by Lane Hayes
“Too bad,” I sighed. “I’m easily shook. As you can tell, I don’t do ‘under the radar’ well. I should probably just give you my social security number and the password for my bank account now. There’s nothing in there so don’t get excited, but still…I’ve compromised my anonymity, big-time. Remind me not to apply for a job with the CIA.”
He chuckled. “You got it.”
“Don’t tell me your name or anything crazy like that, Boyfriend, but you should probably tell me something to even this out.”
“I told you the name of the commercial jingle I wrote. You could always google it and—”
“That’s research. Not happening,” I huffed.
“Too much work?”
“Too annoying. You know my brother’s name and that my mom is miserable and that I know the words to more eighties songs than I should admit. Fess up. It’s only fair.”
“Okay…” He pulled into the driveway of a posh boutique hotel on Sunset and parked behind a Tesla near the modern-looking entry. Then he unfastened his seat belt and glanced up at the valet rounding the front of his car before refocusing on me. “My favorite color is blue, I’m an only child, my parents both died five years ago within a month of each other and…I’m going commando right now. How ’bout that drink?”
I gaped at him with wide-eyed surprise before fumbling with my seat belt. I flashed a phony smile at the valet and hurried to catch up to my companion. He strode purposefully through the stark-white minimalist lobby to the elevator, signaling a bellman standing nearby. The young man jumped to attention.
“Top floor, sir?”
Apparently, the question was rhetorical. He swiped a card over the sensor and wished us a good evening as he held the sliding doors open.
I glanced at our reflection in the mirrored interior. We looked good together in the way contrasting people and things sometimes did. Other than our heights being similar, we were opposites—from our styles of dress to our ages and levels of self-confidence. I was confident for sure, but there were places I felt more at home than others. Boyfriend had the look of someone who belonged everywhere and anywhere he wanted to be.
Me? I wasn’t sure I belonged anywhere in particular. The feeling was alternately freeing or lonely as fuck. It was kind of nice to be with someone who could navigate a dive bar and a swanky hotel bar with the right amount of swagger.
He flashed a wolfish grin in the mirror, then stepped forward and held the door open when we reached our destination. “This way.”
2
GRAY
Justin followed me through a dimly lit corridor into the Skybar, one of my favorite spots in the city. I might not be a regular, but I came often enough with Sebastian that some of the staff knew me by sight. I could do without the LA glam crowd, but I loved the ambience. The space had a dark and sexy feel. The modern-style sofas and white leather ottomans anchoring the middle of the room were designed not to detract from the impressive skyline view visible through the massive wall of windows beyond the glass-and-steel bar. Outdoor heaters dotted the lounge area on the patio around the blue-lit pool. A few nights a week, famous deejays played hits for the elite crowd who danced under fairy lights well into the early morning hours—thankfully, not on Wednesdays. Tonight, a jazz quartet played a haunting melody from a raised dais in the corner.
Beautiful people posed like models in a fashion spread. Handsome men with artfully mussed hair and one too many buttons undone on their designer shirts chatted with gorgeous women who shared a similar look…model-thin with tight, short skirts and perfect curls in their well-coiffed, long hair. The uniformity was a tad off-putting, if you asked me, but it seemed to be the current style. And fuck knew, I was no expert when it came to fashion. I relied on my godson to keep me from pairing stripes and plaids. According to Charlie, that was a no-no. But I wasn’t interested in impressing anyone. I was here to—
I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. None.
I gave Justin a quick once-over and gestured lamely toward the bar.
“What do you want to drink?” I asked.
“Uh…gin and tonic, please. Do you want me to grab a seat somewhere? It’s kinda crowded.”
“Sure. Or we can go outside.”
“Dude, it’s fuckin’ freezing,” he huffed.
I chuckled. “Okay, then find a seat for us.”
