The Corruption of Colt Jackson Ch. 01

The first time Colt meets Marc he's flying. That's what it always feels like after a good set on stage. The Drunk Wizards, a rock band that Colt plays the fiddle with had just had a fantastic final set of the night. There's a moment in most performances when the band and the patrons of a bar are so in sync with one another that they become one, like two chambers of a beating heart. One side can't exist without the other. After a set like that who wouldn't be soaring?

Colt lands at the bar, just off of the stage and asks the bartender for a water.

"Just water?"

A look at the voice gives Colt the perfect view of a crooked smile and sparkling brown eyes that instantly makes his chest feel tight. It's a man wearing it though and while Colt can appreciate the attractiveness of a man, he's never been attracted to one.

This man is brown skinned, head shaved with sharp features and brown eyes. He's built like he goes to the gym more regularly than Colt does. Colt has a high enough metabolism and is toned enough to be okay with being a mediocre gym goer. The man sitting on a stool next to him looks like he's worked very hard to have the muscles he has.

"Just water." He says with a nod.

Having grown up with an abusive, alcoholic father, Colt has never cared to drink all that much. In his experience, alcohol makes people mean. Logically, he knows that that isn't true for everyone. But he and his mom still wear scars, both inside and out, from the man who wrote the book on alcohol for him.

"Boring." The man says, looking at the tender and pointing to his almost empty beer. "I can't believe you just put on a show like that and you're drinking water. I can't believe you look like you look and you're drinking water."

Colt's chest feels a little bit tighter. Is this guy flirting with him? Colt knows he's not a bad looking guy, although he has the same nit-picky insecurities as most people have. Colt is tall and just under six feet, with sun-kissed skin, green eyes and locks of sandy blond hair that brushes his shoulders. He keeps a neatly trimmed stubbled beard and mustache and has a few piercings in each ear.

Still, he's never been flirted with by a guy. It feels dangerous to him. The thought that it feels dangerous is silly though, isn't it? Some guys like guys. That's fine. He wouldn't have pegged the guy at the bar for liking guys though, which is more on him than anything else. Never judge a book by its cover, that's a saying that everyone should remember and live by.

"What's wrong with drinking water?"

"You're in a bar. You just killed it up there with your band. They were chugging shots like badasses and you kept handing yours off."

A water is placed in front of Colt and a beer in front of the other guy. Colt tilts his head curiously. "You were watching me?"

His company has the wherewithal to look like he's just been caught, pulling his lip through his teeth and looking away. When the man looks back at him he's wearing that crooked smile again that makes Colt's chest feel tight, his shoulders lifting with a shrug. "Everyone in here was watching you."

Colt laughs a bit, shaking his head. "Nah. But thanks for the compliment. My ego just grew a few sizes too big."

"Marc Fiarri." The man offers him a hand to shake and Colt takes it.

"Colt Jackson."

And that's how they meet. After that, Colt sees Marc at more of his gigs. They run into each other almost every weekend and have conversations.

"Hey water boy."

Colt smiles and waggles his water at Marc. "How you doin', Marc?"

"I'm alright. Tired, but alright." He gestures to the stage. "Sounded good."

"Thanks."

"Who taught you to play?"

"A very patient music teacher when I was a kid. Violin, actually. The fiddle came later."

"Violin? Damn. That's boring." There's teasing behind the words that makes Colt grin.

"Boring, huh?"

"Yeah. Boring as hell. Where you from?"

"Texas. You?"

"Right where we are. Jersey. How'd you end up here?"

"I drove. As soon as I could, I drove." Colt answers. "I eventually ended up here."

"What's your day job?"

Colt laughs again. "Well, if you think I'm boring already... I'm a librarian."

"Holy shit. Yeah, that clinches it. You're the most boring motherfucker I've ever met."

"What's your day job?"

"I work at my dad's garage. Fixing cars." Marc answers. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-Nine, knocking on thirty's doorstep. You?"

"Thirty-one. I beat you to it." Marc stands there a moment in silence before posing another question. "You single?"

"What is this, an inquisition?"

"I don't know about that... inquisition? Just asking."

Colt sips at his water, feeling that he's in dangerous territory again for no good reason that he can think of. "I'm single."

Marc's eyes seem to light up at that answer, some of his swagger that he'd lost when he'd first posed the latest question coming back. "Have a drink with me."

"We're having a drink right now."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't drink when I'm out."

"That's dumb. Then come to my place."

Yes, Marc is definitely hitting on him. Colt feels an obligation to say something. "Look, I'm... I think you're fun to talk to. But I'm not..."

"You think you're not." Marc reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly over the back of one of Colt's hands. The touch makes goosebumps slide up his arm. "But you can't see the way you look at me."

There's that crooked smile again. Colt feels like everything melts away and there's nothing but that smile and the memory of a touch to his hand that happened seconds ago.

What is wrong with him? He's never reacted this way to a guy before.

Colt shakes his head. "I gotta go. It was good seeing you again."

Marc stares at him with a confident and knowing look that makes Colt feel seen in a way that most people don't see him. "You too."

The next weekend they meet again. Marc asks him to have a drink with him again. Colt declines. The next weekend again, after the Drunk Wizards play, there's Marc again. They talk. Colt declines a drink.

