Play It Again

  Play It Again

  Regina Kyle

  PLAY IT AGAIN

  by Regina Kyle

  www.reginakyle.com

  Play It Again

  Published by D.B. Smoker

  Copyright © January 2019 by Denise Smoker

  Cover design by Mayhem Creations

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More Books By Regina Kyle

  For the real David and Chris. My friends. My neighbors. My inspiration. I wrote your story. You’re stuck with me now.

  Chapter 1

  David

  I thought I was prepared to see him again. But the minute Chris walks into the bar, my pulse kicks into overdrive and the hair on my arms and at the nape of my neck springs to attention. He’s the only guy I’ve ever loved, and he’s here. Our eyes lock when he spots me, and then he’s crossing toward me, my heart hammering with every step he takes.

  My fingers stumble on the keyboard of the Steinway baby grand I play every Thursday through Sunday from nine to midnight. It’s not Carnegie Hall, but it pays the bills, at least until something better, like a gig with an orchestra or in a Broadway pit, lands in my lap. Fortunately, most of the patrons are too deep in conversation—or too drunk—to notice my slipup, and I segue seemingly effortlessly into the opening bars of “As Time Goes By.”

  “My favorite.” Chris leans against the piano, a hesitant smile briefly lifting the corners of his mouth, and signals for a waitress. “You remembered.”

  I did, but I’m not about to admit that to him. This time I’m keeping my emotions under lock and key. Like Fort Knox. “People love it. It’s good for tips.”

  As if on cue, a pretty, perky twenty-something—probably a coed from one of the nearby colleges—smiles at me and drops a five into the large brandy snifter I use as a tip jar. I nod my thanks and she goes back to her friends, leaving me free to study Chris as he orders his drink.

  My fingers almost stumble again. Damn him for looking even better than he did in our conservatory days. Same intense, enigmatic hazel eyes, more green today than brown. Same aquiline nose. Same strong, square jaw, dotted with sexy, late-night stubble. But now the whole package reads more hot businessman than dancer-in-training. Although I’d bet my Yamaha DGX-660 portable keyboard that beneath his designer duds he’s got the same buff ballet body he did back in school. He’d have to, as a principal dancer for the prestigious San Francisco Ballet.

  Maybe it’s the clothes—pale gray, slim-fit button-down shirt, tight, dark jeans, suede oxfords in a soft charcoal—that make this man. Or it could be the glasses. Dark Harry Potter rims that give him an air of maturity.

  Then there’s the hair. It’s a little longer than I remember, chestnut strands curling over his collar. I wonder briefly if his wife prefers it that way, then swallow the hard, bilious knot of jealousy that rises in my throat. What right do I have to be jealous? Chris made his choice five years ago. One kiss was all it had taken for me to know how good it could be with us. And for him to run as fast as his feet would take him in the other direction.

  His drink comes—an old-fashioned, another thing that’s changed since college, when we downed wine coolers like they were water. The choice of cocktail is like a punch in my gut. It’s the consummate man’s man’s drink. Practically screams, “Sorry, dude. I’m still straight.”

  “Any requests?” I ask, determined not to let him see how rattled he’s got me.

  “Can you take a break? I’d really like to talk. It’s important.”

  It must be—or he must think it is—for him to come all this way after all this time to see me. Still, I shake my head. “Can’t. I just got on half an hour ago.”

  “I can wait.” He takes a sip of his drink then sets it down on a cocktail napkin. Not on the bare wood of the piano, like I warned him against at the conservatory more times than I can count. My stupid heart flip-flops. He may have wanted to erase me from his life, but he hasn’t forgotten everything.

  “It might be a while before I can get free,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers at the white lie. My sets are only about an hour long, and I usually take a ten-minute break between them.

  “I’m in no rush.” He runs a finger along the edge of his glass, then touches it to his lips. The unconsciously sexy gesture makes my damn disobedient dick twitch, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that it’s hidden under the Steinway.

  The final chords of “As Time Goes By” echo around us as my brain searches for another song. I don’t usually have this much trouble figuring out what to play next. My repertoire is pretty extensive. Plus, I keep an iPad with my favorite sheet music app handy for any songs I don’t know by memory.

  But I’m finding it more than a little bit distracting having the love of my life standing not three feet from me, his mesmerizing hazel eyes tracking my every move.

  He gives me a smile that’s incongruously both confident and nervous. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, I walk into yours.”

  I shake my head and start in on “Fly Me To The Moon.” Can’t go wrong with Sinatra. It’s always a crowd favorite. “Except you’re no Ilsa, and I’m no Rick. You knew I’d be here. And I knew you were coming.”

  Thanks to the cryptic Facebook message he sent me last week. What I don’t know is why he’s here. What does he want, after all this time?

  It’s a question I’m too chickenshit to ask. So instead I decide to go for the cheap shot. It won’t be my finest moment, but I tell myself it’s his fault for showing up practically out of the blue, after five years of radio silence.

  “How’s your wife?” The last word comes out like a curse, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

  A shadow crosses Chris’s handsome face, and I immediately regret the low blow. “We split up. Almost a year ago. The divorce was final in March.”

