Long Awaited Friend

Long Awaited Friend A homoerotic short by

LEIGH ELLWOOD

Chapter One Somewhere in Texas Amid the throng of drunken revelers spilling out into the main street of the pub district, Keith Zander smiled on seeing the comforting glow of the familiar, crusted green neon tube that shaped the logo of The Clover. Going on nearly twenty years since he’d last set foot in the concrete block box famous for hosting freshman bands that moved on to better days and classier lays, he longed for a hint of nostalgia in an area overrun by commercial branding. As quickly as possible he wove through intricately spaced clusters of college students and tourists, collectively agog and debating this corporate gimmick chain over that one. The night presented not so much a pub crawl as a general, slithering stumble of high-top sneakers and wobbling heels shuffling toward various destinations to honor promises of “one more for the road” before finally going home. The Clover, to his relief, stood largely ignored, and on the outset unchanged. White painted walls bore no recognizable trademarked symbols people just had to have emblazoned on a tshirt or souvenir shot glass. A simple brown plaque near the heavy black door announced its existence: The Clover, Get Lucky Here! He chuckled at the sight of it, wondering if after all these years such a thing could still happen, as it had all those years ago. Oh, if only…

The first step inside turned tentativeness to confidence, and time turned back twenty years to the day he first crossed the threshold. Nothing had been altered in the dank, dark little bar where musicians became legend, to say nothing of their exploits within the bowels of the building. The same swirling Fillmoreesque posters—now yellowed with age—adorned the paneled walls, and the same winking Pabst clock lit the path from entrance to bar stool. To the right, the small platform stage waited to host a new batch of rock stars. He saw a trio setting up to perform. A menu specials chalkboard by the door, the only difference he’d noticed in the two decades since his band had breezed through on their virgin bar tour, informed him that tonight’s act was called Eat the Rich, and they would start at ten. He closed his eyes momentarily to absorb the memories and the atmosphere, happy to realize The Clover hadn’t succumbed to the commercialization that plagued most bars these days. There were no T-shirts for sale, no inflated piñatas bearing tequila logos hanging from the ceiling, no banners imploring visitors to join their Facebook page. Just tables, the stench of sweat and beer, and a jukebox, from which Traffic’s “Freedom Rider” blared. Empty stools lined the bar. A few bodies occupied tables, smoke wafting in barely visible fingers from each of them. He took a high seat in the middle and the bartender nodded to him. “What’ll it be?” He studied the array of taps protruding from the bar, its tender standing behind them at attention. One in particular struck him—an intricate carving of a red dragon, its tail curled around a black shaft bearing the beer’s logo. St. George’s Amber.

The bartender read his mind and, wrapping his beefy palm around the dragon’s horned head, pulled a pint’s worth into a glass. “Sometimes I think these beer companies go a little nuts with the taps,” he said. Keith tilted his read and regarded the dragon’s snarl and exposed fangs with a smile. “I like it.” “My father owned a beer joint in Lexington, Kentucky,” said the bartender as he slid the pint closer. “Had one tap, but advertised that he sold every beer in the world. And he didn’t serve bottles.” “Really?” “One night when Ma was away visiting her sister, I was there and a man came in and asked, ‘Do you have Sapporo?’ Dad said sure, but the guy looked at him strange, seeing the one tap. But he ordered Sapporo on draft anyway.” The bartender’s grin widened. “Dad opens this drawer behind the bar, which is full of taps. Finds the Sapporo one, screws it on, and pours the guy a beer.” Keith laughed, probably the first genuine one enjoyed in a long time. “So what was the beer he was serving, really?” “He never said,” the bartender replied with a shrug, “but it was good, and it was cold, and in the end I don’t think anybody really cared because Dad charged the same price for everything.” Keith sipped his amber ale, doubting that the idea of savoring the flavor might have diminished with the deception of a nondescript beer served in its place. He thought briefly back to his planned ride schedule, of his motorcycle parked just outside the bar, and wondered if a detour to Lexington, Kentucky could prove possible. “That bar still open?”

A snort. “No, and you can thank the Jimmy Carter administration and his fucked-up domestic policies for that. Weird, you’d think in a bad economy people would want to drink more to forget their problems.” “Yep. Bars and funeral homes, the only sure things.” “You running a tab?” the bartender asked. “Sure.” The bartender slipped the check into a tiny cubbyhole above the top shelf. Keith crooked his neck toward the stage. “This band coming on, they play here before? They any good?” “We’re as good as fucking dead.” He twisted in his seat toward the voice, coming eye to eye with a tousled but handsome dirty-blond boy in jeans and a faded Metallica tee. Greasy bangs hung limp, just dusting his dark eyebrows, in a fetching contrast to his water blue eyes. Keith watched his jaw twitch and his long fingers drum the chipped surface of the bar. The sight of him mildly shocked Keith. Twenty years ago, this could have been Nat Winfield, his partner—or former partner, maybe. Keith hadn’t stayed in California long enough to resolve that issue. The two even shared the same frustrated snarl. The look cut Keith to the bone. “Joe, you got a phone? I forgot my iPhone,” Nat’s doppelganger asked of the bartender. Joe reached underneath the counter and produced a black rotary-dial phone, plopping it down with an unceremonious, ringing crash. The boy looked at the device as though the receiver might rise of its own will and wrap its cord around his neck.

Good Christ. Literally, nothing in this pit had changed. Keith glanced briefly past the scene to the far hall leading to the restrooms. I wonder if that’s still here, too… “The fuck am I supposed to do with this?” the boy protested. His answer came in a withering glance from the bartender as the man waddled to serve another customer. “Need help?” Keith offered, sipping his beer. It did occur to him that the boy was young enough to have never seen such an antique. He shook his head. “I’ve watched Nick and Nite. I can do this.” He squinted low to see the right numbers to dial, furrowing his brows at the whirring, slow spin that followed each digit. His party, to the boy’s visible relief, answered more quickly, and through the one-sided conversation Keith learned that the boy’s name was Evan and he was the band’s bassist. Their drummer had cut his hand on a broken beer bottle out back and was too fucked up to play, and could his bud come by and cover for him? No? Why the fuck not? Can’t your girl wait an hour to get laid? Oh, you can’t? Well, fuck you very much, asshole. Slam. The force of Evan’s anger cracked the receiver handle and sounded the inner bell louder than it should probably have rung. He let a few more choice curses slip out before running those long fingers through his ragged hair. Rather than ask the obvious, Keith set his pint aside and twined his fingers on the bar. “What’s your setlist?” “Huh?” Evan scowled at him. “What does it matter? No drummer, no show.” “You do have a drummer, a damned good one right here.” He flexed his fingers to drive the point home. “Even if I have no

