If I ever had any doubt at all I was gay, it was eradicated the minute I met Tony Rojas. Truth be told, it wasn’t that uncommon for me to become attracted to other men by the time I was nineteen. It usually happened quite subtly. Something as simple as the way that they walked, or a slightly upturned smile, or a stare that lingered just a second longer than it had to, would tickle at my brain as something significant, but it was generally so innocent in nature I could discard it as nothing more than misfiring hormones.
I was weird. I knew that.
I never cared much for naked girls. I didn’t salivate when I saw a couple of tits or nice rounded hips that beckoned other guys my age. I didn’t seek out the Great Vagina whenever the occasion presented itself, such as a couple of hours’ uninterrupted Internet time.
Frankly I didn’t understand what the big deal was.
I liked girls, I even preferred the company of girls. It was safe there. It had always been really safe there. Even when I was six and playing “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” with my next-door neighbor, there was no threat of anything happening. I just wasn’t that impressed. And neither was any other part of my body. Pretty much… ever.
Yet I’d get a nagging semi-boner during a pep rally at school, when the football team would burst through the banner. I chalked it up as delayed reaction over the cheerleaders and went on with my life, blissfully ignorant to all the signs that pointed me straight towards a life I knew I should never pursue.
Of course I knew this. It had been screamed at me from a pulpit. It had been taunted at me from the schoolyard. I was half a man if I ever admitted I wanted another man.
So the minute I saw Tony Rojas, I knew I was in serious, serious trouble. If I had any sense at all I would have turned right around and walked back out the door...
“Are you sure you’re at the right audition, man? I think the comic squad meets down the hall.”
Lando Espinoza laughed at his joke before he sent a glance to the sofa where the drummer, Emile “Sticks” Gutierrez, sat, just to ensure he, too, found it funny. Emile chuckled dutifully before he went back to drumming on the table, working out some kind of new rhythm.
“Nope,” I said. “I’m here for Tonos de Oro. Otherwise I learned all the wrong music.” I added another smile as I held up my guitar case. Both gestures were confident. If he challenged me on any of the music they had made, I was fully prepared to wow him.
Another gaze crept over me. “I guess we’ll see.” He opened the door wider and allowed me to enter. I carried my guitar case further into the room. I headed straight next to the spot next to the amp. “What kind of music do you play?” Lando wanted to know. “Because if it’s pop, you can just leave right now. We don’t play that pussy shit.”
I said nothing as I hooked into the amp and then tuned the guitar. Once satisfied I glanced up at Lando and Sticks, who were watching me with indifference, expecting me to fail.
I loved it when people expected me to fail. It made proving them wrong so much fun. I launched into “Walk” by Pantera, nearly knocking both of them off their seats. Sure I looked like a dork, with my horn-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and my geeky shirt. But I knew how to rock.
After Lando picked his jaw up off the floor, he nodded slowly, particularly when I went into the guitar solo. I kept my eyes locked with his as I finished off the song. He nodded, stroking his jaw. “Not bad, homie. Not bad. What else do you play?”
“Anything,” I answered. “Everything. What do you got?”
For ten minutes straight he would toss songs at me and I would respond by playing them. From classic songs by Santana to current songs from Muse, I didn’t miss one beat. Finally he pulled an acoustic guitar from the wall, where dozens of instruments hung. I decided to play Coheed and Cambria’s “Welcome Home,” just to give him that flavor he was looking for. Sticks was so impressed, and inspired, he hopped on the drums to join me, and Lando finally picked up his bass to join in. The loft filled with music, which wafted out of the opened windows to the street below.
It was enough, apparently, to draw Tony from the other part of the loft, which had been sectioned off with a wall made of colorful glass bricks in every shade of blue, purple and green. The minute he stepped from behind the glass, wearing torn, faded blue jeans and a black shirt that fit to every single inch of his muscled torso, time seemed to stand still. My fingers fumbled and I missed a note, which was exceedingly uncommon for me. But nothing—and I mean nothing—could have prepared me for the moment those blue/green eyes met mine.
Tony Rojas was tall, like me. He stood over six feet, and there wasn’t any extra flesh on his 180-pound body. It was like his muscles had muscles. His face was a little fuller, and almost painfully beautiful, so beautiful it would have made average women cry.
Stubble lined the soft curve of his cheeks and his dark hair fell in unruly curls towards his shoulder, making those incredible eyes stand out even more. They pinpointed me and I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he walked closer, our gazes locked as he picked up his microphone just in time to sing the lyrics of a song that blended hate and love, desire and scorn, hope and despair.
The longer he held me locked in that stare, the more my hands trembled. I fought through it all to play, to wow him, to show him I wasn’t just some stupid kid playing rock star. I switched back to my electric guitar for the solo, but Tony paid little attention to what I was doing with my hands. His eyes were locked on my face, and all the embarrassing primal grimaces I bore there. It was beyond my control. Music was a part of me. Where it guided, I followed. I didn’t even question.
I knew he understood this, so I felt very safe in the intensity of his gaze. It as if fire blazed around me, and though I felt the heat—it never burned. When the song finished, Tony sauntered over to where I stood, sweaty and panting. He held out a hand. He didn’t introduce himself. He knew he didn’t have to. “Solid performance,” he complimented, his comment hanging in the air as he waited for me to supply my name.
