by Sol Crafter, Diana Sheridan, Talya Andor, Lacie J. Archer, Angel Propps
Once they returned to their seats, escorted by venue staff, Bailey watched the show with interest, taking mental notes. He half-expected to use all of his experiences as material later, and Tor, the other half of their creative team, more than met him halfway.
When they reached the award section of the program, Bailey clasped his hands together, staring up at the presenters. There was only so far their we're not going to win mantra could take him. Each time, at a certain point he found himself with his heart in his mouth, feeling as though everything was on the line. They'd be fine if they didn't win, of course, but the sick swoop of the wait, followed by the rush of winning, was better than the most amazing roller coasters Bailey had ever ridden.
He was tempted to hide his eyes, but he kept them fixed wide open.
"Looks like someone will not be going home with a gold 'you tried' sticker tonight—the winner is Courage Wolf!"
Bailey rocketed to his feet, throwing his fists toward the sky in triumph. His scream of "We won!" was lost in the general dull roar of the crowd.
He turned to Gunner, but he had his back to Bailey, and he was clapping Sasha on the shoulder. Bailey scowled and turned toward Tor, who had already left the row and was standing at the end of the aisle. He cocked his head to one side, silently asking a question. Bailey gave a brief headshake in response and walked toward him. It wasn't the time to address the reason for his frown; he had a performance to put on.
*~*~*
One jubilant acceptance speech and a few more spot interviews later, they made it through the rest of the show unscathed. When they piled into the limo that would take them to the after-party venue, Bailey hung back not only for an extra round of photographs, but to make a point of sitting as far from Gunner as possible.
The sexual tension was driving him crazy. Bailey was sure he wasn't imagining the flirting—it had been going on a long time. Once he'd begun to close the chase, though, Gunner had been pulling back.
Now that they were at the after-party, Bailey was in too much of a mood to go on pursuit.
He got a drink and stalked up to the VIP area, pulling out his cigarettes in defiance of the three 'no smoking' signs he'd seen along the way. As expected, he had a great view of Gunner circulating on the floor, passing out handclasps to people he knew, sidling up to girls and putting his arm around them to whisper in their ear—offering to buy them a drink, no doubt, his idea of a funny pick-up line at places with open bars.
Bailey slugged his first drink down and went to sit on the couch where he puffed at his cigarette furiously and used the empty glass for an ashtray. He raised his head when he saw someone else being let into the roped-off area of the upstairs level.
"Why aren't you having fun with them downstairs?" he demanded bitterly as Tor settled beside him with fresh drinks.
Tor barely blinked. "I'm where I want to be," he replied, sliding a drink over to Bailey's side of the table. "What about you?"
"He's pissed at me," Bailey replied, sucking in a lungful and holding it. He glared in the direction of the floor, as though he could see Gunner in the midst of his bevy of ladies. He could imagine it well enough. "It's fine. I'm pissed with him."
"It's not like you to sit back and nurse your wounds," Tor observed. "This is about more than the mistake during the concert, isn't it?"
Bailey sniffed. He exhaled smoke and downed half of the drink Tor had brought him in a couple of swallows. "I'm getting sick of it, Tor," he fumed. "No matter what I do, how I act, or how much prettier I am than those skanks, he's still keeping me at arm's length. Do you have any idea how it feels, to just wait for someone to realize you're right there, better than anything they're wasting time on?"
"I may have some inkling," Tor replied, sounding wry.
"What if I don't want to wait any longer?" Bailey said, moody.
"Maybe you shouldn't," Tor suggested. "You do know Gunner is straight, right, Bailey?"
Bailey brushed that aside with a hand wave through a curl of smoke. "Everyone's gay for me," he claimed.
Tor snickered. "Whatever you say, Bailey."
Bailey got that a lot. Usually he liked it, but he wasn't seeking unqualified validation from Tor. "What about you, Tor?" he asked, sticking his tongue out. He drained the rest of his drink and put his cowboy boots on the glass table. "How's that girl from Fresno?"
Tor's face froze. "Uh, I stopped seeing her."
