Stay

ROBERTA HAD given Guthrie a ride to the gig, although she lived about a half hour away. He could see her relief when Tad told her he'd be taking Guthrie home after the gig.

"Where's your truck?" Tad asked, following Guthrie's directions to 380 South.

"The apartment building," Guthrie said. "Neal and Owen took care of the truck after they dropped me off at the ER. They had work the next day, and when you're a studio musician, you can't really take sick days."

"No, I hear you. You all looked tired tonight," Tad said. "You gonna tell me what happened?"

Guthrie groaned. "Do I have to?" The second set hadn't gone badly. He'd forgotten how lovely the interplay of keyboard, cello, and violin could be when the three of them were trying to sound like a guitar riff. And the penultimate song—"The Boxer"—had brought down the house. They'd followed it up with "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," which had been a mistake. Their band was already a player short for that one—one of the reasons it was their signature song was because Guthrie could do a very basic drum set with the pedals while playing the guitar with his hands and doing the vocals. The crowd loved it; they watched avidly every week to see if he could do it again.

Well, this week he wasn't going to, obviously, so he played the drums while Neal tried to make up the guitar part on the cello. He was close, but there were moments missing from the song, and everybody knew it well enough to hear.

They still got pity tips, though, and Guthrie had taken his share gratefully, as well as some warm soup from Sarah because his molars were still loose. Underneath about three days beard growth was a swollen jaw that was going to take another week to go down.

Talking about it all would probably just make him feel worse.

"Yeah," Tad said dryly. "You have to. I'm… I gotta tell you, I'm feeling the urge to go out and arrest somebody. Please tell me they got the guy."

"Everybody knows who he is," Guthrie told him. "He's the son of one of the big fancy landowners in Bodega Bay. Not one of the guys who leases the big properties, but the guy who owns them all and keeps one for himself. His kid's got a problem, needs money to sustain his problem, and knocks over the unwary. We all know what he looks like, what he sounds like, and we know the cops won't do jack or shit about it, okay?" Guthrie's voice rose querulously, and he tried to rein it in. He'd seen the kid skulking in the back of the bar. So had Roberta, Neal, and Owen. They'd all walked out together, along with Sarah's husband, the bouncer. Red had been getting the others in their cars while Guthrie walked toward his truck, which was parked a little farther out, and the kid had rushed him. Guthrie defended himself, as usual, but the kid had a knife. Guthrie caught the blade across the knuckles, dropped his guitar, and then actually grabbed the knife , because he was dumber than a box of hammers. He kicked the kid in the kneecap, and the kid had dropped the knife, thrown a few desperate punches that made contact, grabbed Guthrie's tip bag, and run.

By the time Red got there, Guthrie had been climbing to his feet, battered, bleeding, and furious—and down the night's take. Red had helped him up, called the guys to come take care of Guthrie's truck, and taken him to the ER.

Where Guthrie had scrolled his phone endlessly, checking for violence in Sacramento.

Guthrie told Tad part of the story—not the part about the phone, or about the cops saying, "We'll look into it," when both Red and Guthrie had told them the kid's name—as Tad followed his directions to the guest parking of a very average little apartment complex in the not-quite-prime section of San Rafael.

Tad stared at the place and took a deep breath.

"Sorry," Guthrie said, feeling low-rent. "It's not great—"

Tad shook his head. "Not that." He gave Guthrie a lopsided smile. "Would you believe this building looks like the place Chris and I were getting shot at?"

Guthrie let out a fractured laugh. "Oh man. You should let me out here and say goodbye. This does not bode well."

Tad chuckled and shook his head. "Any homicidal day traders in there with a bucketload of coke and a death wish?"

Guthrie thought about it seriously. "Nope. There's a family in there that owns a restaurant that plays Mariachi music really loud at six in the morning on Sundays, but that only lasts about half an hour. You get up, you go pee, you check your messages, and 'bout the time you want to go scream at them in your underwear, they're all loaded up to the restaurant and ready to start their day."

