Page 10 of Torch Songs

“Motherfucker! 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&W wear—and his shoulders stretched the fabric nicely as he held his gun in a wholly professional manner, still aiming at the empty space where the bad guy used to be.

“Sorry about that,” Guthrie muttered. “Can I put my arms down?”

“Since you weren’t the one mugging a poor musician, sure,” the man said, lowering his gun. “You okay?”

Guthrie flexed his elbow and shrugged. “Been worse. I thought you left an hour ago.”

The stranger’s smile did flip-floppy things to Guthrie’s stomach. “You noticed,” he murmured.

Guthrie shrugged again, not wanting to admit he’d been disappointed. “You got nice eyes,” he said, hoping he wasn’t about to get jumped in the damned parking lot for a whole other reason.

“You’ve got a nice everything,” the stranger told him, drawing nearer. He smiled, the tiny lines at the corner of those nice eyes suggesting maybe he wasn’t in his twenties like Guthrie had first thought. Maybe he was in his early thirties, but he had a young-looking face. “But you’ve got areallynice voice. Thatsong does me in every time.” He turned and holstered the gun in a harness he must have donned for his knight-in-shining-armor bit.

Guthrie grimaced. “It’s fucking sad,” he said, and his new friend threw his head back and laughed.

“It is,” he admitted. “But sometimes the sadness is important.”

Guthrie swallowed, hard. “Takes a wise man to know that,” he admitted and then tried to get his head to the here and now before the strangers who’d jumped him came back. “Which reminds me, what are you doing here again?”

His friend grimaced. “Goddamned flat tire,” he muttered. “I was struggling with the jack when I heard them get you. Lucky me, my gun and holster were locked in a box in the trunk.”

Guthrie gave a grunt. “So youarea cop?”

The man shrugged. “Guilty. Work up at Sac, but I visit my sister in Bodega Bay. Last month I caught your act on the way home.”

Oh. Wow. “Where you parked?” Guthrie asked. “I can help with a tire.”

“Sure,” the guy said, turning to guide him. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

Guthrie actually counted four steps before he couldn’t stand not knowing. “What made you come back?” he asked, drawing near the battered blue Escape with the spare tire leaning against the back bumper. He and the stranger were nearly shoulder to shoulder now, and he could feel the man’s body heat seeping through the fog. Even in April, nights got cold this near the ocean, but not here, where he was standing mere inches from a man who’d just saved his bacon.

“You did,” his friend said, turning to look at him. “You sang that song, and I thought my heart was going to break. I thought, ‘Fuck me, he’s pretty, but he’s pining after somebody else, andI don’t have a chance.’ And the thought hurt so much I had to come back for the next three Sundays to make sure.”

Guthrie’s laugh surprised even Guthrie. “God,” he said, “I’ve been there.” He turned slightly and offered the hand not clutching the guitar case. It was not the first time he’d been grateful that Washoe had their own drum set. “Guthrie Woodson,” he said. “Auto dealership office manager and C-rated musician, at your service.”

His hand was engulfed in a strong, warm grip, one with calluses and rough skin—and a surprisingly gentle touch. “Tad Hawkins,” said the man who was no longer a complete stranger. “Detective in the Department of Investigations, Sacramento PD. And I think your voice is the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Guthrie’s chest quivered and threatened to fly apart.

“Maybe that’s just the song,” he rasped.

Tad Hawkins’s nice eyes lit up with kindness… and desire. “I’ll have to hear you sing a few more times to decide,” he said. Then he grimaced. “But dammit, I need to be at work in eight hours—”

“And you’re miles away from home,” Guthrie agreed. “I get it. Here, can I set my guitar in your back seat?” He was wearing a denim jacket in the chill, and while Tad set the guitar up so it wasn’t on the ground, Guthrie took his jacket off so he could take off his best western shirt, leaving him shivering in his T-shirt but hopefully not about to get grease on one of his three good performance outfits. “Now let’s see if we can break that bolt loose, okay?”

“Deal,” Tad said. He paused, though, and added, “As long as I can get your number before I drive screaming into the night.”

Guthrie’s mouth flickered in an almost smile, but he hesitated before answering.

“Or,” Tad added, his face falling, “maybe you’re still pining for whoever you think about when you sing that song.”

Guthrie swallowed and then, surprisingly enough, shook his head. “No,” he said, hoping it was true. “He got married to the boy he’s loved since they were both little kids with old man’s problems. He never led me on, never played with me. And he let me say goodbye to my crush so I could move on. I’m good.”

But Tad’s gentle expression didn’t change. “Sounds painful,” he said.

---