Chapter 6: Date Night Prep
A week passed in Joel’s neon-splashed sanctuary. The bruises on KJ’s side bloomed from deep violet to a sickly green-yellow, a topographic map of pain fading slowly on his skin. The sharp ache in his jaw had subsided to a dull, occasional throb when he chewed. The physical marks were healing.
The other marks were trickier.
He’d slept for almost two days straight, a coma of exhaustion. Joel had fielded calls from the band, from his agent, spinning tales of a vicious flu. KJ had sent the scary lawyer letter, as planned. It had felt like dropping a stone into a dark well; he’d listened for a splash, for any sign of impact, but there was only silence from Alex. That silence was both a relief and a new kind of tension, a wire thrumming with nothingness.
Mostly, he’d texted Hayden. The exchanges were his lifeline to a world that wasn’t defined by trauma or safeguard strategies. They were silly, flirty, blessedly normal. Hayden had respected the ‘complicated family stuff’ boundary, never prying, just checking in. A meme of a confused-looking cat. A question about KJ’s favorite taco spot. A voice note of Hayden messing up a guitar riff, laughing at himself. It was easy. It was light.
And now, today, the plan they’d text-constructed was happening. A date. Dinner. Outside the apartment.
KJ stood in the center of Joel’s living room, which looked like a disco ball had vomited onto a thrift store. He was staring at his phone.
Hayden (2:47 pm): Be there in a couple hours. 7 okay?
KJ (2:48 pm): yeah 7’s good. what should i wear?
Hayden (2:49 pm): probably clothes.
KJ snorted, a real, unexpected laugh that felt good in his chest. He typed back.
KJ (2:50 pm): no asshole, i have outfits for everything. what kind of place is it?
Hayden (2:51 pm): nice but not too nice.
KJ (2:52 pm): that is not helpful.
He watched the three dots bounce. They stopped. Started again. Then his phone buzzed with the reply.
Hayden (2:53 pm): i’m sure you’ll look good no matter what,
KJ stared at the words. A simple compliment. It shouldn’t feel like a seismic event, but it did. His face grew warm. He looked up, needing to dispel the sudden, vulnerable energy.
“He’s useless,” KJ announced to the room.
Joel was sprawled on the chaotic couch, painting his toenails a violent shade of purple. “Who, cariño? The ex we are not naming, or the new boy-toy whose text is making you blush?”
“The new one.” KJ tossed his phone onto a pile of art books. “I ask for dress code, he says ‘probably clothes.’”
Joel cackled, carefully capping his polish. “A philosopher! I like him already. ‘Nice but not too nice’ is a classic. It means ‘impress me, but don’t look like you’re trying to marry me.’ Probably a gastropub with small plates and craft cocktails that have smoke or fire involved.”
KJ ran a hand through his hair, which he’d washed and re-dyed that morning, the black now a deep, unnatural void against his scalp. “So, like… a nice shirt but with my battle jacket over it? Or just the shirt?”
“¿Por qué no los dos?” Joel gestured vaguely with the polish brush. “Start with the shirt. The jacket is a vibe, claro. But have it off when he first sees you. Give him the full… you-ness.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Then, if you get cold, or if the conversation lags, you can put the jacket on. It gives you something to do with your hands. Strategic layering, KJ. It’s not just for warmth.”
KJ nodded, absorbing this tactical advice. He padded into Joel’s bedroom, which was only marginally less chaotic. He pulled open his suitcase—still mostly packed, a reminder this was temporary—and stared at the contents.
His choices were armor or vulnerability. The simple gray Henley he’d worn the night of the party. The tight black vintage band tee. A deep burgundy button-down Joel had forced him to buy last year, still with the tags on. He touched the soft fabric of the burgundy shirt. It felt like a statement. A statement of what, he wasn’t sure.
He laid it on the bed. Black jeans, the ones without any rips. His good boots. The battle jacket—a black denim vest so covered in patches and enamel pins it weighed a ton, a history of his life in band logos and occult symbols. He paired it with the shirt, holding the combo up. It looked… like him. The him he presented on stage, or in photos. The charismatic frontman.
He thought of Hayden’s hand on his lower back in the club, guiding him through the crowd. The way he’d listened. He put the jacket down. He’d start with just the shirt.
A few minutes later, he stood before Joel again. The burgundy shirt was snug across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate, swirling tattoos that covered his forearms. The black jeans fit perfectly. He’d even put on a simple silver chain.
Joel let out a low whistle. “Ay, dios mío. He’s going to swallow his tongue.”
