His Song

Part 1

The things I put up with, Krish Rajendra thinks, glancing around the darkened coffeehouse. The crowd’s his age but this was never his scene—art students with multi-colored hair, poets in dark jeans and black turtlenecks, aspiring writers chatting about Kerouac and Ginsberg over cappuccinos. Give him a sports bar any day, Monday night football on the tube, Aerosmith on the jukebox, beer sloshing out of cold mugs and peanuts on the floor. None of this candlelight s**t, or the heavy scent of espresso that hangs like rain in the air, or the Bob Dylan wanna-bes up on the small stage, taking turns on the open mike with their acoustic guitars and whiney songs. Why is he here again?

Dane.

Krish lets his gaze wander around the room until he sees Jude Danelian, twenty-three and his lover of two years. He’s the reason they’re at the Dharma tonight—”Randy Blake will be there,” Dane said earlier, when he broached the subject of coming downtown. He sat on the arm of the sofa and leaned onto Krish in that way he has that gets him anything he wants. His body pressed along Krish’s side, his arm draped around Krish’s shoulders, his fingers toying in the short, dark hair at the nape of Krish’s neck. “Come on,” he cajoled. “One night, what’ll it hurt? I don’t want to go alone.”

“We don’t have to go at all,” Krish replied. “There’s a game on tonight.” He slipped his arms around his lover’s waist and pulled him into his lap. Dane’s tall, slim, almost bony, and when Krish holds him tight, he’s afraid he’ll snap the boy in two. He was captain of the basketball team back in high school, made it through college on an athletic scholarship, and never even talked to an art student until the year after he graduated, when he ran into Dane at the grocery store where the boy worked.

Literally—backed his pickup into Dane’s bicycle; he never did get the hang of reverse. When Dane came out, Krish was already dusting off the bike, thinking maybe no one would notice the bent rims? They weren’t that bad, a little hammering should pop them right back into shape…

Then he looked up and saw that light brown hair, streaked with blond and falling like a curtain in front of Dane’s face, one length to his chin. He had an endearing habit of flipping it out of the way as he talked, and Krish was lost. He insisted on taking Dane out to dinner—his parents owned a small Indian restaurant not far from his apartment, it was the least he could do, give the boy a warm meal and fix up his bike, and by the end of the week they were inseparable. Two years later and all Dane had to do was rub along the sensitive skin behind his ear, stare at him with those puppy-dog eyes, give him a slight pout, and damn. So much for the game.

Now he watches Dane, waiting at the bar for their drinks. The girl at the espresso machine says something that makes him laugh—he ducks his head and his hair falls in front of his face, Krish loves how it does that. Despite the distance and the crowd, he thinks he can hear that laugh, rich and soft like freshly turned soil. When the girl hands Dane one of the drinks, she says something else, smiles coyly, holds the mug even after he takes it. Dull jealousy curls through Krish, an angry ache that makes his head hurt. Hands off, babe, he thinks, narrowing his eyes. That’s my boy so you best just settle down now, you hear?

Dane laughs again—he doesn’t even realize she’s flirting with him; he’s oblivious when it comes to stuff like that. The first time Krish smoothed that hair back from his brow, leaned over him and whispered that he was the sexiest boy he’d ever seen, Dane blushed so fiercely, Krish thought he might spontaneously combust. “I’m not that pretty,” he said. Since then Krish makes sure to use his lips, his tongue, his hands, anything he can think of, to convince Dane otherwise.

As his lover crosses the room, a steaming latté in each hand, Krish glares at the girl staring after him. If he were the flamboyant type, he’d greet Dane with a possessive kiss, press him back against the booth and show the girl just who the hell this boy belongs to, anyway. He’d like to see the look on her face then, see that cute smile freeze into place. He could do it here—this is a coffeehouse, not a sports bar; none of these artsy-fartsy kids would say s**t about two guys making out in the corner and he’s still fairly buff, he could take any of them easily in a fist fight—but he’s not like that. What he does with his boy is his business. He doesn’t perform for an audience.

Dane gives him one of his self-conscious smiles, the ones Krish loves to kiss away. When he slides into the booth and sets the mugs down in front of them, Krish lets his hand find Dane’s leg in the darkness beneath the table and trails up until it rests in the joint where thigh meets groin. He can feel the pillowy softness at his lover’s crotch, and another smile from Dane makes him wonder why they’re here at all. We should be home, he thinks, watching Dane sip his latté. The game on TV and the two of us naked on the couch…now that’s what I call an evening. Nodding at the bar, Krish says, “She was all over you.”

