by Hank Edwards
Bill still holds a torch for me. How delightfully unexpected!
Until that giant bear of an owner had literally thrown him out the door of that nasty fly-and-rat-trap place he called a diner.
Outrageous!
Norbert took a deep breath and let it out. As much as he’d dreaded coming back to Lacetown, he needed to make this weekend a success. Down to his last bit of cash, credit cards maxed, he had no more options. His very life depended on making connections at this festival, whether or not Jasper would be there. Whether or not Bill and Sonya would be smearing his name to everyone they met. Or that bitch dyke Ally said any more hateful things to him. He already hated her.
But this weekend, he had to forget about them all. He would have to enchant anyone he might be able to represent. Despite what Bill and Sonya thought, Norbert had scheduled every gig for their group, The Lanky Balladeers. If he’d been able to find places for their folk-punk trio to sing with Sonya’s awful vocals, then he’d be able to do the same for any singer or group with a modicum of talent. He just needed to be calm, steady, and charming.
To be able to get to that place from his current mood, however, would take a lot of mental exercises. And he would need some space where he could be alone. But where? He didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in his car again.
A thought occurred to him, and he smiled as he sped through the downtown. Then he forced himself to slow down—the last thing he needed right now was to be pulled over by that asshole brute of a sheriff or one of his dimwit deputies.
Perhaps the cottage Russell had rented was still considered a crime scene. What could it hurt if Norbert spent a night or two there? Slept in the bed where Russell had once laid his head? Maybe the pillowcases still held his special scent.
Yes, that just might work. He could park the Oldsmobile down the road in the Bluffs at Lake View retirement community’s visitor lot and walk to the cottage. It wasn’t very far, and he didn’t have much luggage with him anyway.
Yes, Russell’s cottage would work perfectly.
Grateful to have a game plan, Norbert sneered as he drove past the sign reading Visit Historic Downtown Lacetown!
If there was one place Norbert had not wanted to return to, it was Lacetown, Michigan. Not only was it ridiculously small in size, but its residents were ridiculously small-minded. Sitting in a cove on the shore of Lake Michigan, the town tried to sell itself as the next Saugatuck or Muskegon or even Traverse City. Norbert snorted as he thought about it. As if anyone in Lacetown had any concept of what it took to be a successful summer resort town. They didn’t even have a decent beach! When he’d left this hellish town, he’d vowed never to return. But even though he was returning a broken and desperate man, he sure as fuck wasn’t going to let anyone know that.
Especially not Jasper I’m-A-Motherfucking-Asshole Dilworth, his creepy mortician boyfriend with the continuous lost-puppy-dog expression, or that laughingstock homophobic Sheriff Musgrave.
The blame for everything that had crumbled around Norbert’s once successful life rested squarely on them, the Terrible Trio.
They had all conspired to put his beloved Russell in jail for killing Dylan Roberts. Who cared about that nasty little twink? Norbert had thought.
His damn uncle, Wilson Roberts, that’s who.
Wilson had exposed Russell’s plagiarism, which made Norbert appear culpable too.
That had put the final nail in Norbert’s career in the literary world. Printed Screams fired Norbert without any mention of a thank-you and with only a month’s severance after all he’d done for them.
Once Russell had been arrested and hauled off to jail to await trial—no bail, courtesy of some bitchy judge who apparently wanted to make an example of him—Norbert had floundered, crying and alone in his tiny New York City apartment.
He’d lost Russell and his career in one fell swoop.
He’d tried to find work at other publishers. But the large publishers had never responded to his calls or emails, and the medium and smaller houses must’ve been poisoned by those haughty and jealous bitches at Printed Screams and their legion of online trolls. No publisher wanted to be associated, even secondhand, with a plagiarist seen as an accessory to murder.
Norbert had been blackballed. He would never work in publishing again.
