Page 7 of Torch Songs

“There’s worse?” She was horrified.

“He apparently broke up with this guy when the guy wasin the hospital,then showed up at my place with a fifth of bourbon andthe other guy’s movies.” He shook his head, furious all over again. “I told him to go away and come back sober, butJesus.”

“What a douche!” She chuckled a little. “Tadpole, I love you, but maybe you reallydoneed me to crochet you a guy. It’s got to be an improvement, right?”

He chuckled and then stood from his spot on the edge of her bed, stretching. That was his cue. “All things considered, honey, I’d rather have a blanket.”

She rose and went in for a short, hard hug, which he returned with interest.

“Love you,” she whispered. “Don’t worry so much about me, okay?”

“Oh but I do,” he whispered back. “Stay safe and sane for me, okay?”

“Yeah.” She kissed his cheek, and he trotted into the dank hall and toward the rickety steps of the two-story house by the beach.

It was cold and foggy outside. He’d gotten her a space heater for her room, but he’d still been able to feel the dankness creeping in through the gaps under the door and the window frames, so it didn’t surprise him. As he hopped in his Ford Escape (he’d enjoyed the name, swore that’s the only reason he bought the car), he cranked up the heater and shuddered.

And then his stomach growled.

Oh hell. He’d taken April out to lunch, but the place she liked was… well, sort of icky. He’d enjoyed vegan food in the past—if nothing else, tempura vegetables were supposed to be delicious! But this place put a spice that he couldn’t place on all its dishes, and he wasnota fan. Suddenly he was in the mood for a steak and a beer. Before he pulled out from in front of the halfway house, he took out his phone and searched for a steakhouse of sorts.

He found one that seemed to fit the bill. It offered live music on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and he thought,How bad could it be? The ratings aren’t bad, right?

Washoe House turned out to be sort of a regional treasure.

He followed a series of fog-ridden backroads, wondering if his GPS was full of shit or possessed by demons, and was relieved when the giant red-and-white painted farmhouse appeared by the light of soda lamps in the mist.

The place looked like it got a new coat of paint once a year, and as he mounted the stairs, he realized that it seemed to be divided into two sections—family dining on one side and a bar that served food on the other. He asked to be seated in the restaurant, but that didn’t mean he didn’t listen as, midway through a really amazing steak, the band started to warm up.

Was that a… a violin? He listened some more, heard some guitar chords that didn’t sound dirty in the least, a keyboard that sounded practically operatic, and a bass that sounded… oh my God. That was a cello. The bass was a cello. And they were playing in a honky-tonk bar?

This felt serendipitous—like the bust he and Chris had made on Friday. No dirt, no shooting, no miserable slogs through piles of data, everything had just fallen into their lap.

But then a sweet tenor voice with the hint of a southern twang said, “Hello there. We’re The Crabs, and you all are pissing the night away!” And with that, the band launched into a version of “Tubthumping” the likes of which Tad Hawkins had never heard before.

It was glorious. The song normally consisted of the chorus, shouted regularly, and a sweet female voice, usually echoing the intro. But in this case, the sweet female voice was replaced by a violin, and the keyboard player did what the guitar player usually did.

And the drums carried the show.

Tad signaled his waitress and asked if he could take dessert and a beer in the bar, and she grinned, taking his credit card and allowing him to start a tab.

“They’re great, aren’t they?” she asked. “It’s Sunday. There’s a small table near the back. I’ll set you up there.”

He grinned back and went to sit down, getting there in time to hoot and holler and whistle for the next song.

“Friends in Low Places” came next, followed by Van Halen’s, “Ain’t Talking ’bout Love.” From Guns N’ Roses to Taylor Swift, the band played a truly eclectic mix of pop, country, rock, and oldies. As the lead male vocal/drummer/guitar player launched into Sam Cooke’s “Cupid,” Tad wanted to clutch his chest. The guy was… damn. Cute. He had longish dirty-blond hair, pulled into a half ponytail away from amazing brown eyes, and a narrow, appealing face with a Roman knife blade of a nose—one that had been broken a couple of times, to keep everything from being too boring. He grinned through teeth that probably could have used some fixing when he was a kid, and sang about wanting some help from the god of love because his lover didn’t know he was alive, and Tad thought,I’m right here! Look at me!

The song ended and the bar erupted in applause, and Tad managed a glance at the clock. Dammit.Dammit.It was getting late, and they weren’t done yet.

From the behind the bar, he heard the bartender—a fortyish woman with her hair in a messy bun, wearing an oft-laundered black shirt and jeans—call out, “Hey, guys, it’s been along, long time, hasn’t it?”

The lead singer chuckled from behind the drum set and glanced at his bandmates. “Guess that’s my cue, ain’t it?”

“You love it, Guthrie,” said the violinist, giving him a smile.

“It’s your solo too,” he said, and she batted eyes at him.

He laughed, stood, and walked around the set to grab his guitar and a small stool, which he parked in front of the microphone at the front of the stage. “Okay, guys. I guess ithasbeen a long, long time.”

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