“Rudy Renfro,” I said as I shook his hand. I could only hope he didn’t feel my tremor when his fingers closed around mine.
His lip curved in a teasing smile. I felt my stomach drop somewhere around my toes. “Stage name?” he asked.
“No,” I corrected with a good-humored grin of my own. “Totally real. And I’ve got the scars from three solid years of ass-kicking in middle school to prove it.”
He laughed. It was a rich, musical sound that reverberated off of each tightly drawn nerve. “And which school are you in now, Rudy?”
I sidestepped how my name sounded falling from his mouth to concentrate on the question, which I knew damned well was about my age. I knew I looked young, like some fresh-faced high school student. Being underweight probably didn’t help that much. “None. I’m nineteen.”
He nodded his approval before he spread himself in a leather recliner, clearly the king on his throne. “Legal. Good. Tonos de Oro is known for hedonism and debauchery. It would be bad for business if we contributed to the delinquency of a minor.” His eyes swept over me. Unlike Lando’s critical stare, I felt my body traitorously respond to Tony’s inspection. I was glad I had my guitar in front of me, like the shield it had always been. “How long have you been playing?”
“Picked up my first guitar when I was nine,” I answered. “Never looked back.”
“I can tell,” he nodded. “You’re young, but you’re really good.” He released me from his gaze long enough to direct a question towards Lando. “What do you think?”
Lando wasn’t as impressed. “He plays all right, but he’s white. He looks like the dorks we used to beat up in high school.”
Tony chuckled as he turned back to me. “You’ll have to forgive my cousin. He’s a shameless racist.” Again he looked me over. “Can’t do anything about you being white. Everything else is just image. Clothes can change. It’s what underneath that counts.” Those eyes met mine. “Take off your shirt.”
His softly issued command made me shiver. “What?”
His eyebrow cocked. “Hedonism and debauchery, remember?”
“He’s nineteen,” Lando told Tony. “You don’t need to waste million-dollar words.” He turned to me. “This band is all about the pussy, man. You like pussy, Rudy Renfro?”
His direct question shocked me. Of all the things I had expected to be asked during this audition, whether or not I was down with OPP was not one of them. I stumbled over my answer, unsure what to say.
“Chill out, Lando,” Tony chastised, his eyes locked on my face. “He’s still a kid. He might even be a virgin.”
Lando and Sticks laughed. “Give us one gig and we can fix that,” Lando stated.
I felt the air crackle and pop between Tony and me. Those eyes never wavered.
There was only one thing I could do. I slid out of my shirt. I may have been underweight, but a few semesters of weight training in high school left me with a ridiculously toned core. I was still glow-in-the-dark white, but I mustered up as much heat as I could as I began to play one of their songs. I opted for one about sex, since that seemed to be the next hurdle to jump. It was a song simply entitled “One Night,” all about pursing a one-night-stand. Tony had laid it all out in the lyrics he wanted a good time, not a relationship. “I ain’t looking for love, there, I said it. One night with me, you won’t regret it. Leave your man, your folks, your church behind. One night with me and I’ll blow your mind.”
Maybe a small part of me kinda sorta meant it, but I wasn’t willing to admit that yet, even though Tony’s turquoise stare nearly made my knees knock.
I was just nervous.
It was an important audition.
He studied me thoughtfully as I finished the song. He also shamelessly inspected my body. I gripped the neck of my guitar tight and tipped my chin. Another smile inched across his handsome face.
“We have more musicians to audition,” he informed me as he stood. “We’ll likely make our decision at the beginning of next week.”
I nodded, trying to hide how crestfallen I was. After all that, I didn’t nail it? After all that, there was a chance he’d still say no?
Was my being white and young and an unabashed dork going to slam my first door in my face? Or could he tell I was hiding a semi-erection, because the thought of one night with him did things to my body I couldn’t control?
I tipped my chin even higher. “Of course.” I dug in my pocket for a card, which I handed to him. “Here’s my contact information. If you could let me know either way, that’d be great. I have a couple of other auditions lined up.”
It was total bullshit, of course. But I came from a family of lawyers. The art of bullshitting was coded in my DNA.
Tony’s smile never faltered as he grasped the other end of the card. “Of course,” he murmured, mimicking my response back to me.
So he knew. Everything I was trying so desperately to hide, he knew. That triumphant gleam in his eyes only proved it. He knew all my secrets and wanted me to know he knew. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said, opening up my hand for a parting handshake. He took it again, this time slower, so I know damned well he felt the tremor that ran through my fingers. The deepening curve of his smile only proved it.
“You got a lot of raw talent, kid,” he told me as we reached the door. “Keep plugging away. You’ll get it.”
My spine straightened. What an asshole, I thought. He was dismissing me as some kid when there were only about seven years between us. I looked him right in the eye and said, “You too,” with a nod. He thought he could patronize me? He had another thing coming. I didn’t care who he thought he was. With that, I hoisted my guitar a little higher and I left the loft without another glance behind me.
MASKED IN THE MUSIC releases September 25th. It goes up to regular price after release.
Fair warning... if you need a warning to read a book, this will NOT be the book for you.
