Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  She squealed when she was done and applauded her own impromptu performance.

  “Soooooo…whadja think?”

  “I think you’re…very…entertaining,” I answered.

  She swooned over my answer, fanned herself with both hands, and gripped the back of the chair she’d sat in just seconds before as if she needed it to prevent herself from falling over from the excitement. “I’ve always been told that, Justin. Everyone I meet says I’m a born entertainer.”

  “You have a nice voice.”

  She sat back down, reached across the table, and squeezed both of my hands. “I really think it’s going to happen for me soon.”

  I didn’t want to burst her enthusiastic bubble, but I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “What’s going to happen, Darla?”

  She lifted her bright coffee mug and raised it in a toast to herself. “Stardom,” she breathed.

  I reached inside the apron pocket and ran my fingertip over one of the corners of the postcard.

  While I knew with certainty that Diego and I were meant for each other, I also had to agree with Darla’s prediction: She was born to be a radio star.

  It was only a matter of time before we both had what we wanted.

  Before our wildest dreams came true.

  Chapter Seven

  “Justin?” the man’s voice on the other end of the phone said. “Is that you?”

  “Diego,” I breathed. At the mere sound of his voice, my body was dusted with chills before erupting into an aftershock of a sweet rush of adrenaline. “It’s me.”

  I was standing behind the counter at Clouds, the old-fashioned black receiver pressed to my ear, clinging to it with such intensity my knuckles turned white.

  The shop was empty. Outside tiny snowflakes were drifting down to the sidewalk. Winter was coming, whether we wanted it to or not.

  It was noon. I was starving. I spied an almond croissant in the glass display case beneath me. I made a mental note to devour it after finishing with the surprise phone call.

  I imagined for a second that Diego was there with me, sitting at one of the wooden café tables and looking up at me with those cinnamon eyes. He was sipping on a vanilla latte and waiting for me to join him.

  “My God, I’ve missed you,” he said. His words crawled into my ear. They slid into the emptiness inside my heart, sealing cracks. I sighed. I felt my body relax from five weeks’ worth of tension I’d been carrying between my shoulder blades like an invisible backpack filled with hopes. “I didn’t know where to find you. I don’t have your number. Or your e-mail address. Or nothing. How did I leave Chicago without getting your number?”

  I grinned. “I don’t have a phone. I can’t afford one.”

  “You need to get one.” I could hear the smile in his voice, that crooked grin of his. I couldn’t wait to kiss his lips again, taste his beautiful, hot mouth. “Did you get my postcards?”

  I nodded as if he could see me. “I sure did.”

  “I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he confessed in a hushed tone. “What have you done to me, Justin Holt?”

  I felt myself blush. “Um…the same exact thing you’ve done to me,” I said.

  “You’re too cute,” he said. “Adorable.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I’m here.” The excitement in his voice was infectious. It made me feel giddy, ridiculously high and euphoric. “I’m in Chicago. We just got here a few minutes ago.”

  I closed my eyes, allowing the last blast of relief to wash over me. “You’re here?”

  He made it. He came back for me, just like he promised. Now our life together can finally start. The world can now resume.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” he said, and the urgency in his voice made me ache for him even more. I wanted to be next to him, by his side, in his presence always. Where I belonged.

  “Tell me where to meet you,” I said. “Starsky should be here any minute. I can leave then.”

  He took a breath. “We have a show tonight.”

  “A show?” I repeated.

  I’d imagined our reunion would consist of a bottle of cheap but good wine, boxes of Chinese takeout, a few candles, possibly some poetry, maybe a song or two, and an incredible night of passionate sex.

  A concert had never entered my thoughts.

  “We’re opening for a band at the 8-Track. Do you know where it is?”

  I tucked away my disappointment and didn’t let it seep into my voice. “Yes…yes, I’ve been there.”

  “I’ll put you on the guest list. After the show, I’m all yours.”

  “I’ll hold you to it, Diego Delgado.”

  I looked up as the bells jingled on the front door as Darla walked in. She was sporting a new short-waisted faux fur coat and a black and white checkered skirt suit, complete with black vinyl go-go boots. She lowered her dark sunglasses and shot me a glossy smile.

  “Uh…Diego? Can I bring a friend with me?” I asked. “She’s a big fan.”

  “Sure. You, plus one. I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Justin, I have to go. We have to do a sound check. They’re calling me.”

  “Go,” I said, trying to hide the reluctance in my voice. “Go do the sound check. I know you’re busy.”

  “You’ll be here tonight for sure?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I promised.

  “Until tonight, then?” he asked.

  “Until tonight,” I replied. I hung up the phone.

  Darla rushed to the counter. A wave of her sweet perfume crashed over me. “Don’t tell me!” she said. “No…screw that…I mean tell me! Was it him? It was Diego, wasn’t it? He called you? Ohmigawd, are you dying?!”

  “I hope not,” I said, cracking a smile. Darla had that effect on me. I couldn’t resist her perpetual state of high-energy optimism. She was contagious.

  “The lead guitarist of Broken Corners just called you. On the phone. Why haven’t you passed out by now?”

  I shrugged. “Because I like being conscious,” I answered. “I don’t want you to freak out or anything.”

