Interlude

1

Though the customers at Heat Wave knew better than to touch, they crowded around the platform like ants on syrup, filling every available seat at the tables, laughing and joking loud enough to make the music harder to hear. It wasn’t even ten yet and already the bar was packed. Men, women, a couple in the corner who were too androgynous to tell…everybody was there, which meant the tips would be good that night. They weren’t always on Thursdays. AJ Mobley could count on Fridays and Saturdays to bring in a nice chunk of change, but during the week was a crapshoot at best.

He sat at his piano, head bowed, pretending not to notice the fingers pointing at him or the not quite whispers as people questioned his presence. The regulars knew the whole story, but Heat Wave got a lot of the tourist trade, too, those who didn’t know just what the show entailed. All they knew was what they were sold—two guys, two pianos, the best music in Reno. To a newcomer, the quiet pianist who never made eye contact or smiled was probably just the warm-up for the real deal. AJ was okay with that. Without Tyrone onstage with him, that’s really all he was. It was only when the other man came jogging in from behind the bar, his Hollywood smile firmly in place, did AJ come to life.

He launched into a jazzed-up version of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Sometimes, this time before the main show was his favorite. He could just play for the sake of playing, get lost in the music and forget about anything and everything else. Playing piano had been the only thing he’d wanted to do since he took his first lesson at the age of four. More often than not, it boggled him that he could actually make a living at this.

The light on the base of his microphone flashed. That was his cue. Nobody but AJ could see it, but as he finished out the final run, he reached up and tilted the stand down for better amplification.

“Welcome to Heat Wave, ladies and gentlemen. Where the beer’s cold, the music’s hot, and nothing says I love you more than a tip in the tip jar.” A chuckle rippled throughout the room. “I’m AJ Mobley, and for the next two hours, I’ll be playing some current hits, some golden oldies, and probably a couple songs nobody but a starving music major has ever heard of.”

His fingers drifted over the keys, picking out the introduction melody by rote, as he deliberately fixed his attention on the other piano. The audience obeyed his cue and followed his gaze, and seconds passed where the only sound in the bar was his playing.

After thirty seconds, he started the melody over again. One or two of the patrons started to glance back at him in curiosity.

At a minute, AJ cleared his throat. “See, this is the part where my partner introduces himself. But as you can see, he’s not here. I hate to say it, but that’s really not all that unusual. In fact—”

The double doors next to the bar slammed open, loud enough to divert nearly everybody’s attention. Heads turned to watch the lithe man jog and wind his way through the tables, his fingers working hurriedly at his shirt buttons. Enough of them were undone to give everybody a good long look at his sculpted chest, the rich mahogany skin mouth-watering and flawless, and he flashed more than one brilliant smile at customers when he had to squeeze awkwardly between them.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he said, making his way to the other piano. “Don’t start without me.”

AJ rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Don’t be late next time.”

“I’m not late. We start at ten.”

“And it’s now five minutes after ten.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Looks like someone left his watch behind again.”

“Better my watch than my pants.” He slid onto the other piano bench and immediately turned his thousand-watt smile to the audience. Leaning into the microphone, he said, in a low voice meant to give Barry White a run for his money, “Good evening, everyone. I’m Tyrone Dahl.”

“Otherwise known as the man who can never be on time,” AJ added.

Tyrone frowned at him over the pianos. “Never say never, my friend.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Maybe you’re just early.”

“No, I’m just trying to give these people the show they came to see. Dueling pianos means two of us, remember?” AJ cracked a grin as he switched songs in mid-verse, waiting for the prepared response.

Tyrone pretended to gag. “How many times have I asked you not to pull that ‘Ebony and Ivory’ crap?”

“How many times have I asked you to be on time?”

It was a practiced routine, nearly every word of it scripted. The regulars knew it was put-on, but to the newcomers, their friendly bantering would set the tone for the entire night, the back and forth that made them so popular. AJ wasn’t completely foolish, though. He knew part of it was because of Tyrone himself. The man was beautiful to look at, with warm brown eyes, that wide smile, and a body to kill for. He got propositioned on a nightly basis, and half the time, he accepted. AJ would have been a little jealous if Tyrone acted like an asshole about his appeal. But he just happened to be one of those guys people wanted to be around.