clue what you’re playing tonight, I can get the job done.” As the words were said, Keith wondered what exactly prompted him to speak. He hadn’t picked up a stick since leaving Santa Barbara for this impromptu odyssey. The point of the trip had been to disappear, wallow in anonymity, not bring attention to himself like this. Had Evan seemed seasoned enough to follow music, or at least observant to the point of recognizing the drummer in the aged, framed photograph of Blue Agave—Keith’s band with Nat and guitarist Kurt Tolliver—hanging on the opposite wall of fame, Keith might have worried. The second Keith had settled on the stool he spotted the photo next to one of many equally famous acts, recalling when the picture was taken. His hair had since thinned but retained it dark brown color. Aside from the wrinkles brought on by long hours on the road, and maybe ten to fifteen pounds, one could clearly see Keith was a wall of famer. “No shit?” Evan squeaked. “You’re a drummer?” “No shit,” Keith answered with exaggerated enthusiasm. “A little long in the tooth to be hanging out here, huh?” “Old is a state of mind,” came the retort. Long in the tooth? Who said that anymore? “You any good?” The boy crooked his neck toward the stage, when another boy Keith presumed to be the injured drummer nursed a bandaged fist. Keith looked the boy directly in the eye the second a lock of hair swooped in the way. I have five multi-platinum albums, three gold, and two Grammys. Every music magazine in the world has me at least in the top twenty in their lists of top drummers since the Neanderthals beat rocks with sticks. “No. I suck.”

Evan laughed and sauntered back toward the stage. “Wait here.” He returned quickly, thrusting a sheet of paper against Keith’s chest. “Can you play this?” he asked as Keith studied the crude handwriting. “I’m Evan, by the way.” “I know,” Keith said, barely looking at the paper, “and I can.” “I mean, it’s cool if you don’t,” Evan said. “That stuff’s not complicated. If you just hang in with the rest of us you’ll do fine.” “I’m sure I will. I’ve made quite the living hanging in and around.” Evan chuckled at that, and Keith felt a twinge in his heart that trailed down fast toward his groin. Evan seemed to be giving him the eye, perhaps the promise of a nice reward for saving his ass tonight. Keith had to commend the boy, if only silently, for his sharp perception despite having the look of somebody who spent more time sucking a bong than a man’s cock. Am I ready for that, though? It certainly didn’t help that Evan resembled Nat, especially when he turned his head. **** Somewhere in California Keeping one eye sealed shut, Nat Winfield extended one arm and pointed toward the horizon so that the tip of his forefinger just traced the upper curve of the setting sun. Slowly, with aching precision, he followed the golden red ball down into the distant line of trees, emitting a crashing sound between his teeth to signal the finality of yet another day. One more inch closer to the coffin. Nat pinched his thumb to his finger and rubbed the

streaked magenta clouds deeper into the sky, anything to hide a straggling hint of light from the gloom that enveloped him. From behind, the icy shock of something wet and solid shot straight to his heart and he jolted halfway from his chair on the deck, settling back when Kurt’s laughter taunted him. Kurt handed him the longneck bottle. A wisp of cooled vapor spiraled up from the lip. “I can’t believe you still do that,” he said, and Nat didn’t have to ask for a point of reference. “You know me, a man of habit.” He took a short pull and savored the hoppy flavor of the pale-bodied beer. “Speaking of, you’re still here, so I wouldn’t complain if I were you.” “Cute.” Kurt took the vacant chair and set his beer on the TV tray between them. Silence reigned for a minute or so while the two appreciated the sliding drift of cirrus clouds and pinprick points of light struggling for visibility in the twilight. How many of these moments had they missed, cooped inside a studio or concert hall, focused entirely on a hobby that had become work when people discovered their talents? Back in the days when free time proved rarer than diamonds, they’d taken every advantage to enjoy sunsets, with Nat developing the tic of “escorting” each cycle of the sun toward Australia. Of course, the marijuana had helped. Now, he was allowed relax and thumb all the planets to distraction…if only he could gain some peace of mind. “Has he called?” Kurt asked. Nat shook his head. He tapped a familiar beat on his knee until Kurt’s hand stilled his. “He will,” Kurt said. “He won’t.” Nat’s voice resonated his resoluteness. In Keith’s mind, Nat had committed the unforgivable, with Kurt a

complicit partner. Their deception destroyed their tight knot of friendship, and while sunsets would come aplenty the odds of reconciliation dissolved and faded like the sugar-cobweb edges of the above clouds. “Why wouldn’t he?” Kurt asked, annoyed. “It’s not like we’ve done anything wrong—” “We lied to him,” Nat cut in. “We’ve been lying to him for twenty years.” “It’s not lying if it was never his business to begin with,” Kurt said, “and come on: it’s not like we haven’t been discreet at times. Surely he had to suspect that about us at some point.” That, Keith knew, definitely, but for Nat to reveal that meant admitting to his lover that he had kept a truth from Kurt all these years as well. Throughout their association as Blue Agave, renowned power trio, Nat’s sexual preference hadn’t bothered anyone—but for her years he thought Keith the lone exception, so he kept it quiet. Kurt, however, definitely didn’t have a problem with it. It wasn’t until recently, a slip of the lip that resulted in Keith’s spontaneous Kerouac-ian journey, that Nat realized the truth about his drummer friend. “Damn it!” Nat’s attention snapped back to Kurt just as he slapped his bare thigh. “Fuckin’ mosquitoes are out,” Kurt muttered, checking his palm for remains. To Nat he cajoled, “Come inside.” “Right behind you.” The disappointed longing in Kurt’s gaze chilled Nat’s heart and his line of vision panned back to the darkening horizon. Normally he’d have chased Kurt back into the house, up the stairs, and onto the bed. He’d have Kurt ass-high and kneeling, indenting the mattress as he fucked the man senseless. Now, just

the thought of even kissing that delicious, bow-shaped mouth triggered guilt and betrayal, and Nat couldn’t shake the ill feelings away. Kurt’s loping gait through the sliding glass door revealed his frustration. Nat could predict his lover’s exact response to his reluctance. Why feel as though you’re betraying Keith? It’s not like you’re cheating on him. Not really, anyway. Just as Kurt moved to close the patio door he poked out his head and said, “I love you.” “Love you, too.” Love you, too, Keith. Nat remained outside, blotting out the stars and the moon until the bloodthirsty insects got the best of him. When he crawled into bed Kurt already snored at a steady rhythm, so he spooned into his partner, latching an arm around his abdomen and drifting into a troubled sleep.

Chapter Two The drum set offered to Keith had clearly seen its share of seedy clubs. Devoid of logos, and marked only by the wear of countless hours of rehearsals and concerts, it looked like something ordered from a decades-old Sears catalog, and was probably the best set its owner could afford. He thought back to when he first auditioned for the group that Nat soon christened Blue Agave, recalling perfectly the wideeyed apprehension of the dishwater-haired bassist and his dyedblond companion as Keith dragged a metal garbage can into warehouse reserved for the meeting. Bass, toms, cymbals and sticks…he’d extracted everything with all the confidence of a lawyer plucking a million-dollar contract from his attaché. Two minutes into Wipeout, his first intended song, he saw how quickly the doubt creased in their brows softened into genuine admiration, and he knew he’d nailed it. Evan eased behind him, swaying precariously close into Keith’s personal space, and he snapped to attention. The heat radiating from the young man prickled the skin on the back of Keith’s neck and he involuntarily twitched, then shifted his stance to ease his growing erection. “It don’t look like much, but thankfully we’re not too reliant on the drums,” Evan was saying. “We really just need somebody to keep us playing to the beat, and not in between it.”