"Seriously?"

Guthrie shrugged. "Yeah. Place ain't upscale, but it's not a single wide in a swamp either."

"I'll take it. Hope your couch is comfy."

Guthrie nodded. "Newest piece of furniture in the place." His first couch had been a hand-me-down with springs that would disembowel an occupant the hard way. The couch had been the only thing he'd really bought with his Fiddler and the Crabs money. He'd mostly used the proceeds to invest in his education.

Guthrie had a sudden thought of Tad on the couch while Guthrie curled up in his queen-sized and slept, and the thought made him lonely. He wasn't feeling particularly sexual—or even up to sex—but that kiss…. It hadn't seemed to want anything from him but basic animal warmth.

With a grunt, he opened the door to Tad's SUV, and Tad grabbed his backpack and Guthrie's guitar and followed with nothing more than a warning glare.

"What?" Guthrie grumbled, making his way into the heart of the place. "What was that look for?"

"I was glaring at you before you could say, ‘Don't worry, I got it, it's mine!'"

Guthrie opened his mouth and then realized that was exactly what he'd been thinking about saying and laughed at himself. "Yeah, ya got me there." It was past nine o'clock at night, and many of the units were dark as folks either watched television in their bedrooms or were already asleep in preparation for an early morning. Some of the units were still lit, though. Some of them had what sounded like a family—kids arguing over what was on television, adults settling things down. Sometimes there was yelling, but it wasn't a rule. This place was more likely to have young people hosting friends for pizza and videos or games than a fight of some sort.

He smiled a little as they passed the three-bedroom unit that housed probably ten people, all of them related. Mexican, he was pretty sure, because they ran a taqueria nearby. They were the ones who played the music, and most days they were more the fun kind of neighbor than the obnoxious kind. He was pretty sure the whole apartment complex tolerated the early Sunday music because a worn, once-pretty middle-aged woman brought by leftover Mexican pastries about once a month.

"Not a bad place," Tad said as Guthrie let him into his ground-floor apartment.

"There's some nice folks here," Guthrie conceded as they walked through the door. He gestured toward the corner where a dinette table would usually sit. Guthrie kept his music equipment there instead, and he had Tad set the guitar down there. "They watch out for each other's kids. We keep a weather eye on the sixteen-year-old in the one-bedroom who's pregnant and only has a social worker visit. I bring her food from the Washoe sometimes, and I know I'm not the only one. Sweet kid." As he spoke he wandered around the little place, turning on the lights in the living room and the kitchen, which was only separated by a counter.

"I could ask my sister to make her a blanket," Tad said, sounding pleased. "She's always looking for another victim, erm, recipient of her work."

Guthrie laughed softly. "Knitting or crochet?"

"Crochet. She, uh…." His voice trailed off, and then he gave a resolute little nod over the kitchen counter. "She picked it up in rehab. I guess yarn is her new drug. I mean, better than meth, and she goes through it slower, so I do what I can."

Guthrie was aware Tad was peering at him from under nearly colorless lashes, as though this was some sort of test.

"Rehab's hard," he said. "I know folks who'd rather drink themselves to death than try to quit the sauce, and meth's a nasty drug. So good for her. There's a yarn store by my house. Tell me what kind and how much and I'll get it for her."

Tad grimaced. "Can't you let me do a good thing too?" he asked.

Guthrie's cheeks heated, and he felt like he'd been caught out somehow. "Yeah. Sure. Baby colors I guess. Let me know what I—"

"So help me, Guthrie, do not try to pay for it. If April wants to make it, that's a big deal. Jesus, you're stubborn."

Guthrie let out a sigh. "I don't want to fight about it anyways," he said. "Fine. Jaya would be happy for a handmade baby blanket. I think she got kicked out of the house. She's trying —getting her GED, working in a retail store—but you can tell the idea of a baby on her own is scary."

