Romancing Austin

by Riley Bancroft, Evelyn Berry, Cara Carnes, Jax Garren, Irene Preston, Rebecca Royce, Chandra Ryan

  “Did you just trash my work shirt?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re ever going back.”

  “Guess I burned that bridge.” Dylan admitted. “You sure you don’t want to donate it to the homeless or something?”

  “The homeless have enough problems. I’m not inflicting a Joe Bob’s shirt on them, too.”

  Aston took a look at Dylan in the black tee with the bar logo splashed across the chest and swallowed hard. Why hadn’t he bought an XXL, something nice and baggy? Size large was way too…the shirt stretched across Dylan’s shoulders and chest. Somehow Dylan’s body, hugged by cotton, was way sexier than Dex’s bare abs had been earlier in the evening.

  Aston couldn’t stop staring, and Dylan had to notice. The moment stretched out. The bass from the music blaring out of the back door of the bar kept time with Aston’s heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Pounding in his ears until he couldn’t hear anything else and everything boiled down to the rhythmic thud, the heat in Dylan’s eyes, and the tension stretching between them. Dylan’s head was tilted up, and all Aston had to do was take one step forward….

  Dylan turned his head, breaking eye contact. “Thanks for the shirt.”

  Suddenly they were just two guys standing in an alley with more broken between them than the shards of glass littering the ground.

  —

  Music.

  Dylan lay still, eyes closed, and tried to remember where he’d gone to sleep. His sluggish morning brain churned through possibilities. Not his shitty New York apartment or the even shittier run-down motel room he was renting by the week. This place felt familiar, not-familiar at the same time.

  The Mighty Craic. His brain put a name to the band as the rest of the night caught up with him. Home in Austin. Win.

  Home-not-home. Win had brought him home.

  Except it wasn’t Dylan’s home anymore.

  Slowly the rest of the night filled in. The Mighty Craic he could place because they were the first band he’d seen and the only one worth remembering in Dylan’s opinion.

  Afterwards, there had been a Japanese punk-girl combo, a guy with a guitar and a drum-machine who seemed to be making a political statement, and some kind of kicker music complete with an accordion. Win had insisted on buying Dylan beers, and things had been mercifully fuzzy by then.

  The “venues” started in a warehouse on the east side and deteriorated from there. No one at any of the bars had been wearing festival wristbands, much less badges. The last place, more of an after-party, was someone’s house off very South Congress. Outside, a group of five guys in choir robes sat around a chiminea doing something earnest and a cappella. A couple of tripped out hipsters swayed and gestured next to them, actually trying to dance to it. Inside, Dylan sat on the floor, back against the couch, and half-listened as Win and a lesbian with blue dreadlocks argued the finer points of Doctor Who and whether ska was still a thing.

  He floated in deadspace, let it all happen to someone else. Maybe it was the beer, the lack of sleep, or the joints making their way around the room. Mostly, it might have been an unwillingness to face whatever came after the stolen, unexpected night in Win’s company.

  Eventually, Win had noticed Dylan wasn’t exactly coherent anymore and loaded him back into Izzie. The beer and the contact high had dulled the pain of admitting there was no car, so Win didn’t have to worry about Dylan driving in an altered state.

  “I’m not taking you to your aunt’s at this hour. Come on, you can crash at my place.”

  My place, not our place. It still seemed like home, though, even if he was in the wrong room. Dylan cracked one eye open.

  Guest room.

  Real guest room with a functional daybed, art on the walls, and what looked like a home office set up in one corner. Not the empty room where they tossed all their excess junk until it looked like hoarder central.

  Hanging over a corner of the computer monitor was a SXSW badge. A platinum badge. They could have gone any place they wanted last night. Or Win could have if he had bothered to take the badge with him. Nice to know some things hadn’t changed.

  Win would be complaining over breakfast about the hordes of badge-people, the traffic, and how everyone wanted to listen to commercial crap instead of “real” music. Then he would clam up, throw a guilty look in Dylan’s direction, and change the subject. They didn’t discuss Dylan’s playlists, which included Katie Perry and Taylor Swift and whomever else most Americans were listening to on the radio instead of the “good” stuff featured in select garages and YouTube videos.