Dane looks at him over the top of his mug as he blows on the latté to cool it down. “What?” he asks, following Krish’s gaze.

The girl behind the bar sees him and waves. “Dane,” Krish sighs.

“She’s just being friendly,” Dane says, waving back.

Krish doesn’t buy that for a minute. “You don’t have to encourage her,” he mutters. He sips his latté, grimaces at the bitter taste, sets the drink down and pushes it aside. “Why did I let you talk me into this again?”

Beneath the table, Dane’s hand slips into Krish’s. He may be a little on the thin side, but Dane has big hands, calloused from his guitar, and Krish thinks that old adage is true, about the size of a man’s hands, because Dane’s got nothing to be ashamed of in that department, either. Another reason to go home now, salvage what’s left of the evening by making love on the sofa…in front of the TV preferably, so he can hold Dane close and watch the end of the game when they’re done.

“Randy Blake,” Dane explains, giving Krish’s hand a squeeze before he lets go. He cranes his neck to look around but the stage at the far end of the room is still dark, no one on the mike yet. “He should go on by eight…”

Krish doesn’t answer. Randy Blake is not exactly his idea of a good time—the guy’s a local musician, a favorite of Dane’s, but he’s pushing forty, and with dark hair in that shag style that went out in the 80’s, a full beard and mustache, he looks more at home on Bob Villa than in the Dharma. So he can strum a guitar and hum a few bars, so what? He’s not all that.

But to hear Dane tell it, the guy invented the six-string. When he sings, the heavens open up and the world stops turning, Dane’s eyes get this faraway look in them that makes Krish throb with envy—why can’t he sing like that? Why can’t he put that almost orgasmic smile on his lover’s face with his voice alone? He has to remind himself it’s nothing, just a celebrity crush, if Randy Blake could even be called a celebrity—he’s known at the Dharma and the bookstores around town, a few of the college girls swoon over him when he sings on campus, that’s about it. As Dane sips his drink, Krish brushes the hair back off his shoulder, lets his fingers feather through the silky length, and his lover’s smile is all he needs to assure himself Randy Blake isn’t anything to worry about. Sure, we came to see him, he reasons, tenderly tracing the curve of Dane’s cheek with one knuckle, but you’re leaving with me. Softly, even though there’s no one else nearby to overhear, Krish whispers, “I love you.”

There’s that smile again, the duck of the head that makes Dane’s hair fall across his eyes, and his hand presses into Krish’s lap, stirring his groin. “Love you, too,” he murmurs, and before Krish can pull away, Dane gives him a quick peck on the cheek. He’s the open one, the singer, the poet—he doesn’t think twice about touching or kissing or hugging in public. Krish still has to remind him at times to tone it down in front of his parents. “Thanks for coming, babe. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Krish does know; that’s why he’s here. He toys with his mug, running his finger around the rim, not really interested in drinking the tepid latté. I want to go home, he thinks, but Dane’s hand is a warm, pleasing weight on his thigh and a glance at his watch tells him he’s going to miss the game anyway, he might as well enjoy himself. If Dane’s right, they have a few more minutes before that Blake guy goes on, and then maybe an hour of crappy songs, his cover of “Me and Bobby McGee”—everyone does that song at the Dharma, everyone, without fail. He’s already thinking beyond that, though, to their small apartment and the two of them crawling into the full-sized futon they share, and because he came downtown tonight Dane will snuggle up against him beneath the covers, stroke his lower belly right above the hair that kinks where his legs meet, kiss his neck and sing to him softly in his bedroom voice. He’ll want to show Krish how much he appreciates this, coming out to hear Randy Blake when he knows the guy doesn’t do anything for his lover—that’s the real reason Krish is here. Admit it, he tells himself. You just want to get laid. He can stand a few hours of listening to bad music and sipping pretentious coffee if it makes Dane happy.

