by Amy Lane
“That’s fascinating,” Taylor said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Now tell me something real.”
Cooper sighed. “You know, when you get out of the system, a lot of times you don’t have anywhere to go, right?”
“Yeah,” Taylor said, the sarcasm gone. “I knew that.”
“So, I knew it was coming, and I just… I wanted a job. I wanted some control. I saw guys building something near my foster family’s place, thought I didn’t have the greatest grades in the world, but that looked like I couldn’t fuck it up.”
Taylor caught his eyes and nodded. “That’s real, kid. And smart. Keep talking. I’m on the edge of my seat.”
It must have been the morphine. Or the pain under the morphine. Or the Oh thank you Jesus, I’m finally getting a chance to spill my guts relief.
Because Cooper’s entire life story poured out of him with little prompting from Taylor, slowing to a trickle before he even got to Felicity and how he ended up with a girl living on his couch for the past two years. He only quit when he was close to asleep, and then Taylor reached over and patted the back of his hand.
“’Sallright, Spooky Cooper,” Taylor said kindly, using the nickname the guys on the construction unit had given him. “You go to sleep, and someone will be here when you wake up.”
Cooper frowned. “How’d you know that name?”
“Brandon worries about you a lot. Guess he was right about that.”
“’M fine.” He was so falling asleep. “But is nice, not being alone.”
“We’ll try to make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Taylor said quietly. “So don’t worry. You won’t be alone again for a while.”
“Always.” This was a true thing. “Always alone.”
Work-roughened hand on his brow—that was unexpected. “Not anymore.”
He couldn’t argue again. Mouth wouldn’t work. He’d comfort himself with that nice dream.
Playing
SAMMY’S piano teacher, Anson Charles, had been one of his favorite parts of growing up. Now that he was majoring in music and securing appearances and jobs of his own as he attended college, he kept his schedule open for Anson’s music lessons, mostly so he could share them with Letty and Keenan and they could fall in love with music too.
Letty sat, tongue between her teeth, and tinkled out a delicate version of “Heart and Soul” while Keenan sprawled on the club chair in the corner, waiting for his turn with little grace.
Every time Letty hit a wrong note, Keenan flopped around like a fish, his grimaces of pain almost audible—although he had, as of yet, not violated the strict “no criticism” stricture of lessons.
Sammy and Anson met long-suffering glances over Letty’s head as she knuckled down to play, and then Sammy bit the bullet and glared at Keenan.
“What?” Keenan mouthed, and Sammy just glared. “Fine!” Again, the mobile mouth made the word, but no sound whatsoever came out.
Letty’s music massacre was nearing its end, and Sammy turned a disgusted shoulder toward her brother so he could applaud her efforts. And it had been an effort—the poor baby had practiced that song to death over the last week. She didn’t deserve to have her brother pick over the corpse.
“Good job, Letty!” Sammy crowed when the last broken note hovered in the air. “You worked so hard!” Letty’s little scrunch-cheeked face beamed up at him, and her flyaway ponytail bobbed.
“Thank you, Sammy,” she said, grinning. “I want to be as good as you!”
“You keep working like that, Princess,” Sammy told her, “and you will be.”
Keenan’s muffled howl didn’t even ping her radar—but Anson picked up on it.
“No, no, young man,” Anson said, his teacher voice in full force, “Sammy’s right. Your papa, Tino—when he was only a little older than Sammy, he couldn’t play at all. But he’s been practicing and practicing, and now he’s very proficient.”
If Tino had been there, he would have winked at Sammy and whispered that “Proficient wasn’t talented,” and Sammy would have winked back. Sammy’s uncle Tino had embraced piano lessons in his early twenties—but he’d always been very vocal about the difference between his hard work and Sammy’s natural gift. In fact, Tino had been the one to advocate to his husband, Sammy’s uncle Channing, that Sammy should continue his education in music as an actual career.
Sammy was really hoping for some of Tino’s advocacy this particular night, as a matter of fact.
