Face the Music: A Low-Angst M/M Romance: Portland Symphony Series

By London Price

Getting over your ex is tough when he lives right down the hall…and tougher still when he's in your bed.

 

He wasn't Andrew when we dated–he was a curvy, black-haired beauty I locked eyes with in a club. I didn't realize it was serious when we stayed up all night talking about music. Nor when he was spending more nights at my place than his own. We fell into a rhythm I missed completely, and as a percussionist, that's embarrassing. 

 

Our break-up wrecked me more than I've been willing to admit. But when my ex shows up on the porch in the middle of the night, soaked and homeless, I can't turn him away. He needs a place to stay, a job–I can give him that, at least. But when he wants me to hold his hand during his first tattoo and cook meals with him, fall asleep holding each other…that's different. 

 

Can I put my fragile heart on the line again, knowing how it ended last time? Or do I owe it to myself to face the music and see if that rhythm is still there? 

 

Face the Music is the third book in the steamy Portland Symphony series, but can be enjoyed as a standalone. If you like early transition awkwardness, bad boys who learn to communicate, and a gender-affirming HEA, one-click this book now. CW for a coming out gone wrong, implied deadnaming, and discussion of religious trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Sun Will Come Out Publishing
• Release date: Feb 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781952172403

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

You’re doing it again.

I look up from the piano, but don’t stop playing. My best friend stands by the front door of the house we share, hands jammed into the pockets of his green canvas utility jacket. It’s the house he grew up in, still full of his mom’s knickknacks and school pictures, even though his mom lives elsewhere.

Doing what? I ask, even though I already know.

Playing jazz standards that sound happy, even though the lyrics are melancholy.

What’s wrong with ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’? I ask. It’s a classic.

Nothing, Colby says, shaking his head slowly, but in combination with ‘You Don’t Know What Love Is’ and ‘Cry Me a River,’ it’s got me a little concerned.

I shift my gaze back to the worn black and white keys, but say nothing.

Sure you don’t want to come out with us?

I smirk. So I can watch Darren hit on straight dudes, ladies hit on Tony, and you and Patrick drink in silence?

I don’t always drink in silence, Colby mutters. We could play pool. We could dance.

Chance doesn’t mind that? At the mention of his absent boyfriend’s name, Colby’s shoulders fall, and I wish I hadn’t brought him up.

No, he doesn’t mind, he mumbles, but the way he kicks at the Oriental rug tells me that maybe Colby minds; that even though he has permission, he’d still miss his guy.

You seem droopy. I’ll pass.

Colby sighs. You can’t sugarcoat it at all? Not even a little?

Uh...that was sugarcoating. At least in my mind. I want to tell him if he quit acting like a kicked puppy just because Chance is away for a while, I’d think about it, but I don’t want to make him sadder. But some of us have lost our favorite person permanently instead of temporarily, and since the constant comparison is making me a little bitter, it’s probably better if I pass on tonight. I reach the end of the song, so I start in on an old song by Peggy March.

What’s that one?

It’s called ‘Leave Me Alone.’

Colby rolls his eyes, then shuffles to the bottom of the stairs. Hey! Are we going or what?

A duet of low voices calls back, and by the time I’ve finished my song, Darren, Patrick and Colby have noisily trundled out the front door, slamming it behind them, and I’m left with the quiet. Just how I like it. Or, at least, just how I’m used to it these days.

They aren’t back yet when the knock comes. I’m just tidying up the kitchen when I hear it. Yes, I’m the kind of man who tidies; I hate coming down to cereal bowls in the morning, stuck with cornflakes and whatever ‘heat and eat’ food my roommates scrounged up in the night. It’s one reason I stay up so late. The other is that I just can’t sleep. The knock is tentative, uneven in tempo. You notice that kind of thing when you’re a percussionist. Call me a drummer, and you’ll be out on your ass, even in the pouring rain, like it is now.

In fact, it’s so rainy and windy, even when it comes the second time, I think it’s nothing more than the bushes out front tapping on the bay windows. Colby keeps meaning to cut them back, but he’s been moping since Chance went to England for six months. I can’t blame him; I lost the love of my life three months ago, and I’m still not over it.

But the third knock is desperate, loud, knuckle-bruising, and I take six big steps to the front door and throw it open, ready to run off whatever drunk person has the wrong address.

But the person standing in front of me could not possibly have the wrong address, because he’s been here before. He’s cooked dinner with us. He’s played Risk and watched soccer. He’s celebrated birthdays and holidays.

He’s slept in my bed.

What are you doing here? I ask, but without waiting for an answer, I pull him inside by his canvas jacket sleeve—it’s soaked through, and he’s dripping on the hardwood floors.

I didn’t know where else to go... That’s when I notice the duffle bag over his shoulder, and my heart goes feral.

What’s going on? Are you okay?

Keep it down, he hisses. You’re, like, yelling.

You’re damn right I’m yelling, I fire back. You can’t just show up here in the middle of the night and expect me not to have questions!