"See, helping people can be a group project," Tad said. His voice, which had grown a bit stony, softened. "And I don't want to fight about it either. Were you going to get something in there or not?"

Guthrie smiled a little. "I was gonna ask you if you wanted a beer."

"Wouldn't mind one," Tad said, glancing around the place.

With the exception of the music equipment corner, which housed a keyboard, music books on shelves, and Guthrie's drum set out of the cases, the rest of the apartment wasn't bad in Guthrie's opinion. Couch was leather and mostly new, with some store-bought throws on it and some pillows. TV was in the right spot, and Guthrie had some streaming services for the comedown after a gig. He had a shelf of books and some nice lamps that lit the place up and some prints on the wall—concert prints, mostly. Folks he'd seen live. One or two posters his dad had made up when they were Fiddler and the Crabs.

"Got some snacks too," Guthrie said. "Sarah usually gives us more than soup."

"You looked in pain and out of it," Tad said, coming to rifle through the fridge. "What you got to eat?"

Actually it wasn't bad. Some of those grocery-store soups, a fresh loaf of bread, some prime cold cuts, some salads-in-a-bag. Eggs and cheese. Living like a bachelor was one thing, but living like a pathetic bachelor was something Guthrie worked very hard not to do. No fridge full of old takeout, no living room decorated with pizza boxes and beer cans. Guthrie may have wanted a little more spare time—he'd really love a pet—but he had to live here, and he didn't want it to suck.

"Here," Tad said, pulling out stuff. "You go change or shower or whatever you like to do after a gig, and I'll make us something."

Guthrie opened his mouth to protest, and Tad held up his hand.

"For fucks sake, Guthrie, let me take care of you a little."

Guthrie swallowed, and suddenly the night hit him full force. His hand hurt like fire , and his jaw and neck and shoulders felt like he'd been in a car wreck. This once, he wasn't pulling himself together on his own—a thing he'd had to do even with the last two boyfriends he'd tried to have—and maybe he should take advantage of it while it lasted.

"Sure," he said, swallowing. "Thank you."

Tad sighed and set the eggs and cheese on the counter, along with a tomato and some ham. "C'mere," he murmured, and to Guthrie's surprise, he pulled Guthrie close—close enough for their chests to touch—and rubbed his nose gently along the unswollen side of Guthrie's jaw.

"You don't need to be so prickly around me," Tad murmured, doing nothing more than breathing him in. "I swear, I'm not going to go in for the kill. I'm not going to steal your lunch money or beat you up more or make fun of you for having a shitty night. We don't know each other well yet, but I promise I just want to fix you something to eat and make sure you get some sleep, okay?"

"Okay," Guthrie mumbled, and for a moment he leaned his head against Tad's shoulder. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now go change. Food'll be hot when you're done."

Guthrie grabbed a plastic bag on his way out to keep his stitches dry and took advantage of Tad's presence—of his care—to take a shower. He'd been smelling his own pain sweat all night and was about done with that.

He grabbed some flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt when he emerged from the bathroom. He felt cleaner, but the full weight of his exhaustion had hit him in the shower, and after dressing, it was all he could do to stagger down the short hall to the living room and sprawl on the couch.

He glanced up as Tad brought him a bowl, bottom wrapped securely in a clean dishtowel.

"Ketchup or no ketchup?" he asked.

"Definitely ketchup," Guthrie told him, and Tad pulled the squeeze bottle out of his back pocket and squeezed until Guthrie told him to stop.

He disappeared into the kitchen again and came out with his own bowl and two bottles of… water?

"I thought it was going to be beer," Guthrie mumbled through a mouthful of eggs. Delicious eggs. Hot, scrambled with the tomatoes, cheese, and ham, he'd never had anything so wonderful as these damned eggs.

"You need to take a painkiller," Tad murmured. "No beer."

