Chasing Death Metal Dreams by Kaje Harper Read Free Book Online Page B

followed him into a curtained cubicle. The space wasn’t too tight, but the fabric curtain stopped a foot above the ground, so any real fun would be too risky. Que lástima . Too bad. He hung the shirts he was holding on the peg. Nate handed him a blue-and-gray stripe and said, “Here, try that one first.” He leaned against one of the solid walls, arms crossed over his chest.
    Carlos slid the shirt off its hanger and stopped dead.
    It was odd, the way he would remember and forget at the same time. He was a guy, always had been a guy. The fact that he’d had surgery to get rid of his girl parts seemed like something from another life. Until suddenly it meant he had scars on his chest that wouldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Until it meant that pulling off his tank top would reveal him far more nakedly than he’d intended. He hesitated, then slid the shirt on over the tank. The buttons were a bit tight and he fumbled them.
    “It’ll fit better without doubling up,” Nate said. “Three more months of summer, and it gets hotter every year, seems like. You’ll roast if you wear layers. Or do they overuse the air-conditioning at your job?”
    Carlos paused, two buttons fastened. He ducked his head, staring at his Vans, the plain black ones he wore for work. He’d bought them two years ago, and they were getting scuffed, the tops lined with gray creases, the rubber smudged. Two years ago, he’d bought Vans and Docs to celebrate finally paying off what he owed Tío Ramón, what the college fund hadn’t stretched to, for all the hormones and the doctor visits, and the lab work, and the surgery, and the silicone gel sheets for reducing the scars, and… everything, really. His life. His self. He’d vowed then, no shame.
    Nate had pushed away from the wall and was looking at him, those thick eyebrows arched and his lips parted with some question he held back, unasked.
    ¡Pues ni modo! To hell with this. His other motto had been, “ ¡Si no les gusta, que se chinguen! If they don’t like it, screw them! ”ever since he was ten. Ever since Mamá and Papá gave up on him and sent him north for Tío Ramón to try to make him see sense. He’d gotten out of his uncle’s car in front of the house in Crescent City, and he’d yanked the frilly shirt over his head, ripped one sleeve off, and crossed his arms over his bare chest. He’d said, “ Yo no soy una niña. I am not a girl,” and never backed down again.
    Being in the closet in the metal community was just common sense. For all that they claimed to hate the establishment, the metal crowd had its share of gay-hating, women-hating, trans-loathing jerks. If he wanted a real shot in music, he needed to be a straight guy. Outside of music, though, if Nate couldn’t take him as he was, then screw him. ¡Mierda! Carlos yanked the striped shirt off without unbuttoning it, then grabbed the hem of his sleeveless tank and pulled it over his head.
    Without looking at Nate, but without crossing his arms over his chest or turning away, he picked up the striped shirt, opened the two buttons, and then slid his arms back into the sleeves. He knew what Nate was seeing. He’d heard the little hitch in Nate’s breath, so small he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been expecting it.
    Nate had asked to see his chest-piece tattoo, but below that, below his flat, dark nipples that grafting had shaped so well, were the narrow, ridged, brown scars of his top surgery. No amount of creams and silicone and compression and wishing had smoothed those off his skin. He was resigned now, six years later, that nothing ever would. Of course, there was a chance Nate didn’t know what he was looking at.
    The shirt was a good fit, worn over bare skin. Carlos buttoned it easily enough. With two buttons open at the throat, some of his chest piece showed, but closing one more hid most of it. He held out his forearm under the brightest light to see if the tat would show through. There was a hint of