The washed-out, old frescoes were being restored on the walls, the ancient well’s wheel had been rebuilt, and the chambers seemed as hard and inhospitable as Adam suspected they would be. “Do people ever sleep in here?”

  “Only if they’re drunk,” Martin said with a laugh. “This is a major party area for the musicians. And look, the new roof isn’t even finished yet. Nobody wants to risk a nighttime shower.”

  They grinned at each other. The few people that rushed past them were with the festival, lugging cables or fastening signs for tomorrow. “We should go get our instruments,” Adam said, trying not to let his regret show. Spending time with Martin was nice, and his enthusiasm for the old place was infectious. “You’ll have to show me where things go, since this is your stomping ground,” he said, bowing to Martin’s experience.

  Martin stumbled over a cobble stone. A curse flew, spoken in a language Adam didn’t recognize, and Martin righted himself.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Martin bit off. “Fine.”

  Only once Adam caught up with him, he saw the flush of embarrassment rise up his cheeks.

  * * *

  Martin could’ve kicked himself. Adam Vanek gave him a compliment—a true, heartfelt compliment—and he almost face-planted on the hard cobblestones. Even though Martin had high confidence in his ability to deliver musically, a swarm of butterflies began to rise as time wore on as he saw Adam-the-tourist grow into Adam-the-musician.

  He had been kinda cyber-stalking this guy for the last two years like a love-sick fan-boy. None of the few boyfriends he had during this time measured up, because despite their undeniable assets, they lacked one key quality: they weren’t Adam Vanek.

  Martin settled behind his drums, adjusted the set to his reach, and began to twitch in tempo as the familiar songs of Sylvan Breeze ran through his head. The band was doing a sound check, working with the stage crew, and tuning their instruments. Ironically, the mosh pit attendees would get to see the stage, but it was the crowd out on the meadow, who would see them only on a huge screen on the castle wall, that would benefit from the castle’s unique acoustics.

  “Go ahead. Feel free to warm up!” Adam’s words broke his flow. Martin was in mid-piece while thinking sideways. He looked up. Adam’s overgrown hair was darkened with sweat and slicked back, and he had that focused, feral look on his face.

  Just like in his videos.

  And he was staring at him.

  Once again, Adam nodded. “Go on!”

  The sound of his drums reverberated throughout the courtyard as Martin ran through a few sequences, but under the weight of Adam’s seething gaze, not even his drumsticks managed to retain their composure. His left one spun out of his grip on rebound and sailed up, flipping through the air.

  He thought he would die of embarrassment. As he scrambled to the ground to hunt down a part of his instrument, he noticed a pair of familiar brown shoes under his nose.

  He slowly looked up. This is where Adam would decide that Martin wasn’t really needed. Hell, the base could play the beat. So could the keyboards.

  To his surprise, Adam squatted so their faces were on the level. “Relax, okay? This will be fine.” He still had that intense, wild look in his eyes, one that made Martin think of old berserker fighters that had, no doubt, died assailing these walls. His intensity spoke of confidence, though. Confidence in himself, in his band, and also in Martin, their fan-boy volunteer. “Sit up and take a deep breath,” Adam whispered so only Martin could hear. “And then, when you’re ready, we’ll start with Nightshade.”

  Martin nodded. “Thanks,” he whispered. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He had played on so many stages around the world, with so many bands, not understanding their languages and trying hard to fit into their cultures—and he had a boyfriend with him here and there, as the local conditions allowed—yet never did he freeze the way he did when Adam Vanek fixed his dark, heated gaze upon him.

  Adam only nodded, squeezed his shoulder, and took his place on the small, open stage.

  The touch of his hand had seared a mark into Martin’s consciousness. Soft and hard, hot and cool, calm and full of inexplicable energy. He wanted more. Hell, he was ready to play himself into utter exhaustion to earn another squeeze on the shoulder—but the next one would be one of recognition and praise, if he had any say in it.

  “One, two—one two three four!” Adam counted out the beat and music exploded, washing over Martin like an irresistible wave. It cleansed him, it passed around him and through him, and as he rolled with the complicated syncopations that had once been Seth’s trademark, Adam’s resonant voice joined the cresting wave of the melody.