Justin gave me a thumbs-up before wandering toward the band while I placed our order. I cautioned myself to not to stare at his ass in those tight jeans or admire his gorgeous ink or stunning profile. Damn, he was sexy. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Men and women shot clandestine glances at the good-looking Latino standing to the side with his arms crossed, bopping his head to the beat. If I read his body language correctly, I’d guess he was uncomfortable but interested. Like he wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he didn’t mind. I felt the same way.
It wasn’t like me to invite a stranger for a drink and whisk him to an exclusive bar in the sky to show him a different side of the city just for fun. Honestly, I didn’t really like people that much. But from the moment Justin stepped onstage at Carmine’s, I’d been intrigued.
He was a bundle of every contradiction known to man. Nervous and awkward, then cocky and self-righteous. And something magical happened when he smiled at the crowd and promised to sing a song they wouldn’t forget. His guitar-playing was weak at best, but he had star power. He didn’t have room to jump around and ignite the masses with over-the-top charismatic displays. He’d relied on his words and his passionate vocals. And damn, had he delivered. I was impressed. Hell, Sebastian was impressed. I sent my friend a quick text before slipping my cell back into my pocket and plotting my exit strategy.
One drink and then I’d call a taxi for Justin. I didn’t want to take him home because I didn’t want to know where he lived, and I certainly didn’t want him to know where I lived. This was only okay if we knew as little about each other as possible. I didn’t want to be Justin’s champion or mentor or the guy who might introduce him to a bigger name. I wanted the anonymity he’d suggested earlier, and I wanted to give him his too.
Of course, I had an advantage. I knew who he was, and thanks to Carmine and Seb, I’d heard about the scandal with the ex and the drummer. Honestly, the whole story confused me. He seemed to be friendly with the drummer, but he hated the guitarist from the other band. Not that it mattered. I didn’t care about the gossip surrounding him. I was interested in him. And for an hour or so, we could just be two guys who might be mildly attracted to each other but weren’t going to do anything about it. Except have a cocktail.
“Here you go.”
Justin smiled and thanked me. “These guys are good. They should be playing where they’re appreciated. No one’s paying any attention here.”
“When you love what you do, you play wherever you can. Isn’t that why you were at Carmine’s tonight?” I asked.
“I guess,” he replied before looking around the bar area. “Every seat is taken unless one of us is willing to hang a cheek off the edge of the sofa over there.”
I shook my head. “Let’s go outside. There are plenty of space heaters. You’ll be fine.”
Giant sliding doors opened onto the rooftop deck. It was blessedly quiet outside. No deejay in the middle of the week in January. No raucous crowds. Our only company was a small group huddled under a canopy on the other side of the pool. And they were far enough away that we couldn’t overhear their conversation. I chose two comfy-looking lounge chairs near the glass and steel balcony under a portable heater. Our chairs faced the view and made it feel like it was just us, high above the city of angels.
“This is beautiful. So many lights.” Justin flopped gracelessly onto one of the chairs and sipped his drink. “Good G and T too. The bartender in me is very particular about these things.”
“That makes sense.” I set my drink on a side table and sat on the chair next to his, under a space heater. “Do you want to switch, Jus—”
<
br /> He snickered at my contrite grimace. “You don’t have to avoid my name. I know you know it. In spite of my best intentions, I’m pretty much an open book. It’s a curse. What else did you want to know?”
Talk about a loaded question. But I’d made a mental agreement allowing myself an hour with him, so I figured I should stick to professional inquiries. “Are you planning on going solo?”
My question seemed to surprise him. He shook his head vehemently. “No way. I need musicians who’re better than me to back me up. Tegan’s the best drummer out there, and Johnny’s awesome on electric guitar. We’ve been playing dumps and dive bars for a few months now under JTJ when we can get friends to fill in on bass.”
“JTJ?”
