Chapter One
November 13, 2019
10:53 PM Las Ramblas, Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain
All crowds were not created equal, nor did they evoke the same sensations.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with thousands of music fans at the rail on a rainy day in Nuremburg at Rock am Ring after playing a wild set with my band, MoonCraft, was one of my favorite experiences.
Standing back to front on Las Ramblas in Barcelona, with hundreds of protestors shouting in Catalan their desire for independence from Spain and justice for the separatists while police barricaded the side streets, not allowing anyone in or out of the protest, getting shoved and stepped on in the sweltering late-summer heat, wasn’t likely to rank in my top ten of anything other than terrifying.
“Por favor. Soy americano,” I shouted to one of the officers dressed in riot gear. “No quiero estar aqui.” I thought that was the right way to tell him I didn’t belong anywhere near this damn protest. I just wanted to get to a bar and lose my worries in a bottle of something strong enough to wash away the stench of what my life had become in the last two weeks since we’d come to Catalonia.
The cop pushed me back into the crowd of protestors who were waving yellow flags with red stripes and a blue triangle with a white star and into…
A frowning Spaniard with short, curly hair, long sideburns, a hard body, and a deep chin dimple covered in dark stubble.
“Cuidado.”
“Lo siento,” I said before another wave in the crowd pushed me into him again. I lost my balance and was about to go down when he caught me under the arm.
“Ves amb compte.”
“I’m sorry.”
My English must have startled him because he pulled me back in close and his eyes widened in surprise.
“You’re the American.”
Not an American, but the American? And he wasn’t asking. When I kept gaping like a fish out of water, he adjusted his grip and yanked me forward, somehow making the crowd part for us. I tripped more than once as he dragged me through the chanting crowd that was yelling “independencia,” and I ended up draped over his back as he dragged me toward the barricades on the far side of the corridor. He said something to the cop, who moved aside just enough for my savior to slip through with me in tow.
“Where are we…” I started to ask when he stopped to punch in a code in an alcove of a building a block or so off of Las Ramblas.
“You’ll be safe inside.”
“Thanks, but I was just trying to get to a bar—”
“I have drinks upstairs.”
He led me up three flights and down a dark hallway to an apartment door. Another keypad dealt with and he opened the door, moving inside quietly and disappearing into the darkness.
Should I follow? The last time I’d followed a stranger into a dark, unfamiliar apartment… Okay I’d never done this before. You’d think as a musician who’d been touring the world with his band for the past four years, I’d have had wild, adventurous experiences like that. If you did, well, you’d be sorely disappointed.
“Ven aquí, guiri.”
“Excuse me?” I asked. “What did you call me?”
I walked down the entry hallway into the apartment and into the dimly lit living room with sparse furniture and no decor to speak of. Not even a wall calendar or a plant.
The man stood in front of a large window, which overlooked the chaos we were just in. The lights from police vehicles bounced off the bare walls, giving a red hue to the place.
“¿Hablas inglés?”
“Yes, I do, better than you speak Spanish.” His words were soft though, so I didn’t take offense.
“Thank you for getting me out of there,” I said, looking down into the crowd. It was much denser than I’d thought and went on as far as I could see. “I shouldn’t impose.”
“You’re Randall, right? From that band MoonCraft?”
That was the last thing I thought he’d say. “I was. We broke up. Now I’m just Randall.”
“Why break up? You were good.”
“Have you seen us?”
He nodded. “I have. At Sala Razzmatazz. It was a good show.” He opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. “I loved the cover you did of that Mike Patton song, ‘Deep Down.’ Wasn’t expecting that.” He handed me a glass and when I paused, he gestured to it. “I said I had drinks. You look like you could use one.”
“Thanks.” I accepted the glass and pushed all thoughts of stranger danger out of my head. “Yeah that Mike Patton stuff is a vibe.” And super niche. How did this guy know the album Mondo Cane?
He nodded once and turned his gaze back to the street below the window. There was surprisingly little noise from the protest inside his apartment, and though it had been a sultry night outside, it was cool, probably due to the ceiling fans.
“It is lucky I saw you. You could have been arrested. Being American might have made things difficult for you.”
“Losing my passport would do that too.” I finished my wine and without missing a beat, he refilled it.
“How did you manage that?”
“The same reason my band broke up. We got robbed two weeks ago, right after that show that you saw. All of our gear? Gone. Most of my personal stuff gone. That was the last straw. We were on our last few Euros we’d budgeted for the tour and couldn’t play the rest of the gigs we’d booked without buying all new instruments and equipment, so the guys decided to bail. I’ve been sitting around my hotel waiting for my appointment at the embassy, trying to figure out my next move. It was not my plan to get involved with a protest, I was just looking for a bar to spend my last night in Spain, potentially, before my appointment tomorrow. Then I can go home, not that I’m looking forward to that.”
