Running with Scissors (18 page)

point, and several times he’d considered dropping the

apartment, but he’d hung on to it. The rent wasn’t that bad by

LA standards, and having his own place meant he wouldn’t

have to crash at his mom’s or dad’s house—and face the

inevitable bitching over whose house he’d chosen—when he

returned.

He keyed himself into the little shoebox, and as soon

as he’d stepped inside and closed the door he was glad he’d

kept the place. He let his bag slide off his shoulder and onto

the floor with a heavy thud, and he sagged against the door.

This apartment had seemed obscenely tiny when he first

rented it, but now, it might as well have been a stadium. All

this . . .
space
. Vast, empty space occupied only by his few possessions and cheap furniture, with no one to leave empty

soda cans on his milk-crate table or stuff empty potato chip

bags between his mismatched couch cushions.

For a solid five minutes he just stood there, taking in the

silence and the elbow room, breathing in familiar air that

he didn’t have to share with anyone else. It was peaceful in

here, and there was no one around to fuck that up. If any of

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his bandmates wanted to argue with each other over the next

week, they were welcome to do so—it wasn’t his problem. For

seven whole days, he would be nobody’s peacekeeper.

Eventually he pushed himself off the door and shuffled

across the room to the kitchenette. Of course the fridge

was empty. So were the cupboards. The takeout menus on

the freezer door were probably still good; maybe he’d order

something. Somehow that seemed like more work than it was

worth, though.

Instead, he wandered from the kitchenette to the twin

bed pushed up against the wall a few feet away. He toed off

his shoes and pulled off his shirt, intending to take a shower, but suddenly that bed looked awfully tempting. It was barely

bigger than a futon but, compared to his rack on the bus,

might as well have been a California king.

So he lay back across it, limbs stretched out in all

directions, and passed the fuck out.

When he opened his eyes again, daylight was pouring in

through the windows.

There were voices outside. Neighbors, he guessed. He

didn’t recognize any of them, though. This complex had a

revolving door of tenants, so he was probably surrounded

by strangers now. Fine. As long as they stayed out there and

he stayed in here, he didn’t care.

He stumbled out of bed and into a bathroom that he

didn’t have to share with anyone. If California hadn’t been

ass-deep in a drought, he’d have taken the longest, hottest

shower in the history of mankind just to savor the fact that no one was waiting impatiently outside the door.

After a brief shower, he dressed and tried to figure out

what to do next. The mere thought of settling into his routine

was weird. Not that he’d had much of a routine before, but

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whatever it was, it hadn’t involved living in close confines

with several other people, dividing his time between the road

and the stage, and . . .

Jude.

He shivered. It was definitely weird to feel any kind of

relief over being this far away from Jude, but damn it, he

needed to catch his breath. For the last few weeks, he hadn’t

been able to turn around without bumping into the man he

desperately wanted, and now he could finally chill.

In fact, there wasn’t a whole lot else
to
do. When this week was over, they’d start rehearsing again, playing the new music

they’d all been practicing when time and space had permitted.

Then they’d start recording, and once that was done, they’d be

rehearsing for the tour. The headlining tour. The real thing.

Holy shit.

But that was next week. He couldn’t exactly practice here

in his thin-walled studio apartment. That was probably a good

thing—his joints and muscles had been getting achier after

each show. A week wouldn’t make him rusty, and it would do

wonders on the fatigue.

No bus. No shows. No drums. One week of blissful

solitude and breathing room. And now that he had some time

and space to himself, there were two things he wanted more

than anything: a damn good meal and a damn good lay.

The first one was easy. There was a grocery store up the

street, and he had money in his checking account for once in

his life.

The second . . .

He hadn’t set foot in a club in ages unless it was to perform.

He was terrible at approaching guys, even online. And the

more he thought about it, the less he was sure that a random

guy could scratch this itch. Then again, maybe they would.

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Something casual with someone who wouldn’t stick around

might just be the distraction he needed. That wasn’t usually

his cup of tea—he’d never been particularly promiscuous, and

usually only slept with boyfriends—but after sleeping
right
above
a man he
really
wanted to fool around with, the idea of jumping into bed with anyone sounded pretty damn good.

He couldn’t have Jude, but he could find someone to distract

him for a night.

Yeah, right. Jude could melt him with a kiss. A.J. could

find the hottest single gay man in Los Angeles, grab a second

one for good measure, and have a four-alarm threesome, and

he’d still be thinking about Jude the whole time.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. There was

only one man in all of Southern California who was going to

satisfy him.

More than that, though, while he had felt like an outsider

since the start, and had fully expected a turf war with Jude,

it was Jude who’d made him feel like a permanent part of the

band. It was hardly Jude’s decision whether A.J. stayed, but

he seemed to accept A.J.’s presence without question.

Slowly, the pieces fell into place. Jude had given him what

no one else in the band had—the feeling that he belonged.

That he was
wanted
.

He sighed. That was all it was. Yeah, Jude would be

attractive to any red-blooded gay man, but that wasn’t why

A.J. was this hung up on him. The road was a lonely place, and

he was clinging hard to the one person who hadn’t made him

feel like they wouldn’t notice if the bus left without him.

It wasn’t infatuation, it was insecurity. Plain and simple.

He rolled his tense, tired shoulders.

It was disappointing, realizing that what he’d called

chemistry was really something else, but a relief in its own

140

right too. Now that it had a name, and that name wasn’t

“uncontrol able lust,” he stood a better chance of ignoring it.

And now he had a full week to sell himself that oceanfront

property in Arizona.

After their one-week reprieve, the band came together

again in a producer’s studio. Recording wouldn’t start quite

yet, not until they’d had a chance to iron out the kinks in the new songs. This was their rehearsal space until then.

