“After reading all the articles you sent—thanks for that, by the way,” I say, injecting my voice with sarcasm, “I thought the two of them were a couple.”
“You’ll learn quickly to disregard about ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the shit you read about them.”
“Then why’d you send me all that shit to read?”
“Because I wanted you to get familiar with how the outside world sees them. For example, I know for a fact Sin spends her nights alone. I’ve never seen her have so much as a booty-call. Maybe a couple of dates, but they never get past the door.”
“Don’t tell me she can’t find anyone.”
“She doesn’t have to find them. You saw her, right? Those fucking dimples alone would have me gladly offering myself as tribute. I’m not the only one. She gets all kinds of play, but she’s not interested. Turns every proposition down. The man that finally convinces her to give him a shot”—he shakes his head, hissing out a breath—“that man might as well have a golden horseshoe stuck up his ass because getting that girl to look at you, let alone be with you, is like capturing a unicorn.”
“Sounds like someone has a crush.”
“Not at all.” The words fly out of his mouth, but the flush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks says bullshit. I let it go. Either way, not my business. “But I recognize prime grade A when I see it. You telling me she’s not beautiful?”
“Nah, man. She’s gorgeous but not exactly my type,” I deadpan. He lets out a humorless laugh. I came out to my parents at fifteen and haven’t looked back since. By the time I joined the military and met Aiden, the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy had been revoked. I didn’t stand on the mountaintops and shout I was gay, but I didn’t hide it either. People whom I saw in passing didn’t know about my sexuality, but my friends had the lowdown. They just didn’t give a shit. Aiden and I were both fucking hound dogs, wild and insatiable, running the streets on the prowl for anything willing with one slight difference. He liked ass that was soft with a whole lot of bounce, and I preferred mine finely muscled with slim hips.
“Riiiight, I gotchu,” he says knowingly, holding up a fist for me to pound. “That just leaves more for me.” I tap my knuckles against his as our little convoy travels down the highway.
“Seth?”
“Sup?” I look at him out of the corner of my eye.
“I’m happy you came, man. This is going to be good. Just like old times.”
I nod and look out the window. It’s going to be something, but instinct tells me old times ain’t really it.
Adam
TOKYO, JAPAN
Yesterday we arrived in Tokyo after a hellish week in China. We had seven days to hit most of the continent’s big cities: Shenzhen, Hong Kong, Beijing, Tianjin, and Shanghai were all on the itinerary. It felt like as soon as we got off stage in one place, we were sprinting to the next one.
We didn’t have the luxury of staying in a hotel for the night. We caught sleep where we could, mostly in the planes, trains, and cars that twisted my tall frame in knots, but there is nothing, and I mean nothing, like playing anywhere in China. The crowds are huge because it’s one of the most densely populated countries on the planet. And because their country is more socially confined than the US, when they let go it’s with arms wide open and heads tilted up to the sky with abandon. It’s with pure, unadulterated joy that comes from experiencing freedom in short jaunts with an even shorter leash.
The feeling I get when I look out at an audience of thousands is immeasurable. People that don’t speak our language, that our music shouldn’t reach, show up in droves. For a little over two hours every person in the stadium fucking rocks no matter the language barrier.
We vibe in a way I never imagined. It’s on a whole different level. These people tap out drum beats with their feet, they sing our lyrics back to us in bold, strong voices, and they hold up lighters and cry with Sin as she belts out “Exquisitely Broken.” Every time she sings that song it’s like her heart breaks all over again, and the audience is right there with her, in the trenches.
That kind of adoration is a high. It’s what I imagine my mother felt the first time she tried cocaine. When we perform in China, I stay in an almost euphoric state. My head buzzes. My heart races. My senses so attuned to the audience that I absorb a little of their energy. I take a little of that freedom for myself, and for those fleeting seconds, I’m just like them. Completely free to live my life any way I chose, no expectations, no responsibilities. I get to do me. The sometimes scared, sometimes rough street kid from Las Vegas. The boy who learned how to play guitar on the dirty bedroom floor of a group home that had way too many kids and not enough food, because his first—at the time, his only—friend wanted to start a band. In those moments I’m not Adam Beckham. I’m just Adam, no strings or expectations. Plain, maybe a little simple, but stupidly flawed and wholly human.
