Chapter 19 Bastian
BASTIAN
“The reverb in here is different,” Stone announces, head tilted like he’s listening to something only he can hear. “Must be the temperature change. We should adjust the—”
“If you touch one more setting,” Fox warns from his corner, “I will personally ensure your next drum solo involves nothing but a cowbell.”
The space feels smaller with all of us crammed in the small studio.
Stone at his kit, Fox perched on an amp with his bass, while Nikko balances his tablet on his knee as he scrolls through what looks like concert dates, probably for the Christmas Festival.
The only absence is Mik. They went back to Stillwater but promised to return for the festival once Kay is out of school for the holidays.
Sheet music litters every surface. I pick up my guitar and let muscle memory find the opening chords of the song we’ve been working on all morning.
“About the album timing. Daisy—” Nikko starts, but Stone cuts him off with a particularly aggressive cymbal hit.
“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, voice carrying the tone that means he’s prepared to die on this hill. “The last album felt forced. This one needs to breathe.”
He’s right. Every song we’ve written since our hiatus feels different, more grounded somehow.
Like we’re finally writing what we love instead of what we think people want to hear.
“I agree. Besides, we’re supposed to be on a break.
Even without a tour, an album still needs promoting, and I’m not ready to leave Vermont. ”
“Speaking of not leaving Vermont,” Stone says, rolling his sticks around his fingers. “Elm Street in town. What’s it like to live on?”
I know the question is directed at me because the only person who knows Winterberry better than I do is my brother, and he’s not here.
“It’s a good area. Quiet family homes. Why?”
He puts his stick down. “A house went up for sale there, and I think I’d like to buy it.”
Silence follows his words. To say I’m shocked is an understatement. Stone has always been a California guy, but I won’t lie. This is excellent news.
“That’s right next door to the hot vet,” Fox says casually.
I laugh. “How do you know?”
He shrugs. “Overheard someone talk about it at Noelle’s the other day. Word on the street is that pet adoptions are on the rise in Winterberry because of him.”
“That’s ridiculous and irresponsible,” Stone says, standing all of a sudden. “Pets aren’t toys. They’re a responsibility.”
“Maybe you should tell him.” Fox laughs.
We fall back into the practice, the music flowing beautifully because that’s what we do.
Twenty-five years of performing together means our bodies know the rhythms even when our minds are elsewhere.
My fingers find the right chords while my thoughts drift from calving schedules and winter preparations to documents waiting for my signature in Dad’s office to a certain orchard owner who still hasn’t answered my texts.
We play until the natural light starts to fade. Something is happening to us, individually and as a band. I can feel the change, even if I can’t exactly point out what it is. But it’s bigger than the biggest band in the country announcing an indefinite hiatus.
I retreat to the cabin after the guys leave, but it feels too quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional pop from logs settling in the woodstove.
Gouta has claimed her usual spot among the chicken brigade in the corner, all of them huddled together like conspirators plotting revolution.
The sight sparks something in my mind. An idea reckless enough to work, or at least force the confrontation I’ve been craving.
My phone sits dark and silent on the counter, offering no distraction from all the thoughts that seem determined to surface. Three days of unanswered texts mock me from its screen.
It started with me trying to draw him out to talk about what happened.
Bastian:
Can we talk?
We need to talk about it.
It doesn’t need to happen again.
Then I tried to appeal to his sense of responsibility.
Bastian:
About the festival setup…do you want to do the final fence inspection with me?
I don’t know what I’m doing with this. I need your expertise.
Do I need to buy flowers for the bees, or will they go hunt on their own?
Yesterday I moved on to unashamed desperation.
Bastian:
You’re going to have to talk to me at some point.
Taylen, please.
I scroll through timestamps, marking my increasing lack of dignity. But dignity seems less important than breaking this silence, than finding a way past the walls he’s rebuilt between us.
Gouta bleats her encouragement from her corner.
“If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”
My fingers hover over the phone screen, composing and deleting several versions before settling on:
Bastian:
Gouta’s missing. Can’t find her anywhere. Meet me at the lake by the oak tree?
I hit send before I can change my mind, then grab my heavy coat from its hook. Gouta watches with what looks suspiciously like amusement as I check my reflection, running my fingers through hair that refuses to behave. “Don’t give me that look,” I tell her. “Wish me luck.”
After spending most of the day indoors since completing the morning chores, the night air makes my lungs ache with each breath. I get in my truck and drive to the lake. We used to run there when we were kids, but as my joints remind me every morning, I’m no longer a kid.
The tree appears slowly through the darkness lit by the moonlight. This close to the water, the wind carries an extra bite, but I welcome the sting.
I pace near the shoreline while waiting, each step marked by the sound of ice cracking beneath my boots. The lake stretches dark and still beyond ancient oak, its surface reflecting the moon, which on a surprisingly clear night like tonight, makes everything brighter.
