Heartstrings (11 page)

S
itting
up at the front of the bus, Blake obsessively refreshed the news feed on his phone. But for all his trying, not much changed in the world in thirty second intervals. The bus rumbled beneath him, encouraging his restlessness, if anything. It was quite the paradox: moving along at seventy miles per hour, yet feeling completely trapped.

He checked in with Jake and Lily, both of whom looked exhausted. Blake couldn’t blame them. The last couple of days had been unbearably trying. He supposed the one thing he had in his favor was that nobody else in the band seemed eager to take Rhett’s side.

Eventually, Blake decided to try for sleep. It was early afternoon, but he enjoyed napping as a practice. Napping served as a way to reboot his mental hard drive, so to speak. Unless he was feeling truly shitty, he never came back from a nap feeling worse.

Cal had the curtain drawn across his bunk, so Blake walked past it, despite the powerful urge he felt to peel it back. But he was mindful that someone might see. And while he was certainly an out and proud bisexual man in the eyes of his bandmates, fucking a coworker was another ballgame.

It wasn’t until he’d paced the length of the short hallway between the living area and the bunks three times that Blake realized he was doing it. He sucked on his teeth for a second, then clambered up into his bunk, a top one in the back.

Staring off into space, he tried to form a game-plan. He’d composed a mental to-do list of all the people he needed to call and email and stay in touch with to ensure the band didn’t fall apart within a few minutes.

That sure didn’t kill much time.

Bus life was the
worst
.

In spite of the negativity pressing in on him from all angles, the threats to his happiness and livelihood, Blake tried to focus on the upside. And there was a rather large upside to all this. Despite his somewhat reluctant behavior, Cal was back. And Cal was something Blake could hold onto. He thought he could even understand where Cal’s standoffishness was coming from.

In a lot of ways, Blake’s upbringing granted him the ability to view life through a different lens than Cal did. It was part of what he held responsible for his artistic streak. And why he was able to open up and articulate when things were bothering him.

Blake had enjoyed a solidly middle-class existence as a kid. Sure he got into some trouble in school, but it was mostly the “skipping class to make out and go drinking” kind, never anything serious. Unlike a lot of the kids who went to his high school, when he got summer jobs his wages were entirely his. His parents never needed help with the bills. His old Ford Transit was a gift, handed over to him with the understanding that it could be taken away, but unless he severely fucked up he wouldn’t have to pay for it.

These privileges meant that Blake could just live his life and figure out how to be himself. He could spend his money on banjo lessons and art projects and theater tickets and dates with girls and boys.

Cal wasn’t quite so lucky.

Hailing from a working-class background, Cal grew up quicker than Blake did. But he grew up in the sense of
becoming a man
in the way their parents always talked about, not by growing up and getting to experience things. Cal got a job when he was sixteen, helped his family pay the bills, and saw it all as a fact of life and the expected thing to do if one were a good person.

And of course, Cal was a very good person. A remarkably good person. Blake had never met a better example of a “good person” than Calvin Lindsay. Which was why he was so damn determined to drag Cal out of his shell, to enjoy some of that goodness, to teach him how to rock and roll.

Since Cal had quit the band, he and Blake had stepped back into their respective roles. Blake the high-flying privileged artsy kid who needed grounding, Cal the no-nonsense workaholic who deserved some time in the sun.

They were perfect for one another. They complemented one another exactly.

Regardless of how things ended up with the Sinsationals, Blake had that to hold onto. And hold on he would.

* * *

B
lake eventually scrounged
up an old issue of
Rolling Stone
from one of the drawers up front. He sprawled out on a sofa and tried to find something interesting inside.

Midway through his chosen article—a biography of Tina Turner that was pretty well-done—Cal ambled into the living area with a yawn. He grabbed Blake’s ankles, lifted up his legs, and plopped down, setting Blake’s boots in his lap.

Normally Blake might have found such physical contact merely endearing, but something about being manhandled by Cal was an instant aphrodisiac even under the most casual of circumstances. His dick noticed, all right. He sat up a little and met Cal’s eyes, raising his eyebrows in silence.

Cal had a look about him that was all business.

“I’ve been thinking,” Cal said. “About Rhett.”

Oh, boy. Blake stayed quiet and let Cal speak.

“This guy’s a one-man wrecking ball. Why don’t you let me hash it out with him? I don’t know him at all compared to you guys and maybe if I come at him from a neutral standpoint I can figure out why he’s so... the way he is.”

Blake almost laughed. Almost.

“A neutral standpoint? You threw hot tea in his face and tackled him.”