We’re on to the next city, the next venue, and the next audience, which in this case is Japan. I feel almost bereft at the loss of our Chinese fans. There is nothing like the feeling I get playing in China, and leaving is like coming down from a high. The crash is quick and brutal. It rips me from the soft haze of the last ten days and pummels my consciousness with piercing reality.
The thing about music is that the connection is fluid. It dips and rolls, taking on the shape of the new place and the new audience. So, when I step on the stage in Tokyo tonight, I’ll be waiting to see the new shape.
I strum the last chord of our closing song, signaling the end of sound check. Dan is already standing up behind his drum kit, his hand entwined with the pretty event manager’s who let us into the venue earlier. I’m not sure when they got so friendly, but that’s Dan, different city, new woman. I already know what’s up when he leans down whispering something in her ear. The porcelain skin of her face flushes as she casts her laughing eyes around the stage. Her straight, almost waist-length black hair moves in waves down her back as she starts pulling him to a dark corner at the back of the stage. Good on Dan. Round two and it isn’t even lunch time yet. If I’m not mistaken, the same petite manager was on her knees behind drum kit before we started.
Miles already has his phone out, oblivious to the sixteen-hour time difference between Las Vegas and Tokyo. When his fiancée’s sleepy face fills the screen, his body visibly sags. The Asian leg of the tour is killing him. There’s no quick flights or weekends away. Kisha, his fiancée, runs the western region of a national bank, meaning she can’t drop everything to come on tour. I wave a hand at the camera as he walks by murmuring words only she can hear. She waves back with a smile, and he disappears down the steps.
Sin is still at center stage, her arm draped over the mic stand. She stares at the rows of seats in the empty stadium.
“Sin?” I say as I approach her. She turns her head in greeting, and I reach out and twine my fingers in the corkscrew curls that lay on the back of her neck.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to touch a black woman’s hair?” She leans forward, trying to disentangle my hand from her hair. She looks up at me with a smile on her face, dimples popping in her cheeks and genuine affection shining in her eyes. I know all is forgiven.
Looking down at her, I see her like she was when we first met at fourteen. She was even shorter, which is comical considering she’s barely over five feet now. I’d been sitting at the kitchen table when she walked into the group home. Her big eyes terrified, a black garbage bag filled with her belongings in one hand and a large guitar case in the other. I noticed some of the other boys leering at her, practically rubbing their hands together in excitement at the fresh meat that had been hand-delivered by the social worker.
When our eyes met across the scarred surface of the faux wooden table, I recognized Sin as a kindred spirit. I can’t explain it now, and I couldn’t explain it then. It made no sense, but I knew somehow knowing this girl was going to change my life, and I couldn’t leave her to the mercy of those old b
oys who had brutalized so many, me included.
I jumped up from the table, knocking over the glass of milk, which was the protein portion of my dinner for the night. Sin stared at me with big curious eyes and gnawing at her bottom lip, but when I smiled at her, she smiled back. Our connection was instant. As simple as a shared smile between strangers, and as complex as finding kindness in the last place it should be. I walked her to my room. I told her about the schools and when we were expected to catch the bus. I explained the shower schedule and why it was a better idea to shower in gym class. I gave her the rundown of who to avoid in the house. I also insisted she stay with me. Regardless what Mrs. Norcross, the old woman who ran the home, said, she was staying in my room. I’d sleep on the floor, and she could have the bed, because there was no way to protect her if they put her in one of the other rooms.
The predators of the house didn’t mess with the boys as much as the girls. Probably because the girls were easier to overpower. I’d seen it play out. One of the older boys would distract the other person in the room with his fists or some other inventive way while his friends closed around Sin like a pack of wolves. They’d incite each other into a frenzy and when it was over, Sin would be at the bottom of the fray.
Thank God she listened.
Almost fifteen years later here we are, still us.
