Gonna Hurt Me

GUTHRIE BOTH loved and hated "Long Long Time."

He loved it because it was beautiful—Linda Ronstadt had the right of it over fifty years ago, and he'd always thought it was one of the most beautiful songs in the world. He loved it because it was one of the first songs he'd learned on the guitar, and when it was dropped an octave, he could sing it passably with his father's C he knew that onstage he had a confidence, a presence, that deserted him on the ground too, and it was good to work with people who didn't sit in the sun's golden glow without trying. As much as he'd loved Seth, the younger man had made him supremely conscious of how much Guthrie was not .

"I don't know, darlin'," he'd said to Roberta with a wink. "Talking's going too far, you think?"

She laughed a little, and they gathered their instruments and set them in the storeroom in the back before going to sit at the bar table Sarah had cleared for them.

As they crowded back there, Guthrie noticed a man—midsized, stocky but very fit, with hair that was probably auburn in the sun but looked dark blond in the darkened bar—nursing a beer at the end of the counter. Guthrie had seen him during the Linda Ronstadt song, his wide green eyes fastened hungrily on Guthrie's face as Guthrie had poured everything he'd learned about love and loss in his twenty-eight years on the planet into the rough and abraded hearts who'd gathered that night to drink.

As Guthrie walked by, their eyes met, and Guthrie saw a spark of something—hope, hunger, something—in those eyes, and he was so surprised he paused, lips parting as he searched for something to say.

Neil bumped him from behind. Neil was like Roberta in that he was only graceful onstage with his keyboard, although he was much smaller than she was, and somehow sturdier. Guthrie wondered if, like Seth, who had been gay and Black in a place where that wasn't always expected, Neil had learned to fight fiercely to defend his right to exist after achieving the offensive height of five foot four.

"Guthrie?" Neil asked. He was unfailingly polite unless someone was rude to him first.

"Sorry," Guthrie murmured, and remembered a Seth word. Mooncalfing. He raised his voice. "I'm probably light-headed. Low blood sugar, you know!"

Sarah laughed and called, "Extra red meat for our songbird here, guys. Gotta keep him in prime rib so he keeps coming back."

There was general laughter then, and they all sat down and ate fried pickles and talked about their week. Neil, Owen, and Roberta were all aflutter about new auditions for shows and a few for studio gigs, and he was excited for them, glad to be asked in on the fun. He was very aware that he was a musical step or six below the lot of them. He'd picked up his skills playing in a bar band with his father from the age of fourteen. They'd been classically trained from practically the cradle, showing aptitude and drive when Guthrie had still been hustling for a free lunch at school. The fact that they treated him as a professional, as an equal, that said everything about them and proved Guthrie was luckier than he deserved to be.

They were playing for pin money here. It mattered that they were friends.

Owen was their storyteller, and he launched into a hilarious account of trying to explain how Hamilton did too have musical salutes to hip-hop and soul only to be told that if he really wanted to hear cutting edge musical theater, he should listen to something like Jesus Christ, Superstar .

To people with musical backgrounds—and at this point, Guthrie was included because after working with Seth for over four years, he'd taken it on to educate himself—it was hysterical, but Guthrie thought sadly that nobody else in the bar would laugh at the joke.

Until Owen delivered the scathing punchline, and Guthrie heard a throaty, rolling sound and glanced up, only to catch the same green eyes of the man at the end of the bar.

Who was watching Guthrie like he'd never stopped.

Guthrie swallowed hard, a throb of wanting thundering in his chest that he almost didn't recognize.

Sarah moved to deliver their food, and the spell was broken. Guthrie sighed, investing himself in the conversation of his bandmates for the rest of the meal. He'd learned, right?

"He's cute," Roberta murmured. "I've seen him in here before."

Guthrie blinked, while Neil and Owen engaged Sarah with some conversation—and some wheedling for cobbler for dessert. Musicians: always starving, never rich. They should have had T-shirts warning the populace.

"I haven't," he murmured, although there had been something familiar about him. Had Guthrie just not noticed?

"He's been staring at you for the last three Sundays, Guthrie," Roberta laughed. "Geez, you'll never find someone if you don't let yourself look!"

Guthrie rolled his eyes. "I'm busy," he muttered, cutting a piece of prime rib and remembering another steak dinner he'd eaten, a long time ago.