With no work and even fewer prospects, he eventually packed up what few belongings he owned and set off in the Oldsmobile he’d bought used from his uncle ten years ago. He would have been evicted in a few weeks anyway. His rent was atrociously high for such a small, shitty apartment, even by New York City terms. He would start fresh somewhere else, someplace less cutthroat and more open to his particular brand of PR.
He just needed to figure out exactly what that entailed.
Since he was going independent with his skills, and the literary world was no longer an option, going back to the music biz had been the logical choice. He’d always had an ear for music, so he’d set off for Nashville.
But Nashville wasn’t as welcoming as he’d hoped. Especially not to someone with his background. Every call to set up a meeting had not been returned. And when he’d dropped in at a music label to wait out an executive, any executive, he’d wasted hours sitting and looking pathetic until security finally escorted him out. The cost of a motel was ridiculously expensive as well, so two days after arriving, he’d packed up the Olds once more and headed north.
While he’d been sitting in one of those waiting areas, he’d overheard some musicians talking about a large acoustic music festival touring the Midwest, so he had decided to give it a try. It wasn’t until he was at the border between Ohio and Michigan that he really looked at the festival’s website on the cracked screen of his five-year-old cell phone and realized the festival’s next stop.
Fucking Lacetown, Michigan.
The scene of the crime, so to speak.
He tightened his grip on the smooth plastic of the steering wheel, knuckles whitening with the force. Taking a calming breath, he flipped on the radio, and the rich sounds of Vivaldi washed over him. The CD was stuck in the radio, but at least it was one of his favorites.
Small blessings, he supposed. But he would take what he could get.
Music had always been a balm for him, soothing and quieting the thoughts zooming and colliding in his busy, chaotic mind. Just like it had back in college when he, Bill, and Sonya had toured as The Lanky Balladeers. Norbert should’ve known better, even at the time, that popping Bill’s gay cherry would turn Bill so clingy. But when Norbert grew tired of Bill’s incessant neediness, the breakup had ended the band with Lindsey-and-Stevie-Fleetwood-Mac-sized proportions.
And dammit if Bill and Sonya hadn’t stolen the band name and kept touring together.
He’d have to see if there was some sort of legal recourse to get royalties over the name of a band he created.
That little Ally with her greasy hair wouldn’t be so cocky then, would she?
He lifted his pointed chin, gritted his teeth—which were nearly worn away from years of grinding in his sleep—and aimed his Oldsmobile toward the cottage.
His stomach clenched and his bowels quivered when the curvy street turned and Norbert was once more looking at Russell’s lakeside cottage rental. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, and the curtains were drawn. Norbert had a free place to stay for the weekend after all.
A weary sigh slipped from his lips, and his shoulders sagged.
It seemed such a short time ago that Norbert had pulled this very car into the driveway, lavender lattes with a dollop of honey in hand, only to find that bastard Jasper had broken in and attacked poor Russell.
His groin stirred at the memory of Russell’s beautiful pale flesh spread-eagle on the floor of the living room, his every secret part exposed to Norbert’s hungry gaze for the first and last time.
He would have been mine, Jasper, if you hadn’t ruined everything!
Norbert shook out his hands and took several deep breaths. He had t
o get past his feelings about Jasper if he wanted any chance of focusing on his career these next few days. When he felt sufficiently settled, he continued past the cottage and down the road to the old-fart apartments, where he could hopefully park his car unnoticed. He arrived at the huge parking lot surrounding the main building of the Bluffs at Lake View, and found a space in a back corner. As he hauled his two bags out of the trunk, he heard a man’s voice raised in anger and nervously looked over his shoulder.
It was no one he knew, just a big man with thinning brown hair, berating an elderly woman with fluorescent orange hair who sat in a wheelchair.
“Now, I—”
“Can it, you old bat,” the man snapped, pushing her chair roughly. “I’ve had enough of your mouth. I told you this afternoon, I’ve had it with your complaints too. You keep….”
As their voices faded, Norbert wondered if that kind of treatment was mentioned in the community’s brochure, then realized he didn’t much care. He grabbed the handles of his suitcases and set off across the parking lot.