  She crossed her heart and then held up her right hand as if she were prepared to be sworn in to testify on her own behalf. She took a deep breath and vowed quietly, “I’ll do my best, Justin.”

  I took a second before I spoke. “Diego put you and me on the guest list for their show tonight at the 8-Track.”

  Her eyes widened. She sucked in the air around us. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand and whispered, “I’m calm. I’m calm.”

  I laughed at her. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Freak out if you have to.”

  Darla let out a round of squeals and threw her arms up in the air in victory. She leaned across the counter, reached for me, and planted kisses on both of my cheeks. Immediately, she started to wipe the lipstick stains off my skin with the back of her thumb, insisting: “Someday when I’m totally rich and famous, I might pretend like I don’t know you, but right now…you…are…the…coolest…friend…ever!”

  Chapter Eight

  Darla and I waited in the crowd with lip-licking anticipation. The 8-Track was packed to full capacity. It was hot, hard to breathe, and painful. Some guy who was twice my size kept stepping on my foot. I winced in agony and tried my best to keep my distance from him.

  “Hey,” Darla shouted to me over the rumble of the room. “Do you think all these people are here to see Broken Corners?”

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. They’re just the opening band.”

  My theory was proven wrong the second the lights dimmed. The entire crowd moved like a giant wave, swelling and crashing toward the stage. The 8-Track vibrated from the shrieks of highly charged fans. The energy in the room was intense; I felt a ripple of chills skyrocket across my body.

  Athena took her seat behind the drums. Mary Jane wandered on stage in glittery platforms, lost and dazed. Somehow she found her way to her microphone and slipped on her bubblegum pink
bass guitar. She stared out at the crowd with a blank expression on her face and blinked a few times.

  Seconds passed, and there he was. The man I’d made a promise to five weeks ago was standing on stage just above me. He was back, and looking hotter than ever in a short-sleeve black T-shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. A few strands of his unkempt dark hair hung in his eyes. His bangs were streaked with bright shades of blue and magenta. His hazel eyes were smudged with black eyeliner. He slid his guitar strap over his shoulder and strummed it once. I felt a pang of lust ache inside me.

  Now that you’re back, Diego Delgado, I will never let you go.

  The band ripped into the opening chords of a cover version of Berlin’s classic song “The Metro.” I knew the song as a bittersweet new-wave ode to love that could never be. Broken Corners took the song and kicked its ass, truly making it their own. Gone were the keyboards. In its place were vicious guitar riffs and throttling drums.

  Brenda Stone stepped out on stage with a handheld microphone in her grip. The crowd exploded into a crescendo of idolatry for her. She tore into the song with the rage of a woman with a broken heart. She teased and taunted the crowd with her provocative moves and her empowering desire for revenge on a man who’d done her wrong.

  The crowd jumped up and down with a frenetic recklessness, losing themselves to the pummeling rhythm of the song and surrendering to Brenda’s quest for justice in the world of rock ’n’ roll love.

  When the singer reached out to the audience and her fingertips made contact with Darla’s desperate, outstretched hand, my friend lost all composure and was reduced to a state of star struck hysteria.

  I resisted the impulse to join in with the audience and contribute to the deafening roar of love for the band, but by the second verse of the song, I couldn’t help myself.

  I locked eyes with Diego, undressing him in my mind and licking the rivers of sweat trailing down the sides of his beautiful face.

  I knew it was just a matter of time—just a few hours—before we’d finally be alone together. And I was sure, more than ever, it would be well worth the wait.

  *

  “Should I call him?” Darla agonized for what felt like the five hundredth time. Earlier that day, she’d met a stranger in an elevator at the high-end department store where she worked. Like any straight man with a pulse would, he’d asked her out. I secretly suspected their meeting was no accident. Apparently he was some big-time music critic, and Darla was convinced he had the power to launch her into pop stardom. I wouldn’t put it past my new friend to have stalked and followed him inside that fateful elevator, so she could flirt her way into a date that she hoped would lead to bigger things for her.

  We were standing outside in the dark, shivering together in the cobblestone alley behind the 8-Track. The band’s white touring van was parked a few yards away. Aside from Darla and me, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  Broken Corners had left the stage nearly thirty minutes ago. We’d slipped out of the club just before the headlining band had started to play.

  “Do you like him?” I asked.

  Darla thought about it for a second before shaking her head. “No…he’s not really my type.”

  “No?”

  “He’s short,” she explained. “And balding a little bit.”

  “How old is he?”

  She shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know…forty, maybe.”

  “That’s almost twice your age, Darla.”

  “I’m very mature,” she insisted. I’m sure neither one of us believed that. Then she had another thought: “Ohmigawd, what if he tries to kiss me? Yuck!”

  I grinned. “It might be worth it.”

  She sighed. “You’re absolutely right, Justin. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

  “Even if that means making out with a short, balding, forty-year-old music critic?”

  “His name is Geoffrey Cole and he’s more of a reporter than a critic. He has a column. All it’s gonna take is one mention of my name in it…”

  “He’ll fall madly in love with you, turn you into a megastar, and you’ll have a brilliant career. He’ll use you. You’ll use him. It’ll be a beautiful relationship.”