"No shit!" Bailey was chagrined. He'd really killed the mood. "When was this? Why didn't I know?"
That odd stiffness was still on Tor's face. "It was over a year ago, Bailey."
Bailey widened his eyes. "No." He was aware he could be strikingly unobservant at the best of times, but this was beyond reckoning. "How did I miss it?"
"We were working on the new album," Tor said, averting his eyes. "I guess I worked it all out through the catharsis of song."
That made Bailey feel humbled and shamed, two things he didn't experience often, and they didn't sit well on him. Songwriting was when he and Tor were in closest rapport, knitting together their joint impressions of popular culture into a snarky, playful whole. It was unthinkable that he had missed something as painful and intimate as Tor breaking up with his girl. He wanted to ask if Tor was okay, if it had been bad, whether there was something he could do. But, however dense Bailey might be, he was capable of recognizing when the moment had passed.
"I really suck," he said to Tor by way of apology.
"We talked about it, a little," Tor said. His eyes were still fixed on some faraway point.
Bailey gestured helplessly to the space between himself and Tor, his pathetic attempt to indicate, had it been a two-way conversation?
"I guess I knew you weren't listening," Tor continued. "And maybe that was what I needed. We made some really good songs."
Bailey grinned. "Yeah, we did," he said, reaching for another cigarette. His eyes drifted toward the crowd on the floor again and his expression soured, a crimp appearing on his forehead, mouth turning in a downward pout.
"That's a happy look," Tor observed.
Bailey's frown deepened. "Yeah, didn't you hear? We won; we have a lot to celebrate," he quipped.
"So what's going to help? Another drink? A little dance?" Tor asked.
Bailey shrugged, tapping his cigarette on the rim of his empty glass. "I'm girding my loins," he said.
"Gird away," Tor said, gesturing to a nearby assistant. He held up two fingers and pushed their empties to the far side of the table. "I'll order more liquid courage."
Bailey gave him an unamused look. "I'm developing a plan," he said.
"Oh, yeah, you look like a man with a plan," Tor said agreeably.
Bailey tapped more ash into his glass. "I'm going to drink, and finish this smoke, and invite Gunner to dance."
Tor raised his brows and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'll be sure to watch the floor show, then."
"I didn't say it was a good plan," Bailey said. Their new drinks arrived, and Bailey had the feeling he ought to have ordered a double. He drank it down fast and wiped his mouth; at last, the alcohol seemed to be outpacing his fast metabolism.
He got up, grinding his cigarette out into his empty ash glass, and ran a thumb up one of the suspenders of his after-party outfit. Bailey knew he looked hot, as always, and the quick glance of Tor's eyes up and away confirmed it. Girl from Fresno aside, Tor was bi, and Bailey had teased him over it a few times until Tor had gotten so surly and withdrawn about it that he'd stopped. In moments like this, though, it was good for a confidence booster.
"And Plan B is?" Tor prompted.
Bailey cocked a hip out. "Oh, Tor, you know me better than that," he replied. As he departed, he said, "I'm all in; I don't have a Plan B. Forge ahead to success."
"Or failure," Tor said behind him, loud enough to hear.
Bailey ignored that. The possibility for failure never entered his mind—it was his drive that had launched them as far, and as fast, as they'd gotten as muc
h as it was the talent of all four of them.
Back when it had been only the four of them, a garage full of sound equipment, and experimentation with lyrics and rhythm, Bailey had been the one to visualize this as their endgame. Everyone else had thought they'd been messing around, having fun with it. While fun was the important part, it had been Bailey to seize the chance and send their star shooting to the top—he'd plunged forward, made sure they had signed all the right deals, and gotten himself out there as the face of the band to keep pushing them higher and higher.
He truly meant it when he said he forged ahead without a backup plan. It was the same for him in romance as it was for other aspects of his life. Of course, that could be why so many of Bailey's relationships were short but intense.
Gunner, though … he and Bailey had been friends forever. The chance to push that beyond friendship into something more was almost a bigger draw than the prospect for guaranteed hot sex. There was a certain light in Gunner's eye, a knowing tilt to the smirks that he gave Bailey, that had built up from friendly innuendo to a sexual tension that had to be tapped.
