Everything Changes

by Melanie Hansen

  Like wondering if Carey had wanted to be kissed just now. Rolling his eyes at himself, Jase wandered out to the patio to clean up. Reading things into his gestures of trust and friendship was a surefire way to lose them both.

  And that was a risk Jase would never take. Not again.

  Six

  The early-morning light burnished Jase’s skin to a golden brown.

  He arched his back and lifted his arms toward the sun, lean muscles elongating as he held a yoga pose that Carey would never in a million years know the name of. Sweat glistened on his bare chest and dampened the waistband of the loose pants he wore.

  His breathing came in measured puffs as he flowed from one pose to the next, looking so strong, so beautiful, that Carey’s entire body flushed hot. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched Jase go into a handstand, rock steady, his toes pointed toward the ceiling.

  Admiration, desire, and confusion all swirled together, clogging Carey’s throat. He hovered, unmoving, as Jase lowered one leg, then the other, his palms still resting flat on the floor. Rolling over to balance on one hand, facing away, his other hand reaching upward, he stretched the line of his body, the muscles of his back and shoulders bunching.

  At last he went into child’s pose before settling cross-legged on his mat, his back straight, chest lifted, eyes closed.

  “Wanna try it?”

  Jase’s low voice startled Carey into almost dropping one of his crutches. Had he known he was there all along? His heart tripping a mile a minute, Carey moved closer.

  “Try what?” he croaked.

  “Yoga breathing.” Jase’s eyes were still closed. “Pete taught it to me.”

  Wordlessly Carey set his crutches aside and lowered himself to the mat to sit facing him. It took some shifting for him to find a comfortable balance where he didn’t tip over. “Sorry. Missing a leg here,” he quipped.

  Jase didn’t reply, although a corner of his mouth lifted. “Focus on your belly. Deep breaths, mouth closed, lips soft. Take in air through your nostrils.” His own flared slightly as he inhaled.

  A bit self-consciously, Carey followed suit.

  “Feel your chest contract and relax. Good.”

  Caught up in Jase’s whispered instructions, his self-consciousness fading, Carey closed his eyes. Soon he found himself almost drifting, his mind taking on a clarity that was unusual for him first thing in the morning. His senses seemed to reach out toward Jase, until they were both breathing in perfect unison.

  When at last Jase murmured for him to open his eyes, Carey blinked almost sleepily at him. “Wow. That was…relaxing.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Grinning, Jase lay down and propped himself up on one elbow, right next to Carey’s hip. “Best way to start the day. And congrats, you’ve just done your first yoga practice.”

  “Really? Just sitting and breathing?”

  “Controlling your breath, or life force, is one of the basic building blocks of yoga.”

  “How do you know so much about it?” Carey asked, leaning back on his hands. “I never saw you do this when we lived together.”

  Jase gave a lazy shrug. “Pete got me into it. He uses meditation and yoga to help manage his post-traumatic stress.”

  Flashing back to Jase smoking that joint, Carey said cautiously, “Is that what you use it for?”

  After a brief compression of his lips, Jase said, “Nah. I do it so I can look hot.” Then he flexed one bicep, the muscle bulging, his ridged abs tightening.

  Renewed desire sent heat rushing into Carey’s cheeks, and he quickly looked away. “Well, it certainly works. Maybe I should see about trying it, too, when I get home.”

  Jase paused. “I could, uh, look up some adaptive poses for you, if you wanted to practice with me tomorrow morning.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Even as the question left Carey’s mouth, he knew it was silly. Hadn’t Jase always seemed to know what he needed before Carey even knew? Before any of his Marines knew?

  “Ask Doc. He’ll have it.”

  “Go find Doc. He’ll know.”

  “I’d do anything for you.”

  The husky words brushed over Carey’s skin. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to meet Jase’s eyes, the sunlight turning the hazel into a dazzling green.

  And also highlighting the smudges beneath them.

  Carey’s arousal fled, replaced by concern. “Aren’t you sleeping well?” he asked, his worry deepening when Jase blinked and avoided his gaze.

  “Well enough,” he said lightly, springing to his feet. “Got a lot on my mind, you know?”