Don’t be melodramatic, it’s only 12:30. The way he mumbles does not inspire confidence that everything is okay—and he hasn’t even bothered claiming that everything is okay, now that I think about it. You don’t even go to bed until 1:00.

"That is not the point." I shut the front door, finally, and the quiet house now makes him feel too close and not close enough. Give him space. Don’t make him want to leave. Whatever’s driving him here has to be serious, and I have to force myself to be still instead of pacing.

Where’s Colby? he asks, looking toward the stairs.

I cross my arms. Out. Along with everyone else. I can’t emphasize enough how terrible he looks: brown eyes rimmed red, dark circles under them. Black hair buzzed short, choppy, like he did it himself without a mirror. Fingernails with chipped blue paint. His clothes look brand new, but they don’t fit him right, like he didn’t try them on first. And yet, this sopping mess of a person is the one I’ve been playing songs about, and I couldn’t be happier to see him.

I was hoping I could stay for a few nights, he says, still dripping.

Of course you can, I say quickly, scowling. But would you please tell me what’s going on?

Can I have a towel?

You’re not answering my question...

He nods slowly, staring at the rug. And I don’t plan to. So, if that’s contingent on me staying here...

Still using those big, fancy words, I mutter, but I motion for him to follow me as I start up the front stairs. I pull out my phone and call Colby.

Change your mind? he asks over the noise. We’re at The Hatbox. That is more tempting than their original plan, because the music is good there, but there’s no way I’d leave him here. Also, I have just realized that I don’t know how to explain this situation without using his old name, and I don’t know the new one. And now I’m missing Chance, because he’s trans—maybe he’d have an idea for me. Ev? You there?

Yeah, just a sec. I am totally stalling as we arrive at the bathroom and I pull a towel out of the cupboard. Sorry. Our favorite Timbers fan will be spending the night tonight. It’s the only way I can think of to describe him that Colby will definitely know. And when I glance at him, a grace note of a smile crosses his face before it’s hidden under the towel.

Oh, reeeaaallyyy? If my cringe isn’t outward, I don’t know how.

Stop being a gay cliche, I say, my voice low, stepping into the hall and closing the door before Colby can do any more damage. It’s not like that.

"I am bisexual! Colby yells. No erasure!"

Okay, whatever you’re drinking, it’s stronger than you think it is, so I’m gonna ask you to switch to water for a bit. Who’s driving?

We did a ride share. Best. Choice. Ever.

Good, I didn’t want to come get you. Have fun, and I’ll text you the details for when you sober up.

Coolio. Love you, man.

I love you too.

No, I really mean it, though. I love you. Like, love you love you.

Me too, bud. Be safe. When I hang up and turn around, he’s right behind me.

What did he say? Can I stay?

I already said you could!

When he rolls his eyes, I can see the whites of them. It’s not your house, Ev.

Friends stay over all the time, L– I stop before his birth name pops out. I actually don’t know what to call you.

He frowns for a moment. We’re friends, aren’t we? I thought we ended things amicably.

Yes, shit. I’m fucking this up. I meant your new first name, if you picked one.

Oh. His expression clears, and he gives a shrug. I’ve been leaning toward Andrew.

He must have taken off that soaked jacket and hung it in the bathroom, because I can hear it dripping on the tile. The air up here is warm, but it smells like the rain he brought inside. The only light is coming from behind him, and he’s shifting his weight nervously, his hips swaying, just like they were when I first met him in a club with a pathetic name like Germ. That’s the five seconds I got to decide if I like that name on the person I love.

Andrew is good. It’s nice. Not too...you know, out there. Mentally, I rehearse his family now: Nick, Roselani, Grace, Mark, James, Luke, and Andrew. It really does sound nice. It fits.

Well, with a last name like Kahananui, I thought I’d make it easy on people.

You don’t have to. Make it easy on them. It’s about you and what fits. And if you change your mind, just tell me, and Andrew is out. I point down the empty hallway. And if any of those assholes give you a hard time, just let me know, and I’ll take care of it. You–

Ev. Chill. You’re not my protector anymore, remember?

He’s staring at me, and all I can do is stare back, my heart a melted glut of regrets and wants and needs, like some kind of sculpture that didn’t quite work out, now solidified, immoveable. I’m just going to be stuck this way forever, aren’t I? Hopeless and in love? Because I’m sorry, but I will be his protector forever.

Right. Sorry. I... I start down the hall the wrong way, then double back. Tony’s out of town. I guess I can put you in his room?

The couch is fine...

I cross my arms. You really want to sleep in the basement?

Andrew glares at me, because I already know the answer. Plenty of people sleep down there, since it’s a futon. But it aggravated his asthma the last time he did...the time we fell asleep down there, just talking. We’d talked all night. These things happen when you meet the most interesting person in the universe.

I don’t want anyone going to any hassle for me.