But first….
“Okay, Keenan,” Sammy wheedled. “I know you’re trying very hard not to give your sister a hard time for being six years old as she plays piano, but it’s your turn to come on up and show us what a nine-year-old can do.”
Keenan looked a little abashed as he came up from the overstuffed chair. “That was really nice, Letty,” he mumbled stiltedly. “But it’s my turn now.”
Letty smiled at him in complete innocence. “Thank you, Keenan—that’s so nice of you to say. Here, let me move my music—you’ve been working really hard too.” Chirpy as a bird, Letty moved her stuff out of her brother’s way and scurried to the audience chair Keenan had just been having a conniption fit in.
Sammy and Anson both pinned Keenan with a meaningful glare.
Keenan’s hunched shoulders and shame-face told a story of total repentance, so Sammy decided to let it go for the moment.
“Now that you’re here, what have you been practicing?”
Keenan pulled out his sheet music and smiled, biting his lower lip in excitement. “Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir,’” he said proudly.
Sammy fought the temptation to smack his forehead with his palm.
Keenan was bright—and very talented on the piano in his own right. But boy, could this kid show off like nothing else.
And “Kashmir” was an eight-minute song, which really sucked, because for once, Sammy wanted to be first at the door when Tino and Channing got home.
“Kee, I may have to go talk to your dads before you’re done,” Sammy apologized, but Anson stopped him with the same glare he’d just given Keenan.
“If it’s about the job, it can wait until your little brother’s song is over,” he said in the exact same tone of voice he’d used to chastise Sammy when he’d been younger. Of course Sammy deserved it now as he’d deserved it then—he’d been a much-indulged only child of a single mother when she’d been killed in a car accident, and his uncle Channing had immediately made Sammy his priority. When Tino and Channing had gotten together not long after, Tino had made Sammy his priority as well.
Sammy had a long history of being the center of everybody’s universe.
He’d been nearly twelve when his uncles had adopted Keenan, and he’d resolved to himself that the new baby would get the same benefit of being the center of the universe, just like Sammy had been. When Letty had come along, he’d worked hard at training Keenan to be the best big brother possible. As embarrassing as it was, at twenty-one years of age, Sammy still needed to remember those same lessons.
“I’m sorry,” Sammy said, flushing. “Of course. Go ahead and play, Kee. I’ll be here.”
God, “Kashmir” was a long damned song.
Toward the end, the front door opened and closed. One tall man with a touch of silver in his blond hair and another midsized, with still-black curls, walked into the music room. They were both impeccably attired—Channing, the tall one, had been an unrepentant clothes whore since Sammy could remember, and Tino had been his eager acolyte from the moment they’d started dating.
Sammy liked to think of them as Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson—the CEO superheroes of Northern California.
Or Uncle Channing and Tino—the men who had raised him and loved him like a son.
Keenan finished with a flourish and then grinned up at Channing and Tino, accomplishment written in each pale brown dimple. “Did you like?” he asked excitedly. “You heard?”
Channing laughed. “You’re supposed to wait until we applaud! Oh my
God, kid, you’re shameless!”
Keenan rushed forward for a hug, and Tino looked to see Letty, trying hard to still the wobble of her lower lip.
“Aw, Letty baby,” Tino said softly, crouching down by the overstuffed chair. “We got here a little late—would you like to play your piece again?”
“Yes, Daddy!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. “Can I? Can I please?” She implored Channing with her eyes. “Daddy, please?”
“Course.” Channing held out his arms. “But I’d really like a hug before you start.”
“Can I have more too?” Keenan was just old enough to maybe be too proud to give hugs—but just young enough to want to make sure he was loved as much as his sister.
“Are we still giving him extra hugs?” Channing asked Tino, a twinkle in his eye.
“I thought so. You may be too old for them, but I’m not!”
Keenan rushed in, hugging them both, and the family greeting commenced. Sammy glanced over at Anson a little guiltily to see if he minded waiting, but the older man was looking at Sammy’s uncles with unabashed sentimentality.
