Page 4 of Hurt

He vomited again, almost like his body was trying to expel everything that had just happened. Purge itself from Ezra’s touch.

But it couldn’t.

In the end, Kurt was left alone with just himself and his hatred. The constant companion that he couldn’t seem to shake.

He stood and buckled his pants. Steadying himself on the sink, he rinsed his mouth out and tried not to look in the mirror. He knew what he would see.

Kurt would see his reflection, the reflection of the person he hated most in this world.

The bar was empty by the time he returned. Rhett was probably walking some of the dancers to their car or doing something for Molly. The Weavers would have left the moment the dancing stopped. Willow was doing whatever the hell she did after work.

Kurt walked straight to the stage. In his right hand was a battered acoustic guitar, the only thing he kept of his parents. Hooking a chair with an ankle, he dragged it to the center of the stage and gingerly sat down.

Resting the guitar on his knee, he began to strum.

Grant Weaver looked at the bar out the window dubiously.

“This is where Roland has been coming?” he asked.

The driver shifted in his seat. “Yup. Every night at eight. Do you want to go in?”

Grant didn’t answer. Truthfully, he didn’t care where his younger brother spent his time. He was an adult and perfectly capable of doing what he wanted. But Grant was curious. His little brother had never shown an interest in anything outside of work before.

Roland was many things—but he wasn’t someone who wasted his time needlessly. If it had something to do with business, then he would tell Grant. But if it was personal, well, that was a different story.

Call it being a protective older brother, but Grant needed to know.

“Yes, I think I will.”

“Want me to come in too?” Jamie asked.

“No, please stay with the car.”

Grant had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He hated the stuffy clothes. Why his father and grandfather had insisted on wearing them like a uniform, he didn’t know. He supposed there was something rather intimidating about a man in a crisp suit. An aura of confidence as he slipped on a pair of brass knuckles and broke every bone in your face.

They were thugs, but they didn’t have to dress like them.

Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he exposed the intricate cloud tattoo running along his right forearm. The white ink was hardly visible in the day, let alone at night.

He pressed into the bar and let his eyes adjust to the low light. Only one or two lights were still on. One of them was a spotlight on the stage. A single man was sitting there with an acoustic guitar on his lap.

Grant hadn’t taken a single step when the notes reached his ears. Twangy and solemn, they ran together as he plucked and teased the strings. The metal vibrating against wood, a perfect combination of strength and nature. The strumming was languid, the plucking fast. A beat picking up that was somehow not quite definable, not a genre he was familiar with.

The melody reminded him of an old wooden porch. Creaky and imperfect, but beautiful in the way the wood grains blended together. Different, but like they belonged together. It spoke of a thousand memories—sitting in the shade on a hot day or sheltering from the rain from a sudden summer shower.

And then he started to sing.

His voice was low and husky. The words he sang weren’t important—he could have been singing anything. It was the way his voice was like smoke. Curling and coy, reach out for it, and it was gone. The words came from a place Grant didn’t understand, but he felt. Born from pain.

There was pain coming from that guitar. The musician’s lungs expanded, and he breathed that pain into life.

Grant was struck dumb. He was wildly unprepared for what he found inside this seedy bar.

So engrossed in the music, he didn’t even have time to examine the man. But he took the time now. His eyes were hidden from view, closed as he played by feel. The fingers caressing the guitar weren’t delicate and slender. They were strong. Blunted fingernails holding onto the instrument like a lifeline. A buoy in a raging sea.

Dark lashes fanned over high cheekbones with an ugly bruise covering the angular face, new judging by the way it was just beginning to darken.

The musician was hunched over the guitar, so it was impossible to judge his height, but seeing the strength in his arms, it was impossible to think he was a small man. His shirt was a dark purple, and the black pants looked like they might have been jeans at one point, but they were so washed and faded it was impossible to tell. His black boots had stitching the same color as his shirt. It was almosttoowhimsical an accessory to belong.