Rocking Hard: Volume 1 Read online

  "Black bean dip." Jim pulled the fruit basket closer to one of the four large cutting boards on the kitchen island and began peeling and cutting apples, oranges, and mangos with frightening dexterity. It reminded Marty of the time Jim nearly talked him into taking up knife juggling before he'd come to his senses and pointed out that it was a dumb idea that could only end in horrible decapitations.

  "It's a good thing I'm here," Marty shook his head, "or we'd be eating french fried fingers."

  "No way," Jim said. "I've got tater tots in the freezer and some of the better restaurants on speed dial. We'd find something to eat."

  Marty swallowed the first words he wanted to say, which mainly consisted of "What a waste of money." He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't the same poverty stricken kid he used to be, never mind that he still regularly pinched pennies until they screamed. "Whatever. If you wanted to hire caterers, no one would blame you."

  "Yeah, but it wouldn't be a barbecue then, would it?" Jim scooped cut fruit into a large bowl and peeled open a container of what looked like yogurt. "I want to eat meat that's been burned with fire, and I want to be the one controlling the flames."

  "Isn't that one of your songs?" Marty quipped, and then had to duck an orange peel that plopped down on the counter next to him. "Well, excuse me."

  Jim laughed and mock-sang, "I want you to eat me-eat. I want to be the one controlling your flame. I want you to eat me-eat as I dance in your fire. Scorch me … come on, just scorch me, sear me down to the bone, make my flavor burst in your mouth. So why don't you just … eat me-eat!"

  "Ugh," Marty rolled his eyes, "that's terrible!"

  Jim shrugged. "Well, that's why I don't write the songs. I'm just a singer in a rock and roll band …"

  "Please, you're going to end up in jail for copyright infringement," Marty said, "and I promise not to visit you."

  Jim gave him puppy-dog eyes, which were kind of ruined by the wickedly sharp blade he held in his hand. "For serious? You won't even send me a file baked in a cake?"

  Marty stuck out his tongue. "I'll send you a nail file in a cupcake. You figure your own escape strategy from that."

  "You don't know me," Jim wagged a finger at him, "I could have been Harry Houdini in a previous life."

  "Yeah, but you're MC Hammer in this one." Marty went to the sink and washed his hands thoroughly just so he could ignore the way Jim had immediately started doing what looked like the Hammer Dance behind him. That wasn't the kind of horror he wanted to experience on a Saturday afternoon.

  It felt good to move around the kitchen with Jim, both of them having way too much fun. Jim would act on his goofy impulses, and Marty would tease him, and between the two of them they put together enough food to feed a small army. Though Jim insisted that Marty make his signature barbecue sauce, he was the one to set the steaks to marinating and skewered the strips of chicken on wooden sticks with a little too much bloody enthusiasm.

  And maybe their hands brushed a little when they passed the food between them and maybe Marty had to keep reminding his stupid body that they were just friends and that was all they were ever going to be. It wasn't like he hadn't thought before that Jim was the perfect guy for him. And just like always, he had to face the reality that they were just buddies and he wasn't going to get all queer-obsessed with his best guy friend.

  It was just really hard when Jim was right there being Jim: goofy, beautiful, funny, straight Jim. The guy Marty had been in love with since they were fifteen years old.

  *~*~*

  It was ridiculous how quickly the food seemed to prepare itself once Marty showed up. It was just like "Bam!" and they'd put together a great meal and the sense of completing some daunting chore was just gone.

  "Thanks," he said, drying his hands off on a kitchen towel.

  Marty quirked an eyebrow at him. "What do you mean?"

  Jim sighed and shook his head. "Why can't you just accept it when someone says thanks to you?" He tossed the towel to Marty, who began to wipe off his own wet hands. "Anyways, just thanks for coming over today and helping out. You didn't have to, but I appreciate it."

  There was a red tinge to Marty's cheeks and Jim caught sight of the blazing tips of his ears. They really were a little too big for the size of his head, which made Jim laugh. He couldn't resist reaching out and ruffling Marty's hair. Marty squawked indignantly, but didn't move away from Jim's hand, maybe even pressed against it a little.