  A few weeks ago—hell, even a few days ago—Carey would’ve dropped the subject, but his new awareness of Jase and his vow to stop being so self-absorbed made him blurt, “Like what?”

  Jase waved a hand. “Stuff,” he said. Then he hauled Carey to standing and disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving Carey to crutch after him, frustration at Jase’s deflection tightening his lips.

  Jase was making coffee, his movements sharp, his muscles bunched, all the relaxation he’d achieved through his yoga session apparently gone. Sharp regret stabbed into Carey, followed immediately by determination.

  You will talk to me, Jase.

  He sat down at the table and let the silence reign, broken only by the gurgling of the coffee pot and the ticking of the appliances. At last he asked, “Do any of those things on your mind have to do with me?”

  Startled, Jase’s eyes flew to his, his cheekbones turning dark red. Realization pooled hot in Carey’s belly, but he shoved it away. They’d deal with that later.

  “I mean,” he said, “does seeing me bring back bad memories?”

  The redness leached away, leaving Jase pale. After a moment, he sighed and dropped into the chair facing him. “Of course it does,” he said quietly. “How can it not?”

  Carey nodded. Hadn’t he thought the same thing, that his memories of Jase were some of the best and most painful of his life? Why would it be any different for Jase?

  Jase reached over and touched his hand. “But the good outweighs the bad. By far. Seeing you happy is…”

  They were silent, Carey’s focus narrowing down to the almost-absent rasp of Jase’s thumb on his sensitive skin. “So why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked softly.

  To Carey’s regret, Jase moved his hand away and got up to pour them some coffee. “Band stuff,” he said at last. “We need a producer, a mixer. The label scouting is encouraging, but we’re not ready for that yet.”

  “You have some demo tracks laid, right?”

  “Yeah, but not enough, and they’re not as dialed in as we need them to be.”

  Carey nodded attentively as Jase went on, although he knew there was more to it than “band stuff.”

  But he didn’t push it, grateful that Jase was at least talking to him.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Jase snorted. “Unless you know some producers, no.” Then he smiled. “I take that back. Your support, and encouragement, mean everything to me. That helps. You being here, that helps.”

  When Jase set his mug down in front of him, Carey lightly touched his forearm. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, repeating Jase’s words from earlier. “I hope you know that.”

  Jase’s throat worked. “I do know,” he said huskily. “Thanks, bud.”

  Instead of pouring himself some coffee, Jase headed toward his bedroom and reappeared a few minutes later dressed in running shorts and sneakers. “Going for a run. Be back soon.”

  Carey ignored his own mug and crutched to the patio just in time to see Jase’s distant figure reach the end of the street and turn the corner, heading toward Orange Avenue and the beach.

  “Quinn’s the brains of this outfit, but Jase, he’s the heart and soul.”

  “You’re always so busy taking care of everyone else,” Carey whispered, “you don’t let anyone take care of you.”

  Strong, cool, capable, a doc to his core. A big brother, a
teammate, a best friend.

  Memories of that night on the couch swept through Carey again. Memories of his frustration, his neediness, his blind seeking of anything that would help him feel “normal” and “whole” again.

  A plate of food flung childishly to the floor. The explosion of crockery and the splat of a carefully prepared meal. Jase’s stricken face, wide eyes staring for a split second into his, then his wordless stoicism as he’d crouched to clean up the mess while waves of regret and humiliation swamped Carey and made him howl, “Why didn’t you just let me die? I’m worthless, Jase! I’m worthless.”

  Then strong arms around him, a broad chest that had absorbed Carey’s tears, his blows. Jase rocking him, his own cheeks wet. “You’re worth something to me,” he’d whispered. “You’re worth something to me.”

  Carey clutching onto him, not letting him go, and when he’d turned his head and their mouths grazed, anguish had suddenly exploded into a maelstrom of need, a need that ended with them both sticky, gasping, drained…

  Shoving away the images, Carey let go of the railing and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, then made his way back to the kitchen. As he microwaved the mug of cold coffee, his phone buzzed on the counter.

