Heartstrings Read Free Page A

damn. And while he didn’t suit the old, bluegrassier sound of the band’s old songs, he had songwriting chops that soon made that a moot point.
    The Sinsationals’ first album with Rhett on lead guitar and songwriting duties had been their breakout hit. Two years later, their sophomore album had lit up the charts. Eight months later, it was still selling. And the live shows were making a killing on top of that.
    For all the complete mess of a human being Rhett was, he had the golden touch. They hadn’t released a flop since signing him.
    So Blake was stuck with him, for better or worse.
    Blake flipped through emails on his phone until Rhett ended his phone call. He watched Rhett from the side, just kind of eyeballing him. He’s got to be a real unhappy dude, Blake thought. No way he can enjoy life even a little, acting the way he does.
    Looking at Rhett’s ungroomed, borderline-offensive mustache, Blake felt a little self-conscious about his appearance. They’d had a late night and he hadn’t had time to shower before his flight. He probably stank. A shower and a shave would do him good.
    “Good news,” Rhett said. “Finally, one piece of good news. They’re sending another limo, it’ll be about twenty minutes. I’ll be at the bar.”
    Rhett yanked up his bag, whirled about, and strutted off before Blake could comment. He opened his mouth, but felt someone nudge his side.
    Erica stood beside him, shaking her head.
    “Not worth it. Just let him go.”
    Erica Silverman: tambourine player and voice of reason when reason was badly needed. Blake put on a quick half-smile for her and offered to carry her bag.

    * * *
    B ack at the hotel , Blake stripped down to his boxers and left his clothes in a heap on the floor. He had fresh jeans and a couple t-shirts in his carry-on, and that would be enough until the tour caravan arrived.
    His phone buzzed: a text from an old friend asking if he wanted to catch up and watch a Broncos game. But it conflicted with his sound check, so he had to pass.
    Absently, he scrolled through his contacts, wondering who was still in town. He hadn’t been away from home that many years, but it felt like a lifetime. So much had changed. Hell, he’d changed.
    He scrolled past Cal’s name.
    I wonder what he’s doing right now, Blake couldn’t help but wonder. He had no idea what Cal did with himself these days. Or what he’d done at all since quitting the band. He’d just left without warning, stammered some lame-ass excuse. Blake could still remember the way his deep voice cracked when he said I just can’t do this anymore.
    To this day, Blake had no idea what this Cal had been referring to. The band? Or him? Maybe all of it.
    “He probably still hates your guts,” Blake said aloud. He often talked to himself when trying to talk himself out of bad ideas. Calling Cal for old time’s sake was worse than just a bad idea. It was borderline disastrous.
    Sometimes, though, Blake wondered.
    He wondered how things might have gone if he’d never approached Cal that night, half-drunk since they got paid in booze back then. He remembered the sound of Cal’s laugh, the shine of his dark eyes in the dim light of the parking lot. Blake had never noticed it until then, but his guitarist had the sexiest smile, a little smirk that made you wonder what he was thinking.
    He hadn’t pressured Cal into anything. Cal had reciprocated. It had been mutual and willing and almost frighteningly hot.
    And then a few months later, it was all over.
    No. He wouldn’t call Cal. And he’d probably have to jerk off in the shower now to rinse that memory away.

4
Cal
    C al had to admit his reservations about the show were misguided. Packed into general admission, three beers deep, Yanmei shouting along to all the opening band’s songs right in his ear—it was great. He was having a fantastic time. She was right: he didn’t get out much these days. But the two bands who opened up for the Sinsationals were doing