Everything Changes

by Melanie Hansen

“You want to play your song? Go for it.”

  Clutching his guitar, Jase stared at Layla, his palms sweaty, heart tripping a mile a minute.

  Out in the club, the patrons were stomping and clapping, demanding yet another encore.

  “I wrote the lyrics in three hours,” he croaked. “What if it sucks?”

  “Oh, pssh. I know you.” She patted his chest encouragingly. “It won’t suck.”

  “Dude, if you’re not ready…” Quinn slung his arm around his shoulders, hugging him tight. “I know how hard it is to put yourself out there.”

  Excitement mixed with fear popped and fizzed in Jase’s gut. Baring his soul to a room full of strangers had at first seemed like a good idea. If he could do that, it’d have to get easier with time, get easier to do it with Carey.

  But now that the moment was here, he was terrified.

  Quinn squeezed him again. “No worries, brother. Let’s just go out and do ‘Fade Away.’ They always love it when we close with that.”

  Rusty and Pete nodded, their eyes filled with empathy. “Next time, bro,” Rusty said. “There’s always next time.”

  Gratitude for their understanding tightened Jase’s chest. Yeah. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he should wait.

  Wait until when? a little voice inside his head argued. Why not now? When exactly will this get any easier?

  His throat closed up. It wouldn’t. It never would. He had to push through the fear now, do his best to move forward now. There’d be no better time than this, surrounded as he was by the unwavering love and support of his brothers in arms, and the woman he thought of as the big sister he’d never had.

  Whirling toward Layla, he said urgently, “Can you get Carey on FaceTime? I want him to be here. He should be here, too.”

  “On it.” Layla’s phone was in her hand and she was dialing even as Jase nodded to the others, and strode out on stage, alone.

  The cacophony of claps and stomps ramped up to deafening levels when Jase pulled a stool over to a stand microphone and perched on it. A stagehand ran out and adjusted the height of the microphone and attached a second one at guitar level before jogging off again.

  “Hey, everyone,” Jase said, his amplified voice booming through the room. “Got a little song to sing ya.”

  A few piercing whistles rang out, along with a loud, “Yeah, baby” that made everyone laugh.

  “As you know,” he went on, “me and the guys are all combat vets.” More whistles, and Jase put his hand up to quell them. “We don’t need thanks for our service, though. We don’t need to be called heroes.”

  The room quieted.

  “What we do need is for each and every one of you to understand that we’re not the same people we were before we went to war. It changes you. It chews you up and spits you out, and you come home mangled and unrecognizable. Maybe you look the same, but you’re not the same.”

  He gazed around at the upturned faces, most of them with their eyes fixed on him unwaveringly, but with a few staring down at the table, pinching the bridge of their noses, or their eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  “This song is about that. It’s about the noise in your head that’s everywhere, and nowhere, at the same time. It’s about disconnect, and rage, and pain. War isn’t cool, guys. War doesn’t make heroes.” He paused. “It breaks them.”

  Glancing over at Layla, he saw her, holding her phone up, the screen glowing.

  Carey.

  He pressed two fingers to his mouth and blew him a kiss before turning back to his audience. The room was dead silent, waiting.

  Closing his eyes, Jase took one, two, three calming breaths, situated his guitar, and began to play. The familiar notes of the opening bars settled him, his fingers moving automatically, the lyrics he’d written just a few hours before crowding into his throat.

  When they emerged, they were raspy, hoarse. “There’s a world inside me bleeding, pleading to be left alone. But I can’t let you see it, the splintered remains of my soul.”

  Almost hushed, Jase sang of impossible choices, of chaos and ugliness, his voice rising and falling with emotion, the words almost torn out of him.

  By the time the last note died away, even the servers and bartenders were frozen in place, listening. A beat of silence, then another, before the crowd erupted in applause. It wasn’t the stomping, whistling kind, but the fervent clapping that came from the heart. One by one the audience rose to its feet, until they were all standing, the thundering ovation washing over Jase in wave after wave.

  His eyes stinging, he waved at the crowd and jogged backstage, where he fell into Layla’s arms.

