High school, senior year…
It was the day before graduation, and all hell had broken loose.
“Little Evie Harper is a fag!” Stellan Gretsch announced to everyone within earshot, his voice taunting me from where he stood surrounded by his jock friends.
Coward.
“Asshole! You tricked me!” I yelled, filled with equal parts fear and shame. I adjusted the thick glasses on my face and turned to walk away from the jeering crowd of homophobes in the hallway by the lockers.
But it wasn’t over.
“Look at you!” he continued. “Fucking little girly man with those cute little curls hanging to your shoulders. You’re a sick, perverted cunt. Go find yourself a pole and jam it up your ass, if you’re that desperate for a ride. It sure as shit ain’t happenin’ with me.”
I started to run, the laughter in the voices behind me fading with each stride, but the stench of their hatred still present.
How could I have been so wrong? Stellan—tall, gorgeous, dark-haired Stellan—had been perfect. He played guitar in a local garage band and was the hottest guy in school. I’d always been a sucker for musicians.
He’d approached me last month and claimed to like me. He’d even said he wanted to go out on a date. I’d fallen for him—hard. He was my first love, and it had all been a lie.
Stellan had been playing me the whole time, just because he could. It had seemed so real. I was positive he really was gay, but the homecoming king couldn’t be bentin anyway, right? Whatever the truth, I was the laughing stock of the entire school because of him. At least I would only have to deal with these jerks for one more day.
Tears flowed freely down my face, and my glasses kept slipping down my nose as I made my way across the football field toward home. I vowed to never let something like this happen to me again. No one would get close enough to inflict that kind of pain on me.
Ever.
* * * *
A couple of months ago…
“What do you mean, you have to cancel? The show is tonight!”
Musicians would be the death of me.
“I’m sorry, Evan, but our vocalist got into an accident two hours ago,” the drummer, Stan, from Vegan Meat said. “He’s in the hospital, and we don’t have a replacement.”
Shit.
I rubbed my face, trying not to touch my eyes since that would dislodge my contact lenses. I felt bad for them, but that didn’t solve my problem. “Does Chuck know? Or Laramie?”
“Not yet. I was gonna call ‘em next.”
Chuck Whistler and Laramie Treble, band members of the hugely successful Caesar’s Flame, had signed Vegan Meat to their new label, As You Are Records, last year.
“Let me do it.” I hung up and immediately called Chuck.
He answered right away. “Hey, you. What’s up?” Damn, that man’s voice always turned my insides to goo.
No wonder everyone swoons when he sings.
“The singer from Vegan Meat was in an accident. They’re supposed to play tonight in The Music Room. What the fuck am I going to do?”
“Crap.” He went silent for a few seconds, and then said, “Okay. I’ll fix this. Call you in a bit.”
Once he rang off, I flopped back in my chair. I hoped he could perform miracles because finding another act at this late stage, plus doing promotions and posters…not happening. This could be a disaster.
* * * *
“Vegan Meat will perform tonight as scheduled.”
I looked up to see Chuck standing in my doorway an hour later. I gaped at the man I lusted after like no other before him. “What? How?”
“I know all the songs, so I’ll fill in.” He sat on the edge of my desk and played with one of the Caesar’s Flame CD cases that had been on top of a stack of papers.
I was relieved, but, at the same time, I felt a little guilty. “You sure you want to do this? I mean, I appreciate it, but you’re supposed to be taking time off. You have tons of stuff to do and…”
He reached over and placed a finger against my mouth to shut me up. “Evan, it’s okay. I don’t mind. You know how much I love to sing, and I want Vegan Meat to have every chance of success.”
Chuck was the sweetest man. The fact that he was gorgeous and kind was a bonus. He was nothing like the jerks I’d dated in the past. Or Stellan Gretsch, even though the two men resembled each other greatly, with their hair and eye color, and build. Maybe I had a “type.”
I kissed his finger. “You saved my butt. Thank you.”
He winked at me. “My pleasure, always.”
And lately, I wished more and more that were true, in spite of my vow at eighteen to remain free of entanglements.