Page 9 of Torch Songs

Neil bumped him from behind. Neil was like Roberta in that he was only graceful onstage with his keyboard, although he was much smaller than she was, and somehow sturdier. Guthrie wondered if, like Seth, who had been gay and Black in a place where that wasn’t always expected, Neil had learned to fight fiercely to defend his right to exist after achieving the offensive height of five foot four.

“Guthrie?” Neil asked. He was unfailingly polite unless someone was rude to him first.

“Sorry,” Guthrie murmured, and remembered a Seth word. Mooncalfing. He raised his voice. “I’m probably light-headed. Low blood sugar, you know!”

Sarah laughed and called, “Extra red meat for our songbird here, guys. Gotta keep him in prime rib so he keeps coming back.”

There was general laughter then, and they all sat down and ate fried pickles and talked about their week. Neil, Owen, and Roberta were all aflutter about new auditions for shows and a few for studio gigs, and he was excited for them, glad to be asked in on the fun. He was very aware that he was a musical step or six below the lot of them. He’d picked up his skills playing in a bar band with his father from the age of fourteen. They’d been classically trained from practically the cradle, showing aptitude and drive when Guthrie had still been hustling for a free lunch at school. The fact that they treated him as a professional, as an equal, that said everything about them and proved Guthrie was luckier than he deserved to be.

They were playing for pin money here. It mattered that they were friends.

Owen was their storyteller, and he launched into a hilarious account of trying to explain howHamiltondidtoohave musical salutes to hip-hop and soul only to be told that if hereallywanted to hear cutting edge musical theater, he should listen to something likeJesus Christ, Superstar.

To people with musical backgrounds—and at this point, Guthrie was included because after working with Seth for over four years, he’d taken it on to educate himself—it was hysterical, but Guthrie thought sadly that nobody else in the bar would laugh at the joke.

Until Owen delivered the scathing punchline, and Guthrie heard a throaty, rolling sound and glanced up, only to catch the same green eyes of the man at the end of the bar.

Who was watching Guthrie like he’d never stopped.

Guthrie swallowed hard, a throb of wanting thundering in his chest that he almost didn’t recognize.

Sarah moved to deliver their food, and the spell was broken. Guthrie sighed, investing himself in the conversation of his bandmates for the rest of the meal. He’d learned, right?

“He’s cute,” Roberta murmured. “I’ve seen him in here before.”

Guthrie blinked, while Neil and Owen engaged Sarah with some conversation—and some wheedling for cobbler for dessert. Musicians: always starving, never rich. They should have had T-shirts warning the populace.

“I haven’t,” he murmured, although there had been something familiar about him. Had Guthrie just not noticed?

“He’s been staring at you for the last three Sundays, Guthrie,” Roberta laughed. “Geez, you’ll never find someone if you don’t let yourself look!”

Guthrie rolled his eyes. “I’m busy,” he muttered, cutting a piece of prime rib and remembering another steak dinner he’d eaten, a long time ago.

“You’re oblivious,” Roberta argued. “By design. For God’s sake, Guthrie—it’s been four months!”

Guthrie glared at her. “I’m sorry I brought you,” he muttered.

“I’m not,” she said softly. “It was a lovely weekend. I’m glad I got to go as a friend. And seriously—” She did jazz hands, because she’d been a serious Seth Arnold fan “—it was a total rush for me, and I can’t pretend it wasn’t. But Guthrie….” Her voice sank quietly. “You’ll never know if you’re ready to fall in love again if you can’t meet a guy’s eyes across a room.”

Guthrie sent her a bored look. “At the Washoe House?” he asked, his eyes traveling around the rustic piece of history placed outside of Petaluma, on the way from Doran Beach. Sarah andthe crew were friendly, and they liked to feed the band, but Guthrie wasn’t sure they knew he wasn’t flirting with any of the girls for a reason. He’d learned caginess from Seth, and it had been a good lesson.

“That’s snobbery,” Roberta said loftily. “Lots of people like country and western music. There’sscadsof gay artists now.”

Guthrie blew out a breath and tried to forget those hungry green eyes. He glanced to where the guy had been and saw that he’d left.

“Well, this one isn’t getting laid tonight,” he said, keeping his voice light. Inside he was wondering if the guy would be back. Had he been coming to see the band? Was this a stop on a route? Or had those eyes, fastened on Guthrie’s face during that damnable song, really beenjustfor Guthrie.

He tried to keep the hopeful shiver from twitching up his spine, but he couldn’t. It had been so long since he’d even hadthat—it felt like hope was the least luxury he could give himself.

“Next week,” she said with confidence. “I swear.”

“Right,” he said, keeping his hope to himself. It was less painful when it flamed out close to his chest.

They finished their meal and thanked Sarah heartily, then split the tips before they all trooped out to their cars, parked back on the decomposed granite lot out of reach of the lights. They were near enough to the ocean for the fog to be gathering, which made the parking lot even more sinister, and Guthrie was glad they’d had practice in keeping safe.

Guthrie, Neil, and Owen made sure Roberta got into her own car first and that it started and the whole deal. Neil and Owen—who roomed together—hopped into Neil’s aging Toyota and left, leaving Guthrie to trudge to his beloved beat-up Chevy truck.

He’d been jumped after a gig enough times to hear the footstep on the gravel first, and lucky him, he was carrying asturdy guitar case. He swung it wide around, clocking the first guy on the head, and then he used his elbow on the guy behind him. The first guy let out a howl and ran away, holding his hand over his jaw, and the guy behind him swore.

---