Page 20 of Torch Songs

Tad had to stand slightly to kiss him. It wasn’t a hard kiss, wasn’t meant to tangle them both up or invoke passion or make them yearn.

Some of Guthrie’s sass and irritation seemed to leak out of his body, and he opened his mouth and kissed back, sighing softly when Tad drew away and sat back down.

“I’ve wanted to see you for the past two weeks,” he said. “Your texts have been the bright spot of a very tough year. I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I’m not here because you needed me. I’m here because I needed to see you.”

Guthrie’s smile barely twisted his full lips. “I’m damned glad you’re here,” he admitted, and Tad figured that was as good as it was going to get.

Wasn’t bad, really.

At that moment, Roberta stuck her head into the curtained area, paused like she was taking in their situation, and then said, “Okay. We’ve got a set list that won’t tax Guthrie’s hand too hard, but we need to have a consult about composition before westart. Tad, it’s great to meet you. Go away. Tell Sarah at the bar I’ll spring for your dinner—”

“You’ll what?” Guthrie said indignantly.

“Shut up, Guthrie. I’m damned glad to meet your new—” Slight hesitation. “—friend. He came at a good time. Tad, go eat. Guthrie, we need you.”

Guthrie sat up, and Tad could almost see each vertebra straighten until his shoulders went back. “See you after the set,” he said to Tad with a mostly composed smile. Tad nodded and stood, brushing Guthrie’s shoulder with his fingers before he left.

Stay

ROBERTA HADgiven 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 becausehis 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 wholeasesthe 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 actuallygrabbed 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 doesnotbode 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?”

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