#bad blake

No. No, labeling was never about you.

You didn’t even like that word when describing yourself – artist. You weren’t artist – you were just sketching in your little black book sometimes, and even so, most of the times it was mere scribbles; raw and unedited, just how your soul was processing the world. Now, real artists – musicians, actors, those who were holding the paintbrush between their fingers and making canvas bloom… yeah. Those had your unanswered love and respect.

Musicians, especially. Your mom loved music, being the true old country girl like she was. You remember her eyes going soft whenever she listened to some jukebox newest hit; you were too young to understand why she would try to hide a single tear escaping her eye. Well, now you were anything but little and you finally, finally understood.

Bad fucking Blake.

The man had something in him, for sure. Even if his prime years were gone. Which were hardly true, at least in your eyes. He didn’t age like fine wine, he aged like a true human being and that was fucking beautiful. So when it was announced that he will perform in a small bar almost at outskirts of your city, you knew you had to be there. What you didn’t know - how much it would change your life.

You’ve perched yourself on a high chair right at the bar, still as a statue and only your hands worked, sketching, sketching, sketching. It was an old bar for old people and frankly, if you hadn’t know most of the folks there, you’d be sticking out like a sore thumb. But you weren’t. You blended in just fine. And that gave you an opportunity to watch Blake sing his magic. Of course you heard stories about him – how he could ditch and not show up at his own concert, or be utterly drunk or high or both; how he could smash someone else guitar (never his own) – typical bad boy rock star behavior. From what you heard… there was more to it, at least, that’s what you thought so.

The man on stage was a study in contradictions—his voice rough as gravel but sweet as aged whiskey, his body thick with the weight of years and hard living, yet moving with the ease of someone who’d spent a lifetime seducing crowds. Blake’s face was a roadmap of regrets, creased with laugh lines and sorrows alike, framed by silver-streaked hair that curled just a little too long at the collar.

Your pencil moved just a bit faster, when he got near the end of his song, “Somebody Else.” The stage lights caught the sweat on his brow and the way his fingers, calloused and sure, coaxed melodies from the battered guitar like it was the last thing holding him upright. He looked up and your heart, just like in a bad romance flick, skipped a bit. His eyes, sharp blue, startlingly alive beneath the heavy lids, like he’d seen every damn thing in the world undid you. The gaze flickered to the sketchbook you were clutching into and for a second, his smirked slow, knowing.

The song ended with very earnest cheers and applause. You turned your back to the stage, finishing the drawing. A drop of condensation from the cool glass of beer you've been sipping all night landed on a beige paper, but you didn’t notice it. You also didn’t notice the footsteps behind you, or a shadow appearing over the drawing.

“Mind if I take a look, darlin’?”

His voice rang right beside your ear. As you turned your head, you were greeted with a faint smell of sweat and booze and a pair of piercing blue eyes. Blake strolled towards your little hiding spot like he owned the place. You found whatever courage you had in you… and decided to keep up with nonchalant act. No matter how hard your heart was pounding in your chest.

“Sure. It’s you, after all. I suppose you are pretty used to paparazzi, hm?” you answered, giving him a book. Your fingers brushed against each other and you felt warmth blooming in your chest, though you were quick to blame the beer.

“Paparazzi, yes,” Blake muttered, squinting his eyes and looking at the picture. “But never artists. Especially young things like you,” he pointed at the sketch and gave you a playful (you hoped) frown. “I ain’t that beautiful, sugar. Where did you learned to draw like that?”

You couldn’t help but smile back. “Self-taught…” for a second, you thought of how to address him. Sir? Nothing at all? After all, he was older than you. “… Blake. Keep it, please.”

You took the book back, carefully ripped the page off and almost returned it to Blake, but he stopped you, his fingers curling around your wrist, warmer than you expected

“This right here…” a finger pointed again. Tap-tap. “Needs your signature. An artist always leaves his mark.”

He was close. So, so damn close to you. And not close enough. You took a pen and with a swift stroke, left a signature, right at the left corner.

“That’s it,” Blake chuckled, taking the paper back. “Now I’ve got your name and a keepsake. When you’re a big artist, darlin’, remember where you’ve started.”