"Mm fine." Guthrie was on his next mouthful of eggs, suddenly wondering what he'd eaten that day besides soup.

The answer was a resounding nothing , and when he set his empty bowl down on the coffee table, he was almost tearful he felt so much better.

"Painkiller's there," Tad gestured with his fork as he polished off his own eggs. "I found it in the cupboard. New prescription, so I'm assuming you haven't had anything more than Advil since you left for the gig."

"You're assuming right." Now that he didn't have to play, Guthrie had no problem knocking back the Vicodin. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Tad told him, setting his own bowl down. He grabbed the remote control from the coffee table, leaned back, and patted his chest. "Now come here and lay your head on me while I watch some television."

Guthrie stared at him for a moment and then did what he asked. "This is it?" he mumbled, the comforting, glorious strength under his cheek feeling like a reward for things he hadn't known he'd done.

"Snuggling on the couch? Absolutely. Buddy, I don't know if you've seen yourself, but you're cooked and done."

"So cooked and done," Guthrie mumbled. "But this is nice. I'm sorry, though. I had… hopes. You know. We texted for two weeks. Does that count as a date?"

"Looking to get laid?" Tad asked dryly. He found an old sitcom, something innocuous that Guthrie enjoyed too, and let the television sit there, sound on low.

"I don't know," he confessed. "What are the rules here?"

"Mm…." Tad kissed the crown of his head. "The rules are that if you want us to move to that level, you tell me and see where I am."

"Oh God. So grown up. You're making a lot of assumptions there, buddy."

"I am," Tad admitted. "But that's not the one that has you worried."

"You gonna tell me what has me worried?" Guthrie asked, wondering how transparent he really was.

"You're worried that you're going to trust me and I'm going to let you down," Tad murmured. "No, don't say anything. Don't deny it. You may not know this, but I am a trained detective."

Guthrie snorted slightly. "So I've heard."

"Yeah, well, I'm not infallible. I've trusted a couple of people who, in hindsight, didn't deserve it. But I can see someone who's been snakebit bad. Was it the guy? The guy you sing the song to?"

"I didn't sing it tonight," Guthrie told him virtuously. He'd taken it off the set list the minute he'd seen Tad in the audience.

"You didn't find something to replace it," Tad teased. "But that was it? The guy?"

"No," Guthrie replied, forced into honesty. "No. That guy—he told the truth. He never took advantage. Was true to the guy he loved. Wasn't his fault I couldn't let go."

"Mm." Tad slouched a little more in the couch, and Guthrie wondered about his day. There was some driving between Sacramento and the Washoe. He probably hadn't gotten much sleep the night before either.

"Not gonna ask?" Guthrie didn't want the conversation to end, though.

"I'm gonna tell you mine," Tad said, like he'd decided something.

"All your super mature, really healthy past relationships?" Yeah, Guthrie was bitter.

"Yup. Listen and be jealous. Ready?"

"Sure."

"So about three years ago I was living with a guy. Lawyer. Uptight, sort of adorable. Worked for the DA's office. Gave to charities, bitched bitterly about a guy he saw as his hated rival, but truthfully I think Sam had a crush on him that he didn't want to cop to. Anyway, was gonna be marriage. I was sure. Then my mom got sick, and I had to spend a lot of weekends down in Bodega Bay, and he didn't want to come with me because they were his weekends too, which, you know. Fair. But she died, and I was starting to get worried about April, my little sister, and he told me to get over it. And by the time I got my shit together and went down to Bodega Bay myself to find my little sister, she was living on the streets and so strung out she still has the scars on her face from when she was picking scabs."

"Oh God," Guthrie mumbled. "That's so sad. You said she went to rehab. You got her there?"

"Yeah, but… but I went a little off the rails to get her there. I damned near kidnapped her and locked her in a shitty motel and weaned her off the damned meth. I… I got lice from her lice and fungal infections from her ringworm, and I had to shave her head, and we both bathed in permethrin for a week to get rid of the other shit, and…." He shuddered. "I told Sam it was rough, told him not to visit, and told him that once I got April into rehab and… and willing to try to get it done, I'd be back."