  The doorbell sounded and Jim grabbed Marty by the forearm and tugged him along with him. Sometime while they walked through the house, his arm moved to encircle Marty. By the time he jerked the door open, they were standing side by side, his hand resting against the curve of Marty's shoulder and one whole side of his body pressing to Marty's like they were Siamese twins.

  "Hey guys," he called, then had to step away from Marty so he could bump fists with Brian and usher everyone inside. "Did you guys all come together?"

  "Why not?" Leonard asked, shoving a case of beer at him.

  Jim cradled the beer in his hands and led the way toward the sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard patio. "It just seems kind of weird, that's all. We spent so long together on tour, I would have thought you guys would be happy to get away from each other for a while."

  "Geez, you make me feel good," Dan said, then laughed. "Naw, this is the first time we've seen each other since we got to town. It's not like we've been hanging out without you."

  Leonard nodded toward Marty and gave him a slap on the shoulder. "Marty, dude, how the fuck have you been?"

  "Fucking awesome," Marty deadpanned.

  "I see you're still the same asshole I remember, that's good," Leonard grinned. "I've been catching up on episodes of your show. That shit is crazy, dude."

  "Oh, hey, this is Marty," Jim said, waving at him. "Marty, these are those other guys."

  Dan rolled his eyes, well used to Jim's not really all that funny sense of humor, but held a hand out toward Marty. "Dan Parsons, rhythm guitarist. And these guys are Brian Mitchell, Sergio, and Ned Keeley our road manager."

  "Nice to meet you all," Marty said, not even flicking an eye. "I listen to your music sometimes."

  "You better," Leonard said, bumping against Marty's shoulder. "If you said you didn’t listen to us, I would have to call you a liar. Because who doesn't listen to us?"

  "Ego much?" Marty slid open the patio door. "It's good to see you, though. I guess I kind of missed your ugly face."

  "Ugly face? Dude, I'm one of the better-looking drummers. I at least have all my teeth," Leonard said, showing them off in a crazy grin.

  "And all your arms," Marty shrugged, "so I guess that's a win."

  "Holy crap, he has the same sense of humor you do," Dan said, giving Jim a look of horror.

  "Where do you think he got it from?" Leonard asked, and then darted out onto the patio away from Marty's follow-up swing.

  Jim had hoped that his better friends would all get along, so he was pleased with the way things were turning out.

  The Blue-Eyed Suns had basically been his chosen family for years and Marty was his best friend, though some part of him had insisted on keeping them all separate. Maybe he'd been worried that his bandmates wouldn't like Marty, or maybe he'd been worried that Marty wouldn't like his bandmates. Either way, he'd largely subconsciously kept the two groups from meeting each other. Which made him feel ridiculous now, because they were all more than getting along.

  "Next time, this will be a pool party." He lounged on a lawn chair with one hand placed protectively over his full stomach. He'd eaten too much, but he just couldn't help himself.

  "That'll be awesome," Dan said, digging around in the cooler for another beer. "You tell me when, and I'll line up a bunch of girls in string bikinis."

  "Beautiful women only, please," Brian said. He was at the table of food again, eating more than anyone so skinny should possibly have been able to handle. He held a half-eaten skewer of grilled chicken in
one hand and was digging through the fruit salad with a spoon. "Not the skanks you usually come up with. I don't think Jim'll want to have to drain the pool to get rid of all the Hepatitis-C."

  "My girls aren't skanks!" Dan yelled. "They're beautiful women of worldly virtue."

  Sergio rolled one dark eye toward Marty who muffled his laugh with his hand. "Skanks."

  "That's usually the definition of the word skank," Marty agreed. He'd really struck it off with the largely silent drummer, probably because Marty loved to talk and Sergio liked to listen.