  Dylan sat up in bed and eyed the badge on Win’s computer. Elite South-by parties and a platinum badge he didn’t even bother to use. What had Win been up to while Dylan was gone?

  Everything pointed to a major life upgrade. Dylan flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to re-group. What had he thought? He could come back to Austin and find Win just waiting for him? He could get the same sweet deal as last time? Waltz in and offer to keep the electricity on and the property tax paid so Win could stop being the worst waiter in Austin and focus on his art?

  God, he was a jerk, because yes, he had pictured exactly that. He had just needed a month or so to get back on his feet, and then he had planned on picking up exactly where they left off.

  It had never crossed his mind that Win might not need rescuing a second time just as it had never crossed his mind that Win wouldn’t cave and follow Dylan to New York.

  He stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine a scenario based more firmly in reality but in which he still wound up getting Win back. Then the music changed and reality crashed his pity-party and his tentative dreams, too.

  Win’s voice in the kitchen, indistinct through the walls, and another voice answering, low and intimate.

  There hadn’t been another car in the drive when they finally made it home around dawn, and Dylan hadn’t been so drunk he didn’t appreciate the fact.

  He hustled out of bed, cracked the blinds, and peered out the window. A late-model Acura crowded Izzie in the driveway, bumpers almost kissing. The voices got a little more animated, moved, and there was the sound of the front door. No way to see the door from this angle, and Dylan was really, really glad because without a visual he could deny reality and pretend the little silence right before the door opened hadn’t been Jim and Win saying goodbye with their lips.

  He watched Jim get into his nice, you-only-better car and drive away.

  Afterwards, he didn’t want to face Win, but he couldn’t very well climb out the window, either.

  Also, despite all evidence from his eyes and his few functioning brain cells, his heart kept insisting he had to get Win back.

  Go find a job, asshole.

  Not just any job, either, a really good Acura-buying type job. Hope Win’s taste in men hadn’t improved, and Jim would do something just as stupid as Dylan had. Get. Win. Back.

  The idea sounded pretty hopeless.

  But he found himself in the bathroom, sprucing up as best he could before he faced Win.

  In the kitchen, Dylan paused in the doorway, not sure what to say. Win sat at the table, hunched over his phone. Today there were no new clothes, just Win’s regular vintage tee and threadbare jeans. Bare feet. Even the pretty new hair was mussed and there was a visible smudge on his designer glasses. He looked adorable.

  “Hey.”

  Win looked up, blinked twice, then focused back on his phone. “You just missed Jim. I never got around to introducing you last night.”

  “Yeah, sorry we missed each other,” Dylan said, not sorry at all. He tried not to let his brain make any associations between Win’s mussed hair and Jim.

  Then, because he was an eternal optimist, “What was he doing here?” He’d done a little snooping on his way to the kitchen, and the house showed no sign of dual-occupancy.

  “Came by to drop off a new credit card. I left my old one somewhere last week, and I need to order some supplies for a new project and pay so
me bills. I should have gotten it last night, but I was, um, distracted, with, um South-by and everything. Um, want some breakfast?”

  Win was blushing, which might have been cute, except, what the fuck, Win? What kind of relationship did he and Jim have where Jim paid all the bills and they didn’t live together? Like-you-only-more, like-you-only-more.

  Dylan glared at the empty box of toaster pastries in front of Win and the half dozen foil wrappers scattered over the table nearly hiding the little silver card next to Win’s coffee.

  He stomped over to the fridge.

  “I don’t suppose Jim brought you anything useful, like some edible food?” He yanked open the fridge and surveyed the contents - a 12-pack of soda, two take-out containers, and miscellaneous condiments. Better than when he had first met Win by one take-out container.

  He tried the cabinets next. About a case of toaster pastries in one; the other featured assorted varieties of orange things: cheesy puffs, cheesy tortilla chips, cheesy crackers. One random bag of ranch-flavored potato chips sat forlornly on the top shelf, obviously a purchasing error.

