experience and maturity? Cal continued to play, fingers moving lightly over frets and strings, but he focused now on Blake.
Blake had his eyes closed, as he often did while playing. His agile hands worked the banjo with an expert’s touch, no superfluous movement to them at all. Cal watched the shadows play over Blake’s knuckles, then let his gaze travel up languidly, roving over Blake’s body, settling on his mouth. He had full lips, a mouth that was quick to frown or smile or laugh, a very mobile mouth...
Cal felt it like a change in the weather, the subtle shift inside him. A lazy wave of arousal washed over him, tempting him along a different train of thought. He wondered if Blake had any new tattoos. He wondered if Blake would taste the same.
But before he could indulge those thoughts any deeper, Blake plucked a single, loud chord, signifying the end of the song. They ceased playing in tandem, their last mingled notes ringing out together.
Scattered applause broke out in the bar, Yanmei’s among it.
Cal’s mouth felt dry. And when he dared look up, he saw Blake was staring at him. The look in Blake’s eye sent a shudder through Cal’s spine. Intense was one word that was often used to describe Blake Bradley’s eyes, but when Cal looked into their color-shifting depths presently, the word that leaped most readily to mind was pleading.
That was a look that could get a man to obey. To give up anything.
Cal had to be careful. So careful.
11
Blake
T he jam session at The Garage had left Blake rattled. He couldn’t stand the feeling. He kicked around the hotel and the venue both in a state of irritable moping, consuming too many energy drinks and too many tempura veggies from catering.
Had a really great time yesterday
He typed in a blank text window. Then he immediately deleted it. He sounded like a little girl after a junior-high dance. Jesus. He was a grown man.
Great catching up
He tried. But no, that sounded like a semi-estranged relative.
Fuck, why did it have to be so hard? All he wanted to do was let Cal know that seeing him again had actually been... really good. Great, even. Relieving. He felt as if an immense weight had been swept off his shoulders. Like the removal of that guitar from his closet was the manifestation of clearing out begrudging cobwebs in his heart.
But he couldn’t just say that. Not to Calvin Lindsay, whom Blake was pretty sure had No-Nonsense as a middle name.
Fortunately, Erica had a distraction for him prior to their show. Unfortunately, it was Rhett-related.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Erica asked, peeking around the doorway into the catering room. Blake sat alone, munching on broccoli tempura, and beckoned her in with a batter-covered carrot stick.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Erica dropped down onto the bench seat beside him, frowning at the door. She had deep red lipstick on that lent her moody expression a hint of Old Hollywood drama. Blake wasn’t sure he should tell her that or not. On a good day, she’d appreciate it.
“I think Rhett’s been going through my stuff,” she said.
“That’s... odd, even for him.” Blake wasn’t sure what word to pick there, but “odd” covered many bases.
“Specifically my meds,” she said.
And that put the conversation into a whole new context. Blake made a grunt of acknowledgment, but kept his mouth shut, opting to listen rather than opine.
“I wasn’t sure at first, thought maybe I just wasn’t keeping track. I don’t take them that often, you know?”
Blake knew Erica took painkillers sometimes, courtesy of an old car accident she’d been in as a teenager. She used to play a full drum kit, but the accident gave her lower back problems that hadn’t entirely gone away. Blake always hoped playing the tambourine had at least taken the edge off losing the drums for her. And she was a hell of a backing vocalist, too.
Deep down, the tiny pit of anger Rhett had dug in Blake’s heart
Blake had his eyes closed, as he often did while playing. His agile hands worked the banjo with an expert’s touch, no superfluous movement to them at all. Cal watched the shadows play over Blake’s knuckles, then let his gaze travel up languidly, roving over Blake’s body, settling on his mouth. He had full lips, a mouth that was quick to frown or smile or laugh, a very mobile mouth...
Cal felt it like a change in the weather, the subtle shift inside him. A lazy wave of arousal washed over him, tempting him along a different train of thought. He wondered if Blake had any new tattoos. He wondered if Blake would taste the same.
But before he could indulge those thoughts any deeper, Blake plucked a single, loud chord, signifying the end of the song. They ceased playing in tandem, their last mingled notes ringing out together.
Scattered applause broke out in the bar, Yanmei’s among it.
Cal’s mouth felt dry. And when he dared look up, he saw Blake was staring at him. The look in Blake’s eye sent a shudder through Cal’s spine. Intense was one word that was often used to describe Blake Bradley’s eyes, but when Cal looked into their color-shifting depths presently, the word that leaped most readily to mind was pleading.
That was a look that could get a man to obey. To give up anything.
Cal had to be careful. So careful.
11
Blake
T he jam session at The Garage had left Blake rattled. He couldn’t stand the feeling. He kicked around the hotel and the venue both in a state of irritable moping, consuming too many energy drinks and too many tempura veggies from catering.
Had a really great time yesterday
He typed in a blank text window. Then he immediately deleted it. He sounded like a little girl after a junior-high dance. Jesus. He was a grown man.
Great catching up
He tried. But no, that sounded like a semi-estranged relative.
Fuck, why did it have to be so hard? All he wanted to do was let Cal know that seeing him again had actually been... really good. Great, even. Relieving. He felt as if an immense weight had been swept off his shoulders. Like the removal of that guitar from his closet was the manifestation of clearing out begrudging cobwebs in his heart.
But he couldn’t just say that. Not to Calvin Lindsay, whom Blake was pretty sure had No-Nonsense as a middle name.
Fortunately, Erica had a distraction for him prior to their show. Unfortunately, it was Rhett-related.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Erica asked, peeking around the doorway into the catering room. Blake sat alone, munching on broccoli tempura, and beckoned her in with a batter-covered carrot stick.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Erica dropped down onto the bench seat beside him, frowning at the door. She had deep red lipstick on that lent her moody expression a hint of Old Hollywood drama. Blake wasn’t sure he should tell her that or not. On a good day, she’d appreciate it.
“I think Rhett’s been going through my stuff,” she said.
“That’s... odd, even for him.” Blake wasn’t sure what word to pick there, but “odd” covered many bases.
“Specifically my meds,” she said.
And that put the conversation into a whole new context. Blake made a grunt of acknowledgment, but kept his mouth shut, opting to listen rather than opine.
“I wasn’t sure at first, thought maybe I just wasn’t keeping track. I don’t take them that often, you know?”
Blake knew Erica took painkillers sometimes, courtesy of an old car accident she’d been in as a teenager. She used to play a full drum kit, but the accident gave her lower back problems that hadn’t entirely gone away. Blake always hoped playing the tambourine had at least taken the edge off losing the drums for her. And she was a hell of a backing vocalist, too.
Deep down, the tiny pit of anger Rhett had dug in Blake’s heart
Similar Books