"You're oblivious," Roberta argued. "By design. For God's sake, Guthrie—it's been four months!"

Guthrie glared at her. "I'm sorry I brought you," he muttered.

"I'm not," she said softly. "It was a lovely weekend. I'm glad I got to go as a friend. And seriously—" She did jazz hands, because she'd been a serious Seth Arnold fan "—it was a total rush for me, and I can't pretend it wasn't. But Guthrie…." Her voice sank quietly. "You'll never know if you're ready to fall in love again if you can't meet a guy's eyes across a room."

Guthrie sent her a bored look. "At the Washoe House?" he asked, his eyes traveling around the rustic piece of history placed outside of Petaluma, on the way from Doran Beach. Sarah and the crew were friendly, and they liked to feed the band, but Guthrie wasn't sure they knew he wasn't flirting with any of the girls for a reason. He'd learned caginess from Seth, and it had been a good lesson.

"That's snobbery," Roberta said loftily. "Lots of people like country and western music. There's scads of gay artists now."

Guthrie blew out a breath and tried to forget those hungry green eyes. He glanced to where the guy had been and saw that he'd left.

"Well, this one isn't getting laid tonight," he said, keeping his voice light. Inside he was wondering if the guy would be back. Had he been coming to see the band? Was this a stop on a route? Or had those eyes, fastened on Guthrie's face during that damnable song, really been just for Guthrie.

He tried to keep the hopeful shiver from twitching up his spine, but he couldn't. It had been so long since he'd even had that —it felt like hope was the least luxury he could give himself.

"Next week," she said with confidence. "I swear."

"Right," he said, keeping his hope to himself. It was less painful when it flamed out close to his chest.

They finished their meal and thanked Sarah heartily, then split the tips before they all trooped out to their cars, parked back on the decomposed granite lot out of reach of the lights. They were near enough to the ocean for the fog to be gathering, which made the parking lot even more sinister, and Guthrie was glad they'd had practice in keeping safe.

Guthrie, Neil, and Owen made sure Roberta got into her own car first and that it started and the whole deal. Neil and Owen—who roomed together—hopped into Neil's aging Toyota and left, leaving Guthrie to trudge to his beloved beat-up Chevy truck.

He'd been jumped after a gig enough times to hear the footstep on the gravel first, and lucky him, he was carrying a sturdy guitar case. He swung it wide around, clocking the first guy on the head, and then he used his elbow on the guy behind him. The first guy let out a howl and ran away, holding his hand over his jaw, and the guy behind him swore.

"Mother fucker ! Give me your goddamned money!" he growled, and Guthrie turned sideways and kicked the guy in the kneecap just as a stern voice said, "Police officer—freeze!"

"Fuck me," Guthrie muttered, holding his hands up, the guitar hanging heavily from his left. Behind him, he heard the tear of footsteps as his would-be assailant took off into the dark.

"That's a bit familiar," said the voice, and near the last vestiges of the soda lamps by the old restaurant building, a now familiar figure emerged. He was wearing jeans and a studded shirt—classic C where someone's smell, the look in their eyes, their body temperature for sweet hell's sake, had just clicked, like cosmic tumblers in the magic Guthrie opening combination that made him want to drop his pants, bend over, take the sex, and sob.

Right as he was yanking his attention to the here and now, his pocket buzzed. Checking the lobby, because being on your phone when there were customers was not allowed, he saw a text.

This is Tad. I'm at a work meeting and thinking about you. Text me back, okay, or I'll think you're a mirage I made up on the drive home.

Guthrie smiled to himself and texted quickly, Not enough coffee in the WORLD .

He slid his phone back in his pocket before Martin could glance up from his computer screen and took a sip of coffee before opening his file of customers to see who was due to bring their car in for servicing and who had (poor bastards) answered an automatic questionnaire about would they want to trade their vehicles up.

Thank God he made the big bucks so he could delegate that shit. He made a file of the customers, thought briefly about sending it to Tracy because she'd be happy to do it and she was a sweetheart, and sent it to Martin instead.

"What the—hey!" Martin groaned. "Why do you give this shit to me? Make one of the girls do it. They're not doing anything!"

"In fact," Guthrie told him, "Tracy's being trained on auto bay reception today, and Lana's doing the training. That leaves me to service customers and you to do the hackwork."