  The magic took Martin to that other place, the one where he felt no pain and only the oneness with the universe pulsed through him with every riff, every beat, and every wail of the guitar.

  The set ended so abruptly, he felt the absence of music as physical pain. As he looked up, though, Aleeta and Jennie’s exuberant expressions stilled any concern that had might have threatened to wiggle its way back in. Then Adam’s eyes met his with a gaze that took his breath away.

  Oh yeah. Tomorrow’s concert would be just fine.

  Martin would have sat there, basking in the afterglow, if a stage hand didn’t prod him along. “Hey, the Black Arrow needs the stage, dude. You ready to go?”

  * * *

  Hours later, Adam stumbled through the woods by the light of the moon. They had a dinner of the traditional Czech dumplings, pork, and sauerkraut at the pub down in the village, chased by excellent local beer, and they had walked the girls to their hotel.

  Good rehearsal, great food, awesome company—

  A dry branch snapped underfoot. He tripped, but Martin grabbed his elbow and yanked him back. Adam stumbled, his shoulder hitting Martin’s as they grabbed for each other.

  Martin’s sweat smelled of the sun, of hard day’s work, and of the last remnants of his aftershave. It was a warm, clean scent that reminded Adam how physical drumming was, the result of which was the fine shape of Martins arms and shoulders.

  It also reminded him that Martin was a man, the kind of man he liked. Adam leaned forward and inhaled, not overthinking it after all that beer.

  “Adam?” Martin’s quiet, even voice joined the breeze rustling in the trees.

  “Martin,” Adam echoed. Martin’s face was darkened by shadows, but their arms were still tangled. Neither made an attempt to move away.

  Slowly, gently, Adam let his fingertips circle on Martin’s back as he repositioned slightly. The gesture was just this side of friendly, but it left room for interpretation. The warm, muscled back stilled under his touch, tensed, then relaxed.

  Joy thrilled through him when Martin’s fingers grazed up his arm and to his neck.

  A fling. This would be just a casual fling with a fan who happened to volunteer on a gig gone adventurous. This wouldn’t have any repercussions at all, Adam rationalized as he pressed on Martin’s back, moving them together.

  Their chests touched, their heads drooped forward like flower heads in the breeze, close, and closer still.

  Adam let Martin’s firm hand on his neck guide him. Their lips brushed, setting off internal sparks that seemed to have been accentuated by the darkness of the forest. Lips that were soft yet hard, expressive, supple, often smiling.

  Martin’s lips, amazing and tempting even as his sharp jaw stubble attacked Adam’s chin. Martin’s tongue ventured out with a languid flick along the seam of Adam’s mouth, and, obligingly, Adam let him in.

  His eyes closed as their tongues met in an explosion of want. He didn’t resist when Martin steered him back, forcing him to take a step, then another. Rough pine bark dug into his shoulder blades. The sensation ran counterpoint to the delicious storm of their kiss, and Martin’s hard-day scent was now punctuated by pine sap and a desire for something more.

  He wrapped his arms around Martin’s strong body, surprised when it went all supple against his own. When Martin wedged his thigh between his legs, still latched mouth to mouth, and now hip to hip, Adam gasped.

  The desire that he had been holding back longer than he cared to admit rushed through him like a firestorm. He didn’t care that his drummer pressed him into a tree in a dark forest. He didn’t care he was far away from home. He didn’t care that the running of his band had him strained to the breaking point, and that his creative energy was spreading dangerously thin.

  All he cared about was this feeling—yes, he was feeling again—and Martin’s hard, hot arousal, which he felt through layers of fabric against his hip, had a lot to do with it.

  He was alive, dammit. He was alive.

  * * *

  If it hadn’t been for Adam’s strong grip, and the fact that they were pressed against a tree, Martin just knew he would have slumped to the ground. Was it possible he was in a death-grip with Adam—that Adam, wild-eyed and fierce, with a smooth voice that could talk him into just about anything? Were they KISSING?

  Once that light-headed feeling passed, and Martin realized he had been pressing the evidence of his need against the object of his affection, he thought he was going to die of embarrassment. But then Adam’s hot mouth landed under his ear.

