“I wish you wouldn’t?—”
“Where are you from, Mr. Boudreaux? New Orleans, right? What do you want with our son?”
“I like how he cooks, and the way he dances makes me a little stupid.” Colt squeezed his fingers. “The sex ain’t bad either, to be honest.”
“Mmm. That’s true.” Kyle laughed and wiggled his fingers.
“Ugh! Honestly. We were trying to be kind by coming, but there seems to have been little point.” His mother swept out of the room, indignant.
Dad looked at him. “I don’t see what your sister sees in… you. This. What a waste of our time. And you.” His father turned that look at Colt. “Your kind has no business…. Don’t let me see you near my son again.”
“Or what, Dad?”
“You are this close, Kyle. Don’t tempt me.”
He would have argued further, but his father left the room just as abruptly.
“Huh. They ain’t real nice, cher. That’s a shame. I’m a good guy.”
Kyle looked at Colt a little wide-eyed at first, hurt and ashamed, but Colt didn’t seem to be blaming him. He just started to laugh. “You are.”
Colt cupped his cheek. “You were amazing. I couldn’t stop watching you. So proud.”
“Thank you, love. It felt good. I really like knowing you’re watching. And I love my roses.” He leaned in and kissed Colt. “I’m sorry about them. I’m not the least bit proud of them, and as far as they are concerned, I’m just disappointing. I’m not sure what Katie was thinking asking them to come.” He might just call her to find out.
“No worries. It ain’t no thing.”
Yeah, it was a thing. It just wasn’t a thing that had anything to do with Colt.
There was another knock at his door. He sighed.What now?He opened the door to find a handful of dancers standing there. “Coming out, Kyle? We’re headed to the Poet.”
“Um, maybe?” He looked back at Colt, grinning. “What do you think?”
“I think that I’m at your convenience, you beautiful son of a bitch.”
Someone in the group hooted.
He really couldn’t contain his smile; it felt as big as his whole face. “Well, then, we’re partying, music man.” He grabbed his jacket and Colt’s hand, and that was that.
The Purple Poet was a favorite among this crowd. It wasn’t touristy. It was close to the theater and always full of performers, music, and lots of like-minded locals. They headed there in a group of energetic dancers and techies high on opening-night adrenaline. Colt was right there, hand in his, thumb rubbing circles around and around. It made him tingle, made things just that much better.
They’d make this work. Colt might have to travel, and he could too at some point, but that was the life of an artist, right? It was about the work; it was who they were. Nobody else was going to understand it better.
“This is Colt?”
“Yep. Colt… this is Joey, Ali, Brian, and Allegra, who we call Tweak, and that’s not a drug reference. Then walking over, there is Rob, Mora, and… well, you met Danny. Jake and his stage crew are up ahead there.”
Joey stuck his hand out. “Kyle told me all about you the other day. Nice to have a face to go with the brilliant musician reputation.”
Colt shook, bowed dramatically. “Pleased, y’all.”
Kyle smiled as Colt was showered with a bunch of greetings and handshakes from everyone within earshot except for Danny—the brat—then they were all hustling and jostling one another through the narrow door to the Poet.
He pulled Colt right to the bar. “What are you drinking, baby?”
“Beer. Y’all got an Abita or a Shiner?”
The bartender shook his head, obviously picking up on the accent. “Nah, man. No Shiner, and not the Abita you want. I got a Big Easy IPA, same brewery; that do it for you? Or a Yuengling?”