"Who died and made you boss?" Martin snarled, and Guthrie was in no mood for this shit.

"I'm your office manager, Martin—managing the office is my job . You, on the other hand, are an absolute dick to people, so you can either piss them off anonymously over a cold call, or piss them off face-to-face where they can complain to your manager— me —and I have to pass it on to Mr. Calhoun."

"Why can't I be trained in the auto bay?" Martin whined, and Guthrie rolled his eyes.

"Because they all hate you there," he said. "And Tracy has zero write-ups and you have three. Look, buddy, hate to go all power mad on you, but you're circling the drain. Take the crap assignment, do it with a smile, and you might get to keep your health and dental, okay?"

"Prick," Martin muttered.

"Four times," Guthrie said, pulling the paperwork on his computer. "You've been written up four times."

Martin made a sound like air escaping a punctured tire, but he did not make it five.

GUTHRIE DIDN'T mind helping people. He greeted them, asked them what they wanted, hooked them up with sales reps, if the reps didn't get them first. Put them in touch with the maintenance department—and said hi to Tracy, who was a smart kid and doing just fine—when they needed it, and made sure the coffee and donuts were fresh and the area was clean.

Which was something he had to nag Martin to do, because Martin felt it was beneath him.

He was in the middle of cleaning up the coffee station when a woman said, "Hey. You look familiar!"

He turned with a pleasant smile on his face, pretty sure he didn't know her. He was right.

"You're… wait!" Suddenly she blushed. She was a pretty woman, in her late thirties maybe, with a lot of thick, styled brown hair and bronzer. Mercedes, silver, hangs on to it for sentimental value although could probably trade it in for a bundle.

He knew he'd seen that car in the parking lot of the Washoe the night before as he'd been leaving.

For a moment, his body washed hot and cold as he thought, Oh yeah. This is it. There goes my job.

Then he remembered those kisses in the front of Tad's SUV: The gentle bump of Tad's bold nose along his jawline, the burst of breath in Guthrie's ear when Guthrie had massaged his chest.

Totally worth it. Would repeat. 10/10.

The thought let him relax. He'd done nothing wrong, and this woman wasn't remembering him from a moment in a darkened car—she was remembering him from his few moments in the light.

"You sang that song ," she said excitedly. "That tragic Linda Ronstadt song. And then you did vocals for ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia' while that girl played the fiddle. Oh my God, your band is great . I mean, unusual . It's not often that a fiddle and an electronic keyboard and a cello are backing up the drums and lead guitar, but… good stuff!"

Guthrie shrugged and gave her his best self-deprecating stage smile. "We do enjoy ourselves. The kids from the conservatory are there to have fun, right? So yeah. We like to think we bring a good time."

Her eyes softened a little as she took in his bright blue polyester polo. "Day job?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Health and dental. Can't crap on that, right?"

She laughed. "Well, keep your health and dental, but my God, keep playing!"

From the counter Martin said, "Ms. Kuhns? Your car's done. You can find it in the service bay."

"Thank you!" she called over Guthrie's shoulder. Then to Guthrie she said, "It's been a pleasure to meet you, uhm—"

"Guthrie, ma'am. Like Arlo and Woody, right?"

"It's in your blood," she said with an impish little grin.

"It is indeed." He gave a small bow then, like a troubadour of old, and she threw her head back and laughed, sounding younger, maybe. Like he'd made her feel good.

He liked doing that.

Cheerfully, he finished cleaning the coffee station and went to wash his hands. On the way, he caught Martin's glare.

"What?" he asked.

"What was that all about?" Martin all but snarled. "What song?"

"What I do on my off hours is my business," Guthrie said. "I play in a band. We do gigs. She was at one. Why?"

Martin's expression grew complicated. "You…." His jaw went slack. "You, uh, ever know anyone famous?"

And oh my God, serendipity. Their overhead music was played softly—loud enough to listen to if someone was bored, not loud enough to impose on conversation. And there, just as Guthrie was about to answer, came one of Seth Arnold's signature songs, released on an album shortly before Seth and Kelly were married. Apparently, it was a surprise to Kelly, who heard the cut on the radio one day during the wedding weekend and said, "Oh my God, papi, this you?"