“How’s your writing?” Krish asks, just to make conversation. Dane writes songs—like the ones they sing here at the Dharma, true, but Krish doesn’t mind listening to Dane’s music. He has a breathy, smoked-out voice Krish finds intoxicating, and Dane sits for hours in the kitchen, one leg propped up on his chair and a notebook open in front of him, picking songs out of his beat-up guitar. Krish stands in the doorway watching, listening to love songs Dane says are written for him. That’s why Dane likes this Randy fellow, says his music is everything he always wanted his own to be, only Krish thinks Dane’s a hundred times more talented than Randy Blake. Dane laughs when he tells him that and says it’s because they sleep together he thinks that way.

Krish isn’t too sure. “That new song you’re working on,” Krish prompts when Dane frowns at him. “How’s that one coming along?”

Dane shrugs. “I’m a little stuck on the bridge,” he tells him. Above the small stage, the lights begin to flicker, signaling the start of the show. “Shh,” Dane murmurs, even though Krish hasn’t said another word.

With a sigh, Krish settles back in the booth, crossing his arms in front of his chest like a challenge. This isn’t going to be fun, he thinks as some of the girls in the audience move closer to the stage. It’s just an old man, people. Jesus. He glares at the smattering of applause and kicks at the table leg until Dane stops him with a look.

When Randy Blake steps up on the stage, the applause strengthens, and one or two people call out appreciatively. Blake smiles at the crowd, eyes crinkling into crescents, and a part of Krish smirks at that, those wrinkles, the faint threads of gray he can see shooting through that thick beard. It’s past your bedtime, Pops, he thinks, and he starts to lean over to share the comment with Dane before he realizes it might not be a wise thing to say, if he doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight. Another sigh, and he sinks further into the booth, his brow clouding over with anger.

Onstage Blake sits down on the wooden stool in front of the mike, pulls his guitar strap over his head, and looks at his hands as he tunes the instrument. “How’re ya’ll doing tonight?” he asks, a slight Southern twang in his voice. Krish suspects that’s forced—the guy’s from DC, not Alabama. But the crowd loves it, they clap again like he’s done something great and all he’s doing is fiddling with the guitar strings. Even Dane’s grinning broadly, enjoying this. Krish can’t understand it.

He wants to say something, just to remind Dane how much he doesn’t want to be here, just so his lover realizes what he’s sacrificing for him, so he leans across the table and whispers loudly, “I don’t see what his appeal is.”

Dane rubs his thigh and smiles at him like an indulgent parent to a child. Then he leans back against Krish—it’s dark and no one sees them, Krish glances around to make sure no one’s looking their way. With his head against Krish’s shoulder, Dane snuggles into him, takes one of Krish’s hands between both of his, laces their fingers together and as Blake starts in on his first song, he whispers, “Just listen.”

Listen. Krish hears the music and doesn’t like it, but now he’s got other things to think about, like Dane’s elbow resting across his crotch, the slight erection already budding in his pants, his lover’s hands around his and their bodies pressed together as if they’re the only ones in the whole place. Another hour or so and they will be alone, back in their apartment, and as music fills the coffeehouse, Krish lets his mind wander to images of two of them making love in the living room, or in the shower, or up against the kitchen counter. Absently, he strokes Dane’s hair with his free hand and thinks, The things I put up with, boy, just because I love you.

* * * *

Dane always knew he’d be a musician some day. Not anyone on the charts, maybe, not simply a singer or entertainer, but a musician, a man who lived for music, dreamed in song. His mom’s a single mother who worked long hours as a realtor to put him through school and saved for years to buy him a guitar when he turned sixteen. His first guitar, his only guitar—that’s still the one he has today, a little worse for wear and he’s replaced the strings more times than he can count, but it’s been with him for so long now, it’s a part of him, like his talent or his mind. Every song he’s ever written has been worked out on that guitar. He heard once that Randy Blake’s used the same guitar for over thirty years, claims no other plays just right in his hands, and Dane knows what he’s talking about. He’s felt that himself. There’s something missing when he tries another instrument, it’s almost like having s*x with someone other than his lover. The parts are in all the same places but something about it’s just not right.

Not that he’s had anyone else since he met Krish—he knew this was it the night they sat across from each other at Krish’s parents’ restaurant, the spicy miasma of curry permeating the air. There’s just something about his lover’s dark skin and short, thick hair that he could stare at for hours. Rich mocha, that’s what Krish reminds him of, his skin’s the right shade and he tastes almost bittersweet at times. There’s something exotic and wonderful and heady about him that fills Dane completely, fills his senses, his heart, his soul.