Keith glanced again at the playlist—all simple covers easily mastered by the most novice of garage bands. As the majority of the songs each clocked in around three minutes, he guessed Eat the Rich, which also consisted of a greasy, pale fellow named Todd—the guitar to Evan’s sunburst Fender jazz bass— maintained a playing style similar to The Ramones. Minimalist chord-play, volume to eleven. He wondered if he should go into the men’s room and work out some yoga stretches first. Evan clapped him on the shoulder, guiding his abrupt return to the moment. “Thanks for doing this, man. If you can keep up, I’ll owe you big time.” Keith lifted his half-empty glass. “Keep this filled through the set and we’ll call it even.” The bassist hesitated in his reply, and instead surveyed Keith with interest. Another man might have interpreted the light in Evan’s eyes as fleeting lust, a notion he brushed away quickly. Gay or not, the boy exuded a youthful, robust personality and possessed a rugged handsomeness guaranteed to land his sexual equal. What would a gorgeous toy want with a tired old dog? “Sure,” he said finally, though his lips continued to move silently, spouting words that couldn’t be read. Evan then reached behind the set, and Keith watched the line of his body curve, and the hem of his blue pinstriped shirt pop away from his jeans. Milk-white skin, so smooth it might ripple when touched, teased him. “What do you do when you’re not drifting into strange bars to offer alleged expert drumming services?” Evan asked when he’d retrieved a pair of sticks from the drum stool. Keith took them in hand—they were chipped and splintered from play, the textured tape around the thick ends of each shaft

moist from recent use. “What makes you think this is a strange bar to me?” Evan shrugged. “We’ve played here once a week for the last six months. I’d remember somebody like you.” Somebody old, somebody famous, somebody you’d like to have fuck you senseless in the back rooms? The questions he left unasked, but instead replied, “I’ve seen stranger.” Like the ghost of a young Nat Winfield smiling at him in the bar where they’d first kissed, among other things. “To answer your question,” he added in a small white lie, “I’m a writer.” “Well, I’ve never read your stuff, but for my sake I hope you’re a better drummer.” With that, Evan loped over to the stand holding his bass while Todd adjusted his amp. Taking this as his cue, Keith negotiated the cramped space housing the drum set and prepared for the show. “I hope so, too,” he muttered, wincing as his bones creaked. **** By set’s end he was wringing wet, and nearly deaf for the crowd and the speakers parked alongside him. He rubbed his sore shoulder, fully aware now of how out of practice he was, not that anybody noticed or cared. The crowd before him of pierced twenty-somethings seemed more enamored with the acrobatic guitarist than the older man tucked in the back. Limply he rose from the drum set and staggered into the hallway, stopping short of the men’s room. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding in time to his head. He leaned against the cold brick wall and savored the sensation; he felt odd, as though living a recurring dream of being his present age in high school

on exam day. Retaining no knowledge, yet somehow managing to pull through at the last minute. From his hiding place, he noticed the crowd’s enthusiasm for the music diverted piecemeal by new rounds of beer and mild harassment of the band as they quickly packed their things to make way for the next act. He turned away, toward the glow of the exit sign and the back door for fresh air, when a hand grasped the collar of his dress shirt and pulled him back. Evan’s eyes were red and wild, boring into him with blissful admiration as his free hand pinned a longneck bottle to his chest. “You fucking killed, bud,” he said breathlessly, and Keith wondered what else he had popped, smoked, or drank between their final bow and this moment. Judging from the crowd, and sniffing the lingering second-hand smoke still wafting in the air, Keith didn’t think it possible to get this stoned so quickly. He thanked Evan and helped himself to a long pull. The bassist continued to babble. “Jesus Fucking Christ on a stick, when you said you could play, I figured…” His gaze drifted to one side, watching invisible words float away before he could capture them. “Yeah, what can I say? All those lessons paid off finally,” he finished for the boy. Evan stood too close to him again. The temptation to run a hand through Evan’s sweat-soaked hair and guide him in for a kiss—to land that luscious bow-mouth on any part of his body—proved too much for him when accompanied by the cloying heat of the hallway. “I should be getting back...” “Back where?” “Long ride ahead of me tomorrow. I’d like to get on the road before the rigs do.” “To…?”

He hadn’t decided yet, and had told nobody when he’d left California and where he planned to go, so he saw no point in saying anything now. Briefly he wondered how long it took for Nat and Kurt to realize that. “What’s so important that you can’t hang around for a while longer?” Evan asked as a crash of cymbals in the distance signaled an impending musical explosion from the next act. “There’s people out there who wanna talk to you.” Bullshit. “Who?” If anybody had recognized him tonight, it would have been pointed out much earlier in the set. In the haze of weed and beer-glazed vision, he was just another drummer, one who rocked but probably offered little more than that. Evan inhaled, then said, more softly, “Me.” Keith moved forward and Evan stepped back. The neon and track lighting of the club filtered into the hallway spread over the boy’s face so Keith could better sense the desire smoldering in those dark eyes. What did Evan see: a temporary hero to admire until his head cleared and sanity prevailed, or a potential one-night stand deserving of a different brand of worship? “I hadn’t planned to stay long anyway,” Keith said, rocking back on his heels. He turned away from the light and glanced longingly at the exit. In three steps he could free himself of Evan’s seductive hold, vault onto his bike, and roll to the nearest motel. Yet the slightest brush against his shoulder carried the weight of iron manacles locked to his wrists and ankles. Those eyes…that face, so much like Nat’s. Evan kept him a prisoner, and the boy damn well knew it. Keith’s cock jerked in response, straining against his jeans zipper. He offered one final, futile protest. “I do all my writing at night,” he said. “I’m writing a book, and I’d like time to concentrate.”

“Nobody’s gonna want to read a book about a guy who sits in his hotel room and does nothing,” Evan said. “I’d read it to you. I imagine I’d have to.” “Hardy har. Why don’t you tell me a story I want to hear?” The husky tone of the challenge issued caressed Keith’s ears and slid down his chest toward his cock, prickling his skin along the way. If he could last at least the first song now playing, he’d consider that a happy ending. “You’re on,” he said, and crooked his head toward the men’s room door. Evan winked, he clearly knew the score. Nothing changed at The Clover at all. He chose the end handicapped stall for the ample space it provided and latched the door after Evan followed him inside. He pressed his back against the cool, wobbling metal panel, which appeared a sickly blue-green in the dim of the overhead light. He moved to one side to avoid being poked by the coat hook. “Once upon a time there was a young man from Paterson, New Jersey who nursed few ambitions outside getting high and getting laid.” Evan sank to his knees and undid the leather belt securing the waist of Keith’s jeans. “He figured the easiest way to achieve both would be to join a rock and roll band, since even the ugliest mugs spinning on vinyl seemed able to land quality pussy. He bought a guitar at a local pawn shop, but quit after a few weeks because pressing on the strings proved too hard on his fingers.” Buttons popped, zippers unclenched. Evan grinned and shook his head, likely thinking him a pussy himself for not sticking it out with the strings.