  Carey snatched it up, unable to keep from grinning at the text from his friend Byrney in Colorado. It was a video of his and Trevor’s daughter, Serena, waving at the camera and lisping, “Hi, Cawey. Mith you.”

  He texted back: Miss you too, punkin’, and as he tossed the phone down, a sudden thought smacked him upside the head. Grabbing the phone again, he dialed.

  “Hey, man,” Byrney answered heartily. “How’s the vacay?”

  “Great,” Carey said, then rushed on, “Hey, remember that one dude you told me about, the former Green Beret who let it slip he knows Justin Bieber?”

  Byrney snorted. “Of course I remember. That guy got shit for days, and because we were in the backcountry on a one-week ruck, he couldn’t get away from it.”

  “Isn’t he some kind of big deal in the music business?”

  “Uh, yeah. Duh. That’s how he knows the Biebs.”

  “Can you get him a message to call me?”

  A long pause. “I think so, sure. What’s this about?”

  Carey gripped the phone. “Might turn out to be nothing, but what it’s about is me trying to help a friend. Being supportive, paying it forward, whatever you wanna call it.”

  “Okay.” Byrney’s voice firmed. “Guy’s name is Fred Wellman. I just texted and asked him to call you as a favor to me.”

  “Thank you,” Carey said fervently. “I owe you one, man. Name it.”

  “Oh, I think we’ll take a few hours of babysitting, Cawey. We could use a break from the terrible twos.” Byrney gave an audible shudder, and Carey laughed, thinking of the tiny dark-haired girl who was the spitting image of her Papa Trevor, but who also had every ounce of her Daddy Byrney’s mischievous spirit.

  “You got it. It’d be my pleasure.”

  They hung up, and Carey had just extracted his mug from the microwave when the phone rang again. Staring at the Los Angeles area code, his heart started to pound.

  Wow, that was quick. The dude must love you, Byrney.

  Taking a calming breath, and praying he was doing the right thing, Carey answered. “Hi, Mr. Wellman. How are you? I was wondering if you were free to take a ride down to San Diego tonight.”

  Clapping along with the stomping, whistling crowd, Carey added his voice to those calling for an encore.

  Layla put her fingers in her mouth and emitted an ear-piercing whistle, causing several people near them to flinch.

  “Whooo, yeah!” she hooted as the band members ran back on stage. Carey grinned at her enthusiasm before glancing up at Jase. He looked incredible, and totally in his element.

  Quinn launched into a drum riff, setting up the song, Jase holding on to the microphone and bobbing his head to the pounding beat. It revved the crowd even more, until most were on their feet, and when the guitar notes from the opening bars of one of Eloquent Isolation’s best-known original songs rang out, the cacophony became almost deafening.

  Jase scanned the upturned faces, making eye contact with several, and winked at Carey as his gaze passed over him. Carey felt a jolt go through him at that almost flirtatious look, his insides turning to mush.

  Fred Wellman sat next to him at the table. A grizzled, muscular man in his late forties, his face was unreadable as he nursed a club soda with lime. Carey glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what he was thinking.

  The song had a hard, driving beat, and Jase sang with a husky growl. He paced back and forth, his tight T-shirt molded to his torso, his black leather pants fitting like a second skin. At the base of the stage, a group of young women danced, squealing as Jase shot them a grin.

  Glancing at Fred again, Carey swallowed his frustration at the dude’s impassive face.

  “Can’t you see they’re amazing?” he wanted to shout at him. “Talented and creative, with an enthusiastic fan base? They’re so goddamn good!”

  But Fred didn’t react, even when Jase faded into the background to let the musicians take the spotlight with their solos. Quinn’s drum work, the whining guitars—all of it had the crowd fully engaged.

  Their song and encore over at last, the band members disappeared and the house lights went on. Without a word, Fred pushed his empty glass away and got to his feet. Carey stared at him, incredulous. Was he just gonna fuckin’ leave? Then Fred glanced at him and jerked his head almost imperceptibly toward the club entrance.

  Carey followed him outside, his stomach in knots. Thank God he hadn’t said anything to Jase or Layla about this. He hadn’t wanted to get their hopes up.