  She smiled and nodded, undoubtedly already writing her Grammy Award acceptance speech in her mind. “It could happen,” she agreed.

  “You should call him, Darla,” I told her. “You’ve been working your ass off at that cosmetics counter for two weeks now without calling in sick once. You haven’t had one bit of fun. You owe it to yourself.”

  “My God, you’re so smart, Justin. What would I do without you?”

  Darla started to walk away. I stopped her with my voice. “Um…Darla, where are you going?”

  “To find a pay phone, silly. I left my cell phone in my other purse. I think there’s a coffee shop around the corner.”

  “I realize that I should be able to protect myself because I’m a guy, but you’re leaving me here…alone in an alley…in Chicago?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said with a wave. “If I come back and you’re dead or frozen or both, I’ll make sure you photograph well in your coffin.”

  I flipped her off the minute she turned her back.

  The metal stage door flew open as if it had been kicked—and it had, by the heel of one of Brenda Stone’s black go-go boots. She stumbled into the alley with an unlit cigarette stuck between her lips and a half-empty bottle of vodka in her grip. She balanced herself by bracing a hand against the graffiti-sprayed brick wall.

  Brenda shot me a glance, raising an eyebrow. For some reason, I couldn’t stop staring at her false eyelashes and the splashes of silver glitter across her cheeks. She was having a tough time focusing, drunk and unsteady as she was. Her auburn and platinum-streaked hair was a wild mess. She pushed a handful of it out of her eyes and asked, “Rough night?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look kind of pissed off, lover boy. You okay?”

  I shrugged and tried to avoid her eyes. Even plastered, she had a piercing steel blue stare. I felt like she could see right through me. Maybe she had the ability to read my mind. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just waiting for Diego. Have you seen him?”

  “Trust me. You’re all he talks about. I’m sure his Messssican ass will be out here soon.” Her words were slurred and spittle popped out of her mouth when she spoke. I winced a little, wiped my face.

  Brenda gave me another look. It made me feel like I needed to defend myself. For standing in the alley and waiting. For sharing space with her. For breathing. “I’m here with my friend. She should be back any second. She’s making a phone call. I don’t know if—” I realized I was rambling, so I stopped talking.

  Brenda moved closer, peering at me like I was a secret code she was trying to decipher. She squinted. I wondered if I had something on my face and she couldn’t figure out what it was. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Are you a reporter?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Musician?”

  I almost laughed. “No.”

  “So, then…you’re just a groupie whore?”

  I looked her directly in the eye. It was apparent that Brenda was trying to intimidate me. I knew I needed to let her know that wasn’t going to happen. Otherwise, she’d walk all over me. If I was going to be a major part of Diego’s life, I had no choice but to make Brenda Stone my ally. “No. I’m not a groupie, and I’ve never been a whore,” I replied, adding, “And I’m not really a fan.”

  She tried to give me a death stare, but her eyes were heavy and wanted to close. “You don’t like our music?”

  “It’s all right,” I conceded.

  “All right?” she repeated. “No more backstage passes for you, lover boy.”

  I slid my hands into the front pockets of my hooded sweatshirt and straightened my posture. “That’s not really up to you, is it?”

  She took a swig of vodka straight from the bottle. “Let me guess,�
�� she said. “You’re a matha-ma-tishin.”

  “Actually, I’m a barista,” I replied. “You know…in a coffee shop, standing behind an espresso machine.”

  “So you want to be an actor, huh?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m in my third year of college. I’m thinking about a career in advertising.”

  “Well, in the meantime, maybe you can help Athena load up our van.” Brenda glanced around. Did she lose something?

  Her mind, maybe?

  “Fuck,” she said. “I need to sit down. Help me.”

  I eased her down onto a stack of empty wooden pallets piled next to a blue metal Dumpster. Vodka splashed out of her bottle and onto her neck. “You’re making me spill!” she hollered, shooing me away with a flash of her hand.

  Seconds later, a sweetness crept into her eyes. She gestured for me to sit down beside her, grinning like we were the best of friends. I moved cautiously, fairly certain Brenda was capable of striking without notice.

  Against my better judgment, I sat down next to her on the pile of pallets, silently praying I didn’t get a splinter stuck in my ass.

  “I’ve decided to change our name,” she said to me as if it were top-secret information. “I’m sick of Broken Corners. It’s too fucking corny.” She took a gulp, then: “What do you think of Sour Kitten?”

  I cracked a smile. “Sour Kitten?”

  “Yeah…do you think it sounds too L.A.?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know really. I’ve never been to L.A. I’m from Georgia. That’s where my family is.”

  “You’re lucky, lover boy.”

  “Not really. Chicago’s is a cool place to be, but I barely make enough to cover my rent and my parents think I’ve gone completely insane.”

  “Have you? Is that why you’re in an alley waiting for my guitarist? Are you hoping he’ll fuck you?”

  Don’t let her intimidate you.

  “Our connection goes beyond that. It’s not about fucking.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re a greeting card. Just my luck. I have a shitty show and I get stuck sitting out here with Pollyfuckinganna.”