Page 12 of Carver’s Craving

Styx swallowed. “Sounds like a tough job.”

“I’ve never shied away from hard work.”

“Nope. That’s true. You were the hardest-working guy on our crew. I don’t think I ever told you how much I appreciated that. You were always so reliable. Dependable. Strong. I feel like, especially at the beginning, I didn’t take things seriously.” He sipped his water.

My gut instinct was to argue. Because that would’ve been the polite thing to do. Except he wasn’t wrong—he had goofed around a lot and not been as focused on the shows as he should have. Might that have made a difference? Could we have averted the tragedy? Mentally, I shook off the idea. Perhaps he might’ve had more success and been playing bigger venues—but that wouldn’t have guaranteed Frank would still be alive. “At the end you were really doing well. You had that record deal—”

“That fell apart.” He toyed with the crust of his sandwich. “Things…collapsed. By then, to the best of my knowledge, you weren’t around. I, uh, would’ve asked you what you thought—”

“I was a roadie, Styx. Not a manager or publicist. I wouldn’t have had anything to contribute.”

“You’d been working in the industry for over fifteen years—you would’ve had a lot to contribute. As it was, our manager bailed and the record company backed out. They gave us a small payment to cover breaking the deal, but that was it. Needless to say, that money didn’t go far. And playing—” He shrugged. “—yeah. So I took a job selling walk-in bathtubs and Baxter landed a gig at the Oshawa Centre selling fragrances. He used to come home reeking of perfume. But we did what we had to so we could pay the bills.”

“Until…?”

“Until the day I realized my guitar was accumulating dust. I put my foot down and pointed out we weren’t honoring Frank by doing this. By lazing about and letting our—“ He gazed upward as if seeking the right words. “—talent? Our whatever…go to waste, we were disrespecting Frank’s memory. He’d helped write some of our music. Now, I still wasn’t ready to get on a stage in Oshawa—or even Toronto. Nope, we needed a fresh start. Whether we ever play our old songs again is something we needed to sort out.”

I scratched my jaw. “Those were damn fine songs. You deserved a contract long before you got one.” Which might not have been the right thing to say since the contract had been rescinded.

“Maybe? I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to go back to them.” He shrugged.

Encouraging him was one thing. Pushing him to go where he might not be comfortable was something else entirely. “And Baxter?” Because that felt like a logical question.

“Who the fuck knows? I should try calling him again—but…” He yanked his phone out of his back pocket. “Barely any juice left.” Still, he tapped the screen. After a moment, he spoke. “Dude, this is so not cool. Answer your fucking phone. Let me know where you are and when I might see you again. Oh, and I ran into an old friend. You’re going to want to know about this. Call me.” He ended the call. “Can I plug my phone in?”

“Of course. Do you need a cable?” He had the same brand as I did, so I had several in my junk drawer.

He shook his head. “Nah. Just an outlet.”

“Right.” Because this I could do. This was simple. Ignoring my attraction to him would be a bigger challenge.

Chapter Four

Styx

When we were done eating, Carver gave me the grand tour.

Which really wasn’t all that impressive—except that he lived in the woods, had an awesome view, and a hidden loft that he pointed to, but didn’t show me. The spiral wooden staircase had me intrigued, though.

Once we finished, he said he needed a nap.

I sort of didn’t understand that. But he might’ve meant that he needed time away from me.

He took the dogs out for a pee break and then headed to his bedroom.

With the dogs.

I’d noted the ramp leading from the floor to his mattress—assumedly so Walter could climb to the bed if the little guy wanted. Dog beds were also located in just about every room—including mine. And always two. So if Poppin and Walter wanted to share a space, they had their own little slice of doggie heaven. At least, when I gazed at those beds, that’s what I saw.

Carver went into his room with the pooches and I settled on the couch in the great room. I eyed the remote controls. Surely I wouldn’t disturb him if I turned on the television. Except I didn’t know if he had cable, some streaming channels, both or none. His CD and Blu-ray collection was impressive and I probably could’ve figured out his entertainment equipment. Still, that felt like I was intruding.

Finally, I eyed my phone. You need to call your parents. They said to call them every day and you haven’t called once. Hell, they might’ve called the RCMP by now. I couldn’t see my parents making the effort and calling the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—but that wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

The fast charge on the phone had worked, and now I had just under eighty percent. Knowing I could plug back in later, I disconnected it from the charger, and then headed to the couch. As I gazed around the room, I tried to determine the acoustics. Was I sitting in the place most likely to carry sound? Was there a quieter location? Well, the loft, but I sort of felt it might be out of bounds.

I hit the number for our family’s landline. If I was lucky, they might all be—

“Steven Smith! Where the hell are you?”