Heated Beat 02 - Lucky Man (8 page)

He scribbled a chord sequence in his notebook. Bigsy, his main songwriting partner in the band, looked over his shoulder. “That’s pretty blue. Thought we were working on a banger?”

Finn shrugged. Bigsy was a great bloke to write with, good at keeping Finn on track when he got distracted, but it wasn’t working today. Finn was pissed off and lonely, and it was starting to show.

Lonely. Fuck’s sake. Get a grip, man.
Finn gave himself an internal shake. It had been a week since Danny had bailed on him, and they’d hardly spoken since, but they’d known each other less than a month. What the fuck did Finn think he was missing?

He went back to searching out the roof-lifting chorus he needed for Bigsy’s stomping bass riff, but it was no good. His heart wasn’t in it.

Bigsy sighed, his frustration clear. He was used to Finn’s eccentric ways, but this kind of thing drove him nuts. Bigsy was a man who got things done. “All right, mate. Out with it.”

“Hmm?”

Bigsy kicked Finn’s shin. “Something’s got your bottom lip stuck out so far yer gonna trip over it. What’s up?”

Busted.
Bigsy was the oldest member of the band by fifteen years, and he did his best to avoid the inevitable father-figure dynamic that created, but he was a shrewd bloke, and now he’d asked, Finn knew he wouldn’t quit.

“I’m waiting for someone to call me.”

“That bloke you’ve been seeing?”

“How do you know about that?”

Bigsy rolled his eyes. “No secrets in the band, Finn. You know that. Worse than a bunch of schoolgirls.”

He had a point, but since Finn had discovered Danny wasn’t out at work, he’d tried not to mention him to anyone but Jack and Will.

“So, what’s the deal?” Bigsy said. “You split up?”

Finn shrugged. Danny had cried off from their casual date, blaming work, but the paranoid monster in Finn’s mind kept telling him it was probably something else. “We’re not together. I’ve only seen him a few times.”

“Why the long face, then?”

Finn shrugged again. Danny had been nothing but sweet since the night he’d spent on Finn’s sofa, watching Finn sleep through a drug coma, but the silence of the past few days stung. Finn had grown
way
too used to the regular ping of his phone. “Haven’t heard from him in a while. Think he’s busy at work.”

Bigsy grunted and picked up his bass guitar, happy now he knew the source of Finn’s sulking wasn’t anything sinister. “Won’t know unless you ask. Get him over to watch the footie on Saturday. Gonna be a good one.”

“You think?”

“Why not? Trust me, mate. Don’t rely on fate to sort your shit out, ’cause all that happens is bloody nothing.”

“Are we talking about something else now?” Bigsy was a man with a lot on his plate: wife, kids, and, since the death of his mother, parental responsibility for a wild-child younger sister. “How’s Gemma? Hasn’t been nicked again, has she?”

“Hmm? Oh, not for a while. She was talking about college the other day, if you can believe it.”

“That’s good.” Bigsy’s sister was the bane of his life. Last Finn had heard, he’d had to change the locks on his house to stop her sneaking in and cleaning him out. “Is she clean?”

Bigsy grunted. “Doubt it. Reckon she’s got a long way left to fall before that happens.”

Finn let it go. Bigsy had a heart of gold, but he was a private kind of bloke, and talking about his family, fractured so often by death and heartache, didn’t come easy to him. “All right, mate. Let’s take it again from the bridge.”

L
ATER
THAT
night, Finn went home to an empty house, and as had become his habit in recent days, ate some dinner, showered, then took to his bed to stare at his phone. Bigsy had been right. Danny hadn’t sent more than a cursory text in days, but there was nothing stopping Finn from ringing him up, right?

Yeah. Right. Nothing except his loudest demons telling him Danny’s silence was a subliminal message.

Fuck that.

Finn clicked on Danny’s number before he could second-guess himself. The call connected on the third ring. He heard a muffled curse before Danny came on the line, gruff and irritated.

“Yeah?”

Finn sat up in bed, paradoxically caught off guard. “You really do sound miles away this time.”

“Finn?”

“Yep.” Finn hugged his knees to his chest. “I was worried I’d made you up, so I figured I’d give you a call.”

A beat of silence, then a gentle huff of air. “Shit. Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been a heavy week. I haven’t been home since Wednesday.”

“You sound knackered.”

