Never changed. Never once. Every damn morning it was a whole new world trying to reckon his place in it.
He knew this place was all kinds of fancy. You could smell money in the air.
Money in the air and amaretto on the pillowcase. Music he’d never heard before coming from another room.
The pretty dancer. Kyle. Right. He hunted a bathroom, brushed his teeth with his finger, and washed up. Then he got himself dressed and went hunting the sound of the music and the pretty man who had turned him inside out last night.
Following the music, the smooth male vocals, and the hot slow-dance rhythm, Kyle wasn’t hard to find. But he stopped dead in the doorway as Kyle spun by him, one turn after another all the way to the far end of the large, open room.
Kyle stopped to stretch next to a mirrored wall, one long leg coming right up alongside his ear, damp, dark hair plastered to his forehead. “Good morning, music man.”
“Mornin’, cher. You been workin’ hard.”
“Every day, baby.” Kyle came over, walking with a dancer’s bare feet in skintight, black shorts, ink, and nothing else. “Hi.” Kyle kissed him like it was what they did every morning. Simple. Affectionate.
“Hey. You taste sweet.” He approved. Kyle knew how to kiss a man, how to make it feel good.
“You taste like my toothpaste and beer.” Kyle winked at him and kept stretching as they talked—graceful, drawn-out movements with great, long extensions of arms or legs. “Are you hungry? You need to run? It’ll take you maybe half an hour to get to the studio.”
“They said nine.” He hadn’t even plugged his phone in last night, and he assumed it wasn’t too late. It was unnatural, this waking up and making music before noon.
“Yeah. I know Timmy is there at some ungodly hour every morning. And I can tell you the guy must never sleep, because he closes the bar with us often. I guess studio time is at a premium in the city. Timmy says morning is cheaper.” Kyle pulled a towel off the wall nearby. “You’ve got a little time. Let’s make you some breakfast.”
“Just coffee, cher. I ain’t ready for food, but thank you.” He was a pure coffee-until-supper kind, always had been.
Kyle gave him a playfully disapproving look. “Let me guess. No sugar or milk either?”
“Black, though I do love a café au lait, me.” Sweet and creamy like early morning sex.
“Hm.” Kyle led him back down the hall to the stairway they’d climbed together the night before. It was curved, the steps were wide, and it had a long, brightly polished railing leading down to a flat banister. Kyle perched on it and slid all the way down, landing gracefully after shooting off the end. “Coming?”
“Look at you!” He applauded and headed toward Kyle, walking down the stairs like a man that needed his hands and arms working so he could keep himself in french fries. “That was cool. You’re something else, ain’t you?”
Like this sparkly magic man. Like Baron Samedi, somehow.
“Thank you.” Kyle bowed neatly. “I hope so.”
He bowed back. “So do you dance for a company deal?”
He thought that was how it worked, right? In the ballet? They had companies that were like symphonies. He’d played with local symphonies before, when they needed a pinch hitter.
“I do, and I don’t.” Kyle pulled him into the kitchen and started making coffee. “I choreograph for a modern ballet company. I dance with them as well, and I sometimes dance on my own.”
“Yeah?” Fancy. That rocked his socks. He loved to see folks doing what they loved and not starving. “You like it? You must, huh?”
Kyle snorted. “Do you like playing guitar?”
“Not a bit. Dread it.” He grinned over, waggling his eyebrows.
“Yeah. I should have been a financial planner like my dad wanted me to be.” Kyle laughed. “It’s not about like, right? It’s… in here.” Kyle reached for him, as if trying to claw something out of his chest. “I’m not me without it.”
“True. I ain’t nothing but a vessel, and thank God for it.” He knew that like he knew his own name. Without music, he wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel.
“Listen to you.” Kyle brought him a mug of coffee and cupped his jaw in one hand, hazel eyes shifting between brown and green in the light. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“It’s the truth, cher. It ain’t no thing.” Lord, look at those pretty eyes. A mind could write a thousand songs about them.
Kyle’s look was hard to read, but the kiss that followed was easy enough to understand. “Is your coffee okay?”