Page 16 of Street of Dreams
Jake rolled his eyes as he pulled a pack of Marlboro red from his pocket and placed a cigarette between his lips.
“You can’t smoke that in here.”
“Watch me.” Jake put a lit match to the tip and inhaled.
This guy never played by the rules, but this was Mac’s place, and he was in charge. He took the cigarette from Jake’s mouth and threw it in an open soda can sitting on the nightstand.
Jake’s gaze ricocheted between Mac and the soda can. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I told you. You can’t smoke in here. You don’t get to make the rules. This is my parents’ house.”
Jake pursed his lips to the side, then conceded. “You’re lucky I like your pops.” He strolled up to the framed pictures on the wall. They were of Mac when he was in pipe band as a kid and with his parents at the Highland festival. A smile spread across Jake’s cheeks as he looked at them. He turned to the left, and his eyes lit up when he saw Mac’s kilt hanging on the closet door handle. He went to it, picked up the hanger and ripped off the dry cleaner’s plastic.
“Don’t touch that,” Mac warned. “I have to wear it tomorrow night when I play The Structure.”
“You’re playing The Structure?”
Mac nodded. “Skylar lined up a bunch of gigs for me.”
Jake’s brows shot up, obviously impressed. “Nice.” He continued walking around the apartment, inspecting everything as if getting to know Mac better through his possessions and the décor.
Jake looked down at Mac’s guitar on its stand next to the couch, then his gaze drifted to the sheet music strewn across the coffee table. He picked up one of the sheets and looked at it closely. “What is this?”
“My music.”
Jake’s brows pinched together. “Like, music you wrote?”
“I’m a songwriter.” The words came out snippier than expected, and Mac was unsure why he was being so defensive.
“I’ve never heard you play anything except covers.”
“Since when do you everlisten to me play? You grab a handful of cash and move on to the next guy.”
Jake tossed the sheet back onto the coffee table. “OK. Play me something.”
The request was unexpected, but Mac knew exactly which song he wanted to play for Jake. He picked up his Gibson and plugged it into the amp, then settled on the couch.
Jake grabbed the desk chair, rolled it over to the opposite side of the coffee table, spun it around and straddled it.
“This one’s calledStreet of Dreams.” Mac saw Jake’s brow raise at the song title. It really shouldn’t have been a surprise, though. The block was as much a part of his life as it was Jake’s, and songs told a story. This was Mac’s story.
As soon as his fingers hit the strings, something came over him that he couldn’t describe. He got lost in the melody and the meaning of the song, which chronicled the stagnant feeling that sometimes enveloped him at the limitations of living in an impoverished neighborhood and the hope that lifted him when he played his guitar on a street alongside others with the same dream.
He sang with a raspy grit. The lyrics stirred up emotions that were clear in his voice and across his face. He was sure his eyes projected a painful haze as every word passed his lips. He mostly sang with his lids squinted halfway shut, focusing somewhere in the distance, but his gaze drifted to Jake, who was staring at him with unwavering intensity. Those hooded black eyes were too distracting, so Mac looked down and let his emotions pour through his song. When he was done, his heart was heavy, and he needed a moment to compose himself before he looked up at Jake. Finally, he lifted his eyes.
Jake was quiet, with an incredible look on his face. It was one of awe and honesty, void of malice and covered with humility. He stood up, kicked the chair aside and slowly clapped his hands together. “You’re a fucking rock star.” His voice was humble and sincere, and it melted a spot deep inside of Mac’s chest.
This was a softer side of Jake that Mac had never seen before. The kidding around, the laughter, the carefree smiles, and now an honest, well-meaning compliment. The hard exterior that Jake projected to the world never showed earnest joy or humor, only tension, sarcasm, and aggression. Always defensive. Never letting his guard down. “Why do you always have to put on such a front for everyone else? Why can’t you be like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like a regular guy.”
Jake shrugged, as if he didn’t know what Mac was talking about. “I am a regular guy.”
“But you never show it. You’re a nice guy, Jake. Why don’t you ever let anyone see that? Why do you always act like you got something to prove?”
When Jake didn’t reply, and his face took on unexpected emotion, a bout of empathy overwhelmed Mac. He wanted to give Jake a hug, but he knew he needed to go slowly. He placed the palm of his hand on Jake’s cheek and felt the guy tense. “It’s OK,” Mac whispered. But when Mac leaned in for a kiss, Jake moved his head back. With heaviness invading his chest, Mac sighed and dropped his hand. “Why won’t you let me kiss you?”