  “I want you.” The low growl came with a bite-and-suck on his neck, on a place where it was sure to show—yet Martin’s knees threatened to give out, and not falling took priority.

  He leaned deeper into Adam and that’s when he felt it, the seething and familiar hardness that was pressing into his belly, an evidence that he wasn’t just imagining things. That he wasn’t alone.

  He wanted to do something about it—anything, really, anything Adam wanted—but scratching his back against a tree was hardly a way to show his adoration. “Let’s go,” he whispered, appalled at how breathy his voice had become. “Let’s get more comfortable.”

  Walking through the woods while holding hands in the dark may not have been the smartest thing. They made it to camp all sweaty and scratched by stray dry branches, but intact and suppressing bubbles of laughter.

  “I’m so hot and sticky,” Martin heard Adam say as he was lighting the candle inside. So was he, with sweat pouring off his brow as the warm night became muggy and stifling.

  “We could dip in the creek. Here, let’s bring some light with us.” A flash of inspiration, a moment’s improvisation, and Martin pulled out a spare votive candle and a wooden bowl out of his supply box. He handed the towels to Adam. “You take these. I’ll carry the light.”

  And carry the light he did, a glass-enclosed flame that cast just enough light for them to find safe footing by the creek. He set the candle in the bowl by the bank, and began to strip.

  “I don’t have a bathing suit,” Adam said behind him, as though he was letting him know that he was about to flaunt a social convention. Ah, that’s right, Americans. They didn’t skinny-dip much.

  “You’re in Europe now,” Martin said, unable to hold back a smile. “Nobody cares.” He thought. “Well, except for me,” he corrected himself, which he perhaps shouldn’t have, because almost immediately the familiar, hated heat rose up his neck. At least Adam wouldn’t see him blush in the dark.

  The creek water was cool and fresh, and the swimming hole was still waist-deep. “We could use some rain,” Martin said. “But the low current will let us do this.” He set the wooden bowl on the water like a boat. The candle’s flame danced steadily as Martin sent it in Adam’s direction.

  The illumination showed Adam in all his glory, with the dips and valleys of long, lean muscles leading down to his unslaked lust. Adam peered at him with hooded eyes, then he slowly stepped into deeper water and dipped all the way under, washing off the dust of the day.

  Quickly, Martin did the same. When his head broke the surface again, he saw the bowl of light wedged against the stone dam. The soft glow was magical. He turned to Adam—but Adam wasn’t there anymore. Only the water surface rippled in the golden light.

  Then warmth surrounded him, the soothing comfort of Adam’s long limbs as he came from under the water with a mischievous grin on his face.

  Not hesitating, Adam pulled him into an embrace. “I still want you.”

  “Let’s see if we can do this without drowning,” Martin said lightly, peering around. “Ah. See that rock?” And there it was, right next to the thin waterfall. A rock to sit on with a boulder to lean against.

  Things happened fast after that, a mosaic of questing fingers, mapping hands, and stifled moans in the night. Martin found himself straddling Adam, facing him as they pressed together in an exhilarating overload of sensation. “Let me,” someone said, either Adam or himself, and their hands met below their waist.

  They both wanted the same thing.

  Aligned for the best way to feel each other’s satiny soft, hot hardness, they shared as two fists joined with each stroke. Two voices gasping with each thrust, each scintillating explosion of pleasure. Of unexpected emotion, too, because he was here with his Adam, swallowing his rushed exhale as they kissed, as the singer took care of his pleasure. A warmth of unaccustomed affection swelled in Martin’s heart.

  It had never been like this before—

  Not with anyone else.

  “Martin!” Adam’s shout split the forest silence as slick heat covered Martin’s hand.

  Martin followed, teeth buried into Adam’s neck as pleasure flooded his body in a wave of sizzling, coruscating heat.

  He bit hard.

  Adam’s gasped in response and shuddered, then buried his face in Martin’s neck and kissed him in what could have only been sated approval.

  A silvery flash lit up the sky, followed by thunder overhead. Soon thick, fat drops of warm summer rain susurrated against the canopy of the trees overhead.

  Still languid, Martin nuzzled Adam’s neck. “We should get out,” he said. “This isn’t safe now.”