“So he traded the Strat for a set of drums, and he discovered he took to them more naturally. Read every drumming magazine in circulation, watched all the footage of the masters he could find. Buddy Rich, Keith Moon, Ginger Baker…” Both jeans and Jockeys pooled on the ground, Evan freed Keith’s cock and stroked the shaft with one hand while the other cradled his sac. Each gentle squeeze shot an electric bolt through Keith’s veins. His nipples tightened and his throat dried. The play of shadows veiling Evan’s face gave the boy an eerier resemblance to a young Nat that he couldn’t stop watching. “H-he answered an ad in some New York City rag,” he said, his voice losing its earlier strength, “when he felt confident enough in his skills.” Certainly Evan matched that bravado, in both types of play. The young man’s tongue first circled the tip of Keith’s cock before pursing his lips over the crown and applying suction. His doe-eyed gaze met Keith’s and the drummer instantly fell back twenty years. “They played small clubs, mainly throughout Jersey. He perfected his methods, learned to read music…found he could write a few lyrics with his new partners, too. Gradually they morphed from an all-cover band to throwing in the occasional original composition.” Evan took him deeper and faster, working Keith’s cock with a smooth rhythm Keith found incredible, more so when Evan released his balls to finger his anus. “Jesus,” he hissed, then quickly recovered. “Well, one night at the Stone Pony, turns out some record exec there to listen to the headliner decided he liked us more. Signed us that night.” The rapid, slick in-out motion stilled for a few seconds and Keith watched the reaction play across Evan’s face. Amusing to

watch since the young man still had Keith’s cock in his mouth, but he could swear the light of recognition in Evan’s eyes brightened. This seemed to spur greater fervor in the bassist, and he worked the shaft harder on an enthused groan. The movement affected Keith as well, so much that he lost his train of thought. Assuming Evan figured it all out, he knew the end of the story, anyway, and the end of the coming chapter. Keith rested his head against the door and closed his eyes, centering wholly on the delicious friction as Evan fucked him orally. The first tingle of his pending orgasm expanded and spread, tightening his balls and threatening to consume him. “Gonna come now,” he whispered, unable to hear himself over the thud of distant music that vibrated the enclosure. Evan offered no protests, just a hard squeeze to his buttocks that Keith interpreted as permission. Unable to contain his pleasure, Keith thrust his hips forward so Evan had him completely, down to the root, before he came. He lost count of the seconds passed from shooting his load until Evan drained the last drop and licked his softening cock clean. As the final shudder of orgasm gave way to pleasant afterglow he relaxed against the door, reaching up to cuff the edge so he wouldn’t collapse. Evan quietly restored his underwear, replacing his cock and scrotum with near-reverence before standing to face him. The young man smiled shyly. “And they all lived happily ever after?” Keith shook his head. “I wish,” he said. “But he does ride off into the sunset.” Sunrise, rather. It had to be past three now. Evan sighed and nodded his acceptance. “Would it be rude to ask for an autograph?”

“No. It would be rude of me to give one with my pants still down.” Evan laughed. **** Sometime past one Pacific Standard Time, Nat shifted uncomfortably in his sleep, reliving via his subconscious the band’s first and only gig at The Clover and the private celebration that followed. Floating through a hallway, feet only scraping the dingy vinyl flooring, he met a drunken Keith in the far stall, sober enough to realize everything going on around them. Yet the second his lips touched down on that tender, purpling head, just as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of a man aroused, the dream world fizzled and he spiraled back to the surface. His eyes fluttered open to see his ceiling, then his gaze panned the room to the slightly shifting lump of man at his side, snoring and unaware. Nat sighed and turned his back, closing his eyes in a vain attempt to return.

Chapter Three Three days later Morning played on the cirrus clouds, which veiled the sky like a fine mist as he made his first stop since breaking camp in Tallahassee. After days of speeding across interstates and detouring with curious spontaneity down lesser highways, he ended up in St. Augustine, Florida. He turned onto a stretch of US 1 South, where land met the bay, and realized he’d reached the ocean opposite the one at home. He’d made it clear to the other side of the country, as far from Nat as possible without leaving the country. Yet his troubles seemed closer than ever, mingled with the salty tang of beach air. He steered his motorcycle carefully over the cobbled, footworn streets of the Old Town district. Whether it was the morning dew or his own failing vision, bleary from lack of sleep and night-driving, he could only guess. The less he stayed still, the fewer chances the pain had to catch up to him. The laws of biology, however, begged for this respite. He had to stop, if not for his own well-being, but for the safety of others. Two streets into the narrow tourist section and he’d nearly sideswiped a pasty couple in floppy hats, their rubber foam thongs thwacking the cobblestones in time to the song forming

in his head. Staccato lyrics faded in and out of a dying consciousness. His stomach rumbled, disrupting the rhythm. Only in twilight Am I able to breathe Only in twilight Can I truly believe In his head, pounding against bone, the words lacked finesse, but so few of his final songs resembled their first drafts. For want of food and release, he had to stop. He did not wish to linger and play tourist—just a quick brunch, some time to jot down the words, then back on the road. From his last trip to Old City ten years ago, he remembered a small Spanish bakery tucked somewhere off of St. George, where the knickknack shops had replaced the necessities of past civilizations. He found a gas station on the cusp of the historic squares and filled up the bike, then found a parking space along the curb of a few bed and breakfast inns. Strolling through the crowded main street, he managed to avoid a few aggressive panhandlers until he found the right sign pointing to the Salcedo Kitchen. He waited patiently behind a long line of field trip students before he was able to order some empanadas and a Coke. He was just a guy here, sweating in leathers and salivating over meat pies. No heads turned in his direction, which was just as well. Blue Agave hadn’t released an album in years outside of an obligatory hits compilation, and any anticipation of one to come was still pending. Of course, Nat and Kurt would have to find him first.

Did they bother to look for him, he wondered. His phone hadn’t rung once since his departure. Of course, instructions to personal assistants had been hasty, spontaneous, before he took off. Seeing as how he’d never embarked on a solo odyssey such as this, he gave no thought to the details. He could only hope somebody else had in his stead. For all he knew, his phone didn’t ring because it was no longer connected to a service. Orange tray in hand, Keith took the last empty picnic table and broiled in the sun, trying not to swallow his breakfast whole. Children chattered and screamed around him, ignoring their chaperones and monopolizing the squeeze bottles of datil pepper sauce, so he didn’t get to try any himself. The fleeting thought to approach a table and ask for one passed when he looked up once and saw a man about ten years younger than him staring back at him in disbelief before being gathered by the troop to visit the old fort. Before disappearing behind a building, the guy managed the secret thumb-and-pinky devil sign that pissed off many an evangelist. He had been recognized. Elvis lived after all. Fancy that. Shit. He felt a vibration at his hip. Somebody in his camp must have paid the bill. He’d also been found. Finally. He felt for his phone, then checked the familiar number and swallowed back the lump in his throat. “Hey.” He answered Nat’s curt greeting with his own, then held the phone away as a stream of high-pitched curses filtered from the earpiece. He fought to get words in edgewise. “I know...I’m fine. St Augustine. Yes, the one in Florida, what other one is there? Well, I’m sorry, I figured being an adult I could come and go as I pleased.