  “Ever heard of a piece of fruit?” God, maybe he hadn’t been the best boyfriend, but at least he had made sure Win ate decent meals.

  “Guess I should get groceries, too. Want to go out again tonight?”

  Dylan stopped inventorying the hydrogenated fats in the pantry and stared at Win. “Are you kidding me?”

  Win did the blush again. “It doesn’t have to be like last night. We, ummm, Jim said he can get us another badge if you want to see any of the headliners.”

  “And Jim’s cool with that, is he?”

  The blush and fidgeting. “I think he wants to meet you.”

  What? “Well I don’t want to meet him. Jesus, Win, that’s just too weird.”

  Win finally managed to make eye contact. “Why?”

  “Your new boyfriend wants to meet your ex-boyfriend and buy him a sixteen-hundred-dollar badge to go out on the town with you? And you don’t think it’s weird?”

  “I—“ Win blinked rapidly. “Music would just be eight-hundred, but it wouldn’t—“

  “Oh, only eight-hundred? Excuse me.” The sense of disorientation that had kept him off balance since he had spotted Win the night before disappeared, sucked into a tornado of outrage.

  “Fuck you, Win. I worried about you. I worried how you were going to pay the bills. I worried you were going to lose the house. I worried you didn’t have enough to eat. So I come home, and I find out I didn’t need to worry at all. You’ve got some rich asshole paying your bills and getting you into any place you want to go. Congratulations. You’re up to your eyeballs in cola and junk food.”

  Dylan’s hands clenched on the bag of cheesy chips he was still holding. God, as if he hadn’t already fucked things beyond recognition with Win. Win, who had been willing to put himself out to go see music Dylan might like, who hadn’t done anything wrong except get on with his life, and… It didn’t matter. The thought of you-only-more Jim being the one to give Win all the things he needed offended Dylan to his soul.

  The bag of chips flew across the room, narrowly missing Win’s head and hitting the far wall in an explosion of orange. Cheesy craps everywhere. Yee-haw.

  Dylan’s ears were ringing.

  “Why can’t you fucking eat right? Why doesn’t he buy you some goddamn juice, at least? Does he care about you at all, or do you just suck his dick?”

  He might have gone on, but the next thing he knew the kitchen chair was skittering across the floor as Win shoved away from the table.

  “Get out. Getoutgetoutgetout.” Win stood in front of him trembling and white-faced. “You left, Dylan. Don’t pretend you came back out of concern for me. I know your restaurant closed, but you don’t know the first thing about my life for the past year. If you cared at all, you would know what Jim is to me. So, please….” The words halted on a shuddering breath.

  Dylan stared up at Win, terrified of what he’d done. His anger shattered against the set of Win’s face, all dark planes and harsh shadows. His Win lived on dreams and orange sunshine. This face belonged to a stranger.

  “Winbaby,” he tried, helplessly.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Win.”

  “My name is Aston. Please just leave, Dylan.”

  There wasn’t anything else to say, but Dylan tried anyway. When he got to the door, he turned and looked back. Win stood, stiff and silent, daring him to make any more accusations or excuses.

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan said. “I know you don’t believe me, but I want you to be happy. If Jim is what you need, I’m glad.”

  Then he opened the door and stepped out into the bright Texas day.

  3

  Aston stared at the place where Dylan had been seconds before, afraid to move in case he broke down in tears. Do you just suck his dick? Did Dylan really think Aston would be with someone just for their money? Did he think the only reason the two of them had been together was so Dylan could pay the bills?

  Winbaby.

  A little sob caught in the back of his throat, and he swallowed it back angrily. No crying. No more crying over Dylan. He was done with useless emotional indulgences.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face and took a breath. He was done with this. So he had seen Dylan again. So what? Dylan was gone again now, and this time it wouldn’t hurt as much.

  I worried about you. Yes, Dylan had worried so much he hadn’t called or texted once. He had obviously never stalked Aston around the internet like Aston had stalked Dylan. And Dylan never updated his social media. Aston had been forced to troll for mentions on the stupid restaurant sites.

  Dylan wanted worried? Aston had been going nuts for the last six weeks since those had stopped and Yelp reported the place closed. New York did not seem like a friendly place to be unemployed.

