The touch of Colt’s hand on his hip made him hum, made his hips roll.
“I listened to Robert Johnson this morning after you left. ‘Hellhound.’” He pushed Colt back into the pillows. “I like it. I was dancing, trying to work out the reasons it speaks to you.”
“You know the myth, eh? That he sold his soul for the music?”
“No. Really? Tell me the story?”
“Robert Johnson went to the crossroads with his guitar, and he met the Devil there, a big old bastard, black as pitch and three times as sticky. The Devil tuned up for him, played a couple three songs, and when the last note disappeared from the earth, Robert sold his soul for the blues.”
Oh, he could choreograph that story. “So Johnson’s playing the blues for the Devil now?”
“Don’t no one know, but if he comes to me in the dark, I’ll hide my head and sing.”
“Does that make him go away or just make you feel better?” To Kyle, these were children’s stories, things you told each other at sleepovers to scare your friends. The Devil wasn’t anything more than a spook to him. But Colt sounded so serious. It was strange and fascinating.
Colt gave him a serious look. “I ’spose that depends on what you’re askin’. The Devil comes in all sorts of clothes and lies, and he’s made of music. The question is, is your soul safe or your body? Your body ain’t hardly ever safe, because Lucifer can take hold of that, but your soul? That you got to give.”
He watched Colt for a bit, thinking about the things he’d sell his soul for, wondering who he’d give it to. “Would you sell yours for what Johnson had?”
“I got the blues. I pray that if they told me they’d take my hands unless I give my soul, I’d say no and trust that I would learn to play with my feet.” Colt sounded so… sure. Like this was something he thought about, worried on.
He stroked Colt’s cheek, soothing him.
“I can’t say I pray, but I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t dance. I promise you I know that feeling.” The idea terrified him, in fact. “Gives me nightmares if I think too hard about it.”
“Yeah. It eats the whole world, the need to do this thing we do.” Colt leaned into him, resting hard. “And that ain’t bad.”
He pulled Colt close, let him lean. He took some comfort in Colt’s heavy presence. “No, baby. It’s not bad at all.”
5
By Fridaynight, Colt had put in seventy-five studio hours, spent two long nights making love with Kyle, and was feeling like an empty glove.
One that had been filled with chicory and shook hard.
He waved Timmy off about putting the guitar away. “Nah. I might have need of it. You still renting a room, Timmy?”
“Totally still renting, dude. Lost my roomie to a Texan. You wanna check it out?” Timmy got the last of the cables dressed.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. I got to make a call about supper around eight and how to get there.” And did he need to bring a toothbrush and all?
“Kyle?” Timmy played it off, casual.
“Yeah. I like him. A lot. We’re cooking.” Although they hadn’t shopped. Were they cooking tonight? He thought so.
“Oh yeah? He’s a fan-tas-tic cook. He’s a good guy too. You see him dance yet?”
“Not officially. I seen him practice and on the phone. He’s magic.” Watching Kyle move stole his breath clean away. One day he wanted to pick and let Kyle dance, jam together.
“He’s something else.” Timmy pulled out his keys. “You want to see the room? Make your call on the way?”
“Surely do.” He grabbed his phone and dialed. Timmy led him out of the building, locking up the studio and the big safe on the way.
“Hey there.” Kyle sounded warm, pleased to hear from him. “You all done?”
“I am. Been a lot of work. I’m fixin’ to go see the room to rent, and then I’ll head your way, if I can figure out how to find you again.” He’d manage, he was sure, but he felt a little like he’d been called up from the dead.
“Wow. You sound tired, baby. Take an Uber. Timmy can call one for you.”