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ALLISON’S BEAT BEHIND him gained in hypnotic intensity. Bo grinned. “Dry Heat” was probably his best piece ever, building up and singeing the senses like a glass furnace would. Relentless, hot, dangerous. The repetitive lyrics built word by word, relaying images, impressions. It wasn’t about poetry or plot or anything abstract like that.
Just the elemental, enticing heat that blasted Bo every day.
And the crowd ate it up, bobbing in sync as though victims of a mind-control experiment. But he was part of it too, he was feeling it as much as they did.
A riff, a dissonant crash of the cymbals. Breaking glass.
A brief melodic line, notes chasing each other round and round. His punty spinning.
A languid keyboard interlude, almost soft, barely tangible. Hot glass dripping.
Harsh riff. Cut.
Crescendo of them all, rising, rising... Press.
Click, clack, take the lens away.
Repeat.
Jay flashed Bo a grin, a wordless communication of success and exultation as the lyrics faded, yielding to Ralph’s keyboards. Ralph, with his eyes closed, shining with sweat, like the sort of rapture Bo used to hear about in church.
He spun halfway. His eyes met Allison’s. She nodded, tireless and brilliant, pigtails swaying as her drumsticks caressed her set with just enough force, just enough love.
Bo lived for his weekend gigs. He scanned the crowd, pulsing, absorbed in the beat and the repeat of the dynamics, anticipating it, digging it.
A small space parted by his end of the stage, a flash of white in the middle.
Bo squinted his eyes into the floor lights. Somebody brought his or her best dance moves. If the dancer was good enough, the lights crew would shine a spotlight on her. Usually it was a slip of a girl. Guys tended to be more restrained, afraid of public humiliation. He knew the feeling all too well.
Sure enough, the spotlight drifted over and its bluish glow stabilized over a spinning figure. Not too tall, lithe, with his muscles balanced within a snazzy top. Bo saw dark hair and white skin, and... was that a flash of bare midriff?
He hit the cords with more intensity. Damn.
And he watched – never mind Jay and Ralph and Allison – he watched the graceful sweetness, the whirling dervish whose face was just a blur as his foot pointed high above his shoulders. A guy. Had the man no bones?
Probably a pro dancer, and too young by far. That made him out of Bo’s league, but damn if he didn’t enjoy the scenery.
“Dry Heat” came to an end with a painful, sudden stop, and only the crowd’s applause kept Bo’s tears at bay. Leaky eyelids were an occupational hazard of a musician who poured his heart and soul into his art. Or so he’d been told. There was no shame in it, he’d been lectured. Still... no sense looking like a crybaby wuss.
The spotlight didn’t move.
The dancer flexed his back, muscles flowing like water under skin-like fabric. He spun around to face him.
The air left the room. Bo gasped, drawn in by the sultry gaze of Eli Winkler.
––––––––
ELI PANTED, SMILING, facing the stage, fighting an urge to blink as that annoying spotlight remained on his face. He gave the whole band a little finger-wave. The girl on the drums, the sweaty dude on the keyboards, the guitarist – and Bo.
He lingered on Bo.
The music had been intoxicating, but this time, Eli knew it had nothing to do with funky little pills or cheap beer. That sense of feeling the music – the way it gripped him and shook him and made him move as though by its own volition – it was real. The tangible reality of it took him way back, to when he worked his glissades and plies and jumps. Back to when he’d had ambitions and dreams.
The skinny guy with the guitar waved at Bo, catching his attention. Few moments of silence, few deep breaths, and Saltpeter Fluxx broke into another hypnotic song that spurred Eli on as though he’d been wearing the fabled faerie dancing shoes.
Piece after a piece, some new and some already know to him, flowed by. Eli was drenched in sweat, tasting salt on his upper lip. He needed water. Strangers had come up to him, men and women both, and he’d spent a little bit of time with each, boosting egos and feeling virtuous by making them look good next to him. After each faceless dancer, however, Eli’s attention gravitated toward the stage again.
Bo.
He did wear his hot leather pants again, and a loose T-shirt with sleeves rolled all the way up to his shoulders. He wore his biker boots again. Eli remembered those boots, just a flash of memory of leather and pain and a flood of relief that came after.
He’d resolved to get over his embarrassment earlier tonight. It wasn’t easy. Not with Bo’s shoulders so wide and enticing, the bare skin of his arms showing a tattoo Eli had yet to make out.
And his passion. The passion that made his so good at what he did at work seemed everyday and trivial compared to whatever drove his music.
Just like last week, Eli felt each strum and each riff propagate through the air and fill his lungs, his head, his heart. The shock and vibrations slithered over his skin, caressing, arousing.
Eli shook his head as he spun a woman into a tight hold and tipped her backward. He didn’t know what to make of his reaction.
The set ended and the lights came on. He joined the crowd with a roar of applause as Bo and the rest of the musicians rested their instruments, waved, and slipped backstage. They must’ve been hot and tired. Eli hoped their fatigue was nothing compared to their exhilaration.
This was Eli’s chance, and he had come prepared. He made his way over to the bouncer and showed his bracelet. Few quiet words, a grin on the bouncer’s face, and Eli was outside the club and headed for his parked car.