“I am….” Danny broke off and yawned. “But enough about me. How are you? I’m sorry I ran out on your gig. It was ace, by the way. Can’t remember if I got round to telling you.”

Finn smiled and relaxed a little. Something about his feelings for Danny made his stomach churn in a way that wasn’t entirely pleasant, but this… lying in bed with Danny’s voice in his ear… yeah, he could do this all night. “I can’t remember either. Seems so long ago, I can’t believe it’s only been a week.”

“A lot can happen in a week, I s’pose. What are you up to now? Anything fun?”

Finn snorted. “Not really. I’m in bed by myself. That’s never fun.”

“Bed sounds good, though.”

“When do you get to go home?”

“In the morning.” Danny yawned again. He really did sound exhausted, and Finn felt bad for doubting him. “I’m in the car right now. Good job you called, actually. I was dozing off.”

“Are you driving?”

“Nah, just waiting.”

“Like a stakeout?”

Danny laughed. “Something like that, only far less exciting.”

Curiosity burned a hole in Finn’s shambolic brain, but Danny’s vague answer told him further questioning would get him nowhere. “So… it’s the Liverpool derby on Saturday. Most of the band are watching it here. Come over if you want.”

Silence, one of those awkward, stretched-out beats that amplified the noise in Finn’s subconscious until he was sure he’d made a total twat of himself. Then a car door slammed on the street outside the house, and he realized he’d zoned out and missed Danny’s answer. “Huh?”

Danny chuckled. “I said I’ll come over if I get off work in time.”

There wasn’t much else to say. Finn said good-bye and hung up, then lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d felt adrift all week, but Danny’s gently dry humor had evened him out.

The front door banged. Jack was home, and he wasn’t alone. Finn listened to him and Will crash around, pretended to be asleep when Jack checked on him, then later, heard them slip into bed and fuck. Hearing them love each other like that often pissed Finn off as much as he felt happy for them, but tonight, with Danny’s warm laugh echoing in his head, he found comfort in their affection and fell asleep.

J
ACK
FLICKED
a balled-up crisp packet at Finn’s head. “Piss off with the Morcheeba, will you?”

“Fuck off.” Finn threw a glare in Jack’s general direction, knowing it would only encourage Jack to wind him up more.

“Seriously, mate. You only play that stoner shite when you’re nervous. Why are you so agitated about this bloke coming over? Thought you’d shagged him already.”

“Fuck
off
.” Finn looked around for something else to throw.

Will intervened. “Jack, leave him alone. Just ’cause you don’t give a shit what I think of you, doesn’t mean everyone else is the same.”

“Bollocks. That’s not true.” Jack looked affronted, but Will had him there. The two of them had been friends their whole lives. They knew each other inside out, loved each other flaws and all, even if they weren’t always sure what to do with it.

Finn gave Jack the finger and went back to his Gibson. The match had started half an hour ago, and Finn’s house was full of the friends who made his life bearable—made his life
happy
—but with Danny due anytime, his nerves had got the better of him and he’d retreated to the dining room. Jack had come after him, and naturally Will had followed, so Finn’s sanctuary had turned into Jack heckling him and Will doing his best to keep the peace.

Jack stomped off to find more crisps. Will took his place, perched on the battered dining table that held Jack’s drum kit more often than it did plates of food.

“Play ‘Big Calm’ again. I like that one. Reminds me of Newquay Festival last year.”

Finn strummed the warm chord pattern and smiled. Jack had taken Will all over the world with his DJ work, but the glitz and glamor was lost on Will. Finn too, for that matter, and for a while he let the grungy, mellow tune work its magic and calm the devil inside him.

Then he sensed a new presence and his world narrowed to the inky-haired man in the doorway.
He came.
Finn dropped his guitar pick. Danny came forward and retrieved it. He held it out with a tired smile.

“Don’t stop. I like that one.”

“Yeah?” Finn picked out the tune again. “Didn’t have you pegged as a nineties trip-hop folk fan.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

Finn set his guitar aside. He felt vulnerable without its comforting weight in his hands, but the feeling faded as he and Danny stared at each other. True to his word, Danny looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but Finn reckoned he’d never looked better.

“Er, on that note….” Will slid off the table and ducked around Danny. “I’m gonna find Jack.”

Will disappeared. Danny shut the door behind him. “You look surprised. Forget you invited me over?”