  “None of this is safe,” Adam said, but Martin heard the smile in his voice. “You’re gonna waltz off to some far-away country to sub in another gig and break my heart.”

  “Or I’ll drag you to my shack and tell you about a drummer who knows all your songs. Even the ones you haven’t written yet.”

  Slowly, they rinsed each other off, retrieved the floating bowl and the candle that was still alight, gathered their clothes, and made their way to Martin’s special, quiet place.

  As Martin dried off and climbed inside to spread their bedrolls, he heard Adam hum a snippet of a tune. It wasn’t one he recognized.

  They soon snuggled under a light blanket as the drumming of the rain on the roof increased. “It’s just one of those summer showers,” Martin said. “It’s supposed to be clear tomorrow, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Adam said, laughing and humming all at once. “I have a tune, and all I need is a beat. One like the rain, and like thunder, and like you.”

  “I can give you a beat like that,” Martin said, smiling into Adam’s still-wet hair. “And I can keep it up forever.”

  * * *

  November 11th, 2018—NEWS FROM THE GREEN ROOM: Five month after Seth Jones left the rising alt-rock phenom “Sylvan Breeze” under strained circumstances, Czech percussionist Martin Sklar takes the stage as a permanent band member for the first time. This weekend, Adam Vanek introduces their new surprise album, “I Am Here For You,” to a growing international audience.

  Copyright © 2018 by Olivette Devaux.

  D. H. Hendrickson has published two hockey romance novels, Body Check and No Defense, as well as four other novels (writing as David H. Hendrickson). His novel Offside has been adopted for high school student required reading. His short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Pulphouse, and numerous anthologies, including multiple issues of Fiction River. His story “Death in the Serengeti” has been selected for Best American Mystery Stories 2018. Hendrickson has published over fifteen hundred works of nonfiction, most recently “Travis Roy: Quadriplegia” and a “Life of Purpose”. He has been honored with the Joe Concannon Hockey East Media Award and the Murray Kramer Scarlet Quill Award. Follow him at www.hendricksonwriter.com.

  A WHEELCHAIR AND A UNICYCLE AT FANEUIL HALL

  by D. H. Hendrickson

  Julie O’Reilly saw the crooked-nosed creep wearing an old gray hoodie half an hour before he actually did anything. But though she’d thought it odd, really odd, that anyone would wear anything so suffocatingly hot, with the hood pulled up, no less, in sweltering ninety-five degree weather, she pushed it out of her mind because she was already rather tired of being spooked out.

  This was, after all, Independence Day. Not the real Independence Day, July 4. It was only July 1, a Saturday, close enough to be called July 4th weekend, but not the actual holiday. But she’d chosen it as the day she would set herself free from the prison of her apartment’s four walls. A prison she’d locked herself in for the past eight months, a jail of lost dreams and sadness, one erected on the night of the car accident when everything changed.

  She could get around in her wheelchair—her physical therapist called her a workout warrior—but Julie worked from home, writing software, and let her mother bring her groceries and other necessities, all so she didn’t have to go out there. And if she did venture into the outside world, it was never alone, it was always with her parents, and as far away from crowds as possible.

  Never alone. Never exposed.

  Until today. Independence Day.

  How fitting.

  And so, freshly showered, her long, rust-colored hair hanging down over the back of her wheelchair and her sandaled feet squarely on the footrests, she had taken the elevator down to the ground floor of her apartment building, and felt the blast of heat as she exited the air-conditioned foyer. Bad as it was—ninety-two degrees and it was still just eleven o’clock—it wasn’t bad enough to make her regret wearing jeans instead of shorts to cover her stick legs, once athletic and beautiful according to the constant compliments by her friends that were now carefully omitted during their conversations. Now they were weak, the muscles atrophied from disuse no matter how faithfully she followed her therapist’s exercise program. Almost as awkward as her overdeveloped shoulders and forearms, out of place on her otherwise petite body, and the decidedly unfeminine calluses on her hands, all of which made her feel like a freak. She’d almost worn long sleeves to cover her arms, instead of the short-sleeved, blue flowered blouse she was wearing now, but the mid-to-high nineties and high humidity forecast had won out.