Bad Habit Page 8

  “People make their own choices, Li. That doesn’t make you responsible for him.”

  Like Liam hadn’t heard that a million times, from the VA therapist to his mom to Deon. Maybe they had a point, but Liam couldn’t let Scott sell his dream car without doing something. Not after Scott had worked so hard on Liam’s dream. A dream that Liam hadn’t even believed in by then. But that wasn’t the point, though. Scott had stood by him; Liam needed to pay him back.

  Liam worked his jaw. “I know that. But when I found out he needed a job—”

  “Was that before or after he punched you in the face?”

  Fuck. Liam winced. He should have known Deon would figure that out. “What I’m trying to say is that I needed to restore the balance. I know you don’t think I owed him, but I did. And if I’m going to move forward—”

  “And I’m supposed to ignore that he punched you and that you’ve obviously been talking to him since you ‘ran into him’ two weeks ago.” Deon unfolded his arms enough to add the air quotes and went right back to looking closed off and pissed.

  “I didn’t. I haven’t called him or texted him or even seen him since you were there. I don’t even have his number.” It was the honest-to-God truth and Liam put all his conviction into it.

  “Right. So you told him about a job here how? Skywriting?”

  “No. I figured out we had a mutual acquaintance and passed it on that way.”

  Deon looked up like he was seeking divine patience to deal with Liam, and Liam’s own temper snapped.

  “So you want to believe that I’m fucking you and living with my mom and somehow sneaking out to see Scott when I have to be driven everywhere? That’s your takeaway?”

  Deon’s shoulders sagged. “No. But I think codependence is a hard habit to break. And with him around—”

  “I don’t work here, Deon.”

  “No, your band just rehearses here and plays here.”

  “Exactly. Christ, I haven’t spent a minute alone since I graduated basic training.”

  “You want to be alone?” The shock of pain in Deon’s eyes went right through Liam’s chest.

  “No, baby.” Liam stepped up to him. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m with you. I want a future with you. So I needed to balance out the past. That’s all.”

  Deon had been with Liam through the worst time of his life and fallen in love with him anyway. Deon was hope and life when Liam had nothing left. The idea of leaving that support behind terrified him. He just needed time to sort through what seeing Scott again meant.

  Liam slid his arms around Deon’s waist and Deon let him, resting his head on Liam’s for an instant before pulling away.

  “You’re either lying to me or lying to yourself, and I don’t know which is worse, but I can’t do this right now.” Deon turned and walked away. He was almost to the street when he turned back. “Damn it.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Except I need to drive you home.”

  “Reeve can give me a lift.”

  “On his bike?”

  Liam shook his head. “He has the van. Go. But—” Liam swallowed. “—call me later, okay, so I know—just call me.”

  Deon nodded and disappeared around the corner.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  Liam spun to face the sunny end of the alley. After squinting into the glare, he made out a figure leaning on a car. Scott, ass against the hood of his Shelby Mustang, cigarette at his lips.

  “Fuck off,” Liam said, but he couldn’t put any heat into it.

  “So I guess I’ve got you to thank for this job.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.” Scott dropped his butt and crushed it under a work boot. He never used to bother, just let them smolder like he didn’t care if the world burned.

  “You’re still welcome.” Liam should go in now before Dev decided Liam was going to flake out like their last lead singer. Instead he found himself saying, “Thought the bar didn’t open until three.”

  “It doesn’t.” Scott stepped out of the glare and into the alley, forcing Liam to blink hard to make out his features again. “I’m staying here.”

  “In the bar?” That was a stupid question. That was what Scott had said.

  “Yup.” Scott was only a foot away now. “So look at you. The next Dave Grohl.”

  Warmth flooded Liam’s chest. Scott loved the Foo Fighters, which made it one hell of a compliment. “Nah. Not a drummer.” Though Liam had never tried. He’d learned guitar on the other side of the world, begged Ross to teach him. At first to fight the terminal hurry-up-and-wait drag of time on the base, but from the start, there’d been a rightness to the way the strings felt under his sand-dry fingers. The brand name, Seagull, scrawled on the head made him think of home, the endless scream of gulls and the smell of water.

