Page 42 of A Boy Called Lovesong

My stomach knotted—in anger, in awe—at his musical ingenuity, his bold skill, his respect for the original material and his Devil-may-care desire to breathe new life into it.

And then, with a final strum and drumbeat of his hand against the wood of the guitar, the song ended, a performance so resoundingly perfect that it could have brought the house down had he been playing in the Lincoln Centre or Carnegie Hall.

I wanted to clap.

I should have clapped.

Joel would have been on his feet shouting, “Bravo!”

But how could I applaud the man who’d killed my partner. I hadn’t come to praise him. I’d come to crush his soul for what he did.

Beside me on the bed, Chet barked enthusiastically, as if he sensed my lack of respect for the musician and was trying to make up for it.

Lovesong looked in Chet’s direction and smiled. “Well thank you, sir. Much appreciated.”

Chet wagged his tail at the attention from Lovesong, who took off his guitar and sat on the bed, lifting his chin slightly to look my way.

“So, what brings you to Clara’s Crossing?” he said, making polite conversation. “Did you get lost on your way somewhere? Nobody winds up here intentionally.”

I wanted to tell him I had every intention of being here. I wanted to tell himhewas the reason I was here.

“Yeah, I got lost… I guess. I was passing through and I got lost.”

“Where did you come from?”

“New York.”

He burst out laughing. “Wow! You really were lost.”

From outside a bell tolled, its clanging loud as it split the peaceful twilight.

I looked out through the French doors to see the bell in the church tower swinging back and forth, summoning the town to evening service.

“Oh shit,” Lovesong uttered. “Is that the time? I ain’t even had a shower yet. Never mind, I guess.”

Quickly he stood and made his way over to his dresser. He opened drawers and pulled out a freshly pressed shirt and trousers.

Without a word of warning, he unbuttoned his sodden work trousers and let them drop to the floor.

There he stood facing his dresser, stepping out of his pants, completely naked but for the crucifix around his neck.

His body was perfect, his ass cheeks round and firm, only a slight shade lighter than his tanned back, as though the light fabric of his work trousers did little to block out the sun’s rays.

“Oh!” I said, stunned… then kicked myself for uttering a sound.

He half turned to me, himself surprised by my reaction, as though taking his clothes off in front of a stranger was completely natural. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He stood side-on, and I caught the briefest glimpse of his cock, long and bountiful, bobbing with his movement. “I can go change in the bathroom.” He bent to pull his trousers back up and between his ass cheeks, a large ripe set of balls dangled low.

“No, it’s… it’s okay,” I stammered. “I’m not embarrassed at all. And you’re in a rush.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I don’t have any inhibitions.” He stood again, leaving his work pants on the floor and sliding on his freshclean trousers, no underwear. “I’ll be more considerate next time, I promise.” He buttoned and zipped his trousers up.

“Please, don’t apologize. I’m just not used to sharing a room with a stranger.”

He pulled on a shirt, crisp and white. “We’re only strangers when we meet, at least that’s what Maybelle says.” He buttoned up the shirt, roughly tucked it into his trousers and smiled. “We’ve met now. We can never be strangers ever again. We’ve passed that point of no return.” From under his bed, he felt for a shiny pair of black shoes and slid them on his feet, no socks. “Say, you coming to church, Mr. Van Owen?”

“Please, call me Noah.”

“A good strong name from the Bible. You must feel right at home in church.”

---