  Holy shit. He and Sonja are splitsville?

  My mouth goes dry and my heart free falls to my stomach. It’s official. I’m the biggest douchecanoe on the planet.

  “I’m sorry.” It’s not a lie. I am. I don’t wish divorce on anyone. Even the guy who’s the source of the biggest heartache of my 27-year-old life. And the girl he chose over me.

  But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that a small part of me is also curious as fuck. Why did they break up? Was that the reason for his visit?

  Chris takes another sip of his old-fashioned. “Truth is, it was over a long time ago, but neither one of us wanted to be the one to pull the plug.”

  So what changed? I want to scream. But a middle-aged man who’s clearly had too much to drink stumbles over and asks me to play “Piano Man”—a request I must get ten times a night, minimum—putting our conversation on pause. I spend way too long promising him— repeatedly—that I’ll get to it in the next set. Finally, his booze-soaked brain seems to understand what I’m saying and he shuffles off, humming the harmonica part.

  As he goes, Chris’s eyes catch mine for a brief, heart-stopping moment. Then he glances toward the door that leads to the restrooms and office.

  “I was hoping we could talk somewhere more private.”

  Exactly what I’m afraid of. I don’t trust myself to be alone with him. Which is why I suggested we meet here, at my very public workplace.

  “Please.”

  His simple, one-word plea wrecks me. I’m no more able to resist him now than I was five years ago.

  I close my eyes, needing to erect some sort of barrier between us, and let muscle memory take over, guiding my fingers over the keys. “After this song.”

  Time seems to stretch as I po
und out the last chorus. When I’m done, I lean into the mic and announce that I’ll be taking a break. Yeah, it’s early. But my boss will just have to deal with it. If he bitches, I’ll offer to play an extra set.

  I pocket my tips from the jar, leaving a few bills so it doesn’t look depressingly desolate, and stand. Chris tosses back the rest of his drink and follows suit. Wordlessly, I lead him through the door, down the hall past the restrooms and office, and into the alley behind the club.

  The outside door closes behind us with an ominous click that echoes in the narrow passageway. Chris leans against the brick wall, pulls a pack of Newports from his back pocket, and slides out a cigarette.

  “You still smoking?” I ask stupidly. Duh. Why else would he be carrying cigarettes around? It’s not like he’s a POW, trading them for food.

  He puts the cigarette between his lips and stuffs the pack back in his pocket, trading it for a lighter. “Only when I’m nervous.”

  He’s nervous? My heart is racing like I’ve run a goddamn marathon.

  I pick a spot on the wall opposite him and rest my back on the rough, red-brown bricks. The fingers of my right hand tap a staccato rhythm on the soft cotton of my khakis. My nervous habit. “Why?”

  He flicks the lighter, holds it up to the end of his cigarette, and inhales. The glow gives his face an eerie cast in the half-light of the alley. “Why what?”

  “Why so nervous?”

  He takes a long drag on his cigarette and, ever the gentleman, turns his head to blow a puff of smoke off to his left, away from me. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Done what?”

  My already pounding pulse kicks up a notch. This is it. The moment of truth. I’m finally going to find out what the hell he’s doing here. In a seedy back alley. With me.

  “Apologized to someone I hurt as much as I hurt you.” Chris tosses the cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out under the heel of his shoe. “I’m sorry I freaked out when you kissed me. You were my friend—my best friend—and I acted like a complete asshole, shutting you out. Waiting this long to try to make things right. My only excuse is—I have no excuse. I guess I’m just not as brave as you are.”

  “Me?” I make an unattractive sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “Brave?”

  “You’re brave enough to be your true, authentic self. That’s more than I can say for me. But I’d like the chance to change that.”

  “How?”

  He scrubs an unsteady hand through his slightly too-long hair. “By asking you out. On a date.”

  It’s a good thing the brick wall is supporting me, otherwise I’d be on the asphalt with Chris’s cigarette butt. “You want to go on a date? With me? Now?”

  “Better late than never, right?” he says with a nervous chuckle.

  “Is it?” My heart screams fuck, yeah. But my head—the one on my shoulders, not below my belt—isn’t such an easy mark. It’s telling me to slow things down. Protect myself.

  “It can be.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “How do you know I’m not with someone?” I ask, even though I’m totally not.

  He blushes, and it’s so fucking adorable I almost say yes to the date right then and there. “I’ve been stalking you on Facebook. And Instagram. No pics of you with anyone. And your relationship status is single.”

  “So you’re what?” I ask. “Gay? Bi? Pan?”

  “I’m gay.”

  “And you’re out? Is that why you and Sonja called it quits?”

  He stares at the tips of his shoes. “Not exactly.”

  I slam my palms against the wall so hard they sting, pain radiating up my arms. Stupid move for a guy who makes his living with his hands. But that just goes to show how fucking frustrated I am. It’s like we’re back in college, when I was out and Chris was—confused. That confusion almost killed me. And I’m not about to subject myself to that a second time.

  It’s like my grandmother—God rest her loud and proud Italian soul—used to say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

  “I can’t do this again.”