"I'm so sorry," Guthrie said, meaning it.

"I'm sorry for grossing you out," Tad muttered.

"I had to pick my daddy out of his own vomit three nights a week for most of my childhood," Guthrie told him, surprised it came out of his mouth. "I… I get it."

"Addiction is an awful goddamned thing," Tad said, and Guthrie could feel the passion of that statement welling up from his chest.

"Amen." Guthrie didn't have anything to add, but he did want Tad to finish the story.

"So I finally get April in rehab and to a place where I can go off my leave and go back to my work—and the promotion my partner, Chris, kept open for me because he's a good goddamned guy—and I get home and… Sam's gone. Hasn't lived there for two weeks. Responded to my texts. Paid the next month's rent. Left a note saying he hoped I was well, but he couldn't live with somebody who was so codependent on his family, and he needed to move on."

Guthrie was suddenly much more awake. "What. An. Asshole ."

Tad gave sort of a broken laugh. "Yeah. I was pissed at him for a while. But you know, in the long run, he was probably doing us a favor. I… I grew up with a single mother. She taught me and April to stick like glue. She taught us that sometimes all you have in your life was one or two people you could count on and never to take them for granted. I wanted a guy who would be one of those people. Sam didn't want that. He wanted easy. I wasn't. So there you go. That's the scariest thing about me."

Guthrie breathed quietly a few times, trying to get a handle on what Tad was saying.

"I would be afraid," he said. "I wouldn't want to let that person down. I… my unrequited guy? He and his husband are like that. They stuck . They stuck through shit that would make your heart drop out of your shorts. In fact some of the same shit you went through, but it was a family member. The whole time I was watching them dealing with that shit, I was like, ‘That's hard. That's so hard. But God, I'd like to be the person you could count on during that.' So I get it. But I ain't never had that. At least not with a guy."

"What makes you afraid you can't?" Tad asked.

Guthrie was so tired his words slurred. He wasn't sure if what he was saying was going to make sense, but Tad had been honest. Brutally honest. Guthrie needed to be that same thing.

"My dad was a sonovabitch, but I loved him," he mumbled. "Pulled him out of his puke. Got him to gigs. Me and my uncle Jock both played to cover his shit. Honky-tonk guitar player, couldn't hold a job, me and Jock working to keep him fed, keep his lights turned on since I was fourteen."

"Mm." Tad nuzzled his temple, and Guthrie closed his eyes, hating how much he loved that. "That's what got you running?"

"I was twenty-two when I fell in love. For real. Fiddler came in and played the shit out of his violin, and the entire band changed, just to let him play. And… and we played together and ate together and split tips together and… and beat up muggers in the parking lot together. He taught me how to keep my hands safe. Unless the fucker had a knife," he corrected. "But not my heart. And I realized all them girls I was with, I was fooling myself. Those boys I was blowing—they were who I really wanted, and I only seemed to want the ones who thought I was weak for wanting them. But Fiddler… he went off. To make money. Be famous. Went to Italy. ed with us to make one CD that made me enough to finish my degree. Get real jobs so I could play at night and have a place to live. But I was heartbroken. And I…."

Oh, he couldn't finish. It was so stupid. Every gay boy knew where this was going.

"You told your dad," Tad murmured.

"Yeah."

"And all that devotion…?"

"Meant less than shit."

"Ah."

They were quiet for a moment, so quiet Guthrie almost fell asleep, and then Tad was urging him up.

"Where'm I goin'?" he asked, the painkiller obviously doing its job.

"Getting you into bed."

"And you're staying on the couch?" Guthrie asked, his eyes burning. Yup. He'd confessed everything, and Tad didn't want him. Couldn't blame the guy. Stand-up guy. And Guthrie was… what'd he call it? Snakebit. Best description Guthrie could think of, right there.