“Only because he was acting aggressive. I’ve thrown a lot of guys out of the bar in my day. Broken a few noses. Gave a few guys some stitches. You’d be surprised at the amount of violence I can get away with committing on a dude and successfully have a calm discussion with him later.”

“That’s... horrifying.”

A broad grin broke out across Cal’s face. He skimmed a hand over his short dark hair, almost bashful. But his gaze lingered on Blake’s, intent and inquisitive.

“So seriously, it’s a bad idea for me to get involved just because I beat him up a bit?”

“Um, yes? Are you listening to yourself?”

Blake wondered if this might be a prime example of their conflicting lifestyles generating widely differing coping strategies. Cal came from a place—and still worked in a place—where guys just hashed things out with their fists every now and then and could have a rational discussion afterward.

Whereas Blake had been assuming this entire time that Rhett taking a fist to his jaw meant that Rhett would in no uncertain terms never speak to him again.

“I don’t think you’re giving me enough credit,” Cal said. “I’m a good negotiator.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Blake countered. “But are you an actual neutral party in this instance? You about murdered the guy because he put a hand on me. He hates my guts. That’s an unavoidable fact. Are you going to be able to negotiate with him from a neutral standpoint knowing he can’t stand me?”

Cal pursed his mouth off to one side. His thinking expression was obnoxiously cute at times, the way he seemed to think with his entire face.

“Maybe?” was what he had to offer to that.

“There’s another thing, too,” Blake said. He paused before continuing, looking up and down the length of the living area. It was deserted for the moment, everyone having retreated to their bunks or the bathroom or the tiny dining compartment.

Cal absently stroked a thumb along one of Blake’s ankle-high boots, moving his fingertip over the leather. Even that tiny motion sent an arc of warmth through Blake, a promise of touches later down the road. Fuck being stuck on a bus where intimacy was next to impossible.

“Anyway,” Blake picked back up, trying not to allow himself to get distracted. “As far as everyone on this bus knows, you’re only here for the tour. You’re with us ’till San Diego, then it’s back to Denver and normal life for you. Not that they don’t like having you here, I’m sure, but...”

He saw the realization come into Cal’s eyes, the way it took some of the wind out of his sails.

“But I’m not part of the band.” Cal’s voice was quieter.

“I wouldn’t quite say that.” Blake was quick to placate him. He hadn’t meant for the conversation to turn down this particular fork. “I mean more they won’t understand why you care so much, you know? And... possibly it might just be best to let the professionals handle this. The lawyers and shit. The guys we pay a lot of money.”

“I see.” Now Cal’s voice was atonal.

This was not how Blake wanted the drive to go at all.

“Your option
is
an option if the guys-in-suits approach doesn’t work,” Blake said. He reached out to touch at Cal’s chin, brushing his thumb over skin and stubble. “Please don’t think I’m not listening to you. And please don’t think I’m not immensely flattered you’d go all hostage negotiator on my account.”

That brought a bit of Cal’s grin back. He nuzzled into Blake’s hand, letting out a soft, affectionate hum.

“Not hostage negotiator, no. I don’t think the FBI’s hostage negotiator team has ever successfully rescued a hostage. Bad omen for a metaphor.”

Blake wrinkled his nose.

“Pretty sure that’s an urban legend, man.”

And just like that, he swerved the conversation around that particular pothole. He couldn’t afford for things with Cal to get testy, not now.

S
omewhere around the
Utah–Nevada state line, Cal got a phone call. He excused himself from the living area, sliding out from under Blake’s legs, and slipped his phone from his pocket. Though he didn’t have the number programmed into his address book, he knew The Garage’s landline number by heart.

“The Garage, Cal speaking,” he answered lightheartedly.

Distorted somewhat by background noise, Yanmei laughed in his ear.

“Very funny,” she said in a voice that admitted she found it at least kind of funny.

Cal slipped down the hall to the very back of the bus, hoping to annoy as few people as possible. He knew if he was trying to sleep the last thing he’d want was to be forced to listen to one half of someone else’s phone conversation.

“What’s up?” He kept his voice down, mindful of the others.

“I had a quick question for you. Hopefully something that a yes or no answer could cover.”

“Uh-huh?”

“We’ve got reserves in the op-ex budget to handle calling a plumber out, right?”

Uh-oh. She sure had a way of phrasing these things that downplayed the potential crisis just long enough to lull him into a false sense of security. Then, whammo.

“Yeah, we do. We’re not straddling the line between solvent and not, Yan.” Which Cal was thankful for. “Now uh, that’s a hell of a way to bring it up. What’s happened?”

“I’m not sure yet. That’s why I called the plumber.”

“It’s good that you called him early.”