  With Dan sputtering indignantly in the background and music streaming out through the hidden speakers, Jim felt as though he could finally relax for the first time in years. That horrible sense of rush-rush-rush that had gradually overtaken him during his time on the road was finally releasing him from its hold and he knew that he had made the right decision.

  He turned his head to the left and let his eyes play over Marty where he lay on another lawn chair, this one folded completely flat. Marty's hair stood out like dandelion fluff around his head and he was snickering at something Leonard had said from where he perched on the end of the chair between Marty's shoes. Sergio was on Marty's other side, looking only a little strange in apricot colored shorts and a pale blue polo shirt, his heavy dreads caught up in a high tail on top of his head.

  Jim sighed and closed his eyes, content to just be in the now.

  After everyone left, Jim was just planning on calling in a cleaning service to handle the mess, so he was kind of but not really surprised to catch Marty with a large black garbage bag in one hand and a damp rag in the other. He wore such a serious expression that Jim just stood there for a long moment watching him pick up trash and wipe down the glass-topped table.

  "Well, aren't you going to help?" Marty put his fist on his hip, the rag curled between his fingers.

  "But I was having way too much fun watching you do all the work," Jim said, but immediately started gathering up beer bottles for the recycle bin.

  He carried the bottles inside, setting them down on the counter so he could rinse them later, then cranked up the volume on the music before he went back out.

  "Took you long enough," Marty said. "I thought you might have ducked out on me or something."

  "And leave you to clean up all this mess? No way." Jim pushed the three-quarter sleeves of his shirt up higher while he reached into the cooler to take the last of the beers out of the melted ice.

  "Nice tats," Marty said, showing up at his side to look down at them.

  Jim glanced at his tattoo covered arms as though seeing them for the first time. Bright colored rare flowers twined around cavorting mythical creatures—a griffin at the bend of his elbow, a centaur on the back of his arm, and a pan flute playing satyr poised above his wrist bone. "Thanks. I kind of felt like I had to get them to be as cool as the other guys."

  Marty shoved his shoulder. "Asshole."

  Jim grinned. "Hey, it's a rocker thing. Leonard pretty much forced me to get the first one, then after that it was over."

  "I didn't think you had all these the last time I saw you." Marty stared down at the tattoos and Jim obligingly held his arms up a little, turning them this way and that. "It's really good work."

  "We should get you a tattoo," Jim suggested.

  "Of what?"

  "I don't know," Jim said. "Maybe a dalek on your left butt cheek?"

  Marty made a disgusted growling sound that was only partly ruined by his laugh. "If that's the case, you need to get a unicorn tattoo to go with the rest of your mystical menagerie."

  "Mystical menagerie, really?" Jim shook his head. "You're such a nerd."

  "Takes one to know one," Marty taunted.

  "Probably," Jim said agreeably.

  They listened to the music play as the moon came up and bathed everything in a silvery glow. They picked up garbage and laughed and reminisced and it was one of those times in his life that Jim was sure he was never going to forget.

  It didn't seem odd at all that most of those times had had Marty in them.

  Falling into the usual routine. That was what Jim saw it as. It just seemed natural that he would do whatever crazy "fun" thing Marty suggested, and nine times out of ten he ended up having a great time.

  They were both decked out in hats and sunglasses. Like such skimpy disguises would really hide them from hardcore fans. But Jim just didn't have it in him to turn Marty away, not when Marty was so excited about the idea of going to the toy fair. Which is how he found himself in a crowded mall trying to hide his winces as some little girl squealed at the top of her lungs while she hung from the arms of a tired looking woman in awful shorts.

  "Look at this!" Marty tugged at his sleeve and pointed at a display of what looked like robots made out of watches.

  "Yeah, that's cool." Jim fought to keep the disinterest out of his voice. Usually he would have done a better job of it, but he was feeling kind of exposed amongst the masses of people. All it would take was one person recognizing him and they would have a hard time getting out of the mall safely. It was making him feel a bit paranoid.

  "Wow, can you be any more enthusiastic?" Marty didn't sound too upset and his eyes were flicking over the display tables with avid interest.

