18. Chapter 18
PRESENT
ONYX
I always thought as a rockstar that I was at the top of the coolness food chain. But rolling into town with a pack of noisy Harleys, with the Ink Slingers club logo on my brand-new leather biker jacket, my arms around Hero, I’ve never felt fucking cooler.
Jag revs his engine and Hero responds with a rev of his own.
The sound thunders through the bike, vibrating between my thighs, and I cling to Hero a little harder, just because I can.
A month has flown by in a blur of peaceful mornings and filthy nights.
Technically, I still have two months left before my original contract said I had to be back in Seattle for studio time, but Van’s voicemails have only gotten more insistent and anxious. I can’t keep avoiding this forever.
I made my decision a long damn time ago if I’m being honest with myself.
All that’s left is to make it official. For some reason, I feel like I need to tell Hero before I actually do anything though.
Not because I need his permission or anything stupid like that.
Maybe it just feels like the kind of thing you run by your partner first, and I want us to be partners like that.
The past four weeks here have shown me what it could be like to be in someone’s life, to cook dinner together and stay up late watching movies and talking about life. I want it. And I think Hero does too.
We roll to a stop in front of a coffee shop where there’s an LGBTQ open mic night.
Apparently Arrow’s partner, Lewis, knows the owner and he mentioned a few regulars grumbling when they saw the signups posted.
The guys offered to come and act as unofficial bouncers if anyone decides to show up and act like an asshole.
Bonus, we get to enjoy a few hours of queer music and poetry.
I climb off the back of Hero’s Harley a little more awkwardly than usual with my guitar strapped to my back. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to bring it in case I work up the courage to play something I wrote.
“Are you going to play something tonight?” Milo asks.
“Oh, maybe.” I fiddle with my guitar strap and give him a tight smile.
It feels a hell of a lot more daunting to show the world my soul this way instead of playing a song some label exec handed me and told me to learn before the end of the week.
But if I can’t play my own music at an open mic night, I won’t have any business telling Van I want a solo career without Black Sheep.
“If you do play, you’ll be the hit of the night,” Hero says encouragingly, kissing my temple and linking our fingers as we head into the coffee shop.
“Thank you.” I kiss the tip of his nose.
The lights inside are dim, with a portable spotlight set up to point to a small stage. The chairs and tables are all angled towards the stage, and there’s a small crowd already inside, chatting and drinking coffee while they wait for the open mic night to start.
“Do you want something to drink?” Hero nods towards the counter.
“Something decaf? I don’t want to be up all night.”
He gives me a lecherous grin. “Are you sure?”
I chuckle and playfully smack his chest. “I won’t need coffee to stay awake if I have sufficient motivation. So yeah, decaf.”
He gets in line, along with Piston and Arrow, while the rest of us grab a couple of tables near the back.
“I’ve only known my dad for about a year, but he seems a lot happier since you’ve been here. It’s nice to see him smile so much,” Milo says.
“He makes me happy too,” I admit with a dopey smile on my face. “How did that all happen, with you meeting him after so long and everything? If it’s too personal, just tell me to fuck off.”
He laughs. “No, it’s fine. I don’t know how much he told you, but he and my mom basically had a one-night stand when they were eighteen, and she never told him I existed.
She knew his name though, and she told me a little bit about him when I was young.
I thought about finding him on and off throughout the years, but it felt daunting, you know?
I guess I just got to the point where not knowing him was weighing on me more than the idea of just going for it.
So I looked him up and booked a tattoo appointment as an excuse to meet him. ”
“He was probably easy to find, at least, with a name like Hero.”
Milo blinks in confusion, then chuckles again. “Well, it was a little tricky since I had his real name and most of his social media is under Hero. But I managed to connect the dots and find him.”
His real name. Right. The reminder that he’s never bothered to tell me his real name sits like a rock in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s something he doesn’t tell anyone? After all, it’s been almost thirty years since he told Milo’s mom his real name.
“He almost doesn’t even need a nickname,” Lewis chimes in from Milo’s other side. “His name is so nice already.”
Ouch. Okay, even Arrow’s partner knows Hero’s real name. That stings like a slap in the face. I crane my neck to look over at him, still waiting to order our drinks, looking relaxed and carefree as usual with his hands in his pockets and a grin as he chats with Piston and Arrow.
“This is a motorcycle club, we have to have nicknames,” Jag argues, teasingly tugging on a strand of Lewis’s hair.
Lewis bats his hand away. “Your matching jackets are precious and all, but I don’t think that nicknames are a requirement.”
I’m starting to think Lewis and Jag just enjoy antagonizing each other.
I tune out their bickering and slump a little in my chair.
Am I a complete idiot? Is it possible that I’m making up a whole romantic fantasy in my head while Hero thinks this is nothing more than casual sex?
A couple of weeks ago at the farmers’ market, I told him there hadn’t been anyone else, but he didn’t say the same.
He didn’t really say anything. Fuck, now that I’m thinking about it, any time the topic of feelings comes up, he just awkwardly laughs them off.
“Decaf vanilla latte,” Hero says, setting my drink down in front of me.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and force a smile. “Thanks.”
He takes a seat next to me, swinging his arm over the back of my chair. I tug my lip ring between my teeth, words building up inside my head like an avalanche.
“Are you okay?” he asks with a frown, and I nod, unable to get my tongue to work to form any reassurances.
I pick up the latte and take a sip, letting the warmth of it loosen up the tightness in my throat.
I want to ask Hero what this is to him. I want to tell him that we can’t keep playing it safe and dancing around our feelings, because our wires are getting crossed somewhere.
But I’m not going to be that guy in the middle of a café with all of his friends here.
So I take another few sips, pull in a deep breath, and do my best to relax my smile into something in the neighborhood of normal.
