Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

going to room with him, and we'll both take music and business classes part time at City College so we'll be able to judge the contracts we get offered."
    And then Timothy smiled his lazy, all-is-right-with-the-world smile that always lit up whatever room he was in, and everything just settled. An old warehouse selling for a song became available, and Mr. Morris co-signed to secure a loan for it. He loaned equipment from his construction company, and Timothy always promised him to return it in the same shape it went out in. When the complicated stuff needed someone skilled beyond the beginner's level in wiring or plumbing, Timothy quietly called his pop, and Mr. Morris just as quietly sent one of his guys around.
    The whole thing was a goddamned fairytale.
    The place got fixed up enough during the first summer to make it habitable, and Mr. Morris gave Timothy and Aaron both jobs at higher salaries than they were worth as absolute beginners. By winter they had enough saved to concentrate on the band exclusively for a few months. A brilliant drummer fell into the band's lap, literally, and a crazy-talented horn player rounded out the sound. Hey, presto, a little demo tape got made. They shopped it around a little and by spring were starting to get gigs. That summer they mostly worked as much as they could but were playing regularly at two local clubs. Six months passed with them working their asses off and playing every time someone gave them the chance even if they had to drive straight from work, play the gig, go home to grab an hour or two of sleep, and then get up to do the same thing all over again. Within two years they had attracted the interest of some local music reviewers who, unbeknownst to any of the band but Timothy, were very well connected. They invited some friends from a mid-sized label to come to one of a few shows, and the friends chose a night a few months later where the band was simply on fire.
    The next afternoon a call came from the record execs. They wanted to meet with the band the very next week to discuss a potential contract. Aaron wandered around in a daze for the whole seven days in between, and Timothy laughed at him more times than could be counted.
    The contracts were signed on a Friday. Saturday, Aaron convinced Timothy to go out to a park with him, soak up some rays as a sort of celebration. Timothy wanted to stay in and watch a showing of Casablanca. Dude was crazy about the actress in it. Said she was the most beautiful woman ever to walk the earth. He did what Aaron wanted that day, like he always did. That was the day Timothy died.
    A bee did it. A little thing no larger than Aaron's thumb stung Timothy as he lay on the green, green grass at the botanical gardens. At first Aaron laughed. Timothy jumped up, screaming shrilly that he'd been stung and OMG did it ever hurt and…then his eyes got funny, and he started grabbing at his throat, and—
    Aaron couldn't lose the only piece of Timothy he had left. He swung his now-shoed foot over the back of his bike, fired up the engine, and hauled ass back to the warehouse. He could only hope that Travis hadn't left before he got there. Car horns blared stridently at him as he wove in and out of traffic, white-line riding more often than not. Christ. Timothy would kick his ass for pulling a stunt like this, if he were around to do so.
    Only when he got to the warehouse, Travis wasn't there. The Miata's gleaming cherry-red enticement was glaringly absent, lending an unexpected emptiness to the garage. The second the loading dock doors he and Timothy had wisely kept rolled up high enough to drive his bike in, Aaron realized just how Travis got to the photo shoot. The mental image of Travis's hands resting on the steering wheel in a casual manner served up a clearly highlighted snapshot of the easy and elegant strength of Travis's lean hands. Aaron shivered as the picture flashed into his brain and his cock hardened for the second time in a few short hours to thoughts of Travis. He shook off the reaction to imagining Travis's hands caressing the steering wheel of his car to park the bike next to his black Grand Cherokee Laredo. Tearing up the four broad concrete steps separating the sunken parking area from their living room, he stumbled over the jagged groove in the second to last step. Christ, he really needed to get off his ass and mix up a small batch of concrete to patch that. Later. He'd do it later.
    The house phone rang, and he