There's a weekend when Marc is a no show at the gig Colt's band is playing. Colt wonders what happened and if he's okay. Did Marc finally get the hint? Colt is surprised to find that he's a little disappointed at the prospect.

The following weekend he sees Marc walk into the pub they're playing from on stage. He watches Marc take a seat at the bar and look over to him. Colt smiles at him in the middle of their set. It's hard to see details past the bright lights of the stage, but he thinks he sees Marc's crooked grin. His heart skips a beat.

After the last set, after packing up his instrument and saying goodbye to his band mates, Colt makes his way to the bar.

"Missed you last week." He says before he even gets to the bar. As he steps closer, he notices that Marc has a black eyes and a busted lip. His smile fades as memories of his own childhood flash before his eyes.

"Yeah? I missed you too, Texas."

"What happened?"

"Fell down some stairs?" He shakes his head and shows off the back of his own hand, knuckles broken and bruised. "Don't worry. I gave better than I got."

"Do you need to see a doctor?"

"No. No doctors. What I do need is for you to have a drink with me."

Colt shakes his head. "You know that I..."

"I know." Marc nods. "Why doesn't your band have a schedule for the next few weekends?"

"Careful. I'm gonna have to start calling you a fan." In a vague way, Colt had known that that's how Marc is always where the Drunk Wizards are playing. He keeps up with their website. He kind of likes having it confirmed though. "We're taking a few weeks off. We have lives outside of this, believe it or not."

"Librarian stuff?"

"Yeah, that. But also I help coach a little league team. We've made it to the finals and that's happening for the next three, possibly four weekends."

Marc barks a laugh. "Man, you are as vanilla as they come."

"What's that mean?"

"It means... I'm waiting for you to be an asshole in some way but you're just a good guy."

"I'll take that as a compliment. You're a good guy too."

"No, I'm not." Marc reaches for a bar napkin and a pen and starts writing on the napkin. "Here's my number. You can call me or not... but I kind of hope you do."

Colt takes the napkin with numbers scrawled across it. "Why?"

"Because I shouldn't like vanilla, but fuck me if I do. And someday we're gonna get a drink."

* * *

A week passes. It's a rough week. Seeing Marc's face beaten the way it was, seeing his bruised and scabbed knuckles has really done a number on Colt - more so than he could have predicted. He spends the entire week thinking about it, remembering his father's fists connecting with his own body when he had been too young to fight back. It's all he thinks about, memories he's tried to bury and the idea that someone had hit Marc.

He thinks about it at church on Sunday, at the library, at little-league practice and leading up to the games the next weekend. He gets through the games and the celebratory aftermath of taking the kids out for ice cream.

Once he's showered and settled at his small house, Colt has more time to think. He wishes he had a gig tonight even though he's too tired for a gig. A gig would keep him busy. A gig would take his mind off of the freshly stirred up memories. A gig would mean seeing Marc again.

Colt tells himself that he just wants to see him to make sure he's okay. Deep down he knows that that isn't entirely true. He's grown accustomed to seeing Marc every weekend.

He looks at the napkin on the coffee table for a long while before he gets out his phone. He doesn't call, he texts.

Colt: Hey. It's Colt.

Less than a minute later he has a response. It feels like a long almost minute though.

Marc: Hey. I was just thinking about you. Ready for that drink?

Colt: I just wanna know that you're okay.

Marc: Worried about me? That's sweet, Vanilla.

Colt: Yeah, I guess I'm worried about you. I can't quit thinking about you.

Marc: I can't quit thinking about you either.

Colt smirks.

Colt: I mean your face. Your hands

Marc: You have a nice face too. The hands are alright.

Colt rolls his eyes.

Colt: You're incorrigible.

Marc: There you go with that library-speak again. Come over.

After a deep breath, Colt sets his phone on the couch beside him and stands up to pace his living room. Marc wants him to go to his place and after all the flirting and invitations to drink with him, the implications are obvious.

There's only been once that Colt has ever stepped out on a limb without knowing exactly what he was going toward and what was going to happen. Much of his childhood and into his teens had been out of his control in every way. When he left Texas and his dad and mom behind, that had been a leap of faith, a terrifying leap of faith... and look at him now.

Colt hears a bark outside and goes to the back door to let his dog in, a black haired Great Dane that he'd rescued at the local shelter.

"Hey, Emmitt. Hey, buddy." Colt scratches at the dog's ears and feeds him.

When he hears his phone chime again, he grabs it from the couch and finds another text from Marc.

Marc: You there, Vanilla?

Colt: I'm not that brave.

Marc: Let me be brave for you.

Colt: How?

Marc: Whose place are we being brave at?

Colt sets his phone down again and takes another deep breath. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He paces the room again, thinking, Emmitt lazily watching from his pillowed dog bed. It's several minutes later when he picks up his phone and texts Marc back with his address.

Colt: My place.

It feels safer to be in his own space. It feels like there are fewer unknowns even if there's still a helluva lot of unknowns.

He stares at his own text and instantly thinks that maybe he shouldn't have done it. He knows what he's inviting to an extent. He isn't stupid, although he can accept that he's naive in a few respects. But this feels new and exciting. It's also scary.

Colt is scared.

Marc: Give me half an hour.