Chasing Death Metal Dreams (16 page)

Eventually Nate got too restless for cleaning. He grabbed a big sketchbook and went back down. None of the guys looked around as he eased inside the garage, planted himself against the wall beside the door, and began to draw album art. He managed to lay out a couple of cover concepts, but eventually found his pencil doodling a portrait of Carlos.

He gave in to temptation, drawing Carlos bare from the waist up, looking off to the left. He added the tattoos, nipples, paused at the scars below Carlos’s pecs, and had an idea. Nate couldn’t do anything about having outed Carlos, but he could maybe give him a gift. Maybe he could do
something
that would be a win for Carlos, and not just a risk. He’d never actually designed a real tattoo— not one someone might actually get— but he’d critiqued enough of them. He made seven fast sketches of Carlos in the same pose, thought about the options, and began designing.

He was aware from time to time of the rhythm of the practice. He listened to Carlos’s new songs long enough to decide he liked them, but the lure of his pad and pencil sucked him in. The vague awareness of someone walking past him finally pulled him out of his distraction, and he turned to see Carlos heading out the door and across the gravel toward his car. The band was still practicing, but clearly Carlos was leaving, without one single word. Nate grabbed his pad and scrambled to his feet to chase after him. “Hey, wait up.”

Carlos froze momentarily, then turned back. “I’m not in a mood to hang out.”

“Okay. I know.” Nate lowered his voice as he caught up, stopping a couple of feet away. Carlos’s expression made his heart sink, but he kept on going. “But we should talk, and I have something to show you.”

“Does it have to be now?” Carlos closed his eyes, his face drawn and dull.

“Well, no. But I think it might help. A little bit?” He clutched his sketch pad to his chest, suddenly unsure. Maybe this was a really bad idea.

“Okay.” Carlos took a step away from him though, not stopping till he reached the car, then turning to lean against it. “What?”

Nate had wanted to get Carlos up to his apartment, and do something about that defeated look, but he wasn’t sure that was what Carlos wanted. He hesitated, glancing at the sky. The sun had almost reached the horizon while they practiced, but there was still a perfect golden evening glow. Enough light to see by, for sure. No excuses.

“Okay. So it isn’t much, really. Just some, um, drawings.” He went up to Carlos and leaned beside him. The sun-warmed metal was almost too hot though the light fabric of his shirt, even though the car was in the shade now. “So I was thinking. I did these.” He flipped open the pad.

“That’s a good one of Tom,” Carlos said.

“Yeah. I figured I’d do small cartoons for the back cover, maybe. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He flipped the pages. “What about these?” He passed it over.

Carlos turned the first couple of pages quickly, then the next few more slowly. He stopped at the last one, staring down. His fingers on the edges of the pad were white-knuckled. “What’s this?”

“Well, tattoos, obviously. Designs.” Nate pointed to the chest of the standing portrait. “I tried to incorporate the shape of the little chest piece that you have now into them, in different ways. That one mirrors the curves in the trellis.” It had roses, growing though ironwork, piercing themselves on their own thorns. “Okay, that’s maybe too gloomy and trite? I was having fun with the lines. How about this?” He flipped back a couple. “This matches the daggers, kind of. The swords are different, but you could ink them with some of the same colors, for continuity.”

Carlos was shaking his head, his jaw set and thrust forward. Nate’s hands shook, but he kept his voice enthusiastic as he flipped another page. “Now this one goes with your song “Behind Bars”, right? I made it more asymmetrical, wrapping around left with the bars getting more damaged the further they go.” Carlos suddenly shoved the pad back at him, and he grabbed it awkwardly, his heart pounding. “It was just a thought, you know? I thought you might like them.”

“Really? You thought you might make up for your dad outing me by coming up with six different ways to hide the fact that I’m trans?”

“What?”

“You think I didn’t see the one thing all those designs did? Every single one wrapped around my scars. Every one, designed to make those not show. Because being a fag in metal music is hard but being trans would be unthinkable?”

“Wait. That’s not what that was!”

“Yeah, right,
no mames!
Every single design.” Carlos’s lip curled up mockingly.