Bailey was ready to move past the tension to the main event. There was no better night for it. Fresh from the win, he was on his way to claim his long-overdue hug. And then some.
He snared a drink from the tray of a passing server, despite the near-subliminal 'hey' that he got in response, and downed it on his way down the stairs. He aimed himself at Gunner and strode across the floor. His boots, which graced his already impressive height with crowd-topping status, allowed him the vantage to make a straight line for Gunner, if he so chose.
Instead, Bailey took a circuitous route, dancing with each willing body that presented itself along the way. He preferred men, but he'd been curious enough to try a girl or two along the way. In high school, the default had been girlfriends, even for someone as pale and fey as Bailey, so he'd tried it on like an ill-fitting role. He and the girls had parted friends at least, but it left Bailey more flexible, open to a female partner so long as the spark was there. He was attracted to the idea of loving someone regardless of sex or gender, even if his relationships with men had made him come harder.
Right now, it was Gunner that he wanted to make him come harder. Bailey sent smoldering glances his way as he danced with one person, then another, grinding up against them or smoothing his hands over trim hips. He was building up momentum now, dancing in the loose-limbed way that only came easily after several drinks.
He only had eyes for one person, and he made his way toward Gunner with single-minded intensity. At last, he was peeling a girl away from the trio that Gunner had collected and he danced with her for a long moment, undulating his body against hers to the rhythm of the hard club beat sweeping across the floor. He kept his eyes on Gunner, and watched an avid gaze travel up and down his body. Bailey kissed the cheek of his dance partner, landing in the vicinity of the corner of her mouth, and came up against Gunner at last.
He leaned in close enough to brush his jaw against Gunner's before speaking directly into his ear. "Want to dance?" Bailey asked, running his hands over powerfully muscled shoulders through a thin T-shirt.
Gunner pulled away from Bailey, a bemused expression sliding over his face. "With you?" he asked. The music was so loud, Bailey had to read his lips and guess.
Bailey drew back and bit his lip, giving Gunner a coy smile. "Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know … because I don't dance?" Gunner yelled back, leaning in to try and make himself audible to Bailey.
Bailey laughed. "You've danced when you're tanked, just the way I have," he accused playfully.
"All right," Gunner allowed, returning Bailey's appraisal with a smirk of his own. "Then maybe I'm not in the mood."
Bailey slid a hand down Gunner's corded arm. "Maybe you need the right partner."
Gunner laughed, shrugging his hand off. "Come on, Bailey; not now." He looked away, toward one of the girls. The two remaining were still hovering, looking overly curious.
Bailey inhaled sharply but plastered a smile on his face. He was not going to let Gunner's hot and cold attitude bring him down tonight, not for the second time at any rate. "You still pissed at me for earlier?" Rather than shouting to make himself clear, his preferred method was to sidle in nice and close, and put his lips right up beside Gunner's ear again.
Gunner pulled away, rolling his lips between his teeth, his eyes wide. "What … what are you talking about?"
"The disagreement over the show?" Bailey prompted, waving his hand vaguely. He didn't want to bring up the details of the incident, for fear it would incite the disagreement all over again.
Gunner rolled his eyes. "Like I don't know better than to tune you out after a show, lately."
Bailey reared back. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded loudly. This time, he didn't have to lean in to make himself be heard.
Gunner shook his head. "Not getting into this right now with you, Bailey," he replied, and there was an edge to his grin.
It was the look Bailey understood as his bandmates humoring him, and it served to do two things at once. It quenched his ardor more thoroughly than if Gunner had thrown a drink on him, and it enraged him.
"All I wanted," he said loudly, enunciating clearly, "was to claim the victory hug you never gave me. And maybe get in a dance, while we're both here on a dance floor, and everything. You don't need to be an asshole about it."
Gunner's face darkened, and he took a step forward.
Bailey was ready to go toe to toe with him, but a hand closed over his shoulder.
"That's enough," Tor's voice said in his ear.