  No harm done, he told himself. Thank fuck you kept your mouth shut.

  Pulling out his wallet, Fred extracted a card and handed it to him. “Have their manager give me a call,” he said briefly, then turned to leave.

  He’d only taken a few steps when Carey burst out, “Did you like the concert? What did you think?”

  With a shrug, Fred clicked open his truck and swung up into the driver’s seat. “I stayed the whole time, didn’t I?” He tapped his fingers to his forehead in a half-salute and slammed the door.

  Long after he’d driven off, Carey paced the parking lot, his adrenaline raging. At last he glanced at the card in his hand.

  Fred Wellman

  Producer, mixer, engineer

  A cautious sense of elation spiked his heartbeat once more. This could be it!

  He hurried inside to find Jase. Backstage, the after-party was already in full swing. Todd, the groupie, milled around, and Carey swallowed his irritation, wondering if Jase would disappear with him again.

  Do you care?

  Carey tried to tell himself he didn’t, but he couldn’t keep up the pretense for very long. He cared. He cared a lot.

  The question was: Why?

  Before Carey’s thoughts could go very far down that road, Jase strode back into the room and made a beeline for him, his eyes bright. “What’d ya think?”

  “Amazing! In fact, I have some news—”

  Carey broke off when Todd suddenly appeared, and he clenched his hands into fists as Jase slipped his arm around Todd’s waist.

  “Hey, T,” he said distractedly. “Enjoy the show?”

  To Carey’s relief, Jase’s gesture seemed almost absentminded, a habit, a part of his tendency toward casual touch. He didn’t make any move to pull Todd closer, and there really wasn’t anything suggestive about it. In fact, a slightly annoyed look crossed his face when Todd plastered himself to his side.

  Jase dropped his arm and took a subtle step back. “Not tonight,” he said under his breath, but Carey heard him clearly. “I’ve got a friend here, yeah?”

  Carey watched in a kind of disgusted fascination as Todd made a show of biting his lower lip, then licking it. “I could help you change clothes real quick. I know you love it when I hel
p.” He licked his lips again. It was a seductive gesture, and probably had worked for him many times before, but Jase appeared unmoved.

  “Not tonight,” he repeated. “Grab a beer, get some food, okay? I’ll see you later. Have fun.”

  Letting go of him, Jase grabbed Carey’s arm and pulled him toward his dressing room, leaving Todd standing there alone, his petulant “But Jase…” following them out.

  “Ugh, I gotta revoke his backstage pass,” Jase grumbled, then shook his head in dismissal, leaving Carey feeling strangely sorry for Todd. “What’s this about some news?”

  Slamming the door of the dressing room closed, Jase immediately stripped his sweaty shirt over his head. He grabbed a pack of unscented wet wipes and used them to wash down his neck and chest before scrubbing them in his furry armpits. Carey made an effort to snap his mouth closed as he watched Jase clean rivulets of sweat off his abs, the wipes leaving a different kind of glistening trail that dried quickly. After leaning over to toss the used ones in a nearby wastebasket, Jase reached for the waistband of his leather pants and wrestled them down his legs.

  “God, I hate leather when I’m sweaty,” he groused, finally getting them off and tossing them in the corner. “So? Talk to me. What news?”

  Jase turned to face him expectantly, and every drop of moisture in Carey’s mouth dried up when he saw what he’d been wearing underneath the skintight pants. Underwear so brief it almost wasn’t there. The pouch in front cupped Jase’s cock and balls, barely containing them, a strip of fabric over each of his lean hips leading to the back. Carey couldn’t help the choked sound that escaped from his lips.

  Jase gazed at him curiously. “What?”

  “Is that a—a thong?” Carey gasped, hoping like hell Jase thought he was breathless from laughter and not another reason entirely.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Jase rolled his eyes. “Those pants are too tight for regular boxer briefs. I refuse to free ball it on stage, so I wear these.” He scrubbed some more wet wipes up and down his legs before turning around to rummage in his bag. “Seriously, Carey,” he threw over his shoulder, “you gonna tell me this news or what?”