“My husband and I thought about adopting,” Anson said quietly. “But it really wasn’t done then. Seeing your family now—it makes me really happy.”
Sammy’s mouth fell open, and his chest ached. Not have this? His brother and sister? His uncles? The idea of not having this anchor, this haven of love in his life, hurt Sammy on a physical level. He couldn’t imagine not having a family—and not planning to add to it either.
“I’m grateful every day,” he said. And it was a good thing he’d resolved that, right then, because it would make him so much more patient when dealing with his uncles later.
“YOU’LL be going where?” Channing asked—after Letty’s second performance, and after Anson stayed for dinner before taking his leave. Letty and Keenan were upstairs taking their baths and getting ready for bed, and Sammy had taken his courage in both hands and asked his question.
“Well, I’ll be part of an after-school program, teaching music to middle school kids in the cafeteria.” That was part one of the plan. “But see, when I went to interview with the teacher overseeing the after-school program, I drove by an, uh, establishment”—dive bar—“that was offering auditions. So I’d have two jobs this semester, one after school in—”
“Del Paso Heights,” Channing said flatly, not fooled in the least.
“And the other one on Fridays in, uh—”
“Del Paso Heights,” Tino added, a smirk on his face that indicated he wasn’t buying it either.
“It’s not as bad as everyone says it is,” Sammy told them both, believing it.
Channing laughed. “No—no, it’s not. I believe you there, Sammy—the news covers the neighborhood differently because it’s diverse. I know that. And I think teaching piano at the after-school program is a wonderful idea. I couldn’t ask for a better part-time job for you. That’s not the problem.”
“I can do it!” Sammy smiled brightly, hoping… hoping….
“You can play in a dive bar in an admittedly not-great neighborhood into the small hours of the night when you’re barely twenty-one and prone to nosebleeds and dizzy spells? Not on your life.”
“Augh!” He’d wanted that part—wanted it so bad! “The nosebleeds thing is a low blow,” he muttered.
“You really thought you could slide the crappy neighborhood dive bar in without us noticing?” Tino asked, enchanted. “Really? Like the two of us would just walk in without a functioning cerebral cortex and sort of consign your fate to the four winds? ‘Here, Channing, let’s take your beloved nephew and throw him to the wolves! They won’t bite hard!’”
“Sure, Tino—it’s not like he looks about twelve years old and is so unaware of his surroundings I’ve almost seen him get killed at a crosswalk—”
“That was once!” Sammy protested, wincing.
“It was in front of your own damned school, Sammy!” Channing threw his hands up in classic father frustration pose. “I love you! I would rather you not walk out of work and into a knife fight one night because you were so up in your head you just forgot there were drunk assholes outside with knives.”
Sammy sighed. “But it was a chance to perform,” he said plaintively. “Professionally! And to practice in front of an audience and get better!”
“Have you applied to that restaurant I told you about?” Channing asked patiently.
“Yes. I’m calling back tomorrow.”
“Good. The summer touring job?”
“Applied for, and I audition in a few weeks,” he said promptly. He was actually looking forward to that, and he knew Channing had done a great deal of work to make sure the school even had that program.
Channing blew out a breath as though this appeased him. “Okay, that’s good to hear. And the school fellowships?”
“They’re all taken.”
Tino and Channing exchanged glances. “Because…?” Tino asked leadingly.
“Because I didn’t apply because they were all out of state and I didn’t want to leave,” Sammy muttered.
Tino and Channing grimaced. “Welp,” Tino sighed.
“Yup,” Channing seconded.
“Can’t argue with that one, kid.” Tino opened his arms, and Sammy ran into them, just like Keenan had earlier. “We like you here,” Tino admitted, holding him as tightly as any father could. “We’re not ready for you to leave. But we’d rather have you leave and come visit and be safe than….”
“Than get killed in a knife fight when you didn’t see the knife,” Channing finished, coming up for his portion of the hug.