  "I'm just a little worried about being recognized," Jim said, low-voiced. He kept his cap pulled down over his face.

  "Your ego is gigantic," Marty teased, giving him a laughing-eyed look. "What do you think would happen if you got recognized?"

  "We'd be mobbed." It had happened before. And every time was just as frightening as the first one, with tons of warm bodies squeezing in close and hands picking at his clothes and skin while voices yelled at him, trying to catch his attention in a nerve-racking cacophony. It was the part of being famous that he hated the most, outweighed only by his love of singing.

  "We'll just have to be careful then," Marty said, leaning down to look at some kind of superhero action figure with grotesque muscles and a skull for a face. "That's really expensive." He hastily stood back up and moved to look at something else, almost comically put off by the price.

  Jim shook his head with a fond smile. Even after all these years, Marty was still the same guy, just older and better looking. Then he had to wonder where that thought had come from.

  "I'm hungry," he said, leaning against Marty's side.

  "So? What am I supposed to do about it?" Marty was already looking around though, and pointed toward a pretzel stand that seemed to be doing fast business. "What about a soft pretzel?"

  Jim licked his lips. "Sure. Do you want me to bring you one?"

  Marty gave him a look. "Did you really have to ask? Hell yeah."

  Jim shook his head, but wandered over to stand at the back of the line. No matter how fast the pretzel people were working, the line was kind of long.

  He kept his face averted from the people waiting with him and kept glancing toward Marty to make sure he didn't wander too far away. The last thing he wanted was to lose him in this crowd; he'd never be able to find him again.

  He watched Marty circling the longest display table, ducking in and out amongst the other people, occasionally reaching down to pick up this or that figurine. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved green tee shirt and he had a shopping bag hanging from his arm that he kept having to push out of the way whenever he wanted to examine something. He looked vaguely ridiculous with the cap pulled low on his head and the dark sunglasses and he was earning himself some weird looks that he didn't even notice, happy as he was in his own little world.

  Jim turned back around to face the pretzel cart, moving with the rest of the line ever forward. Just the thought of putting a soft warm pretzel in his stomach made his mouth want to water. He should have known to eat a larger breakfast when Marty told him where they were going, because there would be no dragging Marty away from all the shiny baubles and toys until he was completely satisfied.

  He tucked his hands in his pants pockets and slou
ched a little, looking at the jacket of the man in front of him. It had a million creases in the leather, like little mouths screaming out for help. He had to look away. His eye was caught by two teens kissing next to one of the big planters, just really going at it and not even caring that the world was watching.

  It made something clench hard in his stomach and he hurriedly focused back on his goal of the pretzel cart up ahead. He didn't need a reminder that he was single, had been single for a long while. It was just that every relationship he tried to have seemed empty and meaningless, and he'd just gotten tired of pretending. Groupie banging wasn't his thing. And he very rarely spent his time alone so his physical needs weren't an issue.

  He just needed something more in his life than empty sex.

  He turned his head to look for Marty, and it was like time tried to stand still. His brain was just about to realize what was going to happen, when the events stop-motioned ahead until it had already happened and there was nothing he could do.

  Five guys in mock-cosplay, one of them was wearing a pair of the Korlaax cat ears, a blaze of silver against his brown hair. They were just walking past where Marty was bent in the other direction—he seemed to be digging through some Army men—and he stood and turned at exactly the wrong moment. The expression on his face was exactly the same as the Korlaax life-sized cutout positioned in front of the Obscenely Obscure store window. Those fanboys recognized Marty with a single look and then Jim was watching as a crowd was gathering around Marty, voices raised in query.

  Jim silently cursed and stepped out of line. They would have to leave. There was no way they'd get any peace if they stayed.

  He wanted to grab Marty and go, but he knew he couldn't let himself be recognized, not with this many people already excited. He'd been mobbed before and it was never fun, but that was the level of fame he had. He couldn't walk down the street without being recognized, and he hated that oppressive feeling when everyone was closing in around him and he didn't have anybody to protect him.