Shiloh was tanned and smiling, so she must’ve made good

on her plan to stay at the beach all week. Connor looked

more refreshed and relaxed than A.J. had ever seen him. The

ever-present tension in his lips and between his eyebrows

was gone, and he and Kristy were chatting and laughing as

they sipped their coffee. Richie and Vanessa were both extra

mellow as they set up their amps and tuned their guitars, so

they probably hadn’t been joking about their plans for the

week. Seemed like it had done them both some good—like

Connor, they were in good spirits. Vanessa’s cheekbones

were a little smoother, the shadows beneath them not quite

so heavy, so she must’ve had a decent meal or two. Maybe

the munchies, maybe just enjoying the opportunity to eat

something that didn’t come from a convenience store, but

either way, she looked healthier already.

And Jude . . .

Well, he always looked good. And A.J. couldn’t put his

finger on anything that was different about him, just that

every time he glanced Jude’s way, his pulse went crazy. He

focused as best he could on setting up his instrument for the

rehearsal, but he was so fucking distracted by the quiet bassist 141

sitting beneath the window that he damn near dropped the

high hat while he was adjusting it.

Because he doesn’t make you feel like an outsider. It’s that
simple. Get over it.

He shook himself and focused on adjusting his rig while

his bandmates warmed up. Once everyone was ready to start,

Connor held up the list of tracks. “Okay, so we’re in agreement for the songs we want to record, right? No one wants to make

any changes?”

“No, we’re good,” Shiloh said. “I think so, anyway.”

The rest of the band nodded in agreement.

“And Jude’s recording with us?” Vanessa’s tone was flat,

her eyes narrowing just enough to hint at her displeasure.

“Yes,” Connor ground out. “That was the deal.”

Richie glanced back and forth from Vanessa to Jude.

“Well, as long as he’s here, maybe we should put Jude on the

drums for a song or two. You know, for old time’s sake.”

A.J.’s gut clenched.

Jude’s eyes darted toward A.J., and then he turned to

Richie and shook his head. “Nah. I, um . . . better stick with

the bass. My wrists are a little tender as it is.” He paused,

flicking his gaze toward A.J. once more. “He’s the drummer.”

Richie shrugged. “All right, man. Whatever you say.”

Slowly, A.J. released his breath. Yep, that was it—Jude

didn’t question his place in the band, and that was why A.J.

kept gravitating toward him. The only reason. Otherwise,

Jude was just another hot guy in a city full of hot guys,

and A.J. made a mental note to give Grindr another look

tonight. Anything to remind himself that Jude was not the

only fish in this particular sea.

As the rehearsal went on, most of the songs were smooth

enough—still rough, but coming together.

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One song, though—“Sanguine”—refused to cooperate.

Connor’s vocals were fine, but every time another instrument

came in, the whole thing fell apart. A.J. couldn’t figure out

why, and nobody else seemed to have a clue either. Neither

Jude nor A.J. could find the rhythm. Richie and Vanessa could

play a few bars alongside Connor, but it just didn’t mesh.

Nothing worked.

Connor swore, rubbing his neck with both hands. “I don’t

get it. I . . . Fuck. It sounded good in my head.”

Jude cleared his throat. “What if we slowed it way down?”

Connor turned to him, his expression as neutral as it ever

was. “Slow it down?”

“Yeah. Maybe this one isn’t meant to be so upbeat. Maybe

it wants to be a bal ad.”

A.J. held his breath—Connor was usually willing to take

criticism, but how willing was he to take it from Jude?

Connor’s eyes lost focus. His lips moved soundlessly, and

he bobbed his head slightly in time with a beat no one heard

but him. Then he stopped and met Jude’s gaze. “I think you

might be right.”

A.J. exhaled. So did the others. Apparently he hadn’t been

the only one worried that personal might trump professional

here.“Okay,” Connor said. “A.J., can you give us a beat?”

Sure enough, the piece was born to be a bal ad. With a

slower tempo, each part found its way in. A.J. and Jude fed

off each other until they’d created a rock-steady rhythm, and

Connor adapted the vocals to match. Richie strummed a

gentle guitar line, and Vanessa harmonized. Each time they

went through the first verse and the chorus, the music blended

together until it was almost seamless. More rehearsing would

perfect the piece, but it was finally working.

143

They went through that one a few more times before

moving on to the next song. This piece was, thank God, a hell

of a lot more cooperative. The guitarists added a few flourishes here and there, and A.J. and Jude found a badass rhythm that

upped the energy, and it probably would have been ready to

record right then and there if the vocals had been stronger.

Shiloh gingerly swallowed some tea.

Connor rubbed his throat. “Damn, I need a break. Voice

is getting a little raw.”

“I could use one too.” Vanessa shook out her hands.

“Lunch?”

“Lunch sounds good to me.” Richie put his guitar aside.

“I’m fine for now.” Jude chuckled. “My mom made enough

breakfast to overstuff an army.”

“Damn, can we stay at your place?” Richie clapped his

arm as he got up. “Or tell your mom to send food to rehearsal.

Does she still make that tater tot casserole?”

“I can ask her.”

“Yes,” Shiloh said, her voice scratchy. “
Please
.”

“Okay, okay.” Jude chuckled. “I’ll have her make up a

bunch.”

“Awesome. Thank you.” She picked up her purse. “I need

to eat something now, though. I could go for a burger.”

“Isn’t there an In-N-Out up the road?” Connor asked.

“I think so. You guys coming?”

“Absolutely,” Vanessa said.

“There’s food.” Richie rolled his shoulders as he headed