He could do this.
He would get himself into a better place and change the trajectory of his life.
As he pulled everything he owned along behind him, he heard the man still shouting at the elderly woman.
I’m probably a lot better off than she is.
Deciding it would look strange if someone saw him standing at the cottage door with two suitcases in tow, Norbert stashed the cases in the bushes and approached the back door as casually as possible. He glanced around, then tried the knob. Locked. What a time for that buffoon of a sheriff and his posse of idiots to start acting competent.
Russell had mentioned the spare key was inside a fake rock the last time they were here, so Norbert checked each rock surrounding the dead flowers in the small patch of garden until he found it. Another look around, and then he unlocked the door. He hurried back to his suitcases and carried them inside. After closing the door, he leaned against it and let out a long, quiet breath.
It felt strange to be here again. Especially without Russell.
Norbert hesitated a moment. He was nervous and, he had to admit, more than a little turned-on. He was being bad, and he was going to sleep in Russell’s bed.
He finally managed to convince his legs to move, and walked slowly through the cottage. The place was a mess, having been photographed and torn apart for evidence. It made him angry to see what careless disregard the sheriff and his yahoos had for private property. If Norbert had more time, he might consider putting things back the way they had been. But he wasn’t supposed to be in the cottage in the first place, so he left it all alone.
The bedroom was a complete disaster. The king-sized mattress had been stripped of sheets, and every dresser and nightstand drawer was open, the contents piled in the center of the bed. Norbert poked through the items but didn’t find one sex toy. Not even a tiny butt plug he could use and pretend it was Russell.
Apparently the electric bill was still being paid, because the power was on, which meant the well pump was working. He stripped and stepped into the shower stall for a long hot shower, keeping his gaze averted from the large tub where Russell had been attacked by Dylan’s psychotic uncle.
Russell’s favorite bodywash was still in the shower, and Norbert lathered his whole body three times. He was hard the entire time, and after the third lathering, he quickly jerked off onto the shower wall.
If only it had been Russell’s face.
After a final rinse, Norbert shut off the water and grabbed a towel from the cupboard. He walked barefoot through the cottage, which felt so empty and lifeless without Russell.
Jerking off should’ve calmed him, but it had the opposite effect, and he was hornier than before.
I need to get laid for real.
But with no one special in his life—Russell, darling Russell—he would have to rely on a hookup app.
Norbert opened Grindr and hesitated. What if he discovered Jasper trolling around on the site? Or better yet, that I-think-I’m-so-smart mortician? How he would love to throw that knowledge back in Jasper’s smug face. This might be more fun than ever.
He scrolled through the images of men, surprised by the number nearby looking to hook up. Must be because of the festival. He paused on a picture of a man’s thin, pale, and hairy torso. A small mole was visible to the side of his left nipple, and Norbert slowly smiled.
“Well, hello, old friend,” Norbert said as he tapped on the profile picture. “Let’s see where this takes us, shall we?”
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SALON door opened and Jazz looked up to see Michael, the Friday midday sunlight sparkling behind him and instantly brightening Jazz’s crummy day.
“Hi,” Michael said, a nervous flutter in his voice. “I know you’re busy today….”
“Actually, I happen to have a few minutes.” He smiled and walked toward Michael. “It’s good to see you, sweetie.”
“Hi, Michael!” Misty called from the other side of the salon, flashing a bright smile. Hot pink highlights streaked through her red curls, which were currently in a sweeping up-do.
“Oh, hi. Hello, Misty. I like your hair that way.”
Misty patted her hair, and her smile brightened even more. “Why, thank you!” She was a bohemian woman, always wearing flowy, colorful clothing. A devout yogi, she had earthy ways and a kind heart Jazz adored. He’d not only gotten lucky in the work environment, but he was also lucky enough to count her as a close friend.
Michael stepped up to Jazz and handed him a takeout cup of coffee from Coffee, Tea, and Thee, the only coffeehouse in town. “Last night you said you had a really full schedule today, so I thought I’d get you something to help you through it.”