“So okay, I did think you might use a new tat for that.” Nate took a quick breath, steadying his voice. “Why is that so bad? You said you were bummed about how much the scars still show, six years later. So why are these wrong?”

“They suck, and if I have to explain, you already don’t get it.”

The flat disdain in Carlos’s tone hurt, but Nate tried to stay reasonable. “If you don’t like these, I can do something else.”

“Just forget it.”

“Well, you know what?” Nate gritted his teeth and tucked the pad under his arm. “I thought those were pretty damned good tats. If you have a real issue, tell me. If you’re being pissy because my dad was too friendly—”

“Friendly!” Carlos took a step closer, eyes locked on him. “You call that friendly, calling me out as your date in front of strangers? Who the hell is he to do that to me?”

“He’s my father! And they’re not strangers to him.”

“I am, and that was just ignorant. He had no right to get personal.”

“He’s interested in my life. He wants me with a nice guy who makes me happy.”

“Not some tattooed Mexican trans metalhead, right?”

“He never said that!”

“I could see it. He probably wanted me gone.”

“Well you’re fucking deluded.” Nate blinked hard. “You know what? My father has never, not
once
, told me not to date someone I was interested in. And I guarantee you he would never out someone deliberately to get back at them.”

“So you’re saying he’s just stupid?”

The sneer on Carlos’s face burned, because this was Dad, the guy who’d been at Nate’s back since the moment he’d come out, and never faltered. “Well, I’d rather he cared about my dates, and was okay with the gay, than a father who dumped me in another country and pretended I didn’t exist!”

He wished he could call back the words the instant he said them. Carlos rocked back a step, and his eyes went flat and hard. “Sweet. Maybe your perfect father can find you a perfect out guy to date.” He whirled and yanked open his car door.

“Wait! I’m sorry!” Nate reached for Carlos, but Carlos dodged the touch as he slid into the driver’s seat, and Nate had to jump back to avoid getting caught by the door as he slammed it. The Pinto’s engine revved to a harsh snarl, then Carlos slammed the car into gear. Nate jumped back again as gravel spat from under the wheels. A moment later, Carlos was gone down the drive, leaving Nate staring after him.

Nate stood there in the driveway, reeling off every swearword he could think of. The music from the garage snarled appropriately behind him. It didn’t help.

What now?
Had they just broken up, from whatever
together
they’d had? He couldn’t imagine Carlos coming back and wasn’t sure what to say if he did. “
You take back what you said about my dad and I’ll do the same?
”
Taking something back didn’t mean you could forget it.

He flipped open the sketchbook, looking at the designs. He’d spent the last two hours listening to the same fucking songs over and over, drawing these, trying to make Carlos happy. Well, screw that!

He ripped the pages out, one by one, and tore them into little shreds, opening his hand to let the pieces drift to the ground. A scrap fluttered and turned over, showing one dark eye under a heavy brow, looking at him warmly.
Not gonna happen.
He flipped the scrap over with his foot.

The song from the garage changed to a familiar cover. He glanced that way, thought about going up to his place and… doing something fun. But even with the insulation they’d put in, Serpentine at full volume wasn’t background music, and it wouldn’t take much for him to want to kill his brother too. His head hurt, and he rubbed it fretfully.

The mellow summer light was still too bright for his eyes. He didn’t want to drive anywhere. He wandered across the grass to the old willow, and ducked between the hanging fronds to reach the trunk. The big branch he’d barely been able to reach as a kid was at neck height now, and he boosted himself up onto it easily. From there, it was only three more branches up to his favorite seat. He eased onto it, straddling the thick curve of the tree limb, and leaned back against the trunk. The long leafy willow-wands around him swayed lightly in the breeze, screening him. It felt as secure as it always had, his safe harbor, hidden from prying eyes.

As a child, he’d sat here for hours surveying his kingdom. By force of habit, he looked over to the end of the driveway, and the patches of road visible between the pines. There was no flash of rusty Pinto, of course. Carlos was long gone. Nate closed his eyes, and tipped his head back against the rough bark.