He pulled a chair to him and ordered two beers, noticing your glass almost empty. The night just began.

<...>

“Never met anyone like you, darlin’,” he confessed, standing outside the bar, smoke curling in the cold air. You were swaying a bit on your feet – the beer was strong than you realized, and hell, you weren’t light-weight, yet still it kicked your butt a bit. Blake’s jacket was tight around your shoulders, but long enough to provide so much needed warmth; the chill nights of your little town were ruthless this time of year. The jacket smelled just like him and you found yourself nuzzling into its collar occasionally, not caring if he he noticed or not.

You’ve talked just about everything there is to talk for the past few hours. Your past. His past. The future which stretched longer for you. Blake was quick to drink his sorrows; but he stayed a gentleman, not making you uncomfortable or making rude comments. Ocassionally, he had to pay attention to other patrons, but most of the time, his eyes were on you and you only.

“You tell that any stray you find,” you playfully accuse him.

“Nah,” Blake shook his head. “I’m being honest here. You are… true. Solid. Human. I… I needed that,” his eyes turned to the burning end of a cigarette, the flame reflecting deep in his eyes. “Needed a reminder that there is still something pure out here.”

“I’m not pure.”

“Hm. Maybe not. But your art is. You saw what you wanted to capture and did just that; not caring of how it turned out or who was going to see it.”

That was true. You fell silent, listening to him, like you would listen to him singing. His words were a bit slurred, but his soul shined through syllables.

“I didn’t write a single song in a year, darlin’. It’s pushing me down, real hard. Couldn’t find words. Couldn’t bring myself to care. But-but I’ve got a tune, now. A few ideas in my big stupid head.”

“You… you’re gonna stay? For awhile?” you asked, carefully, hopefully. Because you wanted to hear that new song. Because you wanted him to stay.

Because the stars weren’t half as beautiful as a man who was staring at them beside you. He turned his head. Looked at you.

Stars weren’t half as beautiful.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Yeah, gonna stay for a few more days. Then it’s the road again for me. You’re… askin’ me…”

You didn’t let him finish. Your bravado pushed your body to stand on toes and kiss his cheek. The smoke made your eyes water a bit, the stubble tickled your lips. You stayed right there, head finding a tender spot between his shoulder and neck. He didn’t push your back. Maybe he thought you needed more support standing straight. Maybe he knew what you felt at that moment.

“I’d like that,” you whispered, warming his skin with your breath. “For you to stay. And hear that new song.”

“You… sure, sweetheart? Look at me, I’m-”

Again you stopped him. Your thumb brushed the frayed edge of his collar, grounding yourself in the wool-rough texture of his jacket. This man, you thought, smells like road dust and second chances.

“Do you have a name? For your song?” you asked.

He exhaled, a slow release of breath that carried the weight of a hundred unnamed melodies. For a heartbeat, you wondered if he’d lie—to you, or to himself. Then his voice rumbled against your temple, low as a bass line: "Nah. But it’s got your eyes in it."

His words hung between you like a struck chord—raw, lingering, alive. You lifted your head from his shoulder, your breath catching at the way the moonlight carved the lines of his face: the shadow of his stubble, the crease of his brow, the want in those blue, blue eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his calloused fingers brushed your chin, tilting it up—asking, not taking.

You met him halfway.

His mouth was softer than you expected, warm from whiskey and the last drag of his cigarette, his stubble scraping your skin in a way that made you shiver. He kissed you like a man savoring a treasure he knew he couldn’t keep—slow, aching, just this side of desperate.

Safe to say, no one ever kissed you like this before. He knew what he was doing. And you knew you would never feel sorry about letting a man old enough to be your father to kiss you like that. When your fingers tangled in the silver-streaked hair at his nape, he groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated through your ribs like the hum of an old guitar string. You could taste the road on him: the bitterness of diner coffee, the sweet tang of bourbon, the loneliness he’d been singing about all his life. And when he finally pulled back (just enough to rest his forehead against yours), his voice was rough as a worn-out record.