  The basics had been easy, which pissed Ross off no end. Just like when he taught Liam backgammon and Liam ended up kicking his ass all the time, until Ross wouldn’t even play with him. Music, though. Mad as Ross had been that Liam picked it up so fast, neither one of them could get enough of it. Ross offering blues and country, while Liam worked out the chords to the rock songs he’d sung along to a million times. That was how he tried to remember Ross, and most of the time it was. Except when he dreamed.

  Scott jerked him back to the present. “Still, got some pipes on you.”

  “You’ve heard me sing in the shower.” And in bed. Of all the covers for Scott to have heard….

  “Yeah, but not with a mic.” Scott was close enough to touch.

  Liam’s body moved without him thinking, almost leaning in. Muscle memory. A trigger from the familiar scent of menthol. Of Scott.

  Get a grip. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t take another swing at you. Out loud Liam said, “So are we talking to each other now?”

  “I’m not the one who left. Or the one with a boyfriend.”

  As Scott stretched a hand toward him, Liam jerked back.

  Scott sneered. “Just getting the door, dude.”

  “Oh, right. Scott?”

  “Standing the fuck in front of you, Liam.”

  As if any part of Liam wasn’t aware of it. As if they hadn’t fallen back into teasing and fighting like the past six years hadn’t happened. “Can we call a truce, maybe?”

  Scott stared at him with the same silent intensity that had turned Liam’s crank since he was fifteen.

  “Truce? Sure.” Scott’s voice was so flat Liam wasn’t sure whether Scott was being sarcastic.

  Liam decided to take it at face value. “So, since when the hell are you friends with a cop?”

  Chapter Ten

  ONE THING Liam was learning about music was that when they got it—not just right but perfect—he could feel it in his spine, a shock that reverberated his nuts and was damned close to sex. They had it tonight. The whole damned set, from Mac killing the riffs in the Seether opener, through the original stuff they had tucked in where the push from Reeve’s grinding bass drove Liam to match it, they finally fucking had it. Even Dev couldn’t complain about how this rehearsal had gone.

  The audience had been on their feet since the third song and screamed applause as the echo faded. Liam shook sweat out of his eyes. Too bad the house only consisted of Reeve’s grandmother and sister.

  And Scott dragging a mop over the floor. But Liam had felt him watching. Despite Scott’s claim that he was living at the bar, for the last couple days he’d been conspicuously absent from their morning rehearsals. Maybe since Reeve had insisted on squeezing this one in at 3:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, Scott hadn’t been able to avoid hearing them.

  Chai grabbed bottled water from the glass-front cooler behind the bar.

  “Water? Would you serve water if Eddie Vedder brought Pearl Jam here?” Reeve lifted his strap over his head. “Didn’t you hear us? Where’s the Cristal?”

  “Bar’s closed.” Chai slammed the service gate down behind her.

  “Ligh
t beer?” Reeve suggested.

  “Can’t serve after two,” Mrs. Schimikowski reminded them.

  “Can’t serve you anyway, baby boy.” Chai thunked the waters on the edge of the stage.

  “C’mon, it’s only eight more days.” Reeve dropped on his ass next to the offering, swinging his legs as he uncapped a water and chugged it.

  Liam tried not to miss shit that would never be possible again, but he missed being able to do that. Missed the ease, the fluid motion, the not having to worry about being betrayed by an alien limb. He felt Scott’s eyes on him, as if Scott knew what Liam had been thinking, and ducked away, sliding his fingers along his strings, glancing at the scars from the skin graft on his forearm. At least he hadn’t lost a hand. What if he’d been stuck jerking off left-handed for the rest of his life?

  It was the kind of thing Deon said was unproductive overdramatic thinking, but Scott had always known that sometimes you had to laugh about the shitty things in life. He’d just smirk and tell Liam to look for a Fleshlight prosthetic attachment. Liam looked back out into the bar, hoping to catch Scott’s eye, but he was gone.