Bailey tensed, about to turn and punch him, or at least, shake his hand off and go after Gunner instead.
"Have you forgotten there are PR people at this party?" Tor continued, urgency infused in his plea for Bailey's sanity.
Bailey drew himself up tall and narrowed his eyes at Gunner, who looked away, again. "Whatever," he said, injecting as much withering scorn into the three syllables as he could. It was enough to draw a satisfying flinch, at least.
"Come on, I'll buy you a drink," Tor volunteered, steering him away from the near miss.
"It's open bar," Bailey replied with a sneer, but he let himself be drawn along.
He needed another drink; or at least, his ego did, to salve the hit to his pride. Something had gone badly wrong, and Bailey was too buzzed to analyze where his misstep had been. Most of him was still focused on blaming Gunner for failing to pick up the cues, much like he'd blown up at him earlier for looping the bass for an extra bridge's worth.
They adjourned to the bar and lounged on their elbows as they sipped whiskey and cokes and crowd-watched. For a moment, Bailey could forget the sting of rejection, or the tumble his high hopes for the evening had taken. Tor deftly steered the conversation from deep waters to easier, shallower fare.
"Look at that," Tor remarked, nudging his glass against Bailey's hand. "That? That's fashion? That's what men are supposed to be wearing?"
Bailey snorted, leaning in so that he could hear and be heard. The two of them were hard of hearing to begin with, spending about half their lives around guitar amps turned up too loud. Most of their conversations at any given place were conducted a trifle over the decibel level that a normal person would speak. In the noisy over-stimulation of the club, it was exponential.
"You have zero gay credibility, even if you sleep with men," he said sweetly.
"And you're so full of it!" Tor retorted, shifting against the counter and knocking his knee against Bailey's. "Gay men don't have a lock on fashion, and not all gay men are fashionable, either."
"Says the bisexual," Bailey said, quirking his mouth.
"Don't knock my queer badge, I came by it honestly," Tor said. "But seriously. Seriously? How can someone walk around wearing—god, I don't know, disco-ball pants? —in the name of fashion and expect people to find that sexy. Or whatever he's going for."
Bailey laughed, leaning
against Tor's shoulder and shaking his head.
They drank in silence for a moment while Bailey looked for their next target. Disco-ball pants had no competition in the running; everyone else was wearing fairly standard club gear except for one girl that made Bailey want to stride over and tell her oh, honey, no. You can't support a backless dress with posture like that.
"Why Gunner?" Tor asked after a moment, leaning in, head near but not touching Bailey's. "Why are you pushing so hard for him—why him, why now?"
Bailey's brow settled into a frown and he kept gazing out at the crowd, scanning along the packed rows of people, all of them bodies in motion looking for an orbit to fall into. He didn't want to put Tor off; he wanted to give him a real answer. At the same time, it wasn't something easy for Bailey to put into words.
"I asked him to dance tonight," Bailey said at last, "but we've been dancing for a long time, already. Dancing around it, maybe. Even if he's going to play the part of willfully oblivious, I'm not too shy to ask for what I want."
Tor said nothing to that, only drained his glass, turned toward the counter, and gestured to the bartender for another.
"Well?" Bailey prompted, impatient. It wasn't like Tor to hold his opinion after asking for Bailey's. "Why did you ask?"
Tor sighed loud enough for Bailey to hear him through the reverberating bass. He leaned in again. "I think your approach might be doing as much harm as Gunner's willful oblivion," he said. "And there's only so long I can run interference."
Bailey slammed the rest of his drink, waited until he could breathe again, and turned around to set the glass on the counter harder than was strictly necessary. "Who asked you?" he hissed, losing his grip on the temper that had been at a slow boil since earlier that evening. "Fuck off, Tor, and go have some fun for a change. That's what I'm going to do."
He floundered during his first couple of steps as he returned to the collective embrace of the crowd, but found his footing as hands clung and caressed. He didn't have to dance with Gunner to find a partner, if only for one night. There were plenty of people who wanted Bailey Kravitz, as he'd proved enough times to get a scolding from his PR manager.