From up here, the music in the garage filtered down to a lot of bass, deep driving wordless rhythms that matched the fast thumping of his heart. No words, no thoughts. He’d learned meditation in high school, trying to learn to not react to bullies and anger and hurt. He’d never meditated to a metal beat, but why the hell not. Maybe if he breathed once every two bars, it would work. Maybe once every three. He sucked air in, held it, blew it out. And again. Without meaning to, his eyes slitted open, but the road between the pines was empty. Then a truck went by. A horse trailer. An old pickup. Nothing. He closed his eyes again and breathed.

****

Chapter 8

Carlos wasn’t sure where he was driving. In fact, he wasn’t sure
how
he was driving, because a red veil kept hazing his vision, and his grip on the wheel hurt his hands. He cornered too fast, and heard the tires whine in protest.

Slow down, jackass. You can’t live to show them all how it’s done, if you die in a car crash.
He imagined squishing his inner Jiminy Cricket with a rolled up newspaper, and took the next corner even faster. It helped to have to focus on his driving, to fight the sway and slide of the car and steer with a light touch, adjusting as the pavement roughened and then smoothed. He could focus on this and not give a moment’s thought to the way Nate had reddened and blinked when he’d trash-talked the guy’s father.

“
¡Mierda!
” His distraction was shredded by a bright flash of lights behind him and the whoop of a police siren. “
¡Me lleva la chingada!
”

He wasn’t a complete fool, so he slowed and pulled to the side of the road. The cop behind him turned off the siren but left the lights flashing. Carlos sat still, keeping his hands in sight on the steering wheel, and waited. Back in the patrol car, the cop was doing whatever they did before getting out and coming to ticket you. Running the plates, or whatever.

Carlos tried to remember if he had any unpaid parking tickets. He didn’t think so, but there were some of the venues where the legal parking wasn’t close to enough, and he picked one up now and then. “Shit.” His heart hammered, and he felt sweat break out on his forehead.
Great, I’ll look guilty as fuck.

Eventually the cop got out of his car, adjusted his belt, and strolled over to the passenger side of Carlos’s car. Carlos rolled down the window, and the guy bent to look in, his hand on his gun butt. “License, insurance and registration?”

“My license is in my wallet in my back pocket, the papers are in the glove compartment.” Carlos knew better than to reach for anything without permission.

“Get the license out. Slowly. Two fingers.”

Carlos dug out his wallet and pulled out his license, handing it over with exaggerated care. The cop held it up and slowly comparing the picture to Carlos’s face. Carlos gave the cop a big fake photo-studio grin, watching the guy’s face darken.
So stupid to mess with him.
He still wasn’t listening to Jiminy Cricket, though.

“Where’s your green card?”

“I don’t have one.”

The cop’s attention sharpened. “Illegal, huh?”

Carlos gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m an American citizen. Grew up in California.” He didn’t need to mention he’d only become a citizen at sixteen. “Washington resident for six years.”

“Right. ’Cause you look so American.” The cop gave him a grin that was all teeth. “Try again. Green card?”

Like you can’t be American unless you’re a dumb white cracker, huh?
He had enough self-preservation not to say it. “I’m an American.”

“Would you step out of the car, sir? Nice and slow. Leave the keys in the ignition.”

He turned
Shit
into “Sure”, opened his door and eased out of the seat, keeping his movements casual, and his hands well away from his body.

“Turn and face the car. Hands on the roof.”

He carefully dropped his wallet onto the seat, inside the car, and did as he was told. The cop came around the hood and stepped close behind him. “I’m going to pat you down, sir. Just keep still.”

Carlos wanted to say no, wanted to protest that he’d given the cop no reason to get personal with his body, but he knew better. He held still as the man ran rough hands all over him. Carlos flashed back on a bad day, when he’d been stopped just like this, eighteen and driving too fast. He’d been on hormones, but pre-op, still binding, and he’d been a C-cup, hard to hide. Worse yet, his mustache, and his still-female driver’s license, had made that cop freak. He’d hauled Carlos in to the station, and it had taken Tío Ramón driving all the way over to convince them to spring him.

He bit his lip and didn’t move as the cop explored his groin and down around his thighs. At least now he had it all together, even if that meant he was now a young man DWB. Driving While Brown was probably better than Driving While Black, but it still sucked. The cop said, “Put your hands behind your back, nice and easy.”