Free Xylophone by K.Z. Snow Page A

himself as he
    smoothed his hands from lapels to sash. Carver did
    that sort of thing a lot, as if checking his physique
    to make sure his workouts were yielding results.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it that guy you
    started seeing?”
    “Yes, if you must know.” Peevishly, Dare
    adjusted the waistband of his red pants—a lot less
    fun than stroking oneself through a layer of velour.
    “It isn’t that I must know. Actually, I’d rather
    have a cup of coffee than find out.”
    “Then go fucking get one,” Dare snapped.
    Jesus. Why couldn’t he once, just once, confide in
    his brother without encountering indifference or
    snide remarks or a condescending lecture?
    Instead of proceeding toward the kitchen,
    Carver kept studying Dare, then sank into the
    nearest chair. “What’s going on between the two of
    you? I thought you only got together to exchange
    notes about therapy or something.”
    He actually seemed interested, but Dare was
    still leery of his brother’s motives. “We’ve been
    exchanging more than notes. And I don’t mean
    bodily fluids. But maybe we want to. That’s the
    problem. Or rather, I don’t want it to become a
    problem.”
    Carver gave him a blank stare. “What the hell
    are you talking about?”
    “I don’t want us to be attracted to each
    other!”
    The stare gave way to a puzzled blink.
    “Why?”
    “Because… you know!”
    “No, I don’t.” Now Carver stared at him as if
    he, Dare, were deranged. “Are you talking about
    some taboo I’m not aware of? Is there, like, a rule
    in the Universal Victims’ Handbook that says if
    you’ve ever been groped by a perv, you can’t
    touch anyone else who’s ever been groped by a
    perv?”
    “There is no Universal Victims’ Handbook,
    Carver.” Dare didn’t realize what an utterly idiotic
    statement that was until it had fallen from his
    mouth. He did realize he wasn’t too sharp today.
    “Then what’s the problem? You’re consenting
    adults.”
    Sighing, Dare put his hands on his hips. The
    ill-fitting red pants slipped an inch. “Fuck if I
    know.”
    Carver got up. “That’s the most sensible thing
    you’ve said all morning.”
    THREE bands were playing at the Birches, a
    supper club with an attached hall. Maybe Jonah
    and GG wouldn’t make it today; maybe this was
    farther than they were used to traveling for their
    dance outings.
    Dare could only hope… even though he still
    hadn’t come up with an adequate answer to
    Carver’s looming question: “Why?”
    His mouthpiece clattered to the floor as he
    tried to swivel it onto the cork-sheathed neck of
    the clarinet. “Shit.” He scooped it up, checked the
    reed for any damage, and worked the mouthpiece
    into place.
    Today they had to do their preparations in a
    storage room behind the hall. It was stuffed with
    folding banquet tables, stacked chairs, and a
    shelving unit brimming with tablecloths, vases, and
    decorations. The Polka Doodles were on first. Bob
    had persuaded the second band, whose name Dare
    had already forgotten, not to start bringing in their
    equipment until the Doodles started playing.
    Cluster-fuck prevention, Dare assumed.
    Max, Junior, and Ernie were setting things up
    on stage.
    Bob sauntered over, Lucille hanging on him
    like a gaudy piece of armor. “Something bothering
    you today?”
    “Nothing I can’t handle.”
    “Just don’t get your fingers confused.”
    “Don’t worry.” Dare smiled. “I’m a
    professional.”
    At least Bob didn’t sneer at that, just uttered a
    single ha . “Oh, by the way, I want to talk to you
    after our set about a duet idea I have.”
    Junior stuck his head into the room. “You
    guys ready?”
    They were on.
    Dare didn’t have time to think once they
    started playing, and not thinking was, for him, often
    a good thing. He didn’t even make a point of
    scanning the audience. Then GG danced past the
    low stage. Dare’s eyes sprang in her direction as if
    they’d been programmed.
    Jonah