Feel My Pain (Curse Bound 1)

If he didn’t look out of the window and then drank enough before the performance, maybe he’d forget where he was and earn a lot of money in tips. “Not now. I need my energy for later.”

Sid loudly sighed his relief, to which Callum started bickering with him. At least the white noise of them fighting blocked out some of Zane’s thoughts. He was fine. Blood didn’t trickle down his face, and none of his bones were broken. This would be like any other performance, and they’d move on first thing in the morning.

The car stopped far sooner than Zane would have wished it to.

“Wow, the place is massive,” Callum said, already opening his door.

Zane hesitated, but he might as well rip off that Band-aid so he sat up, taking in the broad horseshoe of the three-storey motel. Karma Motel, it was called in a careless example of cultural appropriation that made zero sense, given that he couldn’t see any South East Asian inspiration in the dirty beige facade. Oh well, maybe the owner had been to India once and liked his vacation.

The arms of the building encompassed a parking lot for guests’ cars, but several trucks were parked beyond it, and even farther on, in dimming daylight, the red neon of a bar was already on.

It wasn’t massive, but Zane didn’t care to argue and left the car.

Sid went to the back of the car and took out his bass guitar. “Just keep it down guys, this place doesn’t exactly have rainbow flags in the windows.”

“But it has some faded rainbow in stock,” Callum remarked, and when Zane didn’t realize what that was about, he nodded toward a petite guy Zane initially took for a woman. Because of the blond pixie cut and jean cut-off shorts that were far too skimpy for the evening cold. The stranger was leaning into a parked car, his torso appearing too lean in a tight white top.

“Well, it is a truck stop,” Sid said and closed the trunk. “Let’s go.”

Callum grinned and grabbed a strand of Zane’s hair to sniff it. “Smells so nice.”

And now it would smell of chicken. Oh well, nobody was perfect, and Callum was a drummer. He knew everything about rhythm when he rode Zane’s cock.

Sid slapped his brother’s hand. “What did I say?”

*

Zane had been to a dozen bars called Tony’s, but that fact made this dump less special. Which was exactly what he wanted. He wanted this to be same old, same old—another establishment selling booze on the cheap, with red walls, an American flag hanging under the small television playing a college game, and stains embedded in the floor. It wasn’t one of those classy places somewhere expensive that adopted the look of a dive bar but catered to suits and hipsters. The wall featuring photos from local events was as real as the billiards table with dark circles left on the faded green cloth from drinks someone had put there.

A few beers down the road, Zane almost forgot what town this was, and as long as he remained within the walls of the bar, he could pretend it was the Tony’s in Michigan. The owner wasn’t even called Tony. He’d introduced himself as Mr. Greg Culver, and now watched Zane’s band from behind the counter like a hawk, as if he worried he wouldn’t get his money’s worth on the entertainment if Callum went to relieve his bladder too many times.

By ten the crowd had swelled, so Zane no longer felt as if they were playing for themselves. With the biker club gone for good, the locals didn’t have many places to go on a Saturday. A strange satisfaction began growing in him. Here he was, two years on, still standing, like a Grim Reaper with a guitar spitting on the bikers’ graves. He shouldn’t have avoided this town. This was the moment of catharsis he’d needed all along.

But as he howled into the mic, hips slowly fucking his guitar, the air trembled around him, as if the entire room held its breath in anticipation. Electricity burned his fingertips when he touched the three metal strings and trailed up his skin, making his hair rise.

Blood rushed to his head, filling it with a rustle that dulled Callum’s drums, and his gaze was drawn beyond the crowd, to the open door leading into the parking lot bathed in ugly yellow light that was the exact shade of bile vomited during the worst of food poisonings.

A man stood there, a muscular shape in a T-shirt and an oversized leather vest, his short hair in dire need of brushing. Zane couldn’t see his features, but his throat closed, cutting the long high note to a pathetic end.

Half the eyes in the bar darted his way, including those of the man standing in the doorway. Zane didn’t want to believe it possible, but there he was.