Last sip. He refilled. I didn’t know why I was unloading my tale of woe on him, but he was the first person I’d spoken to in a couple of days and he carried himself like someone who…cared. I still wasn’t sure why he’d brought me to his home, though. No red flags had jumped out, but I was still a bit…confused.
“I suppose I was in the right place at the right time, then. Can’t have you being detained. Though it’s too bad you’re leaving.”
I was halfway through my third glass of what was exceptional wine when his words struck me. “Why’s that?” It almost sounded like he was flirting?
He moved my way with the bottle, filling my glass before I could finish.
He shrugged. “Seems a shame for you to leave España on a low note.”
For the first time, he made prolonged eye contact with me, and while I wouldn’t call it a smile, there was definitely humor in the curve of his lips, his dark red lips that cut dramatically into his olive skin. His short, dark brown, curly hair was lightly sprinkled with gray, making it tough to tell how old he was. Maybe he was prematurely gray? But I felt like, the way he carried himself, he was older than my twenty-seven years old. But not like old old.
The weight of the past two weeks seemed to dissipate as I looked at this incredible specimen of Spanish finery. He wasn’t much taller than me, maybe 5’10”, but the way he filled a pair of jeans made me want to weep, and when I’d been draped over his back, I’d felt his powerful grip, his exceptionally large deltoids, and he hadn’t faltered under my weight, which wasn’t insubstantial.
I’d been told I had a pretty face, pretty hair, and a stunning voice, but I certainly wasn’t built like most rangy, lanky singers in rock bands. My DNA meant no matter what I tried, I always carried extra padding around the middle and my ass really didn’t quit. It hadn’t mattered to me much until MoonCraft fell prey to the number two band killer: number one is feuding siblings; number two is members getting romantic. In a moment of weakness, I blurted out my feelings for my guitar player, Rig, and two years into our tenure, I fell into his bed.
Such a cliché, hoping to make harmony with a bandmate. I should have known better. It wasn’t like MoonCraft was my first band. Our affair didn’t last long before he’d moved on, leaving me to pretend everything was okay. Now Rig and our drummer, Halo, were together together and headed back to the U.S., most likely making plans for a new band without me.
Four years I’d invested in them. I’d told myself that if I could manage to keep us focused, this could be the project that launched my career into the stratosphere. Perhaps band killer rule three should be European club tour.
“What do you suggest I do?” It must have been the wine, or maybe he was responding to my downtrodden forlorn look, but as he gazed back at me intently, I thought, It sure would be nice to not be alone tonight.
He took my glass and set it down, then tugged gently on the lapel of my cardigan, frowning at a small hole in the seam where the shoulder met the sleeve. Yeah, I looked exactly as if I’d seen better days. “You could use a little comfort tonight, no? Save your worries for tomorrow?”
“You make it a habit of rescuing American musicians from trouble?”
“Most certainly not.” His voice had a breathy tone, and it was higher-pitched than I would have thought by the way he got us out of a sticky situation. “I definitely don’t make it a habit of kissing American musicians in trouble, but sometimes…”
“You make an exception?”
“Sí. Do you make a habit of needing rescue?”
“Not really? But I appreciate what you did tonight.” I stepped closer to him, prompting him to put a hand on my waist, which, whatever, if this was going to happen he’d likely get a glimpse of what I didn’t have going on. I might have winced though.
He gripped me a little tighter and his expression turned serious.
“You’re safe here. That protest and the aftermath will likely go on for hours. You’re welcome to stay, no expectations.”
“But possibilities?”
He smiled then, and there was a mischievous glint in his soulful brown eyes.
“Endless.”
I closed the distance between us, feeling the heat coming off of his hard chest under his tight t-shirt as our bodies came in contact. I relaxed for the first time in two weeks, and man, was it nice. People don’t realize how much the lack of human contact and physical touch can really impact a person. Weigh them down or eliminate all ties they have until they blow away in the breeze.
He slid his hand around to my lower back and his fingers slipped under the waistband of my jeans.
“Then let’s commence exploration.”
His lips were the balm I needed, his tentative kisses soothing my soul from the losses I’d experienced, reminding me that there was still good in this world, still people willing to help out when you were in a rough patch, and right then, I was raw.
I also realized I wasn’t thinking straight. Wasn’t this how Americans went missing? I knew nothing about this guy, no one knew where I was. I still had a manager after this whole debacle, but she was back in the States and we weren’t, like, besties or anything. I didn’t talk to my family as they abhorred my career decisions. The only person back home who gave a damn about me was my former teacher, Mrs. Cecilia Galván. Perhaps it was time to reach out to her.
Well…tomorrow.
“Listen, Randall,” he said, taking a strand of my long, curly hair, and winding it around his finger. “I can make up the sofa for you if you just want to rest—”
“And if I don’t?” I ran my hands up his chest, balling the material of his t-shirt in my fists.
He tilted his head to the side and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “If you are sure, then I suggest we take this to bed.”