Amara had told them then that Seth had produced so much good stuff for his YouTube channel that summer that he'd been asked to cut a CD.

Seth didn't remember. "Me and Kelly were, uhm, sort of taking a break. He had family shit to sort, and I dunno. I guess. That sounds like me."

Guthrie had been impressed and appalled, both at the same time. On the one hand, the song was glorious. It had to be to cross over from classical to pop. On the other, all Guthrie had ever wanted was to be that good . That successful. And Seth had been so intent on the love of his life he hadn't even noticed. Guthrie had wondered if he'd ever be unselfish enough to be that much in love. He still wondered.

But there it was now, Seth Arnold, playing on the overhead speakers, right when Guthrie needed a good comeback.

He didn't say a word. Just smiled evilly and let Martin figure it out for himself.

Martin's eyes got really wide. "Seth Arnold? Like—like Seth Arnold ! Oh my God. Next you'll be telling me you know Outbreak Monkey!"

Guthrie rolled his eyes. "No, dumbass, because they never played in the Bay Area when I was there." Although Guthrie had heard those good ole boys speak in interviews, and he had a feeling he and Mackey Sanders would get along fine.

"Seth Arnold did?"

Guthrie wasn't sure if he hated doing this or loved it. "Man, look up Fiddler and the Crabs plus his name. See what pops up. Now I'm gonna go check the bathrooms. Try not to shit where you eat for a whole five minutes, okay?"

And with that Guthrie stalked off. Behind him, he heard Martin squeak, "You were in a band together? No shit?" and wondered if he'd live to regret that or not.

It didn't matter. He rounded the corner into a booth, and after a cursory glance to make sure the place was pristine—it was, Tracy had done cleanup a half hour earlier—he closed the door, leaned against it, and pulled out his phone.

Did you get coffee? That was from two hours ago.

Still not enough. You still in your meeting?

Naw. Doing paperwork before we hit the streets and do interviews. You thought of one yet?

Guthrie blinked. One what?

A song! Something happier than "Long Long Time."

Guthrie smiled. This could be a fun game. Journey, "Faithfully." It was one of his favorites.

Ooh. Good choice for a musician. If you can sing Linda Ronstadt, you can sing Steve Perry.

Ooh. Someone who knew music—at least a little. But can I sing David Bowie or Freddie Mercury?

I don't know. Can you?

He thought of a duet he used to do with Seth's fiddle. I can do the Bowie part of "Under Pressure."

Nice. You always like music?

At that point, he heard someone at the door outside, and he slid the phone back in his pocket and let himself out of the cubicle, making sure to stop and wash his hands before he left.

He was surprised to see Eugene C. Calhoun there, waiting for the cubicle.

"There you are, boy. Do you know that kid at the counter was talking all sorts of nonsense about you and a band? What do you know about that?"

Guthrie stared at him, not sure how to answer this. "Nothing, sir," he answered, figuring if he was caught out, he was caught out, but he wasn't volunteering shit .

"Good. 'Cause if I catch you playing with people of bad reputation, I'm gonna have to let you go."

Guthrie squinted at him. "Bad reputa—"

"That Arnold kid he was talking about. Didn't he just marry another man? Did I hear that right?"

Guthrie nodded dumbly, remembering the bite of the wind, the roar of the sea, and Seth and Kelly's absolute adoration as they lost themselves in the other's eyes. "Yeah," he rasped.

"That's not our kind of business here, you understand me, boy?"

"Loud and clear, sir," Guthrie said and slipped numbly out of the bathroom. He slid onto the stool next to Martin and started drawing up the schedule for the coming week.

Next to him, Martin muttered, "Sorry, Guthrie. I had no idea he was that kind of prick."

Guthrie gave him a glance, suddenly feeling bad for the kid. "Martin, sometimes you've got to assume everybody's that kind of prick until they show you different. I know it's not fair, but there it is."

Martin nodded, his eyes red-rimmed. "You used to play with Seth Arnold. That's the coolest fucking thing I've ever heard."

Guthrie gave him a smile and threw him a bone. "Truthfully, kid?"

Martin nodded.

"It was the coolest fucking thing I've ever done."

Martin smiled like the sun through the fog, and together they started working, quiet in the office until the next customer came in. Martin took care of them without a word of complaint.