  Aston picked up his phone and headed to the bedroom for his shoes. He needed to order supplies. He needed to work.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the phone. He shouldn’t do this. Dylan was gone.

  As if his absence had stopped Aston all the times in the past.

  And now he knew where to look because Dylan was back in Austin, not lost in the vastness of New York.

  Aston’s finger hovered. He was going to make a few orders, then go outside to his studio and get in a few hours work. Then he would review his band schedule for tonight. He wasn’t going waste any more time on Dylan.

  He activated the screen and tried not to think about what his fingers were doing. Just checking in on Linda and the kids, nothing wrong with seeing what your friends were up to. If there happened to be pictures of Dylan, or she mentioned him being home…

  Only there weren’t, and she hadn’t.

  Aston frowned, scrolling a little deeper. In his stomach, little flutters of panic started to push aside the anger and hurt.

  He almost pissed himself when the phone rang, so tense he actually tossed it into the air and then had to fumble madly to keep it from hitting the floor. The panic only ratcheted higher when he checked caller ID. Linda. The coincidence weirded him out so much, for a second he wondered if he had somehow called her without noticing.

  “Ummm, hello?” Had his voice squeaked?

  “Aston?”

  “Ummm,” he cleared his throat and tried to get a grip. “Yeah, Linda. Wow, I haven’t talked to you in a while. What’s up?”

  Silence. Crap. She had called him, right? He absolutely had not psychically dialed Dylan’s aunt.

  “Hon, I’m sorry to bother you. I know when Dylan left….” She trailed off.

  “No, it’s okay. I miss you guys. We should have stayed in touch more.” Except, awkward.

  “Well, I’m just going to ask. One of the boys said someone saw you and Dylan out at a bar last night. I told him they must be mistaken, but Dylan hasn’t returned my calls in weeks and.... Aston, I know it’s a long shot, but I’m worried. Have you talked to him?”


  He was going to kill Dylan.

  Two minutes later he was in Izzie, idling at the corner of First Street and wondering which way to turn. He couldn’t remember what he had said to Linda. Only one thing had been crystal clear in his mind. Dylan wasn’t lost in New York City. He was lost right here in Austin. He had no car, no job, and he was acting like he didn’t have any family.

  It hurt, but Aston could understand Dylan not calling his loser ex-boyfriend first thing back in town. But his family? Why would Dylan shut himself off from them?

  He turned south, going on instinct. How far could Dylan have gotten on foot? He hadn’t wanted to buy drinks last night. Did he have money for a cab? The bus? Aston crawled down the street, ignoring the cars stacked up behind him and craning his head back and forth to check parking lots and side streets.

  No one at the first bus stop or the second. His stomach clenched. He was almost certain Dylan wouldn’t have sprung for a cab. If he was already on a bus, Aston would never find him and, please God, don’t let him be hitching.

  Maybe he should try the other way.

  One more stop, then he would turn around. Ahead, he could see the bus already slowing, and he punched the gas.

  But the only person at the next stop was a mountain of punk rock in full cenobite black robe, black platform boots, and bristling Mohawk spikes, one hand resting casually on a lime green upright vacuum cleaner.

  Aston hit his turn signal; time to turn around. He was halfway into the next lane when the bus doors opened and Heavy Metal Homemaker stepped forward, rolling the vacuum behind him. Without yards of black vinyl and a gallon of hair gel blocking his view, Aston could see the rest of the sidewalk. Dylan’s head turned just as Aston swerved Izzie back into the right-hand lane. Their eyes met, and for one searing second Dylan looked right at him. Then he followed the vacuum cleaner onto the bus.

  Oh. Oh. Aston pounded the steering wheel and hit the turn signal again. Dylan was so dead. Aston was going to personally strangle him.

  Aston cursed as the bus lumbered forward, Izzie right on its rear bumper. The next stop was only a few blocks away. Aston glared at the steady stream of cars snaking into the left lane around Izzie and the slow-ass bus. Assholes. Did no one know what a turn signal meant? He was never going to get around.