I push my chair back and stand up.
“I’m going to see if I can still sign up for one of the slots tonight. I’ll be right back.”
Hero stares at me for a second, looking confused, then nods.
“Hell yeah,” he says encouragingly, patting my shoulder as I pass.
I’m going to be brave and perform my own music. And when we get back to the house later, I’ll be even more brave and finally lay all my cards on the table. I’m falling in love with Hero, and if he doesn’t feel the same, I’d rather know it now.
HERO
I feel like I must have missed something.
Onyx has barely said a word to me all night.
He’s hardly said a word to anyone. He claps and cheers for each of the performers, but everything I’ve said to him has only gotten one-word answers or tight smiles in reply.
Maybe he’s just nervous to perform on his own?
The host for the night tells us to give another round of applause for the poet who just left the stage, then calls Onyx’s name to go on next.
“You’ve got this, rockstar.” I shoot him a wink, and we all whistle and cheer as he makes his way up to the stage.
A murmur goes through the crowd, and I hear a few people asking each other if that’s who they think it is.
I rumble a laugh at the shy way Onyx ducks his head briefly, fiddling with his guitar strap and adjusting the microphone.
It’s amazing to watch in real time as he gathers up his confidence and transforms from a nervous dude at an open mic night to a rockstar, flashing a cocky smile to the crowd and shaking his hair out of his eyes.
“Thanks for having me. There’s a lot of incredible talent in here tonight. I’m going to perform a song I wrote myself for the first time in public, so please be gentle with me.” He flashes a cocky smile that earns him some more cheers and a couple of catcalls. “This one is called Milwaukee .”
He starts to strum, and I immediately recognize the chords.
They vibrate through my body and prickle over my skin as a mixture of nostalgia and pride and absolute awe rushes through me.
It’s the melody he played for me after the first time we hooked up.
There’s something even more satisfying about this than the tattoos I’ve etched all over his skin.
Whatever happens between us in the future, I’m imprinted inside of him too.
I’m on his skin, I’m in his music… this thing between us means something to him.
He might have written the chords while I fucked him, but the lyrics are something else.
They’re about fear and fate and taking chances.
This song isn’t anything like what he plays for Black Sheep, and his raspy voice is memorable all on its own.
I know he’s not always happy with his band, and honestly, he doesn’t need them.
He could have a solo career even more successful than what he has now. He could tour even more if he wants to.
Feelings war inside me. I’m so fucking impressed with him, and any part of me that was still holding on, resisting the pull to fall completely and stupidly in love with Onyx Hart, gives up.
But there’s also a sinking feeling—the realization that he’s not someone I’ll ever be able to keep all for myself.
Whether it’s a weekend or three months, he’ll always be leaving. Can I live with that?
His song ends and the crowd is silent for a second, like they’re all just as stunned as I am by his talent and his soul.
The cheers are deafening when they start.
Onyx hops down off the stage and hurries back over to our tables.
More praise follows him as the host wraps up the evening and everyone starts to get up to leave.
“Is it wrong to be slightly bummed that there weren’t any homophobic hecklers for us to toss out?” Milo asks.
Piston laughs. “Tell you what, next weekend we can go to a redneck bar and start some shit.”
“Deal,” Milo agrees eagerly.
“Ready to head home?” I ask Onyx.
He nods and we all head out and hop back on our bikes.
I’m glad that it’s impossible to hold a conversation on the Harley.
The fifteen-minute ride home will give me a chance to start sorting through the tangled feelings in my chest a little bit.
Except it turns out fifteen minutes isn’t nearly enough, and I’m still a knotted mess by the time we kick our shoes off.
Onyx picks Diva up and coos praise at her, and another pang hits me in the sternum.
I’m not even jealous that he convinced my cat to like him more than me.
I just hope she won’t blame me when he leaves.
“That song was amazing,” I say gruffly. “They should let you do lead vocals sometimes for Black Sheep.”
Onyx huffs a laugh and sets Diva back down. She scampers away with a flick of her tail, and the two of us wander into the living room.
“Actually…” He clears his throat and drags his fingers through his hair. “My agent has been blowing up my phone. I need to set up a meeting with him and—”
“You’re leaving early?” That heavy feeling in my chest gets even weightier.
He frowns. “I’m not leaving , I just need to go back to Seattle for a few days. But I wanted to talk to you first—”
“What’s to talk about?” I interrupt him again.
A little alarm sounds in the back of my head, warning me that I’m acting like a dickhead right now.
But I can’t seem to rein it in, not when every fear I have is being immediately proven right.
“You should go. Fall Crosse isn’t going to keep a rockstar entertained for three months straight. I knew that already.”
Onyx’s frown morphs into a scowl, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks pissed.
“What the hell is your problem? You’ve been trying to push me out the door since the minute I got here. Why are you so fucking convinced that there’s nothing here for me? You don’t even know me.”
His words are like a slap in the face.
“I’m not pushing, I’m being realistic. What the hell do I have to offer you? Even great sex can only keep someone around so long.”
He scoffs, tugging his lip ring between his teeth and glaring at me. “Right, I’m only here for your dick. That’s why I won’t even tell you my real name. Oh wait, that’s you, not me.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He shakes his head and his shoulders sag, the fight going out of him just as quickly as it sparked.
“Forget it. I really do need to deal with my agent though, so I think I’m going to see if I can get a flight out tomorrow. Let’s take a few days to cool off and get our thoughts together, and we can talk about shit when I come back.”
Is he really going to come back?
I replay everything we just shouted at each other. He thinks I don’t know him? He’s pissed he doesn’t know my name? But none of that got down to the root of what’s really bothering me. I don’t know if I can deal with only having him for a handful of hours a few times a year.
I guess he’s right. We both have some thinking to do.