Ace is the lone straight guy in an otherwise all gay band, Cum Buckets. Ever since he joined them, he’s mourned for his lost girlfriend, Chloe. She’d given him his guitar, but when someone steals it, he finds himself unable to play.
Then there’s fellow band member Tilt, who is weighing on his mind–and his heart. As Ace learns to love again, he searches for his lost guitar and finds that what he’s searching for may be a bit closer to home.
Be Warned: m/m sex
“Lucky guy.” Tilt peered over his shoulder, just as Buddha began to snore. “You’re the one with someone in your bed.”
“I’d rather have a bed full of fire ants,” he muttered, contemplating taking some aspirin to help with his head. “Looks like I’m sleeping on the couch.” Suddenly, alcohol sounded a hell of a lot better than a pill. “You want a drink?”
“Dude, before you do that, do you want to run to the ER?” Tilt asked. “You did get knocked on the head pretty hard.”
“And leave this guy alone?” Though he wasn’t sure Buddha was a thief, he thought he might do something weird, like try on all his underpants. “No thanks.”
He made it over to his small wooden bar decorated with decorative tiles. Taking a deep breath, he poured himself a glass of his favorite scotch, then offered a glass to Tilt. His thoughts still on the guitar, he headed over to the couch and sunk down on the well-used navy cushions. His thoughts returned to when Chloe had given him the guitar, the one that had been with him so many years. Though Tilt wasn’t always the best at sensing emotions, he couldn’t ignore this. After a gulp of the scotch, Tilt sat by him, their knees brushing.
“Dude, are you feeling sick?” Tilt asked.
Ace shook his head.
“Then I can help you get that weird dude out of your bed, if that’s what’s up.” Damn, he hadn’t realized how little he’d told his friends about his life, about his escape from Georgia and his pastor father who thought his kind of music was from the Devil. Tilt didn’t know about the guitar, didn’t know about anything. Am I willing to share it with him? he wondered.
He was unsure. But if not now, maybe he’d never have the courage to try.
“The asshole stole my guitar.” His Goddamn precious guitar. If he wasn’t a part of a popular band, he doubted it was even sellable.
For a moment Tilt sat back on the couch, assessing him. His dark hair fell in tendrils across his pale face, and his thick, pale eyelashes fluttered as their eyes met. Freckles dotted Tilt’s nose, which the other man hated. Finally, Tilt spoke. “It’s a pretty old guitar, isn’t it? Maybe it’s time to buy a new one.”
“It was a gift from someone important.” Fighting down the burning anger at himself at the thought of the car accident, he swallowed another drink. “I will never get a chance to see her again. The guitar is special.”
Some would have laughed at him for still hanging onto the guitar, but Tilt’s eyes filled with understanding. Now with any luck he wouldn’t run around telling every Tom, Dick, and Jerry. He licked his lips, tasting the alcohol on his skin, but he set his glass on the table, finished. Tilt leaned forward, fingers brushing across his wrist before he touched his hand. The two of them were best friends, but they didn’t hang all over each other like some might. Still the warm brush of hands was welcomed.
“Then we’ll find it,” Tilt said, hand returning to his lap. “Even if I have to rub Buddha’s belly.”
“Let’s not go that far,” he said, wincing.
