9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Bronx’s mind was spinning from all the information Cavalari had given to him.
He was pretty sure that was the longest, fairly civil conversation they’d ever had together but it hadn’t really resolved their differences.
In fact, their chat had only served to create new questions that Bronx wanted to have answered.
There was still the other elephant in the room to discuss as well, but Bronx wasn’t ready to talk about that now.
All these years later and he was still processing the anger from that situation, so it was definitely a topic they’d need to talk about eventually.
He wouldn’t hit Cavalari with that conversation today but maybe in the days to come while they were riding in this moving tin can.
His fingertips skimmed over the spot on the side of his head, a few inches above his ear where he hit his head.
The bump forming under his hair was throbbing something fierce and his ears were still ringing.
He wondered if he might have a slight concussion.
The rug rash on the side of his face stung a bit but was nothing compared to the spot on his head that encountered the pole.
The shrill sound he was hearing in his ears had a high- pitched frequency—much like fingernails being dragged down a chalk board.
Their lame wrestling match was nothing more than false bravado, with both of them deliberately going out of their way not to hurt the other.
Thinking back, their encounter merely gave them an opportunity to grind against each other, and fuckkk, the way Cavalari felt lying on top of him was enough to make him see the twinkling of faraway galaxies in his head.
Unless the stars he saw came strictly from the hit to his head?
Bronx preferred to think of it as purely a chemical reaction they shared when in close proximity—more than a physical one.
Out of the vast sea of willing men on this planet, why did he have to have this kind of combustible heat with fucking Cavalari?
Maybe this was his punishment for causing Cavalari to lose his job?
Bronx had no idea how to make amends for something like that, nor could he make excuses for his behavior.
He was an idiot and a drunk—a recovering drunk, but in no way would he use that for an excuse for any of the harm he’d caused someone.
There was only one plus that came out of their roll-around on the floor.
Cavalari had popped a steel pipe in his pants—for him.
Hmm, how very telling that was. At least neither of them could deny there was a mutual attraction between them.
Was Cavalari’s hard-on sending Bronx a subliminal message by tapping out Morse Code behind his pants?
Or maybe the boner didn’t mean anything at all.
It could be just as Cavalari said, their reaction was due to physics and glorious friction.
Bullshit.
Feeling that piece of solid wood rubbing against Bronx was hot as hell and it was a detail he’d likely use as spank-bank material for a long time to come.
If he hadn’t been so shocked by what was happening, he might have ground against that monster appendage until they’d both gotten off.
Oh, the fun they could have but Bronx sensed Cavalari wouldn’t have been interested.
There was also the fact that Bronx didn’t like Cavalari.
But his walls were softening now that he knew more about what Cavalari had gone through and his anger was abating—slowly.
Not to mention, there was still the detail of Cavalari’s sexuality to figure out.
Just because Cavalari became hard from wrestling against Bronx didn’t mean he was gay, bi, or even a little bit curious about him or any other dude.
And Bronx didn’t purposefully mess around with straight guys or men trying to figure out their sexuality because it never ended well.
Bronx stretched out on the bed and rolled onto his side.
A few minutes later his eyes closed and he managed to sleep for a while before he felt the bus come to a stop.
He peeked out the window blinds near his bed and saw the sign for the radio station where he was being interviewed today.
A glance at the bedside alarm clock told him they were almost two hours early for the appointment and that gave him time eat something, shower, and change before they went inside the building.
He stepped into the master bathroom and looked in the mirror above the sink.
He had no idea how he’d be able to hide the rug rash on his face and the short hair he had now didn’t come close to concealing it.
He started the shower water and stripped off his clothing, leaving it on the floor.
The bedroom wasn’t that big, with a king-sized bed taking up most of the space.
There were few built-in wall storage units, a chair, and a flat-screen television was attached to one wall.
The bathroom was small but functional and for the most part, the bedroom cabin was comfortable, decorated in deep purple and black leather accents.