  I push off the unforgiving bricks and head for the door. I’ve got to get back inside ASAP, to the emotional safety of the crowded club. The longer I’m this close to him, his tangy, woodsy cologne filling my nostrils, overpowering the smells of the city, the more my resolve chips away.

  And I need every damn bit of resolve I can muster.

  But Chris has other ideas. He snags my arm as I pass, stopping me. The heat of his hand burns into my biceps, like he’s branding me as his.

  “Don’t go.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper. And desperate. “Let me explain.”

  It’s the desperation that gets me. I’ve always been a sucker for a dude in distress.

  “Explain away.” I shrug off his hand and fold my arms across my chest. Listening is one thing. Touching is another.

  “I’m out.” He shifts his weight restlessly from one foot to the other, still somehow managing to imbue the restive movement with the easy grace of a dancer. “Mostly.”

  “What’s mostly?”

  “Sonja knows. A few close friends. Some of my family.”

  “Some?” I arch a brow at him, although I’m not sure he can read my facial expressions in the dimly lit alley.

  “My sister. She’s cool with it.”

  Which means his parents, who probably won’t be quite so cool with their only son’s sexual awakening as a gay man, are still in the dark. My lips are pressed together in a thin, exasperated line, but that doesn’t stop a sigh from escaping. This is looking more and more like a bad rerun of our senior year.

  “Let me ask you something.” He nods, as if I’m waiting for his permission to continue. Spoiler alert: I’m not. “You’re a good-looking guy. I assume you’ve dated your share of dudes. Gone out in public. Held hands walking down the street. Made out in the back row at the movies.”

  Maybe even fucked—or been fucked by—a guy or two or ten. But I’m not going there, for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely. It’s not like I’ve been celibate, although I can count my lovers on one hand. No one’s ever measured up to Chris, and as hard as I’ve tried, I’ve never really gotten over him. Still, I’ve got no right to expect him to live like a monk.

  He ducks his head and his hair flops over his eyes, shielding his face. “No.”

  “No to what?”

  “To all of it.”

  The shock of his answer rolls through me, making me stumble. I mean, just look at him. He’s like a Greek god, only better. He could have any guy he wanted. And yet, he hasn’t.

  “Then how do you know—?”

  His head snaps up.

  “How do I know I’m gay?” he finishes for me. “Trust me, I know. I don’t need to fuck a bunch of randoms to figure out that I prefer dudes.”

  “Who said anything about fucking?” Sure, I’d thought it. But I didn’t say it. Has he added mind reader to his list of talents postcollege? “I’m talking about dating.”

  “I’ve got nothing against dating.” Chris shuffles his feet again and starts, then stops, to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. There’s something he’s not telling me.

  “Then what’s stopping you?” I press. It’s taken five years for us to get to this point. I’m not letting him leave until I get some goddamn answers.

  “There’s only one guy I want to date.”

  Before I can fully process what he’s telling me, his hand is on my chest, fisting the soft cotton of my shirt, pulling me in. Someone—I think it’s me—lets out a soft oof as our bodies and mouths meet.

  It’s the polar opposite of the last—and only—time we kissed, when I took the lead. This time Chris is in control. He tastes like bourbon and bitters and citrus as he brushes his mouth over mine, slipping his tongue inside when my lips part to suck in a ragged breath.

  I mimic his move, bunching his shirt in my fingers as the kiss
goes on and on. His lips are firm. Greedy. Hypnotic. The longer the kiss goes, the deeper it gets. Our tongues join in on the action, then our hands, exploring, then our bodies, rocking against each other.

  “Fuck.” He moans into my mouth and rolls his hips, letting me feel every inch of his stiffening cock, as rock-hard as my own. “I knew it would be as good the second time.”

  His words plant a seed of self-doubt that takes root and spreads like wildfire. Is he really here because he wants me? Or am I just a safe choice for his first gay sexual experience?

  I wrench my lips from his and shove at his chest. But that buff ballet body I suspected was lurking under his tailored shirt and tight jeans is immovable, and now I’m stuck with my palms pressed against a set of pecs that would rival Captain America’s.

  He drops his forehead to mine and lets out a long, low sigh that washes over me, ruffling my hair, teasing my earlobe, weakening my fragile defenses. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m moving too fast. I know. But I want this so fucking bad.”

  “Want what?” I muster the nerve to ask, tipping my head back so I can look him in the eye when he answers. “Me, or—?”

  I can’t bring myself to finish the question, but he knows where I’m going, and from the scowl that darkens his handsome face, he’s not too happy about it. “You think I’m here for a quick, easy lay? If that were all I wanted, I could have gotten it back in San Francisco. I didn’t have to travel across the damn country.”

  He makes a good point, but I’m still not convinced. Years of second-guessing my impulsive decision to kiss my best friend have taken a toll on my self-confidence where Chris is concerned, and I tell him as much. “I’m just having a hard time believing that, after years of no contact, you suddenly discovered you couldn’t live without me.”

  He lets his hands fall to his sides and steps back, giving me the space I need to sort out the jumble of emotions tossing and turning inside me.