“No, just wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“You keep saying that to me.” Danny stepped closer and put his hands on Finn’s shoulders. “Don’t know why, though. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now.”

Finn felt warm all over. “Not even asleep in your own bed?”

“Rather be in yours.”

If Danny was trying to be seductive, he hid it well. The comment seemed heartfelt rather than dirty, and despite the buzz of attraction between them, Finn didn’t mind. He slid his arms around Danny’s waist and pulled him into a hug rather than the kiss he so desperately craved. “Later. The guys won’t stick around after the game. Jack and Will are off to Paris, and the others have got wives to get home to.”

“Sounds good.” Danny held Finn tight for a long moment, and then he pulled away and tried to tame Finn’s wayward hair. “Who’s winning?”

“Hmm?”

“The match. My mate Kev’s a Kopite. He’ll do his nut if Everton wins.”

Oh yeah. Football. Finn found his focus and gaffer taped it to the front of his brain. “One-nil Everton when I last looked. Want to go see?”

Danny shrugged. Finn took it as a yes and hopped down from the stolen bar stool he’d been sitting on. He started for the door, itching to grab Danny’s hand. He settled for the ukulele.

The house Finn shared with Jack was big and old—four floors of bay windows, high ceilings, and drafty wooden floors. They’d never got round to fixing it up much, and instead kept warm by filling their home with friends and music. Finn stuck his head around the living room door to find every available sofa and floor space covered with a reclining man, beer in hand, gaze fixed on the flat-screen TV.

Finn kicked Bigsy’s legs. “Shove up.”

Bigsy made room for Danny on the couch and offered his hand. The rest of the band followed suit, then returned their attention to the match. Only Ben, the Lamps’ part-time fiddle player, seemed to be occupied with something else.

Finn slouched on the arm of the sofa by Danny and peered over Ben’s shoulder. “Why are you writing the bass line in a different key?”

“Shit. I’m not, am I?” Ben pulled his earbud out and stopped scribbling in the composition notebook that looked suspiciously like one of Finn’s.

Finn took the notebook and flipped through the pages. “’Fraid so. A minor and D major. What the fuck are you trying to write?”

Ben grimaced. “The Christmas play for my sister’s class. She got stuck with the nativity, and the only thing she could find at the school was a scratched backing CD and a bunch of untitled lyrics. I promised her I’d transpose it into something simple.”

“On the piano?” Finn stuck Ben’s earbud in his ear and listened. The plastic Muzak-style backing track set his teeth on edge. “When does she need it?”

“Next week. Thought I’d broken the back of it, but if I’ve written half of it in the wrong key, I’m fucked.”

“Then you should’ve asked Finn in the first place,” Jack said without tearing his gaze from the football match. “He wrote the nativity for the New London Children’s Choir a few years back.”

“You did?” Ben looked surprised, and Finn could hardly blame him. It wasn’t exactly rock-star stuff.

Finn shrugged and began rewriting the mess Ben had made of his bass clef key. “I didn’t write the play—just the music. I was in the Priory, and they wouldn’t let me have my guitar. My mum convinced them kids’ music was good for me.”

That shut Ben up. Finn’s illness was no secret, but it didn’t come up in conversation much. Only Jack—and lately Will—could talk about it without averting his gaze.

Finn sensed Danny looking at him. He held up the music pad so Danny could see it. “You used to play, didn’t you? Reckon you could bodge that?”

Danny snorted. “No chance.”

“Come on,” Finn needled. “You didn’t even look.”

Danny rolled his eyes but looked closer at the page of pencil-scratched notes. “Maybe the first few bars. You’d lose me here, though.”

He pointed at the middle section. Finn frowned and studied the sequence of notes. He made some adjustments and held the pad up again, but Danny’s attention had been diverted by Bigsy.

“Where are you from, mate? Are you Japanese or something?”

“Cardiff,” Danny said. “My mum’s Chinese, though. She came over from Beijing with my nan in the seventies.”

Bigsy grunted, filed the information away, and went back to the football, but his curiosity had reminded the others there was a stranger in their midst.

Fred, the occasional rhythm guitarist, looked Danny over. “You’ve got proper straight hair, mate. Finn, who was that bloke used to play accordion for you, with the portable straighteners in his pocket? He’d fucking kill for hair like that.”