best. Or maybe autumn colors. No green though.”

“I need something boring,” Carlos protested, as Nate pulled out a seventies yellow-and-peach stripe and held it up against him.

“That’s too big anyway. Here, hold this.” Nate shoved a pale blue print into his hands, then a cream with a black collar.

“Um.” He took them, rather than let the shirts fall.

“Maybe this one” —a gray-and-silver stripe— “or this.” The next one was pink. Very pink. Carlos shoved it back at Nate.

“No fucking way.”

Nate grinned. “Maybe not for work.”

“Maybe not for anything, ever. I’m not a pink person.” He’d worn enough of it, under protest, back home with Mamá and Papá. Pink skirts, pink dresses, bows in his hair, ripped out, torn, stained, hidden, in his fight for his life, his real life—

He jolted as Nate touched his arm. “Are you okay? You zoned out on me.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No pink. Got it.” Nate grabbed three more. “Changing room is over here.” He led the way to the back of the store.

Carlos followed him into a curtained cubicle. The space wasn’t too tight, but the fabric curtain stopped a foot above the ground, so any real fun would be too risky.
Que lástima
. Too bad. He hung the shirts he was holding on the peg. Nate handed him a blue-and-gray stripe and said, “Here, try that one first.” He leaned against one of the solid walls, arms crossed over his chest.

Carlos slid the shirt off its hanger and stopped dead.

It was odd, the way he would remember and forget at the same time. He was a guy, always had been a guy. The fact that he’d had surgery to get rid of his girl parts seemed like something from another life. Until suddenly it meant he had scars on his chest that wouldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Until it meant that pulling off his tank top would reveal him far more nakedly than he’d intended. He hesitated, then slid the shirt on over the tank. The buttons were a bit tight and he fumbled them.

“It’ll fit better without doubling up,” Nate said. “Three more months of summer, and it gets hotter every year, seems like. You’ll roast if you wear layers. Or do they overuse the air-conditioning at your job?”

Carlos paused, two buttons fastened. He ducked his head, staring at his Vans, the plain black ones he wore for work. He’d bought them two years ago, and they were getting scuffed, the tops lined with gray creases, the rubber smudged. Two years ago, he’d bought Vans and Docs to celebrate finally paying off what he owed Tío Ramón, what the college fund hadn’t stretched to, for all the hormones and the doctor visits, and the lab work, and the surgery, and the silicone gel sheets for reducing the scars, and… everything, really. His life. His self. He’d vowed then, no shame.

Nate had pushed away from the wall and was looking at him, those thick eyebrows arched and his lips parted with some question he held back, unasked.

¡Pues ni modo!
To hell with this. His other motto had been, “
¡Si no les gusta, que se chinguen! If they don’t like it, screw them!
”
ever since he was ten. Ever since Mamá and Papá gave up on him and sent him north for Tío Ramón to try to make him see sense. He’d gotten out of his uncle’s car in front of the house in Crescent City, and he’d yanked the frilly shirt over his head, ripped one sleeve off, and crossed his arms over his bare chest. He’d said, “
Yo no soy una niña.
I am
not
a girl,” and never backed down again.

Being in the closet in the metal community was just common sense. For all that they claimed to hate the establishment, the metal crowd had its share of gay-hating, women-hating, trans-loathing jerks. If he wanted a real shot in music, he needed to be a straight guy. Outside of music, though, if Nate couldn’t take him as he was, then screw him.
¡Mierda!
Carlos yanked the striped shirt off without unbuttoning it, then grabbed the hem of his sleeveless tank and pulled it over his head.

Without looking at Nate, but without crossing his arms over his chest or turning away, he picked up the striped shirt, opened the two buttons, and then slid his arms back into the sleeves. He knew what Nate was seeing. He’d heard the little hitch in Nate’s breath, so small he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been expecting it.

