Page 11 of Torch Songs

“If it wasn’t,” Guthrie told him, “that song wouldn’t hurt so good, would it? Now do you want my number or not?”

Tad’s grin held a bit of triumph in it, but also a satisfying amount of hope. He pulled out his phone and said, “Number first, tire second.”

“And then you walk me to my truck before you go screaming into the night,” Guthrie said, making sure.

“You’ll always be safe with me,” Tad told him, and his grin was gone. In its place was a surprisingly earnest, very sober expression that made Guthrie’s eyes burn.

“That’s good to know,” he murmured. He took a deep breath then and rattled off his phone number before settling down to the tire.

Between the two of them, it took twenty minutes, and TaddroveGuthrie to his truck, which was blessedly unmolested in the foggy dark.

Tad kept the engine running and the lights on, and Guthrie hesitated, his hand on the door, before he jumped out to grab his guitar.

“Thank you,” he said. “For saving me from the bad guys.”

Tad shrugged. “You were doing a pretty good job of fighting them off before I came along,” he admitted. “Just… you know. Be as careful of yourself as you were of your bandmates.”

“They’re kids,” Guthrie told him. “Music conservatory kids. They’ll outgrow me in a year or two, and I’ll have to find me another band.” It hurt—of course it did. But Guthrie loved playing too much to give up because it hurt.

“Or maybe you can go solo,” Tad said, and Guthrie laughed, his heart beating faster as Tad moved closer in the confines of vehicle.

“You must be listening to another musician—”

Tad leaned in quickly and kissed him, and Guthrie, caught by surprise, opened his mouth and let him in.

Oh, as kisses went, it was a good one. He tasted good—one beer and peach cobbler good—and he was warm, and funny, and God, he really did have nice eyes! Guthrie found himself being plundered, and he was clutching Tad’s biceps and shaking, he wanted so bad.

Tad was the one who pulled away, breathing hard. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “I havegotto be at work early. You couldn’t have noticed my nice eyes two weeks ago when I had an extra day?”

Guthrie laughed humorlessly. “Nope,” he said. “Apparently, I wasn’t on nice-eye patrol until tonight.”

Tad’s strong fingers grasped his chin. “Guthrie Woodson?”

“Yeah?” Guthrie asked breathlessly.

“I’ll be back. I can’t promise when. I wish I could say this weekend, but it doesn’t always work that way. But I’ll be back. I’ll text you tomorrow. And if you don’t reply, I’ll keep doing it. I’m not above stalking now that you’ve noticed me, do you understand?”

Guthrie closed his eyes and let out a bark of laughter. “I’m pretty sure you were stalking me when Ididn’tnotice you.”

Tad kissed him again, and Guthrie was helpless to stop him. He wanted it too damned bad.

Finally he pulled away because his cock was aching just from kissing, and he wanted to start grabbing and ripping off clothing, and they werein the parking lot of a redneck bar.

“I’ll answer your texts,” he muttered before sliding out of Tad’s front seat and opening the back door to grab his guitar.

“You’d better,” Tad said, still breathing hard. “And maybe, if youreallylike me, you’ll sing something else next week.”

Guthrie laughed as he shut the door, but after he’d climbed inside his ancient Chevy Colorado, guitar by his side, and started out after Tad, turning the opposite direction when they hit 101, he thought about it. He didn’t have an answer quite yet, but he had a question.

He could sing that heartbreaking song damned good by now.

What song could he sing that had some hope in it?

Now that was a question worth pondering.

HE WASstill pondering the next day, as he drank his quad-shot of espresso iced mocha and hauled his polyester-clad ass to work.

He parked his truck, which looked like a dirty-butter-colored sock full of rocks with gray and red primer spotseverywhere,in thebackof the auto dealership as he’d been asked to dopersonallyby the owner of the dealership itself.

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