Beyond the Footlights, page 25
“I CAN’T.” Len ground the words out through his clenched teeth. The pencil he was holding snapped in two, and he hurled it across the room. Half of it pinged off one of the windows. The other half bounced on carpet and rolled under a chair. He snatched up the page he had been writing on, and he crumpled that and threw it after the pencil. It didn’t fly nearly as true and bounced off the top of Kilmer’s head.
Kilmer raised one eyebrow at him.
“Sorry.” Len slumped back into what had become his couch and dragged his guitar off over his head. He set it aside none too gently and sighed.
“That was the only copy of the words we have,” Kilmer said softly, turning his attention back to the bassline he was hammering out. “I hadn’t photocopied it yet, so you might want to find it and—”
“Fuck off.” Len heaved to his feet and began searching for the crumpled ball. He found it under the end of Kilmer’s couch. “Here.” He tossed it onto the coffee table where it ricocheted between pop cans and Chinese take-out boxes.
“I didn’t actually do anything, so you can stop swearing at me.” Normally Kilmer might have ignored Len’s pissy mood, not provoked him, and just let it dissipate in its own good time. Unfortunately that required he leave Len alone for a few hours to stew and eventually calm down. It also required he come back later and hash it out, which demanded patience and a level head of his own.
Today he was cranky himself and didn’t see why he should have to put his instrument away and go find something else to do so Len could indulge in his tantrum.
“You didn’t write the music for me,” Len accused.
“I should have learned music theory in the past month just so I could write your music down for you?” Kilmer snorted. “Fat chance.”
“At least you can learn the piece,” Len muttered. “I won’t remember it tomorrow and I’ll end up pulling something completely different out of my ass. Not to mention the rest of the band isn’t here to listen, so they won’t be able to learn it either.”
“Poor baby. Go record it. That’s all I need anyway. If I can hear it, I can learn it.”
Len curled a lip at him. “Who says you’ll be the one playing it? Maybe I want my own band.”
“The band that kicked you out?”
Len glared at him.
“So call them,” Kilmer suggested.
“Fuck you. Maybe I just want a real musician for the album. Someone not afraid of the stage or a sound booth.”
That got Kilmer’s eyes off his bass. “Fine.” He took the strap off over his head and set the guitar on its stand. “Fuck you too.”
He didn’t stop when Len called a halfhearted apology after him and knew he was being a jerk for not apologizing himself. He wasn’t in the mood. If Len wanted to be a bully, Len could be a bully all by his pitiful little self.
His dog, sensing this was a follow-or-be-left-behind moment, surged up and trailed Kilmer out of the building and up the hill to the house. He nosed at Kilmer’s hand and got a distracted pat for his trouble. Still he trotted at Kilmer’s side in complete devotion. At least someone had his back.
They didn’t stop at the barn when Patrick called across the yard to let him know the chores were almost done, nor at the house, but he waved good-bye to Janet and Katie, who were on the porch swing playing a one-sided game of patty-cake. He did pause just long enough to hold open the back door of his car for the dog, then got in, gunned the engine, and headed for town.
What he was going to do once he got there, he had no idea. He didn’t even know if Tanner was at his place. On a Friday night, he doubted it. Tanner and Rocky had spent the past couple of weeks interviewing and auditioning new band members. From the little Tanner had mentioned of the process, it wasn’t going all that well.
Rural Ontario had its fair share of amateur guitar hacks, a decent handful of piano players, and a surprising number of fiddle players. But not very many of the musicians who could play to their level had much of a country repertoire. They had found a twentysomething fiddle player who could hold her own, had an amazing ear, and could learn just about anything in a day. What she didn’t know, she improvised. Tanner had offered her a spot. He did speculate, though, that she would be gone as soon as anyone with any influence heard her play. Still he was willing to give her a piece of his stage for as long as she wanted it.