Dane looks at his lover and knows exactly why the Kama Sutra was written—for men like him, with his strong, dark hands and broad shoulders, his smooth chest, the muscles beneath his skin that flow like a tiger’s when he moves above Dane during s*x. His eyes are dark like night jasmine, wide in his face, the whites around them so clear and bright that even the briefest glance seems smoldering and intense. Dane looked into those eyes and knew there was no one else for him in this world.

Not one to flirt, he just told Krish straight out that first night, after the meal when Krish drove him back to his mother’s and the two of them sat in Krish’s pickup, neither willing to end the evening so soon. Ducking his head to hide his eyes, the way he does when he’s embarrassed or unsure, Dane looked at Krish through the veil of hair and with a faint smile said, “I like you. I’m not even going to pretend I don’t.”

Krish’s hand covered his, resting in his lap, and when Dane looked up, those eyes were impossibly close, pinning him with that stare. His full, dark lips brushed Dane’s in the briefest of kisses, and then Krish asked if he could see him again. Dane had to clear his throat before he could manage to say yes.

That was two years ago, and Dane couldn’t be happier. When Krish asked if he wanted to live together, it only took him one day to move out of his mother’s house and into Krish’s apartment in the west end of the city. He loves waking to his lover’s body in the mornings, before they have to go to work—Krish at his parents’ restaurant, Dane the grocery where they met.

In the evenings he sits in the kitchen, working on his latest song, while his lover stays in the living room, a cold beer in one hand and a game on the TV. He loves knowing Krish is listening to him strum the guitar, and at some point he’ll turn off the game and come stand behind Dane to wait until the last chord fades away before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom. “You make the most beautiful music,” Krish tells him.

Dane knows he just says it because he loves him. He knows Krish doesn’t like the stuff he listens to, Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell—he likes the heavy rock out now, Linkin Park and Metallica, hard music Dane just can’t get into. There’s no soul in it, nothing like one man and a guitar and a song of protest or love with lyrics so true, they bring tears to your eyes. That’s what he wants his music to do, move the people who hear it, touch something deep inside them so they never forget him or his words. He wants his songs to make him immortal.

Only no one’s heard them yet, no one but Krish and he’s Dane’s lover so he doesn’t really count. Dane can play for Krish, no problem—it’s getting out in front of a crowd that dries up his voice and fumbles his fingers. Even a small crowd like the one the Dharma draws in, he couldn’t do it. He’s too afraid to even try.

The first time he heard Randy Blake was here at the Dharma, over a cup of cappuccino he was sharing with Krish on one of those rare occasions when he managed to convince his lover to come downtown with him. It’s his songs, of course, that make him an icon in Dane’s mind—Blake writes lyrics and melodies like Dane only dreams of writing. “He’s older,” is Krish’s theory. “Of course he can write songs—he’s had enough time to get them right.”

Still, Dane loves Blake’s music. He’s downloaded all the MP3s he can find online, checks out the musician’s web page almost daily, tries to take in every show in the area if he can. He knows most of the songs by heart, studies the chords, spends hours perfecting his form so the music coming from his guitar is identical to Blake’s. He looks at the man and thinks if he can do it, get up there in front of the crowds night after night, pour his heart out into song…if Blake can do it, then why the hell can’t Dane?

One day, a voice inside of him whispers. In the darkened coffeehouse he can hear it clearly as the strands of Blake’s last song of the evening disappear in a sudden burst of applause. One day you’ll have the confidence he has, you’ll know you’re good, and it’ll be you up there, Krish in the wings and nudging the girl next to him saying, “That’s my boy.”

Dane smiles at the thought—it’s something Krish would do; he has a jealous streak that makes him think everyone’s hitting on his boy. Take the barista tonight, she was just being nice, jeez. Dane doesn’t believe in flirting, he’s not that subtle. He doesn’t think he’s anything worth getting worked up over—he still doesn’t quite know what it was that ever made someone like Krish look his way.

As the lights come on around them, he doesn’t move from where he’s lying back against his lover. He’s got nothing to hide, he loves this man, he doesn’t care who knows it. But he knows Krish isn’t so touchy-feely in public, and it doesn’t surprise him when he eases Dane away. “Show’s over,” Krish says, digging for his wallet to pay for the drinks. “If we hurry home, we might still make the final quarter…”

Dane sees Blake lingering on the stage, taking his time putting away his guitar while a couple of college students mill around nearby, working up the courage to approach him. Seized by sudden inspiration, Dane slides out of the booth and heads for the stage. “I’ll be right back,” he says over his shoulder.

