A Kind of Honesty Read online

  A Kind of Honesty

  Lane Hayes

  2nd Edition Copyright © 2019 by Lane Hayes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, names, characters and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or deceased, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design by Aaron Anderson

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  A Kind of Honesty

  First Edition Copyright © 2016 by Lane Hayes

  To Zack. You’re the reason I began this journey just as you were beginning your own. May you find your own kind of truth, romance, and honesty.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  A Kind of Truth

  A Kind of Romance

  A Kind of Home

  Starting From Zero

  Coming Soon - Out in the Field

  Excerpt from Out in the Field - July 2019

  About the Author

  Also by Lane Hayes

  1

  “No legacy is so rich as honesty.”

  —William Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well

  The crystal chandelier in the bathroom swayed when the door slammed. It was hard to tell if the coast was clear yet. There were at least four rooms in the hotel suite she could have stormed into in her epic rage. I just hoped she chose the exit. And took all her shit with her. I didn’t want to climb out of the en suite Jacuzzi to find an expensive bag, a bathing suit top, or even a pair of lacy panties she might come back for. Miranda claimed she was done with me, and I hoped like hell that was true. Because I was done too. Done with everything… the nonstop parties, the drinking, the endless stream of willing women, and the pressure. The constant fucking pressure. A tiny voice in my head whispered it would be so easy to end this. A bottle of pills and a silent good-bye.

  Who was I kidding? I didn’t want to die rock-and-roll style in an LA hotel bathtub. Besides, my friends would kick my ass.

  I waited a few minutes, listening for any hint of a crazy lady rustling around in the vicinity. It was quiet, and now the water was too warm. It was time to buck up and begin the undoubtedly lengthy chore of unraveling my mistake. I reached for the plush white towel on the marble ledge as I stepped out of the tub. I dried myself quickly, then tied it around my waist and quietly moved into the adjoining bedroom. It was empty. And thankfully, untouched. Knowing Miranda, there was a decent chance she might have broken a Baccarat crystal vase or whiskey decanter on her way out as a parting fuck you. There was no sign of her in the living area either. I scanned the luxurious room as I dialed reception. It was beautifully furnished in cream tones and offset with gold silk drapery, a funky brass chandelier, and a series of black-and-white photographs of some of Hollywood’s biggest stars from the mid-twentieth century.

  “Hi, it’s Tim in—yeah, I’m in the Hepburn suite. Hey, I’m going to need my key disabled again. Right. I don’t expect any visitors.” I ran my hand through my hair as Bill from the front desk hurried to assure me my privacy was their number-one goal. “Thanks. I’ll grab the new key card from you later tonight. Okay. Perfect.”

  I set the phone down, then checked the lock on the main door. You could never be too careful when dealing with fruit loops, I mused. I caught my reflection in the antique mirror in the entryway and stopped. Fuck, I looked like hell. My dark blond hair was shaggier than normal. It might look more “rockerish,” but I preferred a conservative style. And as our band climbed the charts and people began to take notice of Spiral, little details from the length of our hair to what brand of jeans we wore seemed to matter. I’d get it cut and shave my beard when I got back to New York tomorrow. Those were easy fixes. The bags under my eyes and my overall pale complexion, no doubt due to stress, exhaustion, and too much time in the spotlight, might take a little longer to cure.

  If I was smart, I’d order room service, rent the latest Star Wars movie, and celebrate my newly single status in peace and quiet. I’d worked nonstop with my band for well over a year. We were finally getting a brief hiatus before heading into the studio to record our second album in July. I couldn’t speak for Rand, Cory, or Isaac, but I desperately needed a break. Three months would hopefully be enough time to get my life back on track.

  I stared a moment longer at my tatted arms and torso, then at the opulent room’s reflection. A panicky feeling spread through my veins. This was part of the problem. This wasn’t my life. I wasn’t the guy who stayed in exclusive hotel suites or the guy who knew what the hell Baccarat crystal was. When had I become so fucking… elite? Or was I just out of touch? I liked baseball, beer, and playing the drums. Not fancy hotels, private clubs, and champagne. This wasn’t me. This was a claustrophobic hell of fake smiles and posturing people who wanted a piece of the action. Overzealous guys who wanted to be best buds, and women with big tits and surgically enhanced faces willing to spread their legs at a moment’s notice to be with a rock star. What had once felt like a winning lottery ticket now felt like a prison.

  I dropped my towel on the floor and hurried back to the bedroom. I had to get the fuck out of here.

  LA was a fairy-tale-magic land of dreams or nightmares, depending upon which direction you traveled down Sunset Boulevard. We were certainly heading toward the dark side now. The bright lights faded to dingy-looking strip malls as the driver turned south onto the 101 freeway. Somehow the absence of light in the grittier part of town was liberating. I felt like I was shedding an unwanted burden. Tonight, I wanted to get lost. The darker, the better.