“I’ll apply next year,” Sammy promised, caving.
“Only if you want to. And if your health holds up,” Channing added sternly, but Sammy ignored him.
“And this spring I’ll stick to the middle school.”
“That is a very good idea,” Channing said, squeezing for extra good measure.
Sammy pulled back and grimaced. “I should call Dodgy and tell him I can’t do it.”
The disappointment of not getting the job was almost worth watching their twin blinks of disbelief and alarm.
“Dodgy?” Tino asked, like he was listening to Letty tell him the best story.
“That was going to be your boss?” Channing clarified. “Dodgy? You were seriously going to go work for a guy named—”
“Dodgy!” Sammy taunted. “Yup. I was gonna go work for Dodgy. You got any other questions?”
“Yeah.” Channing folded his arms with considerable glee. “Last I heard, you were going to be responsible for Letty and Keenan after school this semester. Remember?”
“Oh God,” Sammy muttered, face flushing. He’d forgotten entirely about that.
“That’s right, pal,” Channing continued, relentless as only a first-rate negotiator could be. “Art lessons, dance lessons, fuck-all oh my? This teaching gig sounds like it’s in prime run-the-kids-ragged time. Do you have any ideas about who’s going to do that?”
“Aw, man.” He had twelve units this semester, all of them in the morning. He was out of school by 11:00 a.m. He’d told Channing and Tino he could take on some of the kid responsibilities—because he liked those responsibilities, dammit. “Yeah. Hell.” His shoulders slumped. “Dammit.”
“Channing, I think this job is a good thing,” Tino said softly. He bit his lip in thought, and Sammy was reminded of how much younger Tino was than Sammy’s uncle Channing. Tino had been only a little older than Sammy was now when he’d knocked on the door, delivering his sister’s dinner boxes, and allowed himself to get sucked into Sammy and Channing’s lives.
Tino was an empathetic ally.
“I do too,” Channing muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you think Lance or Gwennie could do it?”
Tino grimaced. “Lance is graduating this year—he’s got eighteen units including his internship. I think that’s a no-go.”
“Really? God, he grew up fast
. What about Gwennie?”
“Gwennie’s going to Europe this semester,” Sammy supplied. Arthur, Tino’s buddy from college, had gotten his degree but stayed working as a warehouse employee in a drapery service. His little brother and sister, on the other hand, were apparently out to set the world on fire. Sammy had harbored a crush on Gwennie as a teenager, having watched her grow from a chubby adolescent to a stunning adult and been mightily impressed. But Gwennie was a year older than Sammy, and somewhere in that spare year, she’d moved right out of his league and into an art fellowship in Italy.
“Oh my God!” Channing muttered. “Who gave these kids permission to grow up? What in the hell? Everybody’s fired!”
Tino grabbed his hand and kissed his temple. “Yeah, baby. They all washed out of the Channing Lowell Corporation of Life by growing up and getting jobs. All fired. It’s a thing.”
“Shut up,” Channing grumbled. “I’m just saying—your sister Elena’s getting married and moving to the Bay Area. Carrie got her degree, and we had to hire a new maid. Taylor’s getting his degree, and he’s not watching Jacob and Nica’s kids anymore. When did all these kids in our house get to be adults, and how do we keep it from happening with Letty and Keenan? I don’t like it at all!”
Tino kissed his cheek. “I’m still young and hot. Does that count for something?”
Channing broke his pout long enough for a quick smile. “Yeah, sure. But it doesn’t help us find anybody to help shuttle the kids around.”
“Let’s face it.” Tino leaned his chin on Channing’s shoulder. “We might just have to hire a—”
A knock at the door cut him off.
“I’ll get that,” Sammy volunteered, mostly so he didn’t have to see Channing so sad. He knew it happened to all adults—it had to. That’s why they always exclaimed over how much children had grown. People measured their own lives in the faces of the children around them—it was inevitable, like time.