Therefore, you’ll refuse to sleep in an open bed, forcing people to tiptoe around in the morning. Yeah, that makes sense.

He’s still glaring.

Well, I’m tired. So I’m gonna change the sheets on Tony’s bed, then I’m gonna go to sleep. Feel free to sleep there. Or in the bathtub. Or in the creepy basement. Totally your call.

Grumbling under his breath, he follows me down the hall. You’re the absolute worst.

His face has a poked bear quality, so I decide to put down my proverbial stick and just let him be. He’s obviously been through something tonight. I desperately wish I knew what it was. The pang in my chest gets stronger when he sinks into the high-backed wooden chair in the corner like he can’t stand up anymore. He’s silent as I change the sheets, opting for some light blue ones. Tony’s not the kind to get mad that we used his room; once upon a time, he needed to crash here himself. He’ll understand, but I still text him in case he comes home early.

I can’t put you in Susan and Chris’s room without talking to them first. But maybe Colby can call them tomorrow. I think they might be planning a trip soon... When he says nothing, I turn to look—and he’s asleep. He’s bent his arm, resting it on the back of the chair, and laid his head on it like a pillow. It looks spectacularly uncomfortable, and I want to reach out and touch the fawn velvet of his face, count each dot of the light spray of freckles across his big nose. They come from his grandpa Barry—I’ve seen pictures, but never met him before we broke up. They spend the cold part of the year in Hawaii, in the same town they grew up in. My gut still churning with a weird concoction of emotions, I kneel and carefully untie his soaked Converse, tugging them off with his white tube socks. His jeans are still wet, too, where his coat didn’t cover...but I obviously can’t take those off. Even I know I can’t undress my ex without permission. I stand up, contemplating whether I can successfully carry him to the bed when he stirs.

What?

You fell asleep.

He rubs at his face blearily, and I pull back the covers, gesturing to suggest he get into the bed. He stumbles during the few steps it takes to get there, mumbling something incoherent, then falls face first into the pillow. Andrew’s asleep again before I can even get him all the way in, his legs trailing behind him. I lift his legs to help him the rest of the way, then cover him up. On my way out, I turn out the light and close the door, taking one last peek at him, but he’s out cold.

And I am officially worried.

CHAPTER TWO

It is morning, I think. I don’t know. At some point, when you’ve been lying awake all night, time blurs, like a drumroll fading out. There was no reason for him to come to my door, but I still sat up all night every time the floor creaked outside my room. And since my room is right next to the bathroom, that’s often. I sat up at 12:45 when he went in there and brushed his teeth with the spare toothbrush I put out for him. I sat up at 1:10 when my roommates came home, mildly inebriated, stumbling down the hall. And whoever had the audacity to take a shower at 1:34 is gonna hear about it from me in the morning. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal; I sleep like the dead. I mean, I used to. Before. I could never fall asleep without music, but once I was out, it was until morning. But with my door open, it doesn’t seem like a good idea.

I think I must doze for a while until 6:30, when Pat’s door closes quietly. I sit up again, and our gazes meet as he passes my open door, pausing quizzically as he puts in his wireless headphones.

Why’s your door open?

I shrug, slumping back down into bed. Wanted fresh air, I guess.

Really. It’s not a question. If anything, it’s an indictment of how badly my brain works after tossing and turning for hours. And it shows on his face as his gaze now narrows to slits.

Yep. I stretch and yawn, trying to act casual.

Tony back? Door’s closed.

No. Not him. There’s someone else in there. For a while.

Patrick is known for many things, but patience is not one of them, and apparently, he’s fed up with me, because he stares at me for a moment, then continues down the hall without a word. I cover my head with my down comforter, and suddenly, I am confronted with how bad I smell; stress does that to me. Gee, why would I be stressed? Just because the person I’m still in love with is sleeping down the hall, after coming here out of desperation he wouldn’t share with me? I decide to get up and shower in case we run into each other at breakfast. No, that’s too weird. He’ll know that’s not normal. Besides, I should go running, and then I’d be showering twice. My only choice is to reek. I sniff myself again, then remove the comforter in disgust. No, my only choice is to shower, or I risk offending everyone in this house.

The hot water revives me a little, even though it should probably be cold with where my mind is going. He’ll be using this shower in a few hours. Naked. Wet. Touching his skin, luxuriating in this hot water... Speaking of touching, my hand has somehow found its way to my stiff cock. I lean against the shower wall, my feet braced against the tub. This wouldn’t be my first choice for getting off, but if I’m going to continue the charade of keeping my door open...I close my eyes, letting the water hit my back so my hand stays soapy, and I think about the last time we were together.

Long, dark hair tickling my chest, clever fingers playing around my ribs, urging me to sit up. Sinking down on my cock, forcing me to hold that beautiful brown gaze, bossy fingers on my chin, hungry kisses keeping me in the moment as I caress chest and ass and thighs...I come hard a minute later, but it’s marbled with guilt, because I’m still getting off to the old him. That’s what got me