The back wall behind the headboard of the bed was lined with bookshelves and a small cabinet that contained enough condoms and lube to fuck an entire Naval fleet, but Bronx had never taken anyone to bed on a tour bus.
It might be okay for a quick blowjob on the living room couch but he preferred the privacy of a hotel room for screwing, in case his partners turned out to be screamers.
Bronx wasn’t into interior decorating but he liked the deeper tones they came up with for this bedroom.
The heavy colors also helped to darken the room for sleeping during the day which was always a gift when touring.
The bunks built into the walls toward the front of the bus were painted in the same rich color for the same reason.
He finished his shower and shaved using a special attachment on his beard trimmer that gave him the perpetual look of a five o’clock shadow, then he pulled on a clean pair of faded jeans with a hole in one knee and another rip across a thigh and slipped an old vintage rock concert t-shirt over his head.
He pushed his feet into black boots and was ready to get this interview over with.
Bronx wasn’t nervous in the least. He’d done far too many interviews over the years to register any level of anxiety at this point.
The only detail he was marginally concerned about was inadvertently saying something that would piss off Dagger.
It wasn’t like he’d had any prep about this one—or any of the others that were planned for this trip east. At one point, Dagger had mentioned a liaison of some sort who was supposed to help Bronx get through all these media events but so far no one had been brought to his attention.
A knock on the bedroom door pulled Bronx out of his thoughts. He ran his fingers through his damp, short hair and said, “What’s up?”
“Your liaison for the interview is here,” Cavalari stated.
“It’s about damn time,” Bronx grumbled and opened up the bedroom door.
“What the hell did you do to your face?” a nerdy looking guy asked Bronx.
“I walked into a door,” Bronx said flippantly.
“Doors don’t do that kind of damage,” the man said, “but I’ll see what they have for makeup in the studio. It’s interesting that your guard has similar discoloration on his face and a couple of minor cuts, as well. Jesus, did you two have a fist fight?”
Apparently, the man was a fucking rocket scientist, Bronx thought and rolled his eyes. “We both walked into the same door, now what can I do for you?”
The man straightened and extended his hand to Bronx. “I’m David Speen,” he said. “I’m your liaison for the media events. I just sent you the questions for today’s interview. We can take a few minutes to review them before we head inside and get you hooked up to their audio equipment.”
Bronx motioned to David to take a seat on the couch while he stepped into the kitchen area and removed a frozen breakfast sandwich from the freezer and popped it into the microwave to heat.
He noticed Cavalari must have already made a pot of coffee and poured himself a big mug of it and took his meal back to one of the swivel chairs adjacent to David.
Cavalari, as usual, stood vigil just outside the bus by the side door.
“Would you like coffee or something to eat?” Bronx asked.
“No, thank you. I already ate,” David mentioned as he scanned through notes he had written on a clipboard. “Be sure to bring your guitar inside with you. I’m assuming you have one or two on the bus,” David directed. “The radio station may want you to play something after the interview.”
“I’m the bass player,” Bronx informed, as if the man was stupid and didn’t already know that. “Do they really want me to play my bass lines for them?”
“Well, I’m sure you know the other parts your band members play,” David said, somewhat annoyed. “You can play an acoustic version of the lead parts for any song you choose. How’s that?”
“Is the radio station aware I’m here by myself?” Bronx asked.
“Yes, I’ve brought everyone up to speed and they’re fine with it,” David replied. “You don’t typically have a lot to say during interviews when all the members are present, so think of this as your opportunity to shine.”
“I’ve never felt a need to talk when my voice isn’t essential to a conversation,” Bronx explained. “The others add plenty of hot air to interviews, so I save my breath for when it matters.”
“Very well, although I do hope today you’re feeling . . . chatty,” David said.
Bronx bit into his egg, cheese, and bacon sandwich and washed it down with a couple of gulps of black coffee.
The coffee was hotter than he expected but the burn of the liquid going down his throat felt nice.
He set the mug onto the coffee table in front of the couch and his phone pinged with a new message.