They’d held most of their auditions on Friday nights in Tanner’s soundproof garage. His reasoning had been that if they found someone they liked, that would give the weekend to jam with them and see if they fit. As far as Kilmer knew, that hadn’t happened yet, beyond a Saturday afternoon discovering that their new fiddle player could play or fake anything in their repertoire well enough not to embarrass anyone.
Since it was only a little past five, Kilmer decided to try his own house, to see if maybe Tanner was still there, wrapping things up for the day. His truck wasn’t in the driveway, though, and Kilmer was surprised at how his heart sank. Since he was there, he parked and went inside.
The progress impressed him. Tanner had reframed the pass-through as a wide archway, eliminating the counter altogether and opening up the living area to the kitchen. Tanner had said something about having to keep a post in the center where the wall had been, for the roof, and that the reconstruct would take some time as they had to put in a beam to carry the weight.
Kilmer had given his go-ahead for Tanner to do what he needed, and now there was a sweeping archway between kitchen and living spaces. Kilmer had expected a neatly drywalled beam and column. Instead he had a wooden post in the middle of the house with an exposed beam across the ceiling. Sweeping up from either side of the post, curved wooden arches rose to kiss the underside of the beam, then swung back down to the walls on either end of the house.
The side door Kilmer normally used opened into the kitchen and faced the incredible sight, while the front door, opening into the living room, was framed out in the same amber-hued wood. Kilmer thought it might be oak, but he was no expert. Both the living room and kitchen windows had also been re-dressed with trim to match the rest, right down to a curved valance on each window to mimic the arches across the room, scaled down but still impressive.
It changed the look of the place completely. Where it had been a nondescript little bungalow, it suddenly had charm and character. It felt like a space Tanner had touched. Even though there was still a lot of work to do, as well as remnants of his rampage in the patched walls and dented floorboards where the smashed amplifier had landed, he felt less lonely as he stood in the empty house to take stock. There were still reminders in the dull paint color in the kitchen that Jacko had picked out, the cheap countertops, a broken cupboard door Kilmer had slammed off its hinges during a fight, and the worn linoleum. They all spoke of the general disrepair his life had been in when Tanner had found him.
“We’ll fix it all,” Kilmer assured the dog, who was standing next to him, pressing a nose into his palm to get his attention. “Eventually.” He looked down at the animal. “You hungry?”
The dog whuffed and padded to the corner where his dish sat.
“It would be so cool if people were as easy to read as you are, you know,” he told his four-legged friend.
That earned him another, slightly more vociferous whuff, and a tilted-head look over the dog’s shoulder as he waited for Kilmer to make the food-magic thing happen.
“Fine.” Kilmer pulled the food from the cupboard and poured some into the bowl, filled up his water, and watched him scarf down half his meal.
“Guess I’m next, huh?”
The dog trotted to his bed next to the stove, turned around twice, and curled into a ball with his head on his paws so he could keep an eye on Kilmer.
The fridge was almost bare. Kilmer found only half a loaf of bread, two slices of bologna, a jar of mustard, a heel of cheese, and one slightly wrinkled apple. He didn’t trust the carton of milk enough to even smell it. He knew he hadn’t bought the lunch fixings, so they must have been Tanner’s. He had never seen the man drink anything other than water or the occasional beer, so he wasn’t going to risk it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had shopped. He ate almost all his meals at the ranch because Maggie was a fine cook.
Closing the fridge, he eyed the dog. “Pub?”
The dog’s tail thumped once and went still.
“To Tanner’s?”
That got a more enthusiastic wag and a lift of canine eyebrows.
“Good call. Come on.” So what if the dog had no idea what he was supposedly agreeing to. It was enough for Kilmer.
Not needing to be told more than once, the dog rose to follow him out the door and back to the car. Kilmer didn’t stop for one heartbeat to think what it might mean that he was having these conversations with his dog.
Tanner’s house was considerably more active. Kilmer recognized his truck, as well as Rocky’s car parked behind it. On the street were more vehicles he didn’t know, but there was one space left in the drive, next to Tanner’s truck. Kilmer pulled into it and shut off his engine.