Nate had asked to see his chest-piece tattoo, but below that, below his flat, dark nipples that grafting had shaped so well, were the narrow, ridged, brown scars of his top surgery. No amount of creams and silicone and compression and wishing had smoothed those off his skin. He was resigned now, six years later, that nothing ever would. Of course, there was a chance Nate didn’t know what he was looking at.

The shirt was a good fit, worn over bare skin. Carlos buttoned it easily enough. With two buttons open at the throat, some of his chest piece showed, but closing one more hid most of it. He held out his forearm under the brightest light to see if the tat would show through. There was a hint of shadow, but not enough to offend a little old lady. He turned to see himself better in the mirror. The fit in the back wasn’t bad either.

Nate said, “Yeah, that’s your color. Kind of a shame to hide arms like yours, but it does a good job.”

Carlos let out a breath, louder than he’d meant to, and said, “I’ll take this one.”

Nate pulled the hanger out of the blue print. “Try this next.”

It took ten minutes for him to pick two more shirts, from the most ordinary of Nate’s choices. Nate pushed the print at him again. “This one was perfect. Really.”

Carlos flicked the fabric without taking it. “It looks like I’m covered in peacock feathers.”

“Does not!” Nate crossed his eyes and held up the shirt. “Well, maybe. Okay. Be boring.”

“Receptionist. Remember?”

“Do you like it? The job, I mean?”

Carlos shrugged, pulling his own shirt back over his head. “It pays the bills. Better than most jobs a guy with a high school diploma’s likely to find. I was lucky to know someone who knew someone.” Lucky that Dr. Donner had seen something he liked in his interview and let him train up on the Dentrix software, and learn on the job. Because he sure as hell wasn’t making a living with the music. He fought back a bitter twist of his lips and said with forced cheer, “I could be flipping burgers, or making cold calls.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Nate pulled open the curtain. “I have a degree, and I’m still serving mocha-soy-latte-frappito whatevers.”

“What kind of degree?” Carlos took his choices to the register.

“Psychology, actually.” Nate shrugged, leaning against the counter as Carlos paid. “It’s cool, it’s interesting, but there’s no way to use it without
more
school, and yet
more
school. And when I was working my ass off in classes, I didn’t have time for art. So now I have a crap job, but when I’m off, I’m off. I can draw and paint.”

“Paint what?”

Nate hesitated, holding the door to the consignment shop half-open. A moment later, he pulled it all the way and led Carlos out into the evening dusk. “It’d be easier to show you. If you want, sometime?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t quite tell what Nate’s nonchalance ever since that naked moment in the cubicle meant. He didn’t notice? Didn’t understand? Didn’t care? They’d walked halfway back to the Top Cup before he said, “Are you asking me to see your fucking etchings?”

“Maybe?”

Carlos grabbed Nate’s arm, because this was too important to just let slide, and the door was too close. “Wait. You do realize…?”

Nate turned to him, the setting sun glinting in his smoke-gray eyes. “That you look like you’re, um, trans?”

“Yeah.” It came out harsher than he meant it to. “That.”

“So…?”

“So now you can just walk away, and I’ll say thanks for the help with the shirts and that’s it.”

“I don’t want to, though.” Nate tilted his head. His pointed features and baby-fine hair made him look young and lightweight, but his gaze was steady. “Do you?”

“No. I don’t.” Carlos clenched his hands until his nails bit into his palms. A sudden sweat broke out on his back. “Um, your place?”

“Yeah. I get off at ten.”

“I’d have to kill three more hours.”

“Two and a half. You could watch a movie down the road.”

Part of Carlos, a big part, wanted to take the delay as an excuse to move on. Tell Nate,
maybe some other night
, and then just never follow through. He went for his
screw that
attitude instead. “Right. I could. What do you think’s showing?”

“X-Men−the whateverth sequel? It seems to be everywhere.”

“James MacAvoy’s not too hard to look at.”

“And I’m sure plenty of stuff blows up or catches on fire.”