  When I gave my driver the LA address, he didn’t blink twice or ask any questions, like “What the fuck?” He was a professional, hired by the label to drive me anywhere I wanted to go. Anyone else might have asked what the hell I was thinking going to a dumpy gay bar forty-five minutes away from my posh Bel Air hotel when there were dozens of hipper establishments in nearby West Hollywood. That was if they didn’t question why I’d want to go to a gay bar in the first place.

  “Do you want me to wait for you, sir?” he asked politely.

  I shook my head as I opened the car door. “No, thanks. I’m meeting a friend,” I lied. “Have a good night.”

  “Take my card in case you change your mind.”

  I took the card without looking at it and thanked him again before exiting the town car. It was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night in mid-March. It was cool outside, but it felt like summer compared to the foul weather currently hitting the East Coast. I glanced up at the neon sign above the doorway, Tremors. The e and the o were blacked out, so it read Trmrs. Nice. This was exactly what I’d had in mind. There was no bouncer and no line of hunky, well-dressed divas waiting for entry. I smiled, though I was aware this field trip could still be a total bust. I wanted an out-of-the-way dive bar where there was little to no chance of being recognized, but I was also hoping to get laid. I got the first part in spades, if the sticky concrete floor, old-fashioned mirrored bar, and tinny sound of a Luke Bryan country song blasting from a worn-out speaker system was any indication. The second part might
be trickier.

  I adjusted my black Orioles baseball cap and took a seat at the far end of the bar. It seemed like the best vantage point to view the sparse crowd over a beer or two. A small group of men and a couple women were gathered around a battered wooden table in the middle of the room, laughing uproariously in a way that suggested they’d been there for a while. Thankfully they drowned out the heated conversation of the two men at the opposite end of the bar. Their tone was reminiscent of every recent interaction I’d had with my ex. No fucking fun. There were a couple of stragglers near the dartboard in the back who might look interesting after a beer or two. I ordered a Guinness from the middle-aged, gray-haired bartender and pulled my phone from my pocket.

  I read a text message sent earlier from Rand telling me they were back in New York and to call him when I got in tomorrow. I huffed and set my phone aside. Rand was like the brother I never had. And like the mother I did have, who drove me fucking nuts. I typed a quick response and thanked the bartender when he set my drink at my elbow with a wink.

  “Let me know if I can get you anything else, honey.”

  I raised my glass in a toast and took a healthy sip and one more glance around the bar. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. There wasn’t enough to keep my attention in a dump like this for long. No sexy, edgy-looking guys. Only an unhappy couple and a group of inebriated friends and some mysterious types lurking in the shadows. I should have gone to WeHo. I pulled out the card my driver gave me and punched his number into my cell. Gary Perez. I was about to press Send when the door opened. I wasn’t sure what made me turn around, but the second I did, I had a feeling my luck had changed.

  This was more like it. I stared shamelessly at the tall, gorgeous man standing near the jukebox at the entrance. He was a good couple inches taller than my five eleven, and he was built like a brick house. His tight, black T-shirt hugged his thick muscles in all the right places. And those jeans… damn. He was stunning. He pushed his hand through his dark blond hair, then stopped short when he sensed my stare. I gave him a friendly smile but didn’t make any desperate overtures for him to join me. It was probably creepy enough that I couldn’t look away. I hoped he’d come on his own.

  He did.

  “Hi. Can I get a vodka tonic with lime, please?” He kept his gaze on the bartender, then turned to face me, gesturing to the empty stool next to me. “Is this seat taken?”

  I didn’t answer right away. Honestly, I couldn’t. Have you ever met anyone so good-looking they don’t seem real? He was like an Armani ad come to life. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, twinkling blue eyes, and a god-like, sculpted body. I was speechless. What was this guy doing in a dump like this? He belonged on magazine covers or billboards. Not bellied up to a tacky bar in what felt like a remote outpost in spite of its Los Angeles address.

  He cocked his head and gave me a lopsided grin that let me know I’d been caught staring. Again. I cleared my throat and tried to talk without squeaking.

  “It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a minute or two. The sounds of laughter, muted conversation, and yet another country song served as pleasant background noise, but every nerve ending in my body was buzzing now. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so aware of another person without actually speaking. I looked up at the small television perched above the bar for distraction until I could think of something to say that didn’t sound completely lame. The two jocular athletes giving sports highlights weren’t going to hold my interest for long, but I gave them my attention until I could formulate a plan. I tuned into their report about the latest preseason baseball trades and hoped inspiration struck soon.

  The bartender set a cocktail in front of the hottie, then asked if I was ready for another.

  “Not quite yet. Thanks,” I replied.

  “The name’s Dale, hon. Just give me a shout when you’re ready.”

  I smiled in acknowledgment and turned slightly on my stool, bumping my knee against Mr. Tall, Blond, and Sexy’s. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  “No problem.”

  God, even his voice was sexy. Deep, smooth, and erotic as hell. Fuck. I clandestinely adjusted my dick in my tight jeans and then reached for my beer. A moment later my gaze was back on his full lips and the hint of scruff on his chin. He said something, but I couldn’t concentrate. I was losing my cool at an alarming rate. Come on, Chalmers, pull it together.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” I squeaked.