“Dane!” Krish cries, exasperated.

“Two seconds,” Dane promises, flashing him a quick grin. “I’ll be right back, babe.” Krish sighs but lets him go. I love you, Dane thinks, weaving through the tables and the crowd to reach the stage. I’ll make it up to you tonight, you’ll see.

Blake’s taking his time, glancing at the crowd as if waiting for someone to come up to him, but no one takes him up on the offer. The girls are too scared, they’d rather giggle over him every time he looks their way, and most of the guys stand in small groups, trying to talk each other into going up onstage. For a second Dane’s step falters—what’s he going to say?—and then he stops thinking and lets his heart take over, it’s easier that way. Breaking free from the crowd, he hops up on the small stage and Blake looks at him as he approaches, his footsteps hollow on the worn wood. “Hey, man,” Dane says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. “Great set.”

Behind him the crowd whispers but he ignores them. Blake looks him over, a small frown on his face that disappears when Dane offers him a hand. Shaking it heartily, Blake laughs and says, “Thanks, kid. You like my stuff?”

“Oh yeah.” Dane knows he’s gushing, so he ducks his head and scuffs his foot on a piece of tape on the stage, stuck to the floor in the shape of an X. “I know all your songs. I sort of play, too—”

“What’s your name?” Blake wants to know.

Dane’s all too aware of the fact that Blake still holds his hand in a soft, warm grip. “Dane,” he says, and because that’s not quite right, he blushes a little and can’t meet Blake’s eyes when he explains, “Jude, really. My last name’s Danelian and that’s where the Dane comes from. My friends call me that. No one calls me Jude but my mom and then only when she’s mad.”

Blake laughs again, his eyes crinkling into half-moons, his cheeks as weathered and lined as a cowboy’s saddle. “Dane,” he says.

Dane never dreamed Randy Blake would know his name, would say it even, he can’t stop grinning at the way it sounds in that Southern drawl. Giving his hand a firm shake, Blake finally lets go, and Dane lets his hand fall to his side, his skin tingling from the touch. I’m talking to Randy Blake, he thinks, glancing out into the crowd. It’s hard to see beyond the stage lights but he hopes Krish is watching, just because his lover knows how much this means to him. Randy Blake. Who would’ve thought?

“So you play what, guitar?” Blake asks, easily snagging Dane’s attention again.

With an embarrassed nod, Dane tells him, “I’m nowhere near as good as you but I practice every night. I write my own songs, mostly—they’re not much but they’re mine, you know? My boyfriend likes them—”

“Is he here?” Blake asks.

Dane points out where he thinks their booth is, and the older musician scans the crowd, a perfunctory gesture before he loses interest.

“You should let me hear them sometime,” he says, almost absently. He’s looking at Dane again, not at his face so much as the hair falling to his shoulders, the jeans hanging from his narrow hips. For the first time all evening Dane feels just how snug his turtleneck is across his arms and chest. “I’m sure you’re pretty good.”

Excitement thrills through him. He wants to hear my stuff… Dane can’t believe it. Did he really just say he wants to hear me play? “I don’t have my guitar here,” he says, the words tumbling in a rush from his lips. “I’ve never played in front of anyone else, I couldn’t do it here. But I think you’d like them. I know you would. You just don’t know what this means to me, Mr. Blake—”

“Randy,” Blake says with a disarming grin that closes his eyes into crescents again. He runs a hand through his trim beard, smooths it down, looks Dane up and down and nods like he’s made up his mind. Then he pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it over. When Dane takes it, he sees Randy Blake written in large block letters in the center of the card, the musician’s website and e-mail in one corner, a post office box and beeper number in the other. “Give me a call sometime,” Blake tells him, patting him on the back like an old friend. “We’ll get together for a jam session, what do you say?”

Dane doesn’t know what to say—he’s speechless. He stares at the card in his hand, up at Blake—Randy, his mind corrects, he said to call him Randy—then back at the card again, well aware he probably looks like a fool, mouth open, eyes wide, but he can’t help it. This is Randy Blake’s card, he’s holding Randy’s card. Give me a call…

“I will,” Dane promises, closing his hand around the card protectively. “Definitely, that rocks.”