  “I can’t call it ‘beautiful,’” she whispered in his ear. “It’s too powerful for that. All I can say is, well done, honey. Well done.”

  The other guys thumped him on the back several times, and finally she handed him her phone before she and the rest of the band moved discreetly away.

  Carey smiled at him from the screen, his eyes glistening, too. “Wow. That must have been incredibly hard to do,” he said softly. “But what a song, Jase. I’m so proud of you.” He paused. “How do you feel?”

  Jase scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “Like I need a drink and some weed, but I’ll settle for talking to you.” He sucked in a shaky breath and fought back the anxiety that was threatening to overwhelm him. “Tell me something about your day,” he croaked. “Anything. Just talk to me.”

  Without missing a beat, Carey launched into a story about a former Navy SEAL who’d been up to the ranch for one of their “extreme” backcountry trips, one that involved lots of rappelling and whitewater rafting.

  “So he and his buddies got back from the trip yesterday, all sunburned and scratched up, but just grinning from ear to ear. This morning they went out hiking, and I guess they discovered a fire ants’ nest.”

  Jase winced. “Ouch. Someone accidentally step in it?”

  “Worse.” Carey rolled his eyes. “They made bets.”

  Now Jase let out a snort. “Don’t tell me. For someone to stand in it barefoot?”

  “Still worse. For someone to sit on it. Pants-less.”

  Jase choked. “Oh, my fucking God. Did somebody do it?”

  “Of course,” Carey said drily. “Have you ever seen an alpha-male Type A personality turn down a chance to do something reckless and stupid to impress other alpha-male Type A personalities? This guy sat on it for a full thirty seconds, and his friends had to carry him back because his balls swelled to the size of cantaloupes.”

  Collapsing against a nearby wall, Jase wheezed in between bouts of laughter.

  “Our resident PA was not happy, but got him fixed up with some ice, IV fluids, and antihistamine.”

  “How much did he win?”

  “A couple hundred bucks.”

  Jase sighed. “Jesus, the visual on that is priceless. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” Carey’s voice was soft. “Hey. You all right?”

  “Yeah.” They stared at each other, the FaceTime crisp and clear. “Thanks for talking me through it.”

  “Thanks for asking me to.” Carey smiled, then said, “You’d probably better go, though. I’d imagine your adoring fans are waiting.”

  Jase glanced to the side and could see Layla peering at him, unwilling to interrupt but clearly hoping he was almost done. “A cute redhead is, that’s for sure.”

  “Give her a hug from me.”

  “Will do.” With a sigh, Jase said, “Night, babe.”

  “Night.” Carey kissed his fingers, then waved before disconnecting the call.

  Layla appeared next to him and took her phone back, her eyes sharp and assessing on his face. “Okay. You look fuckin’ wiped, honey. Why don’t you go on home? We can handle the schmoozing.”

  Emotionally drained, Jase didn’t argue, and he hurried to his dressing room to change into street clothes. Fifteen minutes later, he was letting himself into his dark, quiet apartment. He stopped short in the entryway, loneliness striking him
a powerful blow.

  Fishing out his phone, he dialed, and when Carey picked up, said, “I know, I know. I just talked to you, but I really miss you.”

  “Mmm. I was actually still thinking about how amazing you were tonight.”

  “It went better than I could’ve hoped.” Toeing his sneakers off, Jase padded toward his bathroom. “You mind if I burn one?”

  “Of course not.”

  He extracted his little box from underneath the sink, quickly and efficiently rolled a joint, and carried it out to the patio. Once there, it took him a few tries to get it going, but soon he was taking deep, satisfying drags.

  “Better?” Carey’s voice was soft.

  “Better if you were here, but yeah.”

  The silence that fell wasn’t uncomfortable. Jase sensed that Carey wanted to ask about the song, but was grateful he didn’t. It was the last thing he wanted to dwell on.

  “What’d you do the rest of the day, after the SEAL incident?” he finally asked. “Work?”

  “Mostly. I also went into town and had an early dinner with friends.”

  A frisson of jealousy slithered through him. “Yeah?”