The air smelled different out here, fresher and muddier, as though the river began to warm up just enough for the earth around it to open up and welcome spring. The forty degrees felt balmy and refreshing against his skin. Eli unlocked his Toyota and pulled out a small cooler.
He locked up again – a holdover from New Jersey – and hung a right around the corner. The wall faced a chain link fence ingrown with bare vines and few scraggly saplings. A security light flooded the back delivery door of the club, which was currently propped open with a brick. The band was outside, cooling off. The keyboard guy pulled on a cigarette, making its tip light up in the dark. A whisper of its acrid smell drifted to Eli’s nose.
Every crack and bump of the aging asphalt, every nuance. Eli felt it all though the soft, split soles of his dance sneakers as he pushed forward, step by hesitant step. Approaching Bo filled his stomach with butterflies. But hey, he was bringing the goods.
“Hi, guys.”
Allison and Bo turned toward him. He felt Bo’s gaze land heavy on him, like warm sand on the beach, and struggled not to shudder.
“Eli?” Bo’s incredulous voice drew him in. He took few more steps, scuffing the soles of his shoes, making gravel skitter through the silent night.
“I brought some drinks.” Eli forced himself to look at Bo. And why was it so much harder to look in his eyes now, than when Bo was absorbed in his music? “There’s enough for everyone. If you want to share.”
Bo’s eyebrows rose, and he got up from his folding chair and stretched his back up. Everyone was watching now, even the guitarist who was pulling on a roach, stinking up the air with the acrid smell of pot.
“Uh...” Bo eyed him uncertainly. “I don’t drink during shows, so...”
“But wait!” Eli set the cooler down. The ten feet that separated them were a distance he couldn’t force himself to span. He bent over instead and worked the white lid off, plastic scraping against the blue base. Why did he have to make so much noise?
“Here. I just thought... since at work... y’know...” Eli pulled out a bottle of blue Gatorade, satisfied as the half-molten ice made an unmistakable sucking sound, a testament to its refreshing coolness. “Since last weekend...”
“Oh.” Bo moved first. Step after step he neared, languid and cat-like, as though he hadn’t spent the week standing by a hot furnace. As though he hadn’t spent hours on stage, playing his heart out. He stopped on the other side of the cooler. Its ice was like a barrier between them, a wall Eli wanted to melt away. “How did you know?”
Eli shrugged and looked down as though he had to double-check the cooler’s contents. “From work. You never drink anything else, it’s either water or this. And being on stage is thirsty work.”
Bo gave him a measuring gaze. He just about bit his lip, and Eli could see the flood of questions that never made it out. “Thanks,” Bo said after enough nervous seconds ticked by. He took the bottle from Eli, popped its seal. He tipped it to his lips and gave a guttural sigh that zinged right to Eli’s balls.
“Uh... after last time, it’s the least I could do.” Eli hoped the heat on his face was all parts dance and no parts embarrassment. “I’m really... I can’t thank you enough.”
“You just did,” Bo said, and raised his eyebrows. “You were dancing up a storm. Won’t you have one, too?” He turned to the band. “Hey gang, anyone wants blue Gatorade?”
Allison, who had been watching them with interest, came over and helped herself to a bottle. “Thanks,” she said with a smile. “I doubt the guys want anything other than water or beer. It would break with tradition.”
Eli nodded, trying not to ogle. He hadn’t seen many women work the beat before. “I love to watch you play,” he offered a neutral compliment instead.
She nodded and sauntered over to the wall. In his peripheral vision, Eli picked her up doing yoga stretches and drinking the cold, sweet stuff that looked alarmingly like something used for washing windows. Most of his attention was glued to Bo.
“You can take this in, if you want,” he said. “For later.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to head back.” Bo glanced at the cooler. “Can I give it to you after the show?”
Eli noticed a halting uncertainty in Bo’s question, and his heart soared. “After the show is better than at work, sure,” he said. “Where do I meet you?”
“I’ll meet you out by the bar once we break down and put our gear away. Then I can buy you a drink, call it even.”
“Finally,” the guy who played keyboards crowed as he put his cigarette out against the wall. “You go, Bartowski!”
“Fuck off,” Bo tossed in his direction before he refocused on Eli. “Thanks. I, uh...”
“The stage calls your name, right after the bathroom, I know,” Eli said with a wistful smile. It’s been years since he’d had to worry about the logistics of taking care of himself during a performance.
Bo’s curious look felt like a caress. Eli shivered.
“Better go inside,” Bo said. “You’re cooling off.” He gestured toward the side door. “Come on, I’ll get you in so you don’t have to walk around.”
Eli floated forward. Gravity optional, reason on hold, he fell by Bo’s side. When Bo set his hand on the small of his back, steering him down the dark hallway, Eli fought hard not to lean into him.
“You’ll wait by the bar when we’re done?” Bo asked. “I wouldn’t want to drive off with your cooler.”
“Uh-huh.” The heat of Bo’s palm against the bare strip of flesh between his dance top and his jeans robbed Eli of speech.
I’ll be there.