Martin looked up to see Shay less than a half a block away, walking determinedly toward him. But then recognition relaxed the set to the drummer’s jaw and he slowed his pace. It only occurred to him at that moment that he might have appeared to be some sort of intruder. He was sitting on the steps of Shay’s house, hunched over his knees as he texted. Several days’ worth of uncharacteristic beard growth covered his face. He’d let his dark brown hair, longish on top and short on the sides and back, fall forward so that his face was mostly concealed. A new tattoo—a continuation of the vibrant Japanese sleeve he had completed not long ago—edged out from the collar of his fashionably distressed red and gray flannel shirt.
Straightening up, he pushed his hair back from his face and stood. He waited for Shay to reach him before offering a sheepish smile and a wave.
“What are you doing here, Marty?” Shay asked.
The question was a good one. Martin was supposed to be home in Dublin. He was supposed to be making up for lost time with his wife and three sons after having been on tour with the band for almost nine months. As the bassist for Rogue, Martin had been a steady part of the rock foursome since its inception when they were all only teenagers. He had loved music as a kid, though he’d never dared to dream he could be a musician. But he had been pulled into Gavin’s grandiose plan of forming a band, simply by virtue of being his friend. Gavin was, of course, the singer. Conor was Gavin’s oldest friend and had already claimed the position of guitarist. Shay had been beating on just about anything he could to create a rhythm since he was little, so he was the natural drummer. That left Martin to fill the position of bassist. He’d become proficient at the instrument and ridden the coattails of his more inspired and passionate bandmates. Much to his surprise, the band had quickly rocketed to world-famous status. The thing that had kept him grounded while Gavin and Conor had their public misadventures was the normality his wife Celia provided. But that stability was now on perilous ground, which was the reason he’d unexpectedly come to impose upon his friend and bandmate.
“Hoping you don’t mind having me for a time,” Martin said.
Shay watched him silently, assessing him in that way that he did. “Come in, man,” he said, stepping past him to unlock the front door.
Martin had never been to Shay’s San Francisco home. It was the house Shay had purchased once he’d made the decision to leave Ireland to be with his American girlfriend. Following him inside and upstairs, Martin admired the contemporary design. It was bright throughout, with large front windows showcasing stunning views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay.
“Your floors are gray,” Martin said.
Shay smiled, amused. “They’re reclaimed oak. And the finish is called ‘storm gray,’ thank you very much.”
“Never seen wood like that.”
“There’s a bit more style in America than what you’re used to.”
The slight condescension in Shay’s comment was typical. And something Martin was used to. He had long been a sort of willing punching bag to his bandmates. After one too many times where he’d stuck his foot in his mouth, Martin had earned a reputation as being a bit slow on the uptake. An early example of this, and one he had never outlived, was when he had mistakenly called a Rhodes Scholarship a “Rogue Scholarship.” It had made his friends laugh, but the error had turned in his favor when they all decided “Rogue” was a perfect name for their fledgling band. It stuck. And so did the notion that Martin was an affable fellow with not a lot of depth. He’d resigned himself to this perception and even played into the role of the “unsophisticated” one. It was easier than trying to correct the image, and it fit with his instinct to go along with the flow of things. But that didn’t mean it didn’t rankle at times, and especially more so lately.
Shay stopped at the open-air white-marble kitchen. “Something to drink?”
“Beer?”
After a slight hesitation, Shay opened one of the doors of the large stainless steel refrigerator. He pulled out some sort of local microbrew Martin didn’t recognize. Not that it mattered what he drank. Sure, it wasn’t yet two in the afternoon, but he was thirsty for something that would take the edge off. And hell, wasn’t he still on Dublin time? It was plenty late to start drinking.
“Join me,” Martin said when he saw that Shay only brought out one bottle.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Shay filled a glass with tap water, downed it, and refilled it once more. He leaned against the wall that served as a subtle divider between the kitchen and the living room and watched him.
Martin knew Shay’s patience was nearly limitless and that he’d have to confess his reason for being here before being asked again. But because he was in an ornery mood, he stood at the kitchen countertop silently, drinking his beer. Though he kept his gaze on the stunning view of the bridge, he felt Shay watching him. Let him stare. He could be just as insufferably patient too if he wanted.
When Martin drained his beer, Shay wordlessly replaced it with a new one. This spot of kindness softened Martin’s resolve.
“Jessica home?” he asked.
“No, she’s at the school. She spends ten, twelve hours a day there.”
The school was the ballet school she owned. She had once been a professional ballerina, dancing in the corps de ballet with San Francisco Ballet Company. Now, she owned a school geared toward training and building opportunities for kids of color.
“And where have you been?” Martin asked. He had called and texted Shay to no avail.
“Sailing. Or trying to learn how, really,” Shay said with a laugh. “I don’t check my phone when we’re out.”
