Page 36 of Hurt

“That doesn’t make sense,” he finally croaked.

“Yes, it does,” Grant said intensely. “You know what I mean.”

Kurt did. He knew what he meant because that’s how it felt to him. Like he could bleed out everything he was feeling with every reverberating note.

“I will admit that I am not orthodox. Asking Jamie to get information on your background is the backward way to do things, but I had to know.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a nice guy.”

Grant smiled, not that fake pleasant austere smile, but a small one that bloomed from somewhere deep. “I’m not a nice guy. If you knew what I was willing to do just to get a chance to talk to you, you would never call me a nice guy.”

Kurt didn’t know if he wanted to run or punch this guy in the face. “Are you flirting with me?”

That small smile broadened, and Grant roared in laughter. That bright, earnest look was gone, replaced by one of unbridled mirth.

“Yes. I have been for days.”

He had not expected him to admit it. Grant was a fountain of honesty, and Kurt didn’t know what to do with that. He let the silence between them stretch out, but it didn’t seem awkward. Grant drank his soda, and Kurt continued ripping the label of his beer into a thousand tiny pieces.

“So, my nephew. You know who he is.”

“Yes,” Grant admitted. “But I already knew about the Mesa’s heir. I just didn’t know he was related to you. Changes nothing.”

“It doesn’t?”

Grant shrugged. “I used to be close with Luther. We maintain a good business relationship.”

“Used to be?” Kurt prodded. He didn’t miss the way Grant’s face darkened when he mentioned him. He promised to answer all his questions, and Kurt wanted to see if he truly would.

“Yes, well. Does anyone stay close to their exes?” He shifted in his seat, and it was the first time he had seen Grant uncomfortable. “Before you ask, we went to high school together. We had similar backgrounds, and it was easy to be around him. But people change. He changed into someone I didn’t want to be with, so I ended things.”

Kurt tried to picture anyone wanting to date the short man he had met only a handful of times. He seemed pompous and generally insufferable.

Not that he was in a position to judge anyone.

After that, it was like something lifted. They chatted for a while—about nothing mostly. Grant never pushed too far, occasionally skirting right up to an uncomfortable topic but backing off the moment Kurt shot him a look. He didn’t seem to mind either, just shifted the conversation to something safe.

If you were to ask Kurt what they spoke about, he couldn’t really tell you. What he did remember was the way he felt—safe. Like as long as Grant was looking at him, he wasn’t quite so broken and used. He felt human, full of flaws, but he somehow knew that Grant would accept them all.

When they parted, Grant had not insisted on a handshake or a hug. “You know, I’ve spent days wondering what I could do to get you to play for me again. But, after talking to you, I realized it doesn’t matter. It isn’t the music that makes you special, Kurt.”

And then he left. He left Kurt staring after him with a mixture of emotions he didn’t understand.

For the first time in ten years, something inside of Kurt healed instead of broke.

8

HAVE YOU ANY DREAMS YOU’D LIKE TO SELL?

The Weavers’ estate was impressive. The main home was a modern-day castle—all marble and minimalist aesthetic. Aside from the long drive up to the main home, the rest of the lands looked like a park. Trees were allowed to grow wild, trimmed only to maintain their health and safety. You could be standing ten feet from a building and not know—such was the utter silence and wildness of the place. Were it not for the hulking stone walls that surrounded the perimeter with their high-tech security measures, the place might look like it was pulled straight from a fantasy novel.

Several homes were spread out through the property. They were all distanced to afford their resident’s privacy. With the exception of Wallace, who lived in the main house, which also served as the Weavers’ headquarters, the other Weavers all lived solitary lives outside of work.

Grant’s home was in the far eastern corner. Not the most remote location, Roland had taken that for himself, but it was far enough away that he could enjoy the window open without being disturbed. The house itself looked more like a cottage in the woods. A spacious porch wrapped around an A framed structure made of thick wooden logs. The main floor was open, while the single bedroom was in a loft nestled under the sloping roof of the home.

Grant was reclined on his leather couch, enjoying a rare night off. Leaving his desk covered in work, he forced himself to take a break and enjoy the novel he had been trying to finish. Toes tucked under the cushions of the couch, he enjoyed the chilly breeze coming in from the open window behind him. Occasionally he could hear the rustling of some small animal in the darkness.

His hair was damp. It smelled faintly of shampoo, and he wondered if he should cut it. It was growing rather long, and it was hardly fitting for a man of his status.