  Yeah, my voice cracked. It was mortifying. And I was pretty sure it hadn’t happened to me since the last time a hot guy made me nervous. That was years ago. I was grateful it was so damn dark in here. My face had to be bright red.

  “I asked if you’re an Orioles fan,” he repeated, gesturing to my baseball cap.

  “Uh. Yeah. You?” Nice one. I winced.

  He chuckled softly and shook his head. “No way. I’m a Yankees fan.”

  “You from New York?”

  “New Jersey originally. Are you from Maryland?”

  “Yes. Baltimore,” I said, pointing at the B on my cap.

  My friends would literally be rolling on the floor if they could see me now, I mused. Apparently, I hadn’t outgrown the geeky, shy kid I’d once been in high school. I was tongue-tied and nervous. And I’d forgotten I wasn’t supposed to give personal details to strangers. Even exceptionally handsome ones. Then again, there was no other way to explain why I was wearing Orioles gear in Dodgers territory.

  “What are you doing in LA?” he asked politely.

  “Business.”

  “Me too.”

  “Do you come here often?” I sputtered and tried again. Fuck, this was torture. “I meant to LA. Do you come to LA often?”

  He grinned widely and nodded. “Often enough. I have a couple of clients in Southern California. I’m probably here four times a year. I like LA. The weather is phenomenal. I could get used to seventy degree days in winter,” he commented, idly shaking the ice in his glass.

  “True. What do you do?” I blurted.

  “Nothing too exciting. I’m in finance.” He took a drink and then turned to fully face me. I was aware of his heated gaze giving me a thorough once-over, stopping to stare at my heavily inked, muscular arms.

  I braced for recognition, but immediately chided myself. This guy wouldn’t know me. From a purely stereotypical standpoint, men who came into bars like this were redneck hicks who liked country music with a ton of twang. They didn’t listen to bands like Spiral, and they wouldn’t know or care much about our amazing year climbing the charts and breaking records. We’d been nominated for five Grammys last month and won three, for fuck’s sake. Personally, I thought the newer material was even better. If our fans agreed, we were poised for success beyond our wildest dreams.

  This beautiful man was certainly no hick, but he’d chosen a country-themed gay bar for a reason. Possibly the same reason I had. This was about the moment. If things went my way, we’d know each other well for a short time only.

  “Sounds interesting,” I said before taking my last swig of Guinness.

  “It has its days, I suppose.” He smiled again and held out his right hand. “I’m James, by the way.”

  I looked down at the card my driver had given me, then put it in my back pocket and took his hand. “I’m Gary.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gary. What do you do for a living?”

  “Uh… I’m a driver.”

  “Like a trucker?” he asked. Something sparked in his eyes and suddenly I understood the game.

  My smile was cocky now. I was back in the driver’s seat. James didn’t want to get to know me. Not the real me, anyway. I could be whomever I wanted. A trucker with tats who made his way across country from Baltimore and found himself in a shithole bar in LA made a helluva lot more sense than the truth. I felt my shoulders slip as I waved to the bartender.

  “Yeah. Kinda like a trucker,” I said, pushing my empty glass
forward. “We’ll both have another.”

  I watched James’s Adam’s apple slide lustily in his throat, and for the first time, I knew without a doubt we were on the same page.

  An hour and a couple drinks later, I was ready to move. Sitting on a barstool with a half-hard dick talking baseball was all well and good, but I was hornier than I’d been in ages. My body was tingling with awareness. James’s knee was glued to mine now. He cast an amused glance my way when I tried to plead my case that the Orioles were, in fact, a team on the rise. His eyes crinkled enticingly at the corners again, and fuck, there went my train of thought. I was throbbing with need and quickly losing my ability for verbal communication.

  “Sorry, Gary. I think the O’s have been on a hot streak, but they’ve got nothing on the Yankees.”

  “But what about the Mets?”

  James rolled his eyes and huffed in mock exasperation. “What about them? They’ve got nothing on the Yankees either.”

  “But the Mets made it to the Series.”

  “That’s like saying the Braves didn’t suck as much last season, so why not root for them instead of the lousy Orioles?”

  “You did not just say that,” I deadpanned.

  He winked, then licked his bottom lip seductively. The sudden shift was disconcerting and hotter than it should have been. “I did. Whatcha gonna do about it?”

  I gulped. “Uh…. Nothing here. Not without getting arrested anyway.”

  “That sounds promising,” he purred.

  I couldn’t think of a comeback that didn’t scream juvenile, so I tapped a beat on the edge of the worn bar and gave him a goofy smile. I froze a moment later when the song blasting through the speakers changed to one of Spiral’s recent hits. Shit. I had to get out of here. My time was up. I was like Cinderella at the first stroke of midnight. If anyone recognized me, I’d have a difficult time explaining myself.