His words unlocked a desire within me that hadn’t seen the light of day for…a long time. He was direct, only slightly breathy in a way that let me know he was into this as much as I was, but he wasn’t overtly flirtatious or attempting to seduce. He was a man on a mission, no time for superfluous chat. I liked it.
“Lead the way.”
The next few minutes held a series of questions:
“Lights on or off?”
“Off,” I said, wanting to experience this through my other four senses. Sight could be deceiving, and sometimes judgmental. And seeing when your partner was judging you was not a pleasant experience.
He must have had blackout curtains, though, because it was pitch black. Not even a digital clock. The only visible light came from his phone display, which he held in his hand.
“Music on or off?”
“On, please,” I answered, wishing to hear what music he thought was perfect for sex. I didn’t just make music for a living, but I experienced it holistically in all aspects of my life. Since he’d already mentioned Mike Patton, I wasn’t surprised to hear another album he was featured on, Lovage: Music to Make Love to Your Old Lady By, playing through a speaker somewhere.
“Clothes?”
“Off.”
“Mmm, excellent choice.”
Once our clothes were removed and we fell into his bed, his hands were already exploring. Mine, too, and I’d been so right about the body beneath those clothes. The guy obviously made fitness a priority. I hoped he wasn’t disappointed.
“Oral or no?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied as he worked his way down my chest, his light stubble igniting my skin inch by inch until I was a quivering mess of want.
He held himself in a plank position, at least that’s what it seemed like in the darkness, and the occasional grazing of skin against skin had me trembling. When he finally reached my straining erection, he didn’t hesitate, just silently got to work. Enthusiastically got to work, making me shudder, and I praised him over and over. With everything that had gone wrong lately, having something go so right—
“Top or bottom?”
“Side, actually.”
He moved back up my body and spoke close to my ear. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar—”
“Everything but…uh, that. Don’t mind a little ass play, but no dick, yeah?”
“I hadn’t heard that way of describing it before. I like it.”
“I like this,” I said, reaching for his cock, finally getting a moan from him. He was so quiet, I had to go by his pounding heart and his panting to know that he was feeling this too.
“I like this also.” His accent was a little thicker, and his breathing sped up even more as I stroked him. He stopped moving for a moment, and I heard him fumble with a drawer next to the bed. I heard the click of a cap and then I felt cool liquid slide over my fingers. I chuckled.
“I like this better.”
Then his slick hand was on my cock and we were moving together, mutual satisfaction on the menu. I was completely overwhelmed with stimuli; the music, his breath, the feel of his skin and the soft hair on his torso, the lube now warmed in our hands, the friction, his scent, something strong like Irish Spring soap that tickled my nose, the flavor of that fantastic wine on both of our tongues. So many sensations, and they were building into a crescendo that I wanted desperately to reach, and yet didn’t want this feeling to end.
“This okay?” he asked.
“More than,” I moaned, my body jerking under his. I pulled him down flush to me and he wrapped his other arm around me, turning us on our sides. I placed my free hand on his face, kissing him as best I could, though it was hard to focus. He took my thumb in his mouth and I groaned.
“Okay to come on you? I’m right there.”
“Bé, we come together.”
Our frantic movements lost their synchronicity and our pelvic bones bumped, his knuckles dug into my lower gut, and I loved it, that twinge of pain right before I—
“Molt be. Randall, fuck—”
“Yessssss,” I hissed.
His face was pressed against mine, his lips moving halfway between kissing and speaking. He ran his fingers through our combined mess and then licked one. It was so hot that if it were at all physically possible, I would have come again. I grabbed for his face and kissed him hard, trying to express without words that this was more to me than just a hook-up. The combined tastes on his tongue of us, the wine…I’d remember these sensations for the rest of my life. Even if I never saw him again—a him I didn’t even have a name for—he’d found me at a low point and he’d…cared. It meant a lot, this connection we’d made in his bed, under his sheets, skin against skin, even if it was just for one night.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked, his soft voice so kind. He sat up on the edge of the bed and I wished for the first time for just a little bit of light. I ran a hand down his back and paused when my fingers grazed…scar tissue? He flinched a bit and then stood up.
“Can you pause time?”
He chuckled, and I knew he’d moved away, but I heard nothing until the click of a soft lamp in the bathroom, which illuminated his gloriously naked body.
Oh. Heaven. Help me. Whatever I’d done to deserve to look upon his beauty, I was grateful for the opportunity.
He washed his hands, his lips drawn up in that quirk that alluded to humor but wasn’t quite a smile. He turned to reach behind him for a towel and I saw what my fingers had grazed.
Were those bullet wounds? He also had a couple of long scars on his thigh that caught my eye as he turned to enter the bedroom.
Red flags? Maybe. But he’d done nothing to alarm me, and with how heavy my eyelids were, perhaps I was seeing things.
“Rest, amor. Tomorrow will present new opportunities.”
I wanted to believe his words, but they were echoey, as if I was sliding down a tube away from him and into the darkness once more.