Another laugh and Blake snaps his guitar case shut, hefts it in one hand, holds out the other for Dane to shake. He does so, eagerly. “That’s great, kid,” Blake says, grinning at the girls in the crowd who have edged closer. “Give me a call, we’ll get together. Whenever’s a good time for you.”

Whenever. “I’ll call you,” Dane says as Blake steps off the stage. The older musician nods, waves back at him, then turns to someone else in the crowd, already losing interest. He gave me his card, Dane thinks as he hurries back to the booth where his lover waits. Told me to give him a call. Wait ‘til I tell Krish.

* * * *

When Krish goes to pay for their drinks, the girl behind the counter gives him a fake smile and he knows what’s coming. “Hey there,” she says through Revlon red lips. “Two lattés? Your friend knows Randy Blake?”

“He’s just saying hi.” Ring up the damn drinks already, Krish thinks, frowning at the menu on the wall behind her so he doesn’t have to see the way she’s watching Dane.

Only she’s taking her sweet time, probably thinking if she dawdles enough, Dane will come over here when he’s done. Krish holds out the money before she even tells him the total. As she takes it, she flips her hair over one shoulder and asks, “So do you know if he’s seeing anyone?”

If she’s trying for nonchalant, she’s failing miserably. Krish narrows his eyes, feels the jealousy course through him again, and pins her with what he hopes is an evil glare. “Randy Blake?”

She laughs like that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all night. Her smile brightens and she has the audacity to nod in the direction of the stage, just in case Krish might not know who she’s talking about. “No, your friend.”

That’s what I thought. “We live together.”

She doesn’t get it. Her smile widens as she hands back his change. “Can I give you my number?” she asks, a pen already in hand as she reaches for a napkin. “Have him give me a call maybe? Do you think he would?”

Oh no, you didn’t.

As she starts writing, he covers her hand with his and waits until she looks up at him before he says slowly, “He lives with me. Sleeps with me.” He presses his lips together so he won’t smirk as his words sink in and her smile fades. “He’s not interested in anything you have to offer, sweetie, trust me.”

She looks over at the stage again, where Blake’s packing up his guitar and Dane’s staring at something he holds in his hands, a business card or slip of paper, something like that. “You mean…” When Krish nods, she balls the napkin up in one hand and sighs. “Well, damn.”

“Sorry,” Krish tells her, sounding anything but. Now he smiles at her, a bright, sincere grin she can’t return. Scooping his change into his pocket, he says, “You have a good night.” I know I will, he adds silently, but there’s no need to rub it in, is there? He’s the one taking Dane home. He’s the one who’ll be holding the boy tight, not her. He’s mine.

He waits for his lover by the door, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at a point on the wall so no one comes up to talk to him. His anti-social stance, it works very well. Slight frown, furrowed brow, rock back a little on his heels and people would rather just edge around him as they leave the coffeehouse, it’s safer that way. When Dane approaches, though, he ruins Krish’s distant attitude—comes right up to him, plants a quick kiss in the corner of his mouth, runs an arm through his and around his waist and hugs him tight. “You won’t believe this,” he says.

“Believe what?” Krish asks, jingling the keys in his pocket. He eases an arm around Dane’s shoulders and follows him out to the parking lot.

Outside it’s crisp and chilly, a sharp contrast to the warm stuffiness back in the coffeehouse. Dane leads the way to Krish’s pickup, walking slow to keep within the span of Krish’s arm. With every other step, his hip bumps Krish’s, and Krish thinks again of the couch in their living room and laying down on his stomach with Dane behind him, easing into him, crying out in the cushions when he comes. Since there aren’t many people outside, he pulls Dane back against him and kisses his lover’s temple. Dane holds up a small business card, as if Krish can read it in the dark, and says, “He told me to give him a call, can you believe it? Says he wants to hear my sound.”

There’s that jealousy again, searing down the center of his chest like heartburn. With a forced laugh, Krish tells him, “That girl at the counter wanted you to call her, too.”

Dane frowns at him, confused. “Why?”

They reach Krish’s truck. Pulling his keys from his pocket, Krish unlocks the passenger side door, holds it open for his lover. “Same reason, I suspect,” he grumbles. He hadn’t thought his opinion of Randy Blake could possibly get any lower than it already was, but he was wrong.

But Dane’s still frowning. “She wants to hear me play?”