“Is that your description of a good movie?”

“I thought it might appeal to you.”

Because you think I’m tough? Or because you think I’m overcompensating?
There went the second-guessing again. Carlos rubbed his eyes. “How about if I hang out and write lyrics, and my personal servant keeps me supplied with drinks?”

“Do you tip your personal servant well?”

“I’ve heard he’s willing to take blow jobs instead.”

Nate bit his lip, then smiled. “You have to pay for the coffee from now on, but I’ll let you work off the tips.”

“The service had better be great though.”

“I always aim to please.” Nate turned for the coffee shop door as if that was all that needed to be said. Carlos followed him bemusedly.
Was that it?
Well, until the moment when all the clothes might come off. He wasn’t sure if they would go that far, but he’d deal with that if and when.

For now, he found his corner table again, set the bag with his new shirts underneath, and pulled his little notebook out of his pocket. He took the book with him everywhere, ready for that flash of words that demanded to be written down, before the sharp awareness of perfection slid out of his mind and became muddied and lost. It was hard to concentrate, though. Lines floated to the surface and were gone, ungrasped.

The questions that you didn’t ask

The words you didn’t say

Might let me stay.

He drank coffee, and scribbled lines of futile wrongness, pedantic rhymes, fragments that went nowhere.

Knife edge of hope

Like wire strung neck-high

Cuts me down.

The place got busy twenty minutes later, with what was clearly the after-movie crowd. Gradually they drifted off again, leaving Nate clearing tables and wiping up spills. Carlos found his eyes turning again and again to Nate’s back as he moved quietly around the room.

It wasn’t like he’d never had a boyfriend. There had been a couple of guys in the last few years who’d liked his muscles and his ass and his talent and hung around for a while, but it’d never been a good fit. It’d never felt easy, and for all his efforts, eventually he’d done something they hated, or they’d pushed him too far. The pain from when he’d broken up with Pete and had to kick him out had gone deep.

“
You’re such a bitch… you’re trying to be like a guy, acting all tough, but you’re still a whiny little girl… ugly… no one could really want that. You’re just another hole… dyke… loser…wannabe…
”
He bit his cheek hard, refusing to remember more.
Imbécil.
It had made him tougher, made him stronger. Pete had taught him to have his fun, cut his losses and get out fast. Not to settle for someone just because they were happy to fuck him and let him give them a free ride in his apartment.

He really should go. Except when he watched Nate, with his fey smiles, and his graceful gestures, and the way he laughed easily at things his customers said, hope rose up inside him. Nate cleaned a mess on a table without a frown or a glare at the departing slobs. Nate looked over at him and his eyes sparkled, even after seeing, and knowing. Maybe this time… Carlos stayed and scribbled lyrics that were either banal or cut too close to the bone. And waited for ten o’clock.

****

Chapter 4

As they turned in at the driveway, Nate vibrated with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. How long had it been since he’d brought anyone home? He wasn’t sure, but it had to have been three years. At least. And Carlos was different from anyone he’d met before and not just in the obvious way.

Yeah, the fact that Carlos was trans added a little edge to the anxiety. Nate knew how sex with a guy went, but he wasn’t on solid ground here, and he really, really didn’t want to do anything that might hurt Carlos. The guy might seem like a rock, all solid muscle and full-speed-ahead personality, but he’d seen a flash of worry in Carlos’s eyes as he’d turned, chest bare, pose casual like he didn’t care as he revealed his truth. Nate didn’t want to make it a big deal, but he also didn’t want to assume it didn’t matter.

He wished there was a manual he could’ve read up ahead of time. Then he felt guilty for assuming a trans guy was so different he’d need one, and by the time his brain untwisted from that, his arousal was fading. Then he saw that there was light coming from under the garage doors, and three cars were parked on the gravel by the drive.

“Shit! Sorry.” He braked harder than he’d meant to.