My breath creates steam clouds, and I breathe out my anxiety, each minute stretching longer than the last.
Headlights cut through the darkness, and anticipation turns to certainty. He’s coming. Whatever happens next, at least the silence will be broken. We’ll be face-to-face again, and close enough that I’ll be able to read what’s in his eyes.
I square my shoulders against the approaching confrontation. Time to see if my reckless plan leads to a resolution or just creates new complications.
Taylen jumps out as soon as the truck stops, the door slamming with a force that echoes across the lake.
“What happened? Where is she?” The questions come fast, concern making his voice rough. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.
“She’s…fine,” I admit, watching as realization dawns in his eyes. “She’s at the cabin with the girls. I just…needed to talk to you.”
The change in his expression would be fascinating if it weren’t so dangerous. Concern for Gouta turns into fury. “You manipulative bastard,” he spits, already turning back toward his truck.
“Wait.” My hand catches his arm, and I pull him closer. “Please. You won’t answer my calls, won’t reply to my messages. What choice did I have?”
“What do you want?” he asks, stepping aside and walking toward the oak tree.
“I want to know what happened the other night.”
He laughs. “Well, when a boy likes another boy, things happen,” he says, voice carrying an edge as sharp as winter wind. “No need to make it complicated.”
“So you do like me,” I say, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
“Not really.” His laugh holds no humor. “You were just there,” he shrugs.
The lie hangs between us, visible in the way his eyes drop to my mouth before snapping back up. I take another step forward, backing him toward the oak tree without touching. “Just there?” My voice drops lower. “Like I was just there in Burlington? Like I was just there in your living room?”
His back hits the rough bark, but he lifts his chin in defiance. “Exactly. Convenient. Available. Nothing more.”
My hands find his waist, and before he can dodge, my fingers slip beneath the layers of his clothes to find skin that burns against my cold touch. He tries to push away, but I follow, using my height advantage to crowd him against the tree.
“Liar,” I breathe against his ear, feeling a shiver run through him. “Your body gives you away every time. The way you lean into my touch, the sounds you make when I kiss you, how hard you get just from me being close…”
“Bastian.” My name comes out as a warning and a plea. His hands press against my chest, but don’t actually push. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I let my teeth graze his earlobe, drawing a gasp that sends heat straight to my core. “Don’t point out how much you want this? Don’t remind you how perfectly we fit together? Don’t—”
His mouth crashes into mine with a force that makes my head spin, anger and need mixing in a kiss that feels like we’re redrawing battle lines.
His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt as he takes control.
I let him, welcoming the pain, the passion, the proof that he wants this as much as I do.
The kiss turns deeper, hungrier, all pretense of resistance abandoned. My hands roam under his clothes, mapping territory I’ve memorized but can’t get enough of. His skin burns against my palms despite the cold, his muscles flexing as he arches into my touch.
When we break for air, his eyes are filled with desire and resignation. Before he can speak, I drop to my knees, my hands already working at his belt. His protest dies as I free him, replaced by a moan that travels across the frozen lake when I take his cock in my mouth.
I don’t give two shits about the stones digging into my knees or the snow seeping through my jeans. It’s completely worth it to hear the sounds he makes, to feel his fingers clenching in my hair, to taste him on my tongue.
I take my time, drawing it out until he’s practically sobbing my name with lust and raw honesty. I won’t stop until he can’t pretend this means nothing, until he can’t hide behind anger or sarcasm or distance.
When he comes, it’s with a force that makes him slam his head back against a tree trunk. I swallow everything he offers, keeping his cock in my mouth until the aftershocks fade. Only then do I pull away, looking up to find him watching me with half-lidded eyes.
I rise slowly, letting him feel every inch of contact as our bodies align. “Tell me you don’t live for this, Taylen.”
“Just because I like it,” he manages finally, his voice wrecked in a way that makes me want to drag him back to my cabin immediately, “doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I murmur against his mouth, tasting a hint of blood where he’s bitten his lip. “Maybe eventually one of us will believe it.”
He pushes me away with shaking hands, tucking himself back together. But I catch him watching me as he walks to his truck, his gaze carrying heat that promises this isn’t over.
The engine turns over with a familiar growl, and then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the snow, hard as a goddam rock but with the biggest smile.
I touch my lips, still feeling the ghost of his kiss.
The taste of him lingers on my tongue. Whatever he claims, whatever lies we tell ourselves, the truth lives in the way our bodies respond to each other.
In how perfectly we fit together, the sounds we draw from each other’s throats, and in the heat that builds whenever we’re close.
“You can run away, Taylen, but I’ll keep up with your pace until you realize we’re as inevitable as snow, calving season, and maple syrup in March.”