"Only if you tell me to leave," Tad murmured. He paused to pick up the dishes on the coffee table and turn off the light with his elbow. The light from the kitchen guided them down, and after he'd set the dishes in the sink and turned off that light, the night-light in the bathroom would get them to the bedroom.

"I've got extra toothbrushes," Guthrie said, feeling charitable.

"I brought my own," Tad told him, taking his elbow. "Here. Let me get you into bed. I'll be there in a minute, in my pjs."

"Then what?" Guthrie asked, suspicious.

"Then I hold you, and we fall asleep, and when you wake up in the morning, you think to yourself, ‘I could do more of this.' Then we make plans for that too."

"Why would you want more of me?" Guthrie asked, feeling plaintive. They were in the dark now, the ambient light from the bathroom giving him the faintest outline of Tad in the darkness.

"Because you're a guy who would take care of his dad and then get hurt so badly he can barely talk about it and still love his dad. That's a guy who'll be there through the hard shit."

Guthrie's eyes were burning, brimming over. "I'm tired," he almost whined. "And stoned. Don't do this shit to me."

Tad chuckled and guided him to his bed, pulled back the covers and laid him down on the pillows, where he was glad his hair had mostly dried from the shower, because San Rafael got cold at night, even in the summer. Tad kissed Guthrie's forehead and said, "I'll be back in a minute."

Guthrie doubted. He thought, Yeah, this would be a great time for him to disappear on me, and I wouldn't blame him one bit .

He almost fell asleep on that thought before the bed depressed on the other side, and then warm hands circled his waist and strong arms hauled him back against the unyielding line of Tad Hawkins's chest, stomach, and thighs.

"I'm so mad we're not having sex," Guthrie confessed, and Tad chuckled again, this time almost directly in his ear.

"Hang in there, Guthrie. It'll be worth the wait when we do."

Guthrie fell asleep with the feeling of Tad's lips grazing the back of his neck… and the promise. When. He'd said when.

HE WOKE in the morning to find Tad gone—but his backpack still on the chair by the bed. Closing his eyes, he heard the shower going, and he smelled coffee brewing in the kitchen and… ooh. Fried potatoes?

He let his eyes adjust to the light seeping between the slats in the blinds and wished—for the umpteenth time—for a cat. They were supposed to be independent, right? A big bowl of food, one of those self-watering jugs—the cat could get by, right?

But it felt like a cheat. How lonely would it be in this apartment by itself, waiting for a human to come by to entertain it.

Maybe a cat and some fish. But that felt wrong, like he was buying cannon fodder. Maybe another cat? He would have to ponder that. He was just tired of coming home to a lonely apartment all the time. He couldn't imagine, after Tad was finished with… with whatever this was, having to come back to the apartment knowing there wasn't going to be someone else for a while. Definitely a cat.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Tad asked, and Guthrie focused on him as he came in from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist as he dried his hair with another one.

"Getting a cat," Guthrie mumbled. "But I'm too busy for a cat. Did you make breakfast?"

"Yeah. It should still be warm. I've got to leave in half an hour so I can hit visiting hours with my sister. I'm taking her to the yarn store and the beach today."

Guthrie blinked. "Busy guy," he mumbled, absurdly disappointed.

"Yeah, well…." Tad made little scooching motions, so Guthrie rolled over to make room for him. Tad sank onto the mattress and, natural as anything in the world, started rubbing Guthrie's bicep. The touch, simple as it was, made Guthrie shudder, like he needed it, and he realized there was a mostly naked man on his bed and still they weren't going to do anything.

"Well, what?" he asked, rolling slightly so he was on his back. Tad changed the stroke to the wrist of his other arm, the one with the bandaged hand.