Faintly he could hear the sound of steel guitar and of drums from the garage, so he went to the man-door and knocked loudly. A moment later Tanner swung the door open, a wide smile on his face. The smile flickered, then broadened as he took in Kilmer and the dog.
“Well, look at you!” He reached and cupped a hand around the back of Kilmer’s elbow, then led him inside. “Everyone, this is Kilmer. Kilmer, you know Rocky”—he winked—“and this is Pamela”—he waved to the fiddle player who waved back—“and Dave.”
“David,” the man said, raising a hand in greeting, then pushing a thick pair of glasses up his nose as he adjusted his guitar strap. He might have been in his early thirties. He was about a mile tall and thin as a rail, slightly hunched like he thought that would disguise his height some. Dirty-blond hair flopped in front of his eyes as he nodded once more. “Nice dog.”
“Thanks?” Kilmer gazed at the bass the man held. “I shouldn’t have—” Turning swiftly, he motioned for the dog and headed back toward the door. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No!” Tanner grabbed his arm and dragged him farther inside. “Dave… id. David. Give him the bass, will ya?”
David shrugged, handed the instrument over, then replaced it with a six-string.
Kilmer stood there with the bass in one hand, the other flat against his dog’s skull. He watched Tanner as the singer took a seat behind a steel guitar and adjusted the mic.
He nodded to Kilmer. “Suit up.”
Kilmer frowned. “I didn’t—I mean….”
“Won’t hurt,” Tanner said with a smile. “Just play with us. Dave was—David was giving it his best shot, but it ain’t his gig.” He grinned at David who shrugged, adjusted his glasses, and coaxed a series of sweet-but-dirty riffs from the guitar.
A shiver snaked down Kilmer’s back at the sound.
“See, now that.” Tanner pointed at David and his guitar. “That’s what he does.” He pointed to Kilmer. “That’s what you do. So do it.”
It almost sounded like a command. Almost. Tanner’s gaze met his and one eyebrow quirked a tiny fraction, as though daring him to refuse. Rocky swished his brushes over his cymbal, then the snare, thumped the bass, and set into a bluesy, gritty beat. David joined with a simple rhythm.
Kilmer gulped in a few breaths, heart snapping against his ribs. He couldn’t even break eye contact with Tanner. The music, sparse and understated as it was, dug into his gut and pushed the air out of his lungs. He’d always had a bit of a hard-on for blues, and Rocky had accidentally pounded the beat straight into Kilmer’s sweet spot.
No more thinking. He strung the bass’s strap over his shoulder, watched David’s fingers to pick up the key, and began to fill in the heavy line of underlying beat that gave the blues their soul. Tanner’s grin was like the sun, as he made the steel guitar sing under his deft touch.
Kilmer noted the violin join in peripherally, countering his bass with sweet harmonies that danced in and out with the steel guitar, then faded to the background as Tanner’s voice rose. Kilmer knew the song, though he’d long forgotten the words. Lyrics weren’t his thing. They didn’t matter. Only the pattern of the bassline, as it rose and fell and wound through the rest, tying it all together and tethering it, mattered.
One song bled into another as they played. The dog quickly disappeared into the house through the doggy door, and Kilmer lost all track of time and space as he played half-remembered blues and bluegrass, listened to the others play some old Irish mainstays, and carefully picked out the parts he could figure out.
It was well past dark before they quit, both Pam and David folding for the night as children’s bedtimes approached and they had to get home to their families. Rocky, sweating and grinning, clapped Kilmer on the shoulder before he left shortly after, saying he would see him tomorrow.
“Tomorrow?” Kilmer asked, though Rocky was already gone.
“I think he thinks you’ve joined the band,” Tanner said. He set his guitar down and sauntered over to close the garage door behind Rocky.
“I have not joined your band,” Kilmer assured him, setting the borrowed bass on a stand as well. He wiped his face with the tail of his shirt.