  Who?

  As if reading his mind, Carey said, “My friends Byrney and Trevor have a pool at their house, so I went swimming and played with their three-year-old daughter while they grilled steaks.”

  Jase could hear the smile in his voice, immediately followed by a jaw-cracking yawn.

  “Little girl got you all tuckered out, huh?”

  “I’m already in bed, to be honest,” Carey said, and suddenly Jase became aware of the rustling of the sheets as he moved.

  “Mmm.” He took another puff, the high making him feel languid, drowsy. “And what do you wear to bed up in the mountains? Flannel jammies?”

  Carey snorted. “No.”

  Jase waited, and Carey said, “Are you really asking me what I’m wearing?”

  Blowing the smoke up toward the sky, Jase gave a low chuckle. “Well, how else am I supposed to initiate phone sex?”

  A gasp. “P-phone sex?”

  “Why not? We’re both on the phone, and I’m not gonna lie, sex with you is pretty much on my mind right now.”

  Silence.

  “What’s wrong? Haven’t you ever had phone sex?”

  No answer.

  “You haven’t?”

  Resigned to Carey putting him off and telling him he was too tired, Jase had already summoned up his best off-handed “Well, good night” when Carey spoke first.

  “I’m wearing boxer briefs.”

  He heard Jase catch his breath. “What color?”

  Squirming with embarrassment and thanking fuck they weren’t on FaceTime, Carey snapped, “What possible difference does that make?”

  “I need to imagine I’m there, don’t I?”

  Jase sounded so reasonable that Carey forced himself to exhale, long and slow. “Black,” he grunted.

  “Ah.” Jase let out a sigh of his own. “Sexy.”

  Despite feeling awkward and silly, Carey’s heart was thundering, his underwear straining. “Now what?”

  “Now pretend I’m there, lying next to you.”

  Carey could picture it so clearly, Jase on his side, head propped on his hand. He’d rest his palm on Carey’s chest, and move it in slow circles between his pecs, then lower…

  “God, I love this part of you,” Jase breathed. “That little strip of hair just under your navel. I love to rub my cheek against it.”

  Aching with need, Carey closed his eyes, imagining Jase’s open mouth brushing back and forth, his nose nuzzling him. “I love when you do that.”

  “I can tell.” Jase’s voice was low, and husky. “You’re hard for me, aren’t you?”

  Carey’s nipples certainly were. They drew up into sharp, throbbing points, and wetting the tip of his finger, he circled one, imagining Jase’s hot mouth on it, his lashing tongue. He groaned.

  “Mmm, sweetheart. Those little sounds you make drive me fucking crazy.”

  “J-Jase…”

  “Let’s get those briefs off. But go slowly, so I can kiss everything.”

  Carey laid his phone next to his head, speaker on, then hooked trembling fingers in his waistband and eased his underwear down, picturing Jase’s lips brushing his hipbones, the sensitive skin in between them.

  His dick sprang free, already swollen and angry looking. “They’re off,” he croaked.

  Carey could hear Jase lick his lips. “Now lie back, and spread your legs.”

  His cheeks flaming, Carey let his knees fall wide, and as if he could see him, Jase growled, “You’re so wet. Salty sweet on my tongue.”

  Running his thumb over the head of his cock, Carey smeared the slickness around and around, imagining Jase’s tousled head between his thighs, licking, swirling, teasing.

  It felt so good that Carey put aside the last of his embarrassment. “Suck me. Now.”

  With a throaty laugh, Jase murmured, “Not yet. I’m having too much fun playing. Pull your knees back a little more, show me those tight balls. Yeah, that’s it.”

  Carey surrendered to the fantasy, spitting into his palm and starting to stroke himself, base to tip, pretending it was Jase’s saliva running down the shaft as he mouthed him, licked him. Planting his right foot, he thrust up into the tunnel of his fist, the fingers of his other hand twisted in the sheets like he wanted to twist them in Jase’s hair, wanted to hold him still so he could…

  A moan broke from his lips.

  “You fucking my mouth now?” Jase growled. “Shoving that fat, beautiful cock deep?”