"Swallowing his tongue is not the goal," KJ mumbled, but he smiled, glancing down at himself. The outfit looked right. It felt right. Then a flicker of doubt hit him. "Ripped jeans or no? I feel like they look better with these normal ass combat boot demonias, I don’t fucking know.”
Joel squinted, tilting his head. "The ripped ones. Definitely. With the boots? More edge. Less 'trying.'"
KJ nodded, decisive. He switched into the black ripped jeans. The familiar frayed openings over his knees felt more like himself, a controlled imperfection. He dug a small bottle of cologne from his bag—smoke, oud, a hint of citrus—and gave his throat and wrists a quick spray. The scent wrapped around him, a familiar armor.
Then he went to the bathroom and used a little cover-up to conceal the few visible bruises. The yellowish-green smudge on his jawline blended away under the makeup. The darker one peeking just above his collar bone vanished. He studied his reflection. The person staring back looked put together. He looked good. He looked like someone who hadn't been pinned to a hallway floor a week ago.
He leaned on the sink, taking a slow breath. The bathroom light was unforgiving. For a second, he saw the fear in his own eyes, the ghost of that night hiding behind the kohl liner. He blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a determined sharpness. This was the plan. Dinner. A normal night.
"You decent in there?" Joel called, followed by the sound of him putting on a record—not Limp Bizkit, but something instrumental and low.
"Yeah." KJ emerged, rolling his shoulders back. "How’s the time?"
"Hour to go. Just enough for a pre-game pep talk and one very small, calming tequila." Joel was already at his small bar cart, pouring two shots of an añejo. He handed one to KJ. "For the nerves you’re pretending you don’t have."
KJ took the glass, clinked it against Joel’s. "I’m not nervous."
"Liar." Joel knocked his back with a practiced flick of the wrist. "But that’s good. A little nerves mean you give a shit. Now, ground rules from your tío Joel."
KJ sipped the tequila, the warmth blooming in his chest. "Oh, we have rules now?"
"Sí. Rule one: phone on do not disturb. Not just silent. No molestar." Joel pointed a stern finger. "That includes me, unless it’s a literal emergency. Which I will define as blood, fire, or Alex appearing on my doorstep. Everything else can wait."
"Agreed."
"Rule two: you have my ‘get me the fuck out of here’ phrase. If you text me a single eggplant emoji, I will call you in five minutes with a fabricated crisis involving your non-existent cat and a blocked toilet." Joel’s expression was deadly serious. "No questions asked. Extraction protocol."
A wave of genuine gratitude washed over KJ. "Thanks, Joel."
"Rule three," Joel said, his voice softening. "Have fun, idiota. That’s it. Try to actually be in the room with him, and not in your head doing threat assessments every five minutes. Just... see what happens."
KJ finished his tequila, setting the glass down with a solid click. "I can try."
The next forty minutes passed in a slow crawl. KJ fidgeted. He adjusted his chain. He re-tied his boots. He checked his phone—no new messages—and set it to Do Not Disturb as commanded. The lawyer’s letter had gotten no response. The silence was a vacuum, and his mind kept trying to fill it with worst-case scenarios. He forced himself to stop.
At 6:58, a text appeared on his locked screen, visible but silent.
Hayden: Here. Black SUV out front. No rush.
"Showtime," Joel said, grinning. He came over and straightened KJ’s collar unnecessarily, then patted his cheek. "You look fucking fantastic. Now go. And text me when you get there. Not that I’m worried."
KJ grabbed his wallet, his keys, a single black credit card. He hesitated at the door, his hand on the knob. The world outside Joel’s aromatic, neon-lit cocoon suddenly seemed vast and cold.
"You’ve got this," Joel said, his voice gentle.
KJ nodded, once. He pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, the thump of Joel’s music cutting off as it swung shut behind him. The building’s quiet staircase felt immense. Each step down was a conscious choice, a move away from safety and toward something unknown.
He pushed through the main door into the crisp evening air. A sleek black SUV idled at the curb, its passenger window already rolling down. Hayden leaned over from the driver’s seat, a easy smile on his face. He was wearing a simple dark green sweater, his hair slightly messy.
"Hey," Hayden said. His eyes did a quick, appreciative sweep. "You look... wow. The shirt. The whole...yeah."
"Probably clothes," KJ said, sliding into the passenger seat. The interior smelled clean, like leather and cedar.
Hayden laughed, a warm, rich sound. "Exactly. I’m glad you figured it out." He put the car in drive, glancing over. "Ready?"
The engine hummed softly beneath them. KJ looked out the windshield at the stretching city streets, golden in the late light. He felt the cover-up on his jaw, the familiar weight of his boots, the newness of this man beside him.
"Yeah," KJ said, settling into the seat. "I’m ready."