“No, I haven’t lost my head.” He was lucky to get that in as well, for it seemed Nat had yet to take a breath. He apologized for not calling sooner, expressed sympathy that Nat’s young niece had cried herself to sleep last night thinking he was dead, and apologized for things over which he had no control. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re not dead.” Nat’s voice sounded softer now, and far away. “Having fun?” “Yeah, I guess.” I played the drums for the first time in weeks. The Clover, remember the The Clover? Remember what we did there? “Really? Doesn’t sound like it.” “I’m just a little tired is all, haven’t decided where to go from here.” Some kid sucked my cock. I kept seeing your face…you were so good at that. “Are you on a bad line? I can barely hear you.” Nat laughed. “That’s the echo, my friend. I’m at the warehouse...” Keith pinched his eyes shut. Even on the other side of the country, he could not escape the inevitable. “I’m looking at all these crates...” I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about us. Don’t you miss me at all, for something besides a drum beat? “...all this equipment, and the rent we’re paying to store it...” What would you say if I told you? Would you be jealous, like I am of Kurt? “...and I’m wondering if we’re ever going to use it again...” I love you. “You still there?” “I am,” Keith said, sounding distant in his own ears. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t want to be the one to tell you to sell it.”

The other line went quiet for a moment, save for the echo of activity. Screeching tires, people yelling at each other, Nat muttering an aside to somebody else. He returned with a different tone. “That bitch Veronica called me last night.” Keith chuckled, well aware of the lack of love lost between his main personal assistant and Nat. She didn’t come from their label’s management company, and therefore had been branded an outsider despite working for him for ten years. “Let me guess. She was pissed.” “I’m pissed. She woke me up at two in the morning, carrying on about you being on drugs or dead in a ditch or something. Don’t you check your messages? I’ve been trying to call you ever since.” “I’m sorry. The phone’s been off and on for a while because I haven’t had time to recharge it.” It was a newer model than he was used to carrying, too. He should have realized people might try to text rather than call. He wasn’t sure how to check for those messages. “How did she get my number anyway? I thought you told me she didn’t have it.” “I thought so, too. She’s very resourceful.” “I’ll bet,” Nat scoffed, then, more softly, “so, we’ll agree not to agree on this other item of business then?” “For now,” he said, working out the kinks in his back. Would Nat address personal business, the huge elephant fluttering overhead on gossamer wings? “Don’t worry about it. When are you coming back?” Keith hesitated, and an exhausted static roar on the other end answered for him. Would it have killed Nat to show more emotion, more desire for him to return? Of course, Nat had Kurt for all these years, he probably couldn’t sense how Keith ached

for all that lost time, those years he’d actually believed their encounter at The Clover had merely been a drunken, failed experiment. Then to hear Nat and Kurt had been lovers ever since…no, he doubted Nat sensed his misery over lousy cell phone reception in a cavernous warehouse. “Just give us some warning when you do decide, eh?” Nat said. “I will. Take care.” “Yeah. Goodbye.” Keith rang off and threw the cell phone in the trash. **** Hands in pockets, Nat rocked on his heels and stared at the thick, precarious tower of crates before him. A forklift whirred past on the way to somebody else’s property, unfazed by the musician’s presence. Nat doubted he was the most famous person ever to set foot here—the warehouse served as home to numerous movie props and equipment for trendier rock stars. A middle-aged guy without an entourage likely represented to the workers somebody about to arrange a private auction of his former life. In the recesses of his memory came unbidden a television interview with a peer, a popular female singer from the sixties who wished to be forgotten in her sixties. Seriously, she’d told the reporter, if you see me wobbling on stage with a walker singing about partying all night, shoot me. Nat smiled. The days when he could sing Blue Agave’s earlier hits and not feel foolish were long behind him, but as a band they produced strong music. Physically there were all in good shape, and there was no reason to quit just now. Bringing

Keith back into the fold to collaborate would prove difficult, however, and Nat wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut about his relationship with Kurt. “Right,” he muttered, unable to hear himself over the noise of machinery retrieving and replacing crates. He left the warehouse without saying goodbye to anybody and made for the car. Kurt waited in the passenger seat, expression blasé underneath dark Wayfarer sunglasses. “Everything present and accounted for?” he asked. Nat buckled up and started the engine. “Yep.” “What did Keith have to say?” Nat froze at that. “What makes you think I talked to Keith?” he asked, his voiced guarded. “You’re frowning. You only frown when you’ve talked to him.” Kurt smirked, then quietly took Nat’s hand from the stick shift and twined their fingers together. “We should talk about it. He’s a friend, and our partner. If he’s been vague about his plans, we need to know something solid before—” “I know,” Nat cut in, nodding, rubbing his thumb over Kurt’s knuckle. “I think first, though, you and I should talk.”

Chapter Four Rested and fed, he spent the next hour playing tourist, window shopping and people watching. He bought a pack of gum for the road and a case of local datil pepper sauce to ship home—motivation to host a barbecue if and when he returned to California. As he waited for his receipt in the tiny shop off Hypolita Street he studied a US map tacked to the wall behind the counter. One bold word leaped out and held his attention. Atlanta. He had a friend there—rather, everybody had that same friend now residing in the gay man’s urban southern haven. Bobby Blair—the rock music world’s jester and global icon, poster child for AIDS activism and human rights. At least one Top Ten hit every year from 1970 through the late 90s, with no signs of fading away. Given the bold colors of his wardrobe, that seemed logically impossible, anyway. If you worked in the business, you knew Bobby, and he knew you. He didn’t require sticker tags to remember your name or your instrument, and if ever you came to Atlanta you let him know, or by God you’d never hear the end of it. He scraped a sticky bit of garbage from his phone, which he’d fished out of the bin after his temper faded. A quick call to Veronica began with a severe tongue lashing from his assistant, and he grimaced and apologized profusely for not keeping in

touch. All things forgiven, he next put in the task to find a number for Bobby Blair before ringing off. Then he waited. He trusted Veronica to have the proper contacts. Soon Mr. Blair would call him in three, two… Enter Sandman, his default ringtone for unknown incoming calls, sounded. Keith checked for the 404 area code and greeted Bobby. “Mother fucker, you are staying here,” Bobby all but screeched into the phone. “I do not want to open my AJC.com news feed tomorrow morning and see your smiling mug walking out of some downtown fleabag.” Keith assumed Bobby meant the local paper’s Web site, and doubted any paparazzi would care about his visit, but he quietly acquiesced and took abbreviated directions to Bobby’s home. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow,” he said. “I plan to take the scenic route.” “So said my last boyfriend,” Bobby scoffed. “Watch the road rash.” Blip went his end of the line. **** He took US 1 to US 441, getting as far as Milledgeville before exhaustion overtook him and forced him to stop for sleep. A day after leaving Florida, he saw Atlanta’s skyline rising before him, majestic yet clouded in the thick smog that had come to plague the city over the past decade. Bobby Blair lived in the tony Buckhead section, north of the busy downtown, and Keith figured it expedient to hop on the interstate once he reached the city limits. He passed Turner Field, and thought of Nat, the baseball fiend. He shouldn’t have been so short with him over the phone.

