Page 63 of Torch Songs

But freaking out was hard to do with Guthrie sitting right next to his bed, looking tired and worried and so, so good.

“Yeah,” Tad said, taking a breath. “I shouldn’t lose it. I’m sorry. She’s just… I’ve been worrying over her for so long, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.”

Guthrie reached out nervously and took his hand, patted his knuckles with little strokes. “She’s fragile,” he said after a minute. “I can see that. But she thinks the world of you. You’ve got to know that. I… I just couldn’t beg for her place back, T. I couldn’t. It’s… the girl deserves some pride, and that woman, that place—they’d suck all the pride out of a person.” He gave a quick little smile. “I hooked her up to your Wi-Fi and told her to search for animal shelters, maybe find herself a cat or something. It… it made her light up. I hope that’s okay.”

Tad nodded and turned his palm over, seizing Guthrie’s hand firmly and trying to ease his anxiousness. “That’s real good,” he said and then frowned. Something had hit him while Guthrie had been gone, something Guthrie hadn’t mentioned once. “Hey, how’s work dealing with your absence? Are you on leave or vacation or something?”

Guthrie glanced away, and Tad saw his Adam’s apple work silently. “Something like that,” he muttered, and Tad’s dawning horror couldn’t be contained.

“Theyfiredyou?” he asked, wishing he could sit up. But he still had stitches in his backside.

Guthrie shrugged, and his gaze met Tad’s briefly before it flickered away. “Boss was an asshole. Who knew, right?”

“Oh, Guthrie,” Tad said, absolutely distraught. “You… youlost your jobfor me?”

Another shrug, and this time his gaze lingered. “It was a shitty job,” he said bluntly. “That asshole was mean about your sister, mean about music—how can anybody be mean about music? I swear to God he almost ripped out the sound system when he recognized a Seth Arnold number, because how dare they play gay shit over his stereo?” Guthrie shook his head. “Nope. I got my bennies for six months, and I can find something else. Something that doesn’t feel like selling my soul to work. It’ll be fine.”

“But what about your rent?” Tad asked.

“That’s no worries—at least not for a couple of months,” Guthrie said confidently. “Kelly’s little sisters are living there until the end of August. I mean, I get the couch if I need it—they know I’ll be in and out. But I’ll be doing the little gigs at Scorpio and going to Sac to check on you—”

“Stay with me,” Tad blurted. “At least until… until you get your shit sorted. But… but we haven’t had any time. Maybe this will give us some time. To, you know, betogethertogether. I…. Guthrie, you’ve done all this for me. Can you stay with me a little and give me a chance?”

Oh God. Oh God, he’d said it. The thought had been bubbling over in the back of his brain that this man needed him as much as he needed Guthrie—it had been a ledge, a cliff that he’d been afraid to jump off, but he’d said it. He’d said, “Stay with me,” and he’d meant it.

Guthrie gave him an almost embarrassed smile. “I could help for a while,” he acknowledged, and for a moment Tad was hurt. He wanted to screamI don’t need yourhelp, I needyou.And then it hit him—reallyhit him—who the man he’d fallen so hard, so fast for, truly was.

Proud.

Guthrie had a streak of pride in him. It had let him see what Tad had not: that April’s halfway house had stripped her of herpride. But it also meant Guthrie—who was between jobs and used to going hungry to drive to gigs and ready to drop his life on a dime to help out a friend or an obviously distraught woman or complete strangers who seemed to be doing good works—thatGuthrie needed to feel like he brought something to the table.

Something more than a guy who would do all that and was worth so much more than a rent check or a truck that may or may not continue to run.

“I could definitely use the help,” Tad told him seriously.Help getting you to fall in love with me enough to forsake your damned pride.

Guthrie nodded, pleased with the idea. “I could do that,” he said. “I could….”

Tad brought Guthrie’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them gently. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I want to see what it’s like to have you in town.”In my house. In my bed. In my life.

Guthrie rolled his eyes, but that didn’t disguise the flush that blotched his neck. “There’s a thousand other guys in the same town,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Tad conceded. “But how many of them can make me cry with one damned song?”

The flush intensified, and Tad saw a smile start at the corner of his mouth. “I thought I wasn’t playing that song anymore.”

“Any song,” Tad murmured. “Any song can make me cry.”

“Stop,” Guthrie mumbled. “You know my button, and you keep pushing.”

“That’s the idea,” Tad told him. “But I’ll leave you alone for now on one condition.”

“Sure,” Guthrie said, giving a sigh of obvious relief. “What do you want?”

“One thing. Anything. Tell me something personal about you. The name of the first boy you kissed. Where you grew up.Family pets. How you knew you liked music. Parents’ names. Anything.”

Guthrie shifted uncomfortably, and Tad knew without pushing even a little bit that he was regretting the bargain. Guthrie’s eyes moved to the right as he probably sifted through facts, looking for the smallest, most innocuous thing he could say that would reveal as little as possible.

Tad decided to cut that off at the pass.

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