Page 58 of Torch Songs

Tad squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, trying to get a fix on the guy sitting in the chair. He wasn’t big—midsized, slender, with a full two days’ worth of brownish beard.He had hazel eyes and what was probably a round chin and full lips under the scruff. Cute, Tad thought muzzily, in a boyish sort of way, but those hazel eyes regarded him with steady patience, and Tad got the feeling this young man was underestimated a lot.

“’M sorry,” he mumbled. “Who’re you again?”

That drew a laugh. “Elton McDaniels. You might not know me, but does an electric-blue Kia ring a bell?”

Like it was in slow motion, Tad saw the unfortunate vehicle balancing precariously on two wheels before it went sloooooowwwwllly over the edge of the service track in the canyon, pulling down the rest of the road with it.

“Larx was really sorry about that,” Tad said, remembering Larx and Aaron’s banter about how the thing had been stocked to the gills. “Are you his son-in-law?”

A faint smile. “I am. My wife seems to have taken a shine to your sister and your boyfriend. I wanted to let you know they’re in good hands. I understand Guthrie has to take April home tomorrow, but they’ll be visiting before they go.”

Tad nodded. “I can’t believe they’re here,” he whispered, the relief of their presence filling him all over again.

“Neither can we,” Elton said with a small smile. “Do you know Guthrie badgered the sheriff’s department, SAC PD, and the hospital before he found you?”

“April told me.”

Elton shook his head. “Whole town about rolls up its sidewalks after eight. I should know.” He shook himself. “Look, I just wanted you to know. After April comes in, you’ll probably fall asleep again, and he won’t be here until tomorrow. Don’t worry. We’re taking good care of him. Livvy says he needs to eat, and hereallyneeds to sleep in a bed. You get better, and we’ll make sure we don’t scare him off.”

Tad smiled and glanced at the figure in the corner again. Guthrie’s arms were wrapped around his knees, his cheek resting against the wall, eyes closed.

“Thanks,” he said softly, but Elton shook his head.

“Aaron and Larx’ll be in to talk to you tomorrow. Truth is, you had Aaron’s back out there. Whole family appreciates it. We, uhm….” He glanced around. “Look, I’m new here and the last person they need to hear from, but you gotta know. If Aaron offers you or your partner a job up here, he’s not blowing smoke. Half his department just quit because one of the guys you took out was a member of the department who’s been gunning for Aaron since he came out to date Larx. Yeah, saying. If at any time you’d like to throw your hat in for a low-paying, low ambition spot in this tiny little town, you’ll be up to your eyeballs in casseroles and dinner invitations, because Larx and Aaron mean something here. So, you know. We’ll take care of yours ’cause you took care of ours.” He chuckled. “And before you think, ‘Oh, I could never fit in here,’ I need you to rethink what I just said and remember—until February I was a San Diego surfer with middling ambitions for Silicon Valley and a trust fund. This is a good place. We’d love more good people.”

A rustling at the door caught Elton’s attention, and he stood and smiled. “Come sit, April,” he said softly. “He’s awake. Livvy had me come so she could drive you home and I could take Guthrie’s truck. God, you can hear that thing rattling all the way down to Tahoe, right?”

April shuddered. “He kept apologizing because it needed servicing. I didn’t want to tell him it needed to beshot.”

“Don’t shoot my truck,” Guthrie mumbled from his spot in the corner of the room before his head fell forward onto his knees and he all but curled up on his side, right there on the hospital floor.

“Won’t shoot your truck, sweetheart,” Tad said, and it may have been wishful thinking, but he couldswearGuthrie’s huddled posture on the floor relaxed.

Then April took Elton’s place, and she pulled out her yarn work, and he invested himself in her stories of three cats and a giant dog and girls who kept trying to see if she wanted old T-shirts. And how very much shedidwant their old T-shirts because they weren’t black and they may have been hand-me-downs but they didn’t smell like her rooming building, which reeked of old smoke and ammonia, but rather of fabric softener and girl things and memories of when April had thought she was like these girls.

Tad listened to her talk and dreamed a little of April talking to peers, to “girls” or young women like her, who didn’t judge her for her addiction but celebrated her freedom from it.

And curled up in his heart was Guthrie, who didn’t want him to shoot his truck.

Move Along

GUTHRIE’S LASTglimpse of Tad before he and April left Colton was hopeful. Their boy was awake, eating solids fitfully from a tray while lying to his side and trying to be brave about them leaving.

The fifth time April said, in a falsely chipper voice, “But Guthrie will be back in two days!” Guthrie broke a little.

“Listen,” he muttered to Tad. “You’re the one who wanted your own damned pants. Besides, Chris told me we could do a car thing and get your SUV from the precinct parking lot and to your apartment. Stop pouting like we’re leaving on a cruise or something.”

Tad slid him a little side-eye… and a smile. “If youwereleaving on a cruise, I’d expect you to come back fat and happy. Which is my way of reminding you to eat.”

Guthrie rolled his eyes. “Musicians are always hungry. Ain’t you learned that yet?”

“Your band looked well fed,” Tad replied tartly, and Guthrie grimaced.

“Well, my band has the rest of June and July to be my band,” he said, hating to confess this. “We’re doing gigs at Scorpio like we promised, but, you know, them kids—they move on. So I’m gonna be a little hungrier after that.” He wanted to tell Tad about Seth’s offer—in fact, it still blew his mind that hehadn’t—but he remembered the kind of money that had come with his last go-round with Seth, and that had beenbeforeItaly and New York and all the prestige that went with Seth Arnold’s name now. It seemed a little pie-in-the-sky for someone who’d just lost his band to weekly matinees ofWickedandHamilton.

“Aw,” Tad murmured. “I’m sorry to hear that. No more weekends at the Washoe?”

“If they’re desperate, they let me hang around and do solo stuff,” Guthrie replied, and that had always been surprisingly lucrative, even when all he did was play for a meal and tips.

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