“Our initials. Once we lock down a full-time bassist, we can get more official. Waiting around for the stars to align has been frustrating. At first it was necessary because of all the fucking drama with Xena and Dec and…whatever. I hoped the invitation from Carmine tonight was a sign we’d all moved on. Sadly, I don’t think that’s the case. The truth is, I forced a situation because I wanted a chance. We were so unprepared, it wasn’t funny. Tegan’s a great drummer but a wonky bassist. We needed Johnny.” He sighed heavily and jumped to his feet.
“Where was he?” I asked, joining him at the balcony.
“Work. He’s a barista with me at Aromatique and works as a waiter in the evenings. We all have two jobs. Tegan and I both work at Vibes. Miraculously, we were able to get the night off together. Our boss-slash-Tegan’s boyfriend makes sure that never happens. That must have been quite a blowjob,” he huffed, looking out at the view. Before I could ask any probing questions, he turned back to me. “What about you? Were you ever in a band?”
“No.”
“Do you play an instrument? You must. Songwriters usually play something.”
“Piano and guitar.”
“You any good?”
“I’ve been told I’m not bad.” I smiled. “What about you?”
“Guitar only and I’ve been told I suck,” he countered with a self-deprecating shrug.
I chuckled appreciatively. “I like your style. Your lyrics were poignant and fresh, with a perfect amount of relatable angst. The relatable part is important. A lot of songwriters regurgitate crap they hear about on the news or on social media.”
“You’re right. So many people want to sound woke. It’s just a sales ploy.”
“ ‘Woke’? What does that mean?”
“You really don’t know?” he asked in surprise.
“I’m older than you. That doesn’t mean I’m smarter.”
“It means attuned to social injustice. Alert to what’s happening around you. It’s how I try to write. Sometimes emotional crap gets in the way, but words are therapy.”
“Wise. The key is to draw from your own experiences. At least, it works for me sometimes. Who are your influences?”
Justin furrowed his brow and then grinned. The transformation was breathtaking, even in profile. “It’s all over the map. Kendrick Lamar, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell. I like lyrics that paint a picture and use clever turns of phrase. I want to make people feel what I feel…but in a way that makes sense to them.”
“Relatable.”
“Exactly.” He bumped his fist on the railing and shot a feverish glance my way before gesturing toward the glittering city below. “I don’t want to write about bright lights and phony love stories. I want to know the people in those houses. The regular folks just trying to get by, not the ones taking selfies next to Porsches who hang out in sky bars. No offense.”
I barked a laugh. “I’m regular.”
“I’m not talking about your bowel movements,” he snarked. “Hey, don’t get me wrong. This is nice, but…the city lights from a fancy hotel…it’s not real.”
“Sure it is. It’s a perspective from above. Sometimes I can imagine flying close enough to see and hear what’s happening behind closed doors.”
“Like a peeping Tom.”
I smirked. “Something like that. Minus the creepy connotation.”
“Hmm. I’m the opposite. I want to be on the street. I want to be part of the story, not just the guy recording it. I’m not exactly a success story, though. Maybe I should think about changing my approach,” he huffed with a laugh.
“Okay, let’s try something.” I pointed toward the hillside. “Check out that house. The one with the telescope in the window. See it?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the first thing that pops into your mind?”
“I wonder if they have a dog,” he replied.
“Really?” I asked incredulously. “You just said you wanted to be part of the story. Don’t you wonder about who lives there, what they do, and if they’re happy or sad or if they’re lonely as fuck?”
He squinted in the distance, then shook his head slowly and bent to pick up his drink. “Nope. Don’t care. Right now I’m worried about the dog.”
“They might not have a dog,” I countered.
“If they do, I hope it’s small and doesn’t need a ton of exercise. Look at that fucking driveway. It would be hell to take a big dog on a walk up those hills too, but I’m guessing people do it and—why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re either very odd or this is a not-so-subtle way of changing the subject.”
Justin raised his glass in a toast and grinned. “Both. If we talk about music and songwriting, I’m gonna want to know more about you, and that might ruin tonight. I like the mystery. Let’s keep it shallow.”