Krish sighs. “She wanted to hook up with you!” he cries, exasperated. Sometimes he wonders if Dane’s really as clueless as he seems—he can’t get it through his head that he’s a cute boy with great hair, pretty face, nice body if you like them on the thin side, which Krish does. “Jesus, Dane,” Krish mutters. “Just get in already, will you?” When Dane doesn’t move, he runs a hand across his face and tells himself it’s not Dane’s fault, he’s not angry at him. “I just want to go home, okay? Please?”

Grudgingly, Dane climbs into the passenger seat. “He’s a musician, Krish—” he starts.

Krish slams the door shut on the rest of the sentence. Doesn’t mean he’s not human, he thinks, walking around the back of the truck to the driver’s side. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to get with you. He’s a musician, Dane, not a priest.

As he climbs behind the wheel, Dane tells him, “It’s not like that, babe. I said I played a little and he wanted to hear some of my songs, that’s it. He said we can get together for a jam session, his words.”

Starting the engine, Krish pops the truck into reverse and steps on the gas. “Fine.” He hates that he thinks it’s something more. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Dane—it’s everyone else he has his doubts about.

But Dane isn’t one to let things like this go. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says, snapping his seat belt into place. Then he rubs Krish’s thigh, a soft touch through the heavy denim jeans he wears. “He just wants to hear me play, that’s all.”

Krish doesn’t respond. You don’t play for anyone but me, he thinks, but he’s not going to say that. He knows Dane wants to play onstage one day, he knows the boy’s terrified of crowds but it’s his dream and he has to start somewhere, doesn’t he? Not with Randy Blake. Anyone else but him. It wouldn’t bother Krish so much if Dane’s eyes didn’t gloss over every time he mentioned the musician. He’s not even sure if Dane is aware he does that.

Giving Krish’s knee a playful squeeze, Dane says again, “It’s not like that—”

“Fine.” Krish doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. He’s angry now, that’s evident when he peals out of the parking lot, tires squealing down the road.

Dane sighs. “He’s old enough to be my father.”

Krish forces a thin laugh. “That never stopped anybody.”

“It stops me.” Dane looks at him but Krish can’t meet his gaze. He stares out the windshield at the empty streets and wishes they had stayed home tonight. In front of the TV, cuddling together on the couch—no talk of Blake, no sudden phone number in his lover’s back pocket. Ahead of them, a street light flickers from green to yellow, and Krish considers stepping on the gas, shooting through the intersection, just to put as much distance between them and the Dharma and Randy Blake as he possibly can.

But before they reach the light it turns red and Krish eases the truck to a stop. “Krish,” Dane says softly.

Krish looks at the hand on his knee, then folds his fingers into Dane’s palm. Dane’s pale fingers close around his, strong and gentle, and in the darkness, Krish’s dark skin is the same gray shade as Dane’s. “Look at me?” Dane asks. It’s almost a plea.

How can Krish hope to resist? When he looks up, he sees those dark eyes looking back, framed by a fall of hair. Dane touches his face, smooths his fingers into Krish’s hair, leans closer and presses his mouth to Krish’s, his lips warm and damp, his tongue eager as it licks into him. Krish gives into the kiss, feels his body relax, leans into his lover and lets him make things right again with his mouth, his tongue, his hand on the back of his neck. “I love you,” Dane whispers, his breath hot against Krish’s chin.

“I’m sorry,” Krish sighs. Now he feels horrible, it’s just a damn number, not a date, not a freaking marriage proposal. “Dane—”

Dane kisses his apology away. “Shh.” Sitting back in his seat, he gives Krish’s hand a squeeze and nods at the windshield. “Light’s green.”

Krish eases off the brake. He doesn’t know what to say so he just listens to Dane’s breathing, the radio turned down low, the purr of the engine beneath them. He wonders if the evening’s shot now. It’ll be his own fault if it is.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” Dane says, and Krish raises his lover’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles in reply. Despite the gap in the seats between them, Dane leans over and rests his head on Krish’s shoulder. He picks at the dark hairs along Krish’s arm, and when he speaks, his voice holds the hint of something Krish knows all too well. “Maybe when we get home? If you’re not too tired—”

“I’m not,” Krish says. A glance at his lover’s face staring up at him with lust-filled eyes and he sees the rest of the evening play out the way he had hoped, the two of them, together. He steps on the gas and runs through the next street light, eager to get back to their apartment and fulfill the unspoken promise stretching between them.