"Well, Chris texted. Our workshop on Monday was postponed, so I've got the morning off. I was, uhm, thinking—since I don't have to run out in the asscrack of dawn, maybe I could come back tonight, get you from the Washoe, and, uhm, take you home again."

Guthrie smiled at him shyly. "I might not be a wreck tonight."

Tad leaned down into his space and kissed the corner of his mouth gently. "You get some rest, take it easy, ask Roberta if she can give you a ride to the bar. If you're a wreck, I still get to sit on your couch and hold you."

Guthrie moaned a little and then wanted to take it back because he had morning breath, but it didn't matter. Tad Hawkins fixed his minty-fresh mouth over Guthrie's and kissed him, a sort of gently powerful kiss that rolled Guthrie over and over and over until his morning breath didn't matter and his fear didn't matter and all he had was Tad Hawkins, mostly naked, his bare skin under the palm of Guthrie's good hand, his mouth… everywhere . Guthrie's neck, his collarbone, his chest….

"If you suck my nipple, I'll come and never forgive you," he croaked, and Tad pulled away, chuckling gruffly.

"Feel better tonight," he said. Then he took Guthrie's good hand and placed it gingerly over the towel at his waist, and Guthrie groaned. His erection was a solid, earthy reminder that Tad Hawkins was every bit as human as Guthrie, and that he seemed to want Guthrie like Guthrie wanted him.

"Yes, boss," Guthrie panted. "Anything you say. Oh my God, seriously?" He pushed, on instinct, and Tad arched against him, his head thrown back like this—just this—was worth everything Guthrie had put him through the night before.

"Gotta stop," Tad panted, pulling Guthrie's hand away and then, disconcertingly, kissing his knuckles. "I want you so bad. But I want to take some time, okay? I… I gotta get dressed, have some breakfast with you, and go see my sister. You're my reward for being a good and virtuous boy, okay?"

Guthrie glared at him, his entire body reeling in the frustration of denial. "Son, I don't know where you think I'm fit for anyone ‘good and virtuous,' but I've got—"

Tad's mouth cut him off again, this time overpowering, until he sagged against the mattress, his entire body limp with desire.

If he takes you this way, it'll be face-to-face.

The fear of that was the one thing that got Guthrie to back away. "Don't you got responsibilities, virtue boy?"

Tad panted a moment and then visibly pulled himself together. "You're a tease," he announced, throwing himself off the bed like Guthrie was lava. "And I hate being teased so much I'll be back tonight to collect." With a prissy little movement, he tucked the slipping towel in tight enough to stay put. He paused to give Guthrie a sultry wink before collecting his backpack from the chair and shoring himself up with another breath.

"I," he said with dignity, "am going to go get dressed in the bathroom so you don't get any ideas."

Guthrie groaned as he walked away, but he kept his eyes glued on his best towel, just in case the damned thing slipped.

No such luck.

With a grunt he rolled over and pushed himself out of bed. Now that Tad was gone, with his smooth skin and the freckles on his chest (yeah, Guthrie had noticed) and the washboard abs and heavy bicep muscles (because God, every touch got better) and kisses that melted Guthrie's soul into the bed and through the springs into the earth far below, every muscle in his body hurt.

He stood up, his legs wobbling for a bit, and teetered to his drawer for a ratty sweatshirt for warmth. This close to the ocean, mornings were chilly even in the summer, and besides the knife wound, his jaw felt stiff, and so did his neck and his stomach muscles—probably from clenching—and his thighs, probably from the same thing.

Urgh. Tad was right. He should probably text Roberta for that ride and spend the rest of the morning in bed. An hour or two to practice the night's lineup and then work.

And then… would Tad really be there?

"You going to put that on?"

Guthrie glanced up and saw Tad had set some sort of land-speed changing record as he emerged wearing one of those flannel plaid button-up hoodies over his T-shirt and a nice tight pair of jeans. "Oh my God, do you ever slow down?"

