Page 79 of Torch Songs

Guthrie nodded. “Sorry,” he rasped. “I’m—”

“No sorry,” Tad said softly. “Just… can we move the rest of your stuff from San Rafael to here? Can you… can you call this home?”

Guthrie closed his eyes and remembered all the things Tad’s partner had been trying to tell him. “But you might be moving soon,” he said hesitantly.

Tad scowled at Chris, who was striding by cheerfully with Guthrie’s drum-set cases in hand. Guthrie saw him smirk and got it. Tad couldn’t be mad at the guy who’d brought Guthrie home.

“Then us—consider me and April home,” Tad begged. “Can you do that? Even if it’s only for a little while, okay?”

Guthrie nodded. “I’d rather it be for a bit,” he said dolefully. “Until a wedding in Colton and a studio gig in late August, I’m sort of out of a job.”

Tad brushed the bandages on his shoulder. “Good. Stay here. Heal with me. Let’s make plans for something bigger. Okay?”

Guthrie nodded. “Okay. Sorry to worry you,” he said, and this time Tad let it slide.

“I’m just so glad you’re home.”

THAT DAYand night he slept like the doctor had ordered him, exhausted and stoned, and the next morning he showered. Tad was down to one bandage on the back of his thigh—he could shower and swim at will. But Guthrie had a long, deep slice in the meat of his shoulder and down his collarbone. He needed a plastic bag to shower and then an hour of napping to recover. And the doctor hadn’t been exaggerating about the bruises and contusions.

Guthrie woke up from his after-shower nap to find Tad sitting on the bed next to him, trailing shaking fingers along his bruised ribs, down the swelling of his hip joint, and over more bruises on his thighs. Guthrie reached for the blanket to cover up, but Tad stayed him.

“This was really brutal,” he said, voice shaking. “I didn’t look this bad after falling off a cliff and into a canyon. Why is this so bad?”

It was on the tip of Guthrie’s tongue to say, “To make up for not being shot,” but he managed to temper himself.

“I fought back,” he confessed. “I… it was our last gig, Tad. That’s the last money I’m going to see until the studio thing in August, unless I get a gig bussing tables up here. I just… I needed that money.” There was more to it. The money from the first CD was running out, and the lease on the apartment in San Rafael was expiring at the end of August too. Lulu was hoping to keep the apartment—even after Agnes came back to Sacramento for her senior year in high school, Lulu wanted to finish out the program she’d started in the Bay Area, and her sister, Lily, wanted to move down there with her, because the two of them had never liked being separated for long. Guthrie’s name needed to be on the lease, otherwise the landlord would hike the rent and the sisters wouldn’t be able to afford it. That needed another deposit, and as it was, he didn’t have it. The money he’d saved by taking a beating would pay for repairs to his truck and gas for the next month. His savings might take care of food.

“Then get a gig bussing tables!” Tad told him. “Or, you know, let me pay for groceries. April tells me you try to pay for it yourself when you guys go shopping. She’s got my card. Let her go. Don’t worry about rent here. C’mon, Guthrie, you could havedied.I know my knife wounds—this is a lucky shot.”

“Like that bullet in your ass?” Guthrie scowled, and Tad let loose a sigh.

“Fair. Just… look. Chris and I helped a guy who owns a restaurant about two blocks from here. Can I, maybe, get you a summer job waiting tables or tending bar, and you can do that for cash while we figure out what we’re doing?”

“While you get ready to move?” Guthrie clarified, feeling the hurt.

“We, Guthrie. If it was only me and April, I’d tell you to fire off resumes. I’d let you move back to San Rafael to sleep on your own damned couch. I’m not stupid. You’ve got marketable skills, man. You can get a better job than that, I know it. But… but ifweare going to move, this might be a better option. What do you say?”

“We?” Guthrie asked. His head was still swimmy from pain pills, and damn if he might not have to fall asleep after having this conversation while lying on his back, but evenheknew that word was important.

Tad leaned forward and cupped his cheek. “How many times have we made love now?” he asked. “Have you counted?”

Guthrie closed his eyes and tried. The first time, he remembered. The first time after Tad got back—that one was clear too. But there’d been so much in the past three weeks. Honeymooning, in a way, and he knew Tad was celebrating his own healing body. But it was more than that. It was that sometimes “making love” was a quick one-off in each other’s fists. Sometimes… sometimes it was what they’d done four nights ago, before he’d gone down to San Rafael, when Guthrie had showered that night after spending the day in the pool and Tad had come into the bathroom when he’d been toweling off. Guthrie had found himself bent over the sink, looking into his own eyes in the mirror, as Tad had settled onto the closed seat of the commode and parted his cheeks and… oh God. He was in pain and embarrassed and tired, but the thought of what Tad had been doing to him that night still made his cock try to swell in anticipation.

Did that count as once? Did what they’d done afterward, Guthrie bent over the bed like he’d been bent over the sink, Tad thrusting inside him with undisguised delight. Did that count asa separate time? The same time? What about when they’d been done and Tad had rinsed off and come to bed, and suddenly Guthrie hadneededto taste him, had pulled his cock into the back of his mouth and stroked him to completion, swallowing every bit of come Tad had left?

Did that count as a third time or the same time because it was the same night?

There was no counting.

There was no adding up the times they’d orgasmed versus the times they’d touched versus the times they’d simply kissed in passing as they were walking across the apartment.

“No counting,” Guthrie murmured, cheeks heating. “Just touching you counts.”

Tad leaned forward and feathered his cheek with gentle lips. “Then it doesn’t matter if it’s been a long time or a short time,” he said. “Sam and I had sex exactly twelve times before we moved in together. He kept a diary so he’d know when it was time to ask.”

Guthrie stared at him in horror, and Tad laughed.

“Yeah. I know. It’s awful. I can’t believe I dated that guy. But it sounded so sensible. Common sense never let me down, right? But that guy wouldn’t have walked out of a job to help my sister. That guy wouldn’t have literally taken the shirt off his back to let me know I wasn’t alone.Thatguy wouldn’t have sung love songs into the starry night sky to give me hope. So maybethat guyisn’t the guy I needed. Maybe you’re the guy I need. Think about that. Maybe two months with you means a whole lot more than two years with anyone else. Let’s find out.”

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