“You have a boat, do you?”
“I don’t. I’ve gotten to know some cool lads that do, however. It’s a sailboat that raced in America’s Cup.”
Martin raised his eyebrows with a little shake of his head. “I suppose that’s something prestigious?”
“Ay, it is.”
Again, his friend fell silent. Conor would have methodically laid out the history of whatever this “America’s Cup” was. Gavin would have riffed off the thing to bring up his encyclopedic knowledge of music and the songs he knew that had to do with boating or the water. But Shay, of course, was his usual reticent self, somehow still, after all these years, under the impression that others weren’t interested in what he thought. It was a product of the shortcomings of his childhood, Martin knew, and though Shay had loosened up some, Martin still wondered when he would ever fully get over it.
“So, I’m just here to bother you like, because, well, I’ve been put out,” Martin said, finally getting to the point. He might as well admit what was happening. To himself and to Shay.
“Put out?”
“Celia. She rather forcefully suggested I find myself somewhere else to be for a while.”
Shay digested this information, then nodded. “Ashley, was it?”
Hearing Ashley’s name sent Martin’s heart thumping. And Shay jumping so quickly to the conclusion that she was to blame for his marital problems was even more anxiety-inducing.
“I did not cheat on my wife,” he said emphatically.
“Did you not?” Shay asked softly, with simple curiosity in his voice.
But to Martin, it came off as accusatory.
“And here I was thinking I was coming to a friend.” Martin finished his second beer in two gulps, scrambling to think where he’d go next. Ashley being just across the Bay in Berkeley was the obvious answer, though he hadn’t wanted to admit to that yet.
“You have, you know that,” Shay said. “Admit, though, that you and Ashley got on like a house on fire, especially on this last leg of the tour. You know, going off on your ‘explorations.’ Wasn’t that what you called it? And coming back with tattoos and piercings?”
“Tattoos and piercings are not the same as cheating.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t help that. He hadn’t expected Shay to judge him this way.
“You’re right. They’re not,” Shay said. “And I’m not after telling you how to live your life. I’m just telling you why I thought of Ashley. You two seemed . . . close.”
“She’s a mate, is all,” Martin said quickly.
“I see.”
Again, Martin heard more in Shay’s words than what was intended. It felt condescending once more. And it rubbed Martin the wrong way. “Fuck off, Shay,” he snapped. “I’m so tired of the way yous all look down on me. Always with the snide comments—”
“What are you—”
“Ashley saw it clear as day. Said you were all only too happy to keep me in the shadows. And now that I’m finally asserting myself you all can’t handle it. She said you’d react like this.”
Shay kept quiet, preferring instead to examine him. But that peculiar stare of Shay’s was the last thing Martin wanted at this moment.
“Say something,” Martin said. “Don’t just fucking look at me like that.”
Still, Shay took his time formulating his next words. Martin attempted to turn the tables, leveling an intense gaze upon the other man. Shay had a compact build, with his back, chest, and arms tightly muscled to better drum. His blond hair had the barest trace of strawberry to it, and he had taken to wearing it longer these days than the close-cropped buzz he had sported for so many years. His eyes, gray and intelligent, combined with prominent Irish cheekbones, made him an intriguing figure, even if he did eschew attention.
In contrast, Martin had always been baby-faced, stocky, and unremarkable. He’d grown up the middle child between two older sisters and two younger sisters who had in turn either doted on him or forgotten him entirely. His mother adored him and fed him a steady diet of fried breakfasts and sweet treats at all hours, the same way she took care of his father. Being coddled that way had taught him to look for guidance and decision-making in others. When he fell for Celia, it was in large part because she was so similar to the women he had been raised by. Celia was a preschool teacher, accustomed to giving constant, minute directions. Piously Catholic, she wouldn’t sleep with Martin until they were married. She took over from Martin’s mother so smoothly that he barely noticed the transition. The life she created for him, and eventually for their three boys, was a damn good one. She kept a wonderful home, handling every domestic duty and freeing him to make music and go out on tour. In return, all she ever asked was that he accept that she rarely wanted to have sex. That lack of passion in his life gave him even less reason to be active and in shape. Despite this, he had been happy with this life, having accepted that it was the tradeoff for the stable family life he enjoyed. Until Ashley changed everything.
What she changed first was his physique. With her encouragement, he’d transformed his body into something completely different. Shedding twenty-five pounds, his face suddenly had defined cheekbones and jawline, showcasing a previously hidden handsomeness. With cardio and weight training, he had added sculpted muscles to his six-foot-two frame. That and the new energy he felt had been addicting. Once he started, he hadn’t stopped. Ashley’s vocal appreciation had been a great motivator, too.
“Tell me what you need, Marty,” Shay said, interrupting Martin’s reverie. “I want to help.”
Martin blinked and swallowed hard. “Exactly what I needed to hear, man.”
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