“Yeah, he’s actually already here.”

“Easier to ask forgiveness than permission? And here I was thinking I was a lenient boss.”

They shared a quick laugh, but Cal could tell Yanmei sounded a little nervous. She said something to someone in the background, the words lost in the ambient noise of the rumbling bus.

“It looks like there might be a leak in the kitchen. There’s some discoloration in the ceiling tiles. He’s not a hundred percent sure yet but he thinks it might be the fire sprinklers.”

“That’s comforting. Tell the guys to be sure not to set any fires tonight.”

“When was our last code compliance inspection anyway? Shouldn’t they have checked those?”

Cal closed his eyes, trying to remember. He couldn’t conjure the date off the top of his head, but it was... recent-ish. He was less concerned about the safety inspection than he was about the well-concealed notes of frustration and anxiety that occasionally bubbled to the surface in Yanmei’s voice.

“Everything okay?” he asked, hoping she’d understand he didn’t just mean work.

“Yeah, things are good. Just... Christ, the bar’s not even open yet and I already wish I could have a do-over on today.”

“Anything I can help with?” Cal hated to hear her sounding so stressed out. Especially since a sprinkler leak was the sort of thing that normally fell on his shoulders, not hers. She handled the day-to-day operations, but building maintenance and accounting and that sort of stuff was generally Cal’s remit. Mostly because his father had a pretty convoluted, half-baked homegrown system for managing it all and Cal felt like no outside person deserved to have to navigate through it.

Especially a person he
liked.

“Nah, I’ve got it. Bad days happen. As long as you’re cool with letting me handle it, I’ve got this.”

“Of course I am. I trust you implicitly.”

There was a pause down the line. When she thanked him for that, he could hear a hint of a smile in her voice. Good. Mission accomplished.

“So how’s rock-star life treating you?” she asked. In the background, he heard someone fire up a drill.

“It’s less glamorous than it looks,” Cal admitted. “But I can’t say I hate it. And I have you to thank for getting me on this bus in the first place.”

“You know me. I get withdrawals if I go too long without sticking my nose in someone else’s business.”

“I’m glad you did.” Cal paused, wondering how much he could get away with saying. He felt at ease when talking to Yanmei. Talking to her—discussing the present circumstances of his life with her in particular—was easier than having the exact same conversation with Blake. Was it because of the inevitable sexual tension in Blake’s case?

Or was this just what it was like to have a friendship that was just friendship?

Cal hadn’t suffered from an excess of friends growing up. He’d been too busy. He still wasn’t great at navigating that stuff.

“Hey, so if I can’t get the kitchen under control by tonight...” Yanmei veered the conversation back toward work.

“Send the kitchen staff home for the night, but with pay. It isn’t their fault and our insurance will cover the lost income.”

“Wow, we have insurance?”

“Ha ha.” Cal rolled his eyes, even though she was hundreds of miles away. “And code compliance stuff is in the orange folder in the office, the laminated one. Any OSH-specific stuff goes in there. If this guy redoes the certificate, it goes in there too.”

“Got it.”

“And make sure you fill out an accident and incident form. Fax one copy to our head office in Los Angeles and keep the original on file in the event of an inspection.”

“Go entirely to hell.”

This time, Cal couldn’t quite control the volume of his voice when he laughed. He put a hand over his mouth, stifling it. Yanmei was laughing too. Any latent stress in her voice had vanished, a fact that Cal was proud of.

“Let me know if you need absolutely anything,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

“Yeah, I know I do.”

They said their goodbyes and Cal tucked his phone away again. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind, that persistent tug of guilt.
Of course something happened the second I stepped away from the bar,
his brain tried to reprimand itself. But he wasn’t going to go down that rabbit hole. Yanmei had been the one who’d convinced him to go on tour in the first place, the one who kept bringing up their vague, abstract notions of
doing more
in their lives.

The second he got the impression she couldn’t handle it, he’d come running. But for now, she was fine. The bar would be fine.

Cal was allowed to step outside his comfort zone once in a while, wasn’t he? Didn’t mean the whole world back home had to grind to a halt without him.

* * *

B
y the time
their buses pulled in behind the Mandalay Bay resort, the Las Vegas strip still dormant in the daylight hours, Cal had put his worries in the back of his mind. The Sinsationals’ apparatus rolled in and unfurled and unpacked and spread out, gear and band members and managers and crew filing every which way.

Cal caught a glimpse of Rhett disembarking from the other bus, his phone held to his ear. The burns on his face hadn’t been too severe. A casual observer could probably barely tell.

This time, Cal and Blake had separate rooms. Much to his chagrin.