“What flavor this time?” Jazz asked, loving how Michael enjoyed surprising him with different beverages.
Michael beamed, a hint of mischief behind those glasses. “Caramel macchiato.”
“Oh, my new favorite!” he declared as he did every time Michael brought him a coffee.
Jazz started to lean in to kiss Michael but noticed every set of eyes in the salon had zeroed in on the two of them. Instead of delivering a kiss, he took Michael’s hand and led him toward the back room.
“Back in a jiff, Misty,” Jazz called over his shoulder.
“Sure thing,” Misty replied, a hint of disappointment in her tone.
Why did everyone always want to watch the gays make out?
He closed the purple door to the back room, the hinges squeaking loudly and drawing a few snickers from out in the salon.
“Remind me to get some WD-40 for that,” Jazz said as he took the coffee and set it on the break table. Then he gathered Michael in his arms and gave him a hot and heavy kiss.
“Oh, hello,” Michael murmured against his lips. He pulled back and took a trembling breath, his eyes crossed a little as he gazed at Jazz.
Craving the comforting touch of his lover, Jazz answered by kissing him again. Michael made a slight whimpering sound when Jazz ran his palms down the flat, muscular planes of Michael’s back, ending his caress by gripping that tight ass he loved fucking. Fingers tangled in Jazz’s hair, Michael responded by deepening the kiss.
Damn, Michael’s so passionate, so responsive to every touch….
Lots of tongue and a fair amount of groping later, Jazz stepped back and smiled. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
“I guess so.” Michael adjusted the very visible hard-on inside his suit pants. “I had no idea a caramel macchiato got you so worked up or I’d be bringing one to you every day!”
“Oh, it’s not the beverage, though that’s always welcome. It’s definitely the delivery man.” Jazz gave him another kiss, but softer and sweeter than the previous. He ran a hand down Michael’s firm chest, savoring the muscular feel of his boyfriend’s amazing body. If people only knew what a sexy, passionate man lay beneath Michael’s reserved, stoic exterior…. Jazz loved being the one trusted with the secrets Mr.
Fleishman the funeral director kept hidden.
Michael kissed the tip of Jazz’s nose, his hand playing with Jazz’s long hair. “That’s nice to hear. I love it when you wear your hair down.”
“I know.” Jazz smiled. “I can’t wait until tomorrow evening, when I can have you all to myself for three whole nights.” Jazz didn’t go back to work on Tuesday until three o’clock, and as long as Michael had no funerals, they’d become inseparable from Saturday afternoon until then.
Michael grinned. “Sounds lovely.” They gazed into each other’s eyes for a moment.
“We’re still on for the festival tonight?” Jazz clarified. “Misty keeps asking.”
“Folk music, tourists, food trucks, and wine?” Michael said. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He wound his fingers further in Jazz’s hair, holding on and not letting go of his gaze. “How’s your day been so far?”
Jazz sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as he reached for the drink. He took a sip, savored the sweetness a moment, then said, “Does everyone in this town go a little crazy before a festival kicks off? Because it’s been a crappy day.”
“You know, people have seemed a bit edgy lately. Maybe they’re remembering the bloodshed from the last town festival?”
“Let’s hope acoustic musicians are a little more tame than authors,” Jazz said, thinking of their unfortunate Norbert sighting last night. “I had to start my morning with a color correction, and it was a doozy. She liked it in the end, but was pissy about having to shell out three hundred bucks. I refrained from mentioning that’s what she gets for coloring her hair at home and trying to fix it herself three times. Before I even had a chance to recover from that, our favorite sheriff chewed my ass three ways to Sunday. And not in a hot porn kind of way either.”
“Uh-oh. Did you park Beulah between parking spaces again?”
“No,” Jazz said, and thought lovingly of his blue-and-cream-colored scooter, currently chained up in the back parking lot. “I cut his daughter’s hair the way she requested.”