"Obviously," Tad told him wryly, "or we would have gotten laid by now. Do you need help with that?"

Guthrie stared dumbly at the sweatshirt in his hand and was unsurprised to find himself gently manhandled as Tad took the sweatshirt and helped him slip it on over his T-shirt, his injured hand, his stiff shoulder, and his frozen neck.

When he was done, Tad wrapped his arms around Guthrie's shoulders, pulling him tight, back to front, as Tad nuzzled the back of his neck. Then he spoke in Guthrie's ear.

"Now I know you'll be tempted to get all up in your feelings about how we're going too fast or too slow, or why would I want to come back or whatever. Don't. I want to come back. If I can't make it, I'll text. If I don't text, call the CHP because it means I went off a cliff or something, but otherwise, I'll be there, at the Washoe, unless you tell me you'll be somewhere else, okay?"

Guthrie nodded and leaned his cheek against Tad's. "I really want tonight with you," he confessed.

"Me too," Tad murmured. "Now you go brush your teeth and I'll plate up the food, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks."

In response Tad kissed his cheek, and Guthrie closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then Tad let him go, and it was time to start their day.

AFTER A satisfying breakfast, including spicy fried potatoes with some ham tossed in and a side of sliced apples that Guthrie was still impressed with, Tad tucked his backpack in the corner—a sort of reminder, Guthrie was sure, that he intended to return—and pulled Guthrie forward, hand on the back of his head, and kissed him, openmouthed, until Guthrie clung to his denim jacket and all but begged for mercy.

"Text me," Tad murmured, rubbing noses. "If you're not playing tonight, let me know and I'll come right here. Otherwise, I'll be at the Washoe, watching."

Guthrie felt that shy smile blooming, the one that only seemed to come out with this man. "You like watching me sing?"

"Yeah," Tad murmured. "Someday, maybe you'll sing something special for me."

"Maybe."

Tad chuckled, gave him one more hard kiss on the mouth, and left.

Guthrie sighed, shut the door after him, and wandered through the living room and kitchen, not surprised to find Tad had picked up their breakfast and put the dishes in the dishwasher and the leftovers in a nice little lunch package in the refrigerator.

Guthrie had a thought about that night, and he pulled his laptop up to the coffee table and sat down for a moment to order some groceries delivered.

He ordered ground beef and fresh produce, some milk, some more fruit, some ice cream, and some burritos—because everybody needed frozen burritos—just in case. A few other essentials he was low on, but mostly enough for a hamburger bar, including some tater tots because he liked those better than fries. He thought that if he chopped the produce and browned the grilled onions and mushrooms before he left for the gig, dinner could be pretty quick and, well, something. Not pulled out of thin air but planned. Like a real date and everything.

He set the delivery for early afternoon and yawned, suddenly exhausted. Then he texted Roberta about picking him up, if she could, telling her Tad would get him from the bar.

You feeling better? she texted.

Taking some painkillers and going back to bed for an hour, but yeah, he replied. Think we can do a zoom jam before we all have to leave for the gig? I've got a song I want to work up.

What do you want to replace on the list?

The Linda Ronstadt one. At least temporarily. So it wouldn't hurt Tad when he was there.

What do you want instead?

He told her, and waited, antsy, for her reply.

Ooh. Good choice. He'll love it.

I have no idea what you're talking about, he replied, trying to pretend it was true.

You do too. It's sweet. It's a good way for him to know how you feel.

He scowled. How could he possibly know how I feel? I've known him about a minute, and most of it's been on text.

Go to bed, Guthrie. You're being cantankerous. When you wake up maybe you'll remember what love songs are for.

He wanted to tell her to fuck off, but that would be rude. He sighed and closed his eyes—and almost fell asleep on his couch. Fine. Text me at one if I don't poke you by then.

Zoom jam at 2?

Yeah—but I've got to shower and dress. Thanks, Berta.

Love you, guitar man. Sleep tight.