I chuckled. “Okay. Do you have a dog?”
“No. I can’t for now, but you should get one.”
“I’m not getting a dog,” I deadpanned.
“What kind? Big dog, little dog? Purebred, mutt? C’mon. I can help you with this. Don’t be shy. We’re just spitballin’ here.”
“Um, okay…well, I’d probably get a wirehaired pointing griffon,” I replied matter-of-factly.
Justin widened his eyes. “What the fuck is that?”
I threw my head back and guffawed at his comedic expression. “I don’t know. I was watching the Westminster Dog Show a couple of months ago, and the name stuck with me. He was probably some goofy-looking guy who was doing exactly the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing. That seems like the kind of dog I’d end up with. I’d say ‘Chester, come,’ and he’d either give me a bored ‘whatever, man’ look or run down the hill chasing cars.”
“So we’re naming him Chester, eh?” he asked. “I like him already. Sounds like me.”
“A pain in the ass?”
“Occasionally…yes. Depends on who you ask.”
I cocked my head curiously. “Are you saying you’re attracted to uncooperative types or that you are one?”
“Both. I’m attracted to people who are a little out there, you know what I mean? People who aren’t afraid to look silly or take chances.” He flopped back onto the chair and motioned for me to sit. Then he leaned over the armrest and absently brushed his hand against mine. “But not completely insane and ideally, not malicious.”
“Your bar is a little low.”
Justin snickered and then took a sip. “I don’t really have a bar. I’m terrible at relationships. I could never write a believable love song.”
“Sure you could. You just pretend you’re writing about ice cream or Chester and let your feelings go.”
“But that’s fake and contrived. I’d rather write about things everyone can relate to, like isolation, frustration, loneliness.”
“That sounds bleak,” I commented. “Don’t you think people need songs about hope, friendship, romance, love?”
He scoffed. “Friendship and hope…sure. But romance and love are bullshit.”
“What’s wrong with romance?” I hiked my knee on the cushion to get a better look at him. His expressive facial features fascinated me. He was scornful, then thoughtful, and always passionate.
“Romance is the perce
ived gateway to love. It’s a front. You can woo someone with flowers, nice dinners, return text messages in a timely manner, and pay extra attention to their boring-ass stories, but let’s be real…you do it for sex,” he proclaimed.
“Me?” I pointed at my chest and gave him an innocent look.
“Yeah, you. And me. And every single person in this bar and the one we just left. We all want something. ‘Everybody’s in it for their own gain.’ ” He jumped to his feet again and snapped his fingers. “That’s a line from a Joni Mitchell song, by the way.”
“ ‘Free Man in Paris,’ ” I said automatically, impressed that someone his age knew Joni Mitchell well enough to quote lyrics from a relatively obscure song.
“Yeah. That’s it. And it’s true. We do this casual exchange of emotional currency all the damn time without thinking twice. Tell me I’m special, I’ll give you a blowjob. That kind of thing. Maybe there’s real affection involved, but if channels of reciprocation and communication fail, you’re fucked. Not in a good way.”
“You are very cynical for a guy who hasn’t hit thirty yet.”
“I’m realistic. My brother and his boyfriend are the only exception I’ve seen lately. And I can’t even tell you what makes them different. It’s not flowery bullshit like romance or love. It’s something more elusive, like the right balance of respect, affection, friendship…and still wanting to fuck whenever they can.”
I barked a quick laugh, then stood to join him at the railing. “Cynical and eloquent. I should be writing this down.”
Justin shrugged nonchalantly. “Go ahead. It’s the truth. I’ve never had that before. Definitely not with Xena. We were a series of gives and takes. That sounds okay, but mental and physical bartering without respect wears thin after a while. We broke up six months ago, and it still feels like a chess game. I just don’t want to play anymore. With anyone.”
“What do you want to do?”