Perhaps there was something there he could buy as a peace offering, something for his friend’s collection. Arriving at Bobby’s building, he checked in with the guard on duty, but no sooner than he gave his name did the elevator doors by the desk open, and out bounded Mr. Blair in a loosefitting white tunic and pajama pants. Bright blue earrings reflected the light overhead—Bobby resembled a yoga instructor spliced with an extroverted showgirl. Bobby grasped the weary traveler in a tight bear hug and led him toward the open doors. “Keith, you look terrible. All that wind blowing in your face, it’s aging you,” he clucked. “I wear a helmet, Bobby.” Nobody dared to call him Bob, or Robert. “Age is aging me.” “Keith, what’s the point of being a rich rock star if you can’t buy your youth back. I have stuff upstairs that would turn Madonna back into a virgin.” Ever the mother hen, Bobby shooed him into the elevator car. “I didn’t have time to clean, so forgive the mess. I have a man who comes in to help, but I think he’s too pre-occupied with screwing the security guard to pay attention to the job.” The doors closed on the smiling, shrugging security guard, so Keith didn’t have much time to process the remark. When they opened again to reveal Bobby’s palatial spread, he looked around. The place was immaculate. A dewy tea glass sat without a coaster on an end table, but that seemed to be the only anomaly in his neatnik friend’s home. “So,” Bobby cast him a sly grin, “how’s that delicious bass player friend of yours?” Keith’s face broke into the first smile of the day. He might not have used delicious to describe his musical partner. Would Nat say as much of him?

“He still wears the tight jeans,” Keith said, adding in a quieter voice, “and he’s still attached. Apparently happily so.” “Well, shit. I tell you, Kurt is one fucking lucky man.” Keith’s heart panged. Exactly how open was this secret that he had been the only one in the dark? He changed the subject. “What happened to Joe, or Jack, or whoever?” Bobby scowled. “Dead or dying, I hope, after what he did to me.” Keith figured this explanation would take a while, and as grateful as he was for the shelter, he decided it could wait and didn’t press for details. Looking down a hallway, he spotted the guest room and started towards it. “What’s today?” “The thirteenth.” “I mean what day?” “Man, you are out of it.” Bobby laughed. “It’s Tuesday.” “Wake me on Friday,” Keith said. “We’ll go somewhere nice.” And he collapsed on the guest bed. **** Somewhere in the course of his stay, a blanket had been tucked under his chin. An eye fluttered open to see Bobby pacing the room and muttering to himself. He had to wonder how long Bobby had been in the room, and what he had done during Keith’s brief spate of unconsciousness. Bobby’s voice broke into his dissolving dream. He lifted his head and looked at his friend. Bobby had the receiver of a tiny cell phone pinned to his chest. “I said, do you care whether or not the food comes from Cowtippers or The Vortex.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bobby, I haven’t been here since the last tour, and we didn’t stay long enough to eat out. Whatever you want is fine.” Bobby scowled. “I remember your last tour. I was in town, believe it or not. Thanks for the front row seats, asshole.” And Bobby returned to the phone. “I don’t recall…” And he smiled to himself, having caught the annoyed implication in the singer’s voice before dozing off again, this time to Steely Dan’s Bodhisattva, drifting in from the living room stereo. What seemed like hours later, but turned out to be only minutes, he felt a light weight land on his chest. He opened his eyes to find the envelope Bobby had tossed there. “Happy birthday,” Bobby called, dashing purposefully from one compact room to another. “What’s this?” He pulled back the flap to find several goldtoned tokens and a subway map. “That’s a MARTA map and some traveling change to get you started. You can take the public transit anywhere from here, to Midtown and Downtown. It’s better than looking for a place to park your bike, and trust me, there are some places I wouldn’t leave it unattended.” “You trying to tell me something?” “Yes,” Bobby said pointedly, coming back into the room. He was holding a scrap of paper. “I’m having a party tonight. You’re invited to the main event, but not to its planning. And to make things clearer, I have written down your day’s itinerary for you.” He flicked the note at Keith. Keith unfolded the paper and frowned. “This just says ‘Get the fuck out.’”

“That’s right, Professor. I got a ton of things to do before then and I don’t need you moping around here. Get the fuck out, now!” **** He got the fuck out of Bobby’s apartment. The nearest MARTA station was a fair walk, but the weather was nice and he did not mind the exercise. It was a good chance to work out the kinks and aches of several long rides. He pounded the pavement, amazed with the growth in Bobby’s neighborhood that had occurred since his last visit. It seemed Atlanta living was on the upswing for all the new condominium buildings. He frowned again. Was he really moping, as Bobby had accused? Maybe he could have handled things better with Nat, and talked things out to help him come to terms with Nat and Kurt’s relationship. There did not seem to be a point in dwelling on things he could not change, and damned if he’d suggest Nat leave Kurt to make him happy. He loved them both—he just wished they thought enough of him to be honest. To be fair, he could have been honest about himself, but too many missed opportunities coupled with misread signals over the years seemed to spoil that chance in his mind. It seemed easier to run. He found the MARTA station and descended down the escalator. He could take the rail transit practically anywhere in the city, and even further out to Atlanta’s many suburbs and satellite communities. He chose, however, to stick to Downtown and Midtown. Bobby claimed to have enough to do, and he did not want to incur his friend’s wrath by calling him for a ride

back after getting himself lost. Bobby had instructed him explicitly not to return until around eleven that night, and assured him that he could find enough to do in the city to keep him occupied until then. He had to wonder exactly what kind of spontaneous party Bobby was going to have that began so late. So he played tourist and tooled around the CNN Center, browsed the shops in Underground Atlanta, then wove around the World of Coca-Cola before trying his luck at a visitor’s center for more ideas. There was the Margaret Mitchell House, but a bystander had caught him looking at a brochure and advised him that there was not much to see there, since the original house had burned down. For a quick meal he dared the Varsity, Atlanta’s popular fast food restaurant, and when he didn’t immediately collapse from gout or a heart attack he headed further south. He had picked up a Braves schedule somewhere during his travels; there was a late afternoon game against the Pirates, a perfect time-killing diversion. One subway and short bus ride later, he was but one of a multitude streaming through a large parking lot en route to Turner Field, passing a monument marking the spot where Hank Aaron had hit number 715 in the old ballpark. He tried to remember if Nat managed to get a piece of the original Fulton County Stadium before it was demolished. The bassist had so much memorabilia as it was, but once Keith found his seat and ordered a beer from a passing vendor all thoughts of anything outside the park faded as he watched the game and tried not to mope. ****