“You’re a damn sight better than anyone else who’s tried out. David was so good on the guitar and he said he played a bit of bass, I thought he might work but no. He can plunk out a steady line, but he’s not… you.”
“I’m hardly a virtuoso. I play blues. I can do rock and roll, and some eighties hair band if pressed. I don’t suck at country. Len’s trying to persuade me to do whatever it is he calls that noise….”
Tanner was smiling at him. Grinning even.
“What?”
“I know they say bass isn’t complicated, but you have to be dedicated to learn the nuances of all those styles.”
Kilmer shrugged. “Not a lot to do in a buttfuck, Texas backwater. We didn’t have cable, but we had a radio in the barn and good reception.” He found himself grinning now. “Vance always picked out the guitar part quicker than me, but he couldn’t grab hold of a beat with both hands to save his life. Still can’t.”
“Well. A guy can’t be brilliant at everything.”
“And he’s not, trust me.”
“Problem?”
Kilmer sighed, but he shook his head. “No. Not really. Just…. It’s nothing.”
“Come inside,” Tanner took his hand and pulled him toward the house.
The desire to protest warred with the need to follow, and Kilmer hesitated, but the rough scrape of Tanner’s calluses against his skin, the warmth of the contact, and the comfort of following won out. He trailed Tanner up the three steps from the garage into the house and took the seat that Tanner offered on the couch.
“Talk to me,” Tanner ordered.
“It’s not worth talking about. Just a couple of subs being bitchy to each other because… I don’t even have any idea why. We’re both frustrated, I guess, and Len misses Vance.” He looked up from where he was picking at his own calluses. “I guess.” For an instant he looked into Tanner’s eyes and felt the click of home snap into place inside his brain. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs collapsed; his heart stopped. He practically jumped off the sofa and took a step back as panic slid in underneath the instant sensation of comfort and undermined it.
“Easy.” Tanner stood, grabbed him, slid a hand along the back of his neck, and rubbed gently. “You guess what?” He held Kilmer’s gaze, steadying him physically and emotionally with the touch and the look.
Kilmer struggled for just one breath, licked his lips, scrambled for the right words. Ones that wouldn’t piss Tanner off or make Kilmer feel weak and useless. “I guess I missed you,” he said at last.
Tanner had a smile that when he turned it up full, made it impossible to breathe. Or think. Or look away.
“Yeah?” he asked, and Kilmer barely heard him, he was so mesmerized by the intensity of his own pleasure at eliciting such an expression on the other man. Had Jacko ever looked at him like that?
“Yeah. I—” He swallowed hard. “I did.” But he couldn’t count on Tanner to fix the spaces between the intense bouts of certainty Kilmer only felt when they were together. “I have to go.”
“What?” Tanner released him instantly, a look of confusion creeping over his features.
“I should.” Kilmer pointed to the door and backed toward it. “Should get back. Thanks for that… band thing. It was fun.”
He fled.
28
HE’D RUN. He’d panicked and skittered away like a rodent back into the dark places. Kilmer slammed the side of his fist against the steering wheel and cursed. He’d run away from home the instant what Vance had asked him to do got hard. He’d run away from Tanner because… well. He didn’t know why.
And now he was driving blindly through the back roads of nowhere because he didn’t want to go back to his half-and-half house. Half of it still rang of the unhappiness of his life with Jacko, and the other half hummed with the potential of something he was apparently scared shitless to accept.
He didn’t want to go back to the ranch to face Len, who he should never have left in the first place. And he had no explanation for Tanner, who would surely demand to know why he’d bolted. When had he become this person who refused to face his problems? How had that happened?
He should go back to Len. He was supposed to be the responsible one, and when Vance found out he’d stormed off—and he’d find out because Len told him everything—Kilmer would get an earful. He needed to go home. The route was hilly, twisting around a swamp in the low hollow of a moraine that the road then wound up and over. He shuddered at the thought of having driven this path that night and not remembering a moment of it.
