Page 101 of Torch Songs

Kenny chuckled. “Well, I’m sure Guthrie appreciates it.”

Guthrie eyed the two of them from eyes obviously gritty with a night poorly spent. “Fuck me,” he groaned, leaning his head back against the cinder block wall of the cell.

“Certainly,” Tad said, “but not here.”

That earned him a glare. “I am injail. Do you really want to make that joke here?”

“No, Guthrie,” Tad explained patiently. “That’s why you need to not end up here again.”

Guthrie gave him a beleaguered glance. “This wasnotmy idea. Did Kenny explain that to you—that this was not my idea?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kenny murmured, handing Tad a large cup of coffee with a lid. “Hold that for a sec.”

Following procedure—anybody could see it—Kenny unlocked the cell door and bustled in to help Guthrie to his feet. He did a quick physical checkup, including clucking over a bandage on Guthrie’s bicep that was seeping blood, and shone a penlight in Guthrie’s eyes, which made him scowl like his head hurt.

“Minorconcussion,” Kenny proclaimed. “No hard physical labor for the next few days. Lots of rest today. Have a doctor change the bandage sometime today or tomorrow.” Kenny stood back and folded his arms over his chest. “Jock said he could hold down the fort with your dad for a couple of days, letting you rest before you drive up to your gig. Your guy going to help with that?”

“Yes,” Tad said before Guthrie complained. “Yes, we’ve got a hotel in Monterey, and I can look up a doctor—”

“Got a number for a doc-in-the-box who can help you out,” Kenny said, pulling a card from his pocket. “My wife’s brother. He’ll be good for a favor. He has to be. He still has my lawn mower, and he’s an asshole.”

Tad grinned. “You said you’re a friend of Guthrie’s from high school?” he asked, because he and the young deputy had time to chat while Kenny filled him in on the sitch. Tad hadnotliked hearing that Guthrie had been dogpiled by every known felon in the area, but he hadn’t been surprised either. Whatreallydidn’t surprise him was the affection in Kenny’s voice as he’d talked about how Guthrie—a loner due to poor attendance and family situation and disposition, all rolled into one—had been kind to the other loners in school.

“Yeah, Guthrie helped me protect my little brother when I didn’t think he was going to survive.” Kenny assisted Guthrie into a tattered cotton hoodie with bleach stains, paint stains, and rips at the pockets and hood, and Guthrie shivered, like he hadn’t gotten warm in forever. Well, the jail cell was drafty, andTad got the feeling it got cold here at night. The Pacific Coast had a tendency toward dampness anyway.

“How’s Gordie?” Guthrie asked, like he was finally focusing on things.

“Gayer than you and living in Seattle,” Kenny said cheerfully. “Mom wants him to settle down and bring a nice boy home, but he keeps saying nobody’ll live up to his first crush.”

Guthrie’s eyes bulged. “Please tell me he’s talking about Mackey Sanders,” he said, referring to the rock legend.

“Nope,” Kenny said. “All the guys he dates have long hair and brown eyes, Guthrie. You’ll have a lot to answer for when he finally finds his clone of Guthrie.”

“Kenny,” Guthrie said, “please stop talking.”

Kenny cackled. “This way your fella’ll know you’re in demand.” He got behind Guthrie and gave him a gentle shove toward the open door. “Now go. Your friend’s got your coffee, your paperwork is done, and you’ve got someone willing to drive you—”

“I have to drive,” Guthrie muttered, pausing suspiciously at the threshold. “He’s still wounded.”

“I can make it twenty miles to Monterey,” Tad scoffed. “And I have to. Chris has already taken off to get us a hotel. He’s looking forward to clam chowder on the beach, so we’d better not disappoint him.”

Guthrie shook his head. “What is it with that man and food?”

“His wife’s out of town,” Tad told him. “I think he’s lonely and wanted to do something exciting. We don’t do poker night, so it’s bail your ass out of the fire. Now get out of that cell,” he added, trying not to let his voice warp. “Let’s go do boy’s night, and I’ll try not to yell at you for looking like hell and not calling me.”

“Cell service isasshere,” Guthrie protested, but he was outside of the jail cell, finally, so Tad could breathe. “I texted you every night. Emails. Voice messages—oomf.”

Tad hugged him, minding his bandage and the coffee in one hand, but hard, body shaking. “Shut up,” he whispered in Guthrie’s ear. “We’ll talk about it in the car, but right now let me hold you.”

“Yeah,” Guthrie whispered. “Yeah. Okay.” For a moment—a sweet moment—he rested his cheek on Tad’s shoulder. Tad kissed his temple and held him tighter and wondered how he’d gone the last few weeks without taking a single full breath.

GUTHRIE LOOKEDhis truck over anxiously when they got out to the parking lot, breathing an obvious sigh of relief when he found his guitar and his computer in their places. His phone had been crushed in the melee, but Tad had found a shop in downtown Monterey that would replace it, and Tad could put Guthrie on his plan that might render better cell service.

Which meant they had very little to talk about on the trip if they weren’t going to say something real.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tad said after Guthrie had directed him out of town.

“Tell you what?” Guthrie asked, sipping the coffee like it was the nectar of life.

---