  Liam limped down the two steps to the floor and went looking for him.

  “Hey.” Reeve chucked a water at him. “Need to keep those vocal cords lubricated.”

  Liam caught it, but the unexpected motion fucked his balance enough to start him wobbling. Like he needed the reminder right now.

  “Oops,” Reeve said.

  “Yeah, sorry, my brother’s a clueless idiot.” Chai folded her arms.

  Joining Reeve at the stage edge, Liam uncapped his water. Thinking he could share a laugh with Scott was a stupid idea. Scott had accepted the truce, he wasn’t openly hostile, but that easy place between them wasn’t ever coming back. Liam should be happy with what he’d salvaged from the past and focus on the future.

  He and Deon were talking, at least enough for Deon to express disbelief at a 3:00 a.m. rehearsal being the only time they could all be together with the amps. Liam had said he could come along, and when Deon had declined, Liam had suggested he have Reeve drop him off afterward at Deon’s apartment so he could make an up-close inspection of Liam’s instruments. Liam had meant it as funny seduction, but Deon had taken it with a huff and then silence. Liam wasn’t looking forward to waking up the house when he had to go back to his mom’s.

  “Come up with a new name yet, or are you planning on being the surprise guest at your own return this week?” Chai kicked her brother’s foot. “I still think Bag of Dicks is perfect. Mac liked it.”

  Mrs. S. rolled her eyes.

  “Blow me,” Dev spat out as he came to grab a water.

  Chai smiled and said sweetly, “Kiss my go-to-hell ass.”

  “Anytime you want to shine that full moon in my face, babe. I’m ready. Sit right down.” From his position on the stage, Dev leaned over their heads and made a slurping motion.

  “Blow the Moon Out.” It popped into Liam’s head, words coming together in a fragment of something he remembered sung at a campfire. “I mean, as a band name.”

  The silence that followed made him redden. He shrugged. “Just an idea.”

  “No, wait.” Reeve ran to the bar, vaulting up to lie on his chest and reach under. He scribbled on a napkin for a minute, then brought it over to show them. “Picture this much better, jagged black cracks in the moon, red letters with the name across it. Blow the Moon.”

  Dev grabbed it. “Fuck yeah. The merchandising will be hot.”

  “I’ll get Mac.” Liam pushed away from the stage.

  Reeve called after him. “You going to be ready to put ‘Take on Me’ in the second set?”

  Reeve had turned the ’80s electronic pop song into a nu metal opera. It really pushed Liam’s range, and for some of it he had to shift into falsetto. He had no problem screaming and growling—though he did close his eyes—but this song was hard. It was one thing when it came from feeling the lyrics and the music. This was technical, and he found himself putting a hand on his diaphragm like in the YouTube videos he’d been studying.

  “I mean, if you fuck it up, it’s just us, right?” Reeve pushed.

  It wasn’t the idea of an audience. Though it hadn’t been like joining a band, he’d done open mic a few times before he’d enlisted, lying to Scott about it, claiming the need to hit the library. It had been an escape from all that expectation, from the weight of Scott shrugging off those insane work hours because Liam was going to be a rich doctor someday. From thinking he could fix his mom’s life, then make it up to Scott somehow.

  He’d tried being John Mayer back then, crooning a high tenor, so what was the difference now?

  Scott hadn’t been in the audience then.

  “Yeah,” Liam said. “Let’s try it.”

  LIAM PUSHED open the door to the men’s room and called over his shoulder. “Let your grandmother and Chai take the van. I’ll be fine on your bike.” They were all hyped after the last set, which had gone even better than the first, but now it was almost 5:00 a.m. “Just need to piss first.”

  He stopped just inside the door, staring into the mirror on the side wall. There was just a small circle of reflection left from the application of band stickers, and Scott’s face stared back. Liam hadn’t seen Scott since going in search of Mac. She and Scott had been sitting in the Mustang, sweet smoke drifting out of the open windows.

  Slowly, Scott spat into the sink and went back to brushing his teeth.