He was about twenty minutes past curfew when his cab pulled into the small lot of Bobby’s building. The entire floor where Bobby lived was lighted; silhouettes mingled in the curtained windows and people spilled out onto the small balconies, laughing and toting cocktails. Some of his friends, Keith thought with a rueful smile. “Damn,” the cab driver muttered as he accepted his fare. “Who all did that guy invite over?” “Atlanta,” Keith answered, and bade him goodnight. Bobby heralded his return with a grand gesture, prompting a collective drunken cheer from his guests. Keith looked around him with a touch of bewilderment; the apartment had been transformed. Furniture had been moved, and a large buffet was situated along one wall. In one corner a DJ’s station was set up, and music vibrated the floor as some people danced while others mingled. It appeared to be a healthy mix of both genders and all colors and sexual preferences. Some people did not seem shy about hiding their proclivities, either. “Elton sends his regrets,” Bobby said casually as he handed Keith a drink and steered him around the living room. Keith did not have time to decide whether or not Bobby was kidding, because he was soon pumping hands with various people, colleagues from Bobby’s charitable organizations, a few local celebrities and hangers-on, and even one junior Weather Channel anchor he recognized. When they turned into the private, screened-in balcony in Bobby’s bedroom, which was strangely empty, his heart stopped. Strike that: almost empty. Bobby waved his hand casually to the gentlemen sitting in a corner wicker love seat, each holding a wineglass. “And you

already know Nat and Kurt,” he said, and rejoined the party inside, leaving them alone.

Chapter Five Nat raised his glass in silent salute as Keith could only stare, wondering if he was seeing a ghost. Two, in fact. “Elton sends his regrets, don’t know if you heard,” Nat spoke. He was—they were—real. “What are you doing here? How did you two get here from California so quickly?” “We were invited. You know me, I’m not one to turn down a good party, even if Bobby scares me sometimes.” Nat glanced through the glass sliding door dividing them from the crowd. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he has a thing for me.” “How...” Kurt spoke up. “Bobby called us yesterday the second he got off the phone with you. He figured since it would be a day before you showed up, we could get here in time. We hopped the first flight here, got in sometime in the wee hours.” “Why would Bobby call you to come?” Keith asked, still wondering at the surreal nature of this reunion. Despite what had to be a rough, long trip, both Nat and Kurt looked rather refreshed. “To dish. Why do you think? He’s worried.” Nat frowned. “This is only the news capital of the South, you think he hasn’t heard about your adventures through the grapevine? Said he nearly had a heart attack when your assistant called him the

other day. He thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere because you hadn’t been in contact with anybody.” Keith thought fleetingly of Evan in Texas and wondered how far word had spread of that adventure. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine,” he said with a spread of his arms. He turned around in a mock pose and added, “So I guess you two can head back to Cali.” “We’re not leaving just yet,” Kurt said, and rose. Keith searched his eyes, expecting to find anger but instead saw concern. That, and a quiet, pained pleading for his cooperation. Not without your pound of flesh, Keith guessed. “I’m an adult, I can take care of myself,” he assured them. “I promise you, I’ll come home. I just don’t know when.” “I hope it’s soon,” Kurt said. “I can’t tell you that.” “Well, can I tell you something? Can we…?” Kurt turned to Nat, as though waiting for permission to continue. After a silent nod, he continued, “Can I say that I’m sorry?” “We are sorry, Keith,” Nat added. “We should have been honest with you from the beginning, about the two of us.” Keith said nothing, listening and waiting for a more detailed explanation. The thought to sit passed—he’d spent long enough in a cramped stadium seat at the ballgame, but then again, could one explain the last two decades in minutes? “What happened between you and me, at The Clover,” Nat began, and Keith mentally added a million years ago, certain that was how Nat viewed it. “I never regretted it,” Nat said, “but I suppose my inexperience at the time put the fear in me. I didn’t approach you afterward because I didn’t know how. That was really my first time with another man. I’d thought for a while before that I

might be gay, and when we were together I accepted my sexual nature. You…you’d been drinking…” “We all were, and more.” Keith fixed on Kurt at this, remembering Kurt’s numerous trips outside for “smoke” breaks. Nat threw up his hands. “What could I say? I didn’t know if you felt the same way, about me or men in general. And your behavior the next morning led me to believe you probably didn’t remember, or didn’t care to. A year or so later, Kurt came out to me…and I guess you can figure out the rest.” “How did I act toward you to make you think I regretted our time together?” Keith frowned. For all that went on at The Clover all those years ago, while that one delicious moment stood out in his memory, everything else blurred. Had he ignored Nat afterward, or shied away thinking Nat didn’t return his feelings? Whatever misfired communication arose as a result, all Keith knew now was that perhaps the wrong look cast, or the wrong word said probably cost him many years of happiness, rather than decades of heartache and dissatisfaction from casual, clandestine affairs. “Well, it was never my intent to lead you to believe I didn’t care for you then, or now,” Keith said. “Given the circumstances, though,” he gestured to both men, “what can be done about it? You two have established a personal relationship, and I can’t interfere with that.” “Keith, how could you think you are interfering?” Kurt stopped closer, and the scent of his aftershave nearly rocked Keith off his feet. He wondered why he hadn’t detected it earlier, and attributed his discomfort to Keith’s growing proximity. “Keith, you’re the closet friend we have,” Kurt said. “Nat and I never clued anybody in because, truthfully, it’s not something

we want broadcast. I guess Nat’s misinterpretation of that night kept him from coming clean because we weren’t sure how you’d react.” “As you can see, I haven’t run off screaming,” Keith said, forcing a smile. Then Kurt did something he didn’t expect. A hand touched down on his shoulder, massaging it slowly before moving along the back of his neck. Nat closed in on his other side, his gaze softened. “We love you,” Keith said. “And we want to make things right. We’ve always been a team professionally, and there’s no reason why we can’t take it to another level.” Keith felt suddenly cold despite Kurt’s warmth. “I don’t want your pity, from either of you,” he said. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to do this to keep the band together—” “This isn’t pity,” Nat said. “This is genuine, requited love. We want you to come home.” Keith opened his mouth to speak, but when Kurt leaned in for a kiss the breath left his body. He couldn’t remember the last time a man had touched him with such tenderness, and as Kurt’s lips moved over his he sensed his resentment for his longtime music partner fade. He thought this was too easy, considering the strong emotions harbored with each mile he put between himself and his friends. Part of him wanted to pull away and protest, force Nat to choose rather than compromise. The rest of him yearned to melt and secure the trio together for good. Lips against his neck clued him to Nat’s attentions. Hands smoothed over his body—slipping under his shirt to tease his heated flesh and flick at his nipples—and hips ground into him, securing him in place.