  “So deep,” Carey gasped. “All the way to the back of your throat.” He thrust harder, imagining Jase’s mouth stretched wide around him, one hand cradling Carey’s balls, fondling, squeezing.

  A wet, rhythmic sound filled the room as Carey jacked himself, Jase in his ear telling him how beautiful he was, how good he tasted, how he was going to swallow every drop.

  “Come for me, love,” he whispered. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good it feels.”

  At those words, Carey’s orgasm rushed over him. He arched his back helplessly, his cock swelling in his hand a split second before he erupted all over his belly and chest, hips moving.

  “Jase!” he cried out. “Oh, God, Jase. I need you.”

  When it was over, he collapsed down into the mattress, sticky, exhausted, and inexplicably near tears. “I’m sorry,” he choked.

  Jase’s voice was achingly tender. “For what?”

  For leaving. For being afraid. For worrying that love isn’t enough.

  He shook his head, unable to speak, and he clumsily wiped himself off with his discarded underwear before curling up under the blankets, the phone still on speaker next to his cheek.

  I wish you were here. I wish I was there. I wish things hadn’t changed, because now it hurts too much, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for the long-distance thing any more than you are.

  But he didn’t say any of that. After all, Jase was hurting, too.

  “I’m sorry I’m not better at phone sex,” he murmured at last. “You, on the other hand—”

  The shaky breath Jase blew out told Carey he wasn’t fooled by the deflection, but he only chuckled. “Well, I just made a huge mess of myself here, so don’t discount your phone sex skills just yet.”

  “Ha.”

  For several long moments they drifted in silence, and then Jase whispered, “I know I can’t hold you, but is it okay if I sing you to sleep?”

  Carey stretched, settling the phone closer to his ear. “I’d love that.”

  He didn’t know what he expected—a country love song, a pop ballad, or even one of Eloquent Isolation’s originals. What he got was Jase singing “Old Town Road.”

  Carey snorted, the last lingering wisps of his tension drifting away. “You goof,” he mumbled, a few drowsy giggles escaping as the song continued, Jase exaggerating Billy Ray Cyrus’s country twang.

 
; When it was over, Jase said quietly, “If I can still make you laugh, I have to think it’s going to be okay.”

  Before Carey could reply, he launched into a poignant country song, one about never letting go, and Carey slid into sleep, wrapped securely in the cocoon of Jase’s voice.

  Eighteen

  “This is ridiculous, Paul!”

  Carey watched closely as the young man in the wheelchair spun around to face his upset father.

  “What’s ridiculous, Dad? The fact I’m taking control of my own life?”

  “No, the fact you’re giving up!”

  “Giving up on what?” Paul’s voice was low and controlled. His palms were open and resting on what remained of his thighs, which ended several inches above where both his knees should be.

  “On walking again! What else?”

  Carey remained silent, letting Paul and his father finally get the truth out into the open.

  “I’m done with the prosthetics,” Paul said firmly. “Walking is your goal, not mine.”

  “But why?” His father looked truly bewildered. “I don’t understand. You were doing so well at physical therapy, and you just got approved for those legs with the computerized knee. What’re they called again?”

  “C-Legs, and C-Legs are great, Dad, but they can’t walk for me. I still have to do the work.”

  “Then do the work!”

  Paul grit his teeth. “It’s not that simple. You’ve seen me walk in the clinic, on a smooth surface, and yes, I can do it. But out in the real world? With uneven sidewalks, and curbs, and gravel, or unexpected holes in the ground?”

  His father was silent.

  “No matter how high-tech they are, my knees would still be artificial. So would my ankles and my feet. That means I can’t feel the ground. That means I’m balancing—on my stumps—on what are basically stilts with hinges. It’s exhausting, and scary, and I’m over it.”

  “But—”

  “It hit me the other day,” Paul went on, “that I don’t need to walk again in order to be happy. I’m okay in my wheelchair. I’m still me.” He gave a wobbly smile. “Only now I’m sitting down.”

  Paul’s father pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he wrestled with his emotions.