  “I—uh—need to piss.”

  “Go ahead.” Scott tipped his head toward the urinal trough. “Not like I haven’t seen it.”

  There was a single stall, wide enough to be ADA compliant, but that would be stupid. After all, one of Liam’s first PT goals had been to be able to piss standing up again.

  “Right.” Liam’s voice was steadier than he felt.

  Scrub, swish, spit.

  Liam stepped to the trough and unzipped.

  Scrub, swish, spit.

  They could have been back in that tiny apartment bathroom, where getting to the toilet around someone at the sink meant a step into the shower stall or a grind across his back.

  You’ve pissed in front of him hundreds of times, thousands. Do it and go, Liam told himself, but although he was aimed, he hadn’t been able to unlock his muscle. “So, you really live here, huh?”

  “Yup.” Slurp. Spit.

  “Do you just unroll a sleeping bag on the bar or what?” Liam stared into the drain.

  The sink shut off. “Cot in a storage room. Chai likes having the extra security.”

  Footsteps. Scott would go now and Liam could finally download his bladder.

  Instead Scott leaned against the door, and Liam shot him a sideways glare.

  “What?” He didn’t need to start thinking about anything else he and Scott had done in that tiny bathroom. Or sometimes anyplace with a door.

  “I don’t get it.”

  Liam tucked himself away and zipped, then turned to face Scott. Anticipation made Liam’s skin tingle, like the tension building before a kiss. “So ask.”

  “Why when you can sing like that you bothered with anything else.” Scott didn’t wait for an answer, pulling open the door. “Be sure to wash your hands. Wouldn’t want to catch anything that fucked up your voice.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SCOTT WOVE through the Friday-night crowd with the dolly and a fresh keg of Doggie Style.

  Chai intercepted him. “Getting close to maxed. Need you to help with crowd control at the door.”

  Liam’s band was playing a set tonight, opening for Charm City Cyanide, who had a big local following and a demo out. He skirted the merchandise table and joined Ford, the bouncer working the door.

  “Gonna be pissed when we close the line.” Ford’s bald head gleamed in the neon as he leaned down to talk to Scott.

  “Fifteen more.” Mrs. S. was taking the twenty-dollar cover and clicking a handheld counter.

  Scott took up a post near the opp
osite door. There were still about thirty people waiting to get in and the line had turned into a mass of people pushing.

  “Hey. I know him,” a voice called, and Scott saw Eli slithering between two T-shirted hipsters with knit hats—in August—and long beards. “Scott.”

  A tall blond was behind him. “Who don’t you know?”

  “Who doesn’t he think he knows?” said a guy with a dark goatee who had the hipsters muttering “Not cool, dude” as he shoved through.

  “Can you get us in?” Eli wore long black board shorts and a black vest over a black mesh tank top in a club-ska mash-up that somehow worked on him.

  Scott owed Eli a favor. He didn’t owe the other two. Despite their jeans and band T-shirts, they looked a little too Abercrombie for Schim’s and CCC.

  “I’m doing a review for the Charming Rag,” Goatee said, like that was supposed to impress Scott.

  “So why didn’t you call ahead?”

  Schim’s didn’t take reservations, of course, but Chai and Mrs. S. were probably on top of local press.

  “I like to get the audience feel.”

  Scott snorted. “And who’s this?” He jerked a thumb at the blond.

  “Kellan Brooks.” Eli pointed at one of the neon signs. “Brooks Blast Energy Drinks.”

  Scott really doubted that connection. No way did the blond look rich enough for that shit.

  Ford was running a pocket black light over a license as an obviously underaged girl bit her lip in front of him. The hipsters were already in. Scott checked in with Mrs. S., who held up five fingers.

  “C’mon. But those two pay the cover,” he told Eli.

  Ford handed the license back to the girl and shook his head. A guy got into it with Mrs. S., claiming he’d given her a fifty and not a twenty, and Ford went to loom and flash his flesh-covered guns, so Scott took over the door. Eli and his friends disappeared into the crowd.