Nat ghosted kisses along his neck and jaw, moving a hand down to Keith’s hardening crotch. “You don’t know how badly I wanted you that night,” he whispered. “How I loved the way you tasted, and that I wanted more.” Keith broke free of Kurt. “I’m sorry.” It came out choked. “No,” Kurt admonished gently. “Don’t be. Just let us make up for lost time.” Before Keith could ask how, Nat had undone Keith’s jeans, and Kurt dipped a hand between the denim and the cotton boxers. Keith’s erection had grown to its full length, yet couldn’t free itself. Kurt lowered the elastic waistband as Nat lowered to his knees. “Still beautiful.” Nat hefted Keith’s sac, thumbing the sensitive skin in circular motion. He kissed the base, sending a mild shock through Keith’s system, enough to weaken his stance. Kurt must have sensed his declining ability to stand on his own, for he came around Keith’s back and drew his arms tightly around his middle. Kurt nuzzled the crook of Keith’s neck. “God, he’s a sight to see, isn’t he?” he said. A pang of bittersweet longing touched Keith’s heart at the words. He realized Kurt was caught up in the moment, heated by watching his lover take Keith’s cock into his mouth, yet all Keith could think of was the two of them enjoying each other like this for years. He might have conceded to sharing Nat with his friend had he known of Nat’s love. They could have been partners in every sense of the word for years. While there were all reasonably healthy, the thought of all that lost time nagged at him, so much that it threatened to spoil the pleasure he wanted right now. Nat closed his eyes and took Keith deeper into his mouth, breathing through his nose and withdrawing slowly before

taking him again. The man’s tongue teased the aching tip of his shaft, swiping at precum and tickling the edges of the crown. Kurt, meanwhile, resumed a new assault that planted kisses on his chin and the corner of his mouth while he kneaded Keith’s buttocks. The multiple sensations caused Keith to shiver and moan, and fleeting guilt replaced any regrets of years past as he thought of what he could do to return the pleasure. He reached one hand behind him to keep Kurt’s head close, and was rewarded with a groan. “This is for you, Keith,” Kurt murmured, as though reading his mind. “Enjoy this.” No question about that—Keith let go of everything he’d carried with him across several states. The anger, the frustration, and the tears dissolved into memory as Nat’s attention to his cock increased and intensified. Soon that familiar tingle of orgasm signaled the coming end. Nat released him only briefly to take in a breath. “Go,” he said, and covered him again, applying more pressure. Keith couldn’t hold it in any longer, and wailed his release into Kurt’s waiting mouth. Beyond Bobby Blair’s screened private balcony a car horn sounded loudly in the night, as if timed to mask Keith’s eruptive joy from the party, and keep the voyeurs at bay.

Chapter Six “What happens now?” The trio sat together on the cramped love seat overlooking the Buckhead area, the party still in full force behind them. Keith had the middle position, with each of his friends massaging a knee. He contemplated Nat’s question for a full minute before answering. “I will come home…” He watched for Nat’s reaction surreptitiously, aching at the smile. “…soon.” It faded. “When?” asked Kurt. “I don’t know yet. I didn’t expect this, I have to admit, and there’s still some things I want to sort out. Songs I need to write, miles to go before I sleep.” His voice took on a wistful tone that he hoped might bring levity to his decision. He wondered if they would protest, and felt a mixture of relief and longing when they accepted his vague reasoning. “I guess we can’t expect miracles so soon,” Nat said. “I know you won’t think a blow job is going to immediately fix everything.” “I do appreciate the gesture, though. Feel free to fly crosscountry to do that again.” Keith smiled, and they responded in

kind. “Really, I will come home, maybe sooner now than I originally planned.” Kurt patted his thigh and stood. “I’ll take that as a positive sign, and expect to see some lyrics in my inbox while you’re away.” As the band’s chief music writer, Kurt preferred to have work as soon as it was ready. “You got it,” he said, words already coming to mind. He turned to Nat. “When are you leaving?” “Early.” Nat groaned. “We should probably get moving so we can get some sleep before we have to be at Hartsfield, but I doubt Bobby will let us leave this soon. He quite a demanding host.” Keith’s stomach panged at the thought of the two sharing a bed after their encounter, but he surely couldn’t expect that aspect of their relationship to change. “I’ll stay here,” he offered. “Bobby insisted, and I don’t want to appear rude.” His body cried out for more contact, however, yearning to cuddle in a king-sized bed. He noticed their visible disappointment and felt somewhat heartened. They said nothing, no doubt sharing his next thought: baby steps. They both headed through Bobby’s bedroom to leave, and Nat turned back. “Please call,” he said. “Don’t leave us wondering where you are.” “I promise. I almost called you earlier today. You missed a good game at Turner field.” Nat laughed. “You know, I’ve always wanted a piece of Fulton County Stadium when they were selling off chunks of it, but I never did get one.” “I saw one piece for sale at the souvenir shop. I meant to get it for you but I changed my mind.”

“Swine.” Nat scowled. **** The party broke around four, with many people still reluctant to leave. Keith imagined it would continue in some way, somewhere else. True to Nat’s earlier prediction, the host had no intention of letting Nat and Kurt slip out early. They hung on, bleary yet upbeat, and mingled. As Keith tried to stack dirty plates, Bobby moved from seeing off a few stragglers and slapped his hand. “I got people coming in the morning to take care of this. You go on to bed,” he scolded, then, as Nat approached to say goodbye, added with a wink, “You, too.” “Tempting, but no, thanks. Our cab is downstairs.” He offered Keith a half-hug in goodbye. Kurt had already gone down to wait. Bobby sighed. “Too bad you can’t stay longer. I’d love to show you around Atlanta sometime.” “Maybe I’ll take you up on it. You throw one hell of a party. Take care of Keith,” he said and, to their surprise, hooked his arm around Bobby’s waist and kissed him full on the mouth. “Later.” And just as quickly, Nat was out the door and headed toward the cab. Keith turned back to his friend and saw he had fainted dead away, a beatific smile on his face. He bent low, wincing as his knees creaked, and patted Bobby’s cheeks until he came to. “I’ll never wash my face again,” Bobby sighed happily. “I strongly advise you reconsider that.” “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I’m heading that way. Thank you…for the party, and the guests.” Bobby smiled. He seemed perfectly content to lie on the floor, to Keith’s amusement. “Anytime, friend. What do you want to do tomorrow?” “I think,” Keith said, “I like to sit still for a while before I head out.” “I think we’d all like that, friend.” Keith smiled.

The story of Keith, Kurt, and Nat will continue in

CLOSER TO THE HEART Coming soon to DLP Books!

About the Author Leigh Ellwood writes spicy romances and sassy mysteries. She is the creator of the award-winning Dareville series for Phaze Books, as well as numerous shorts for other small publishers. Readers are invited to visit her website for more information on Leigh’s books. http://www.leighellwood.com http://leighwantsfood.blogspot.com http://www.facebook.com/leighellwood http://twitter.com/LeighEllwood

Also by Leigh Ellwood In the Dareville series… Truth or Dare The Dares That Bind Dare Me Daring Young Man Double Dare Dare to Dream Daringly Delicious

A Winter’s Dare Don’t Dare the Reaper Where Angels Dare to Tread Also available… Jilted Surveillance Why, Why, Zed? and many more…