We don’t have to share a room or clothes anymore. We eat when we’re hungry and against every odd, every setback, we’re here on a world tour, living the dream that our fourteen-year-old selves could only conceive in our imaginations.
We’ve expanded our little circle to include Dan and Miles. I thought we were going to expand to include one more when Sin was dating her douchebag ex, but he fucked up just like I knew he would. Because of his very existence, Vegas is a no-fly zone for her. Well, maybe that isn’t exactly true. She’s gone back to our hometown for a grand total of two concerts since we recorded our first EP.
“We got a call from Vegas. A new casino on the Strip is offering big money for a residency. They’re asking for two weekends a month for one year,” I say tentatively, searching her eyes, but the moment Vegas slips out of my mouth she turns guarded. I watch as the warmth drains from her eyes and her smile turns brittle, crumpling under the weight of her displeasure. A gate slams down between us and, even though she’s right in front of me, she’s not. She’s hiding behind a wall constructed with pieces of her broken heart and a putrid anger that she can’t seem to release. I see it now in her closed-off expression. We’ve all been seeing it in her inability to compose new songs. It’s like she’s stuck somewhere in there, and for the first time where she’s concerned, I don’t know what to do or how to handle it.
“I’m not doing it, Adam.” Once again, she leans forward to pull my hand from her hair, but she does so with enough force that if I don’t open my fingers, the strands will be ripped out by the root. I open my digits, allowing the thick, almond-scented curls to slip through my fingers. When she tries to storm away, I grab her wrist. She looks down at my hand on her skin and back up to my eyes.
“Don’t you want to hear what they’re offering before you turn it down flat?”
“No, actually I don’t. Because it doesn’t matter what they’re offering. I’m not taking any offer that requires me to live back in Vegas. Now let me go.”
“You’re for real right now? It’s been three and a half years. When are you going to finally get over . . .” I want to say Jacob Johnson’s name out loud but hold it back. We haven’t spoken his name since their relationship ended. It’s long past the time for us to talk about that motherfucker. So, why’d I hesitate? Because he broke her and nothing I’ve done or tried has been enough to fix it.
She looks back down at my fingers clasping her wrist before she says through clenched teeth, “Let me go.” When I don’t remove my hand, she yanks her arm back with enough force to break my grip.
“Look, Sin, I’m not trying to be an asshole here.” I sigh, still unable to decipher her look.
“Then don’t be. Just let it go,” she says on a long exhale as she stalks away with swift, angry steps.
Seth, the new guy on her security detail, didn’t even look up when she stormed by. I hadn’t noticed him there during sound check or when I decided to bring up Vegas to Sin.
But I see him now. He’s lounging against a large, black equipment box, an overhead dome light illuminating his muscular frame and russet brown skin.
Every time I’ve looked up over the last week, it’s to find his sharp gaze focused on me. Every time my eyes meet that gaze, I fight to remain unaffected. To pretend like I don’t notice his flawless skin, or his tempting eyes. When he looks at me, his gaze is a viscous trail that clings to my skin. I try to ignore the fact that everything about him does it for me, from his wide build to his give-no-fucks attitude.
I don’t know how long I stand gawking at him, but it’s long enough to realize he’s gawking at me too. His eyes sweep my face and body, far from offended.
“I should probably follow her.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “She just needs a little space.”
“You think?” He’s been with us for all of five minutes and he’s speaking with a certainty that I don’t feel. I’m the one who’s known her for damn near fifteen years.
“I know,” he states simply.
His gaze once again skims my body. Doing the sexy slide thing that brushes my nerve endings with a tingling awareness that makes my skin feel hot and tight. Once again, I have to tamp down the urge to explore him as thoroughly, but not just with my eyes.
I want to touch, and kiss, and lick, and bite. I want to know if he’s attracted to men. More specifically, if he’s attracted to me. I want to know if he prefers to top or bottom, and if his ass is as tight as it looks in those black cargo pants. Figuring out whether he can back up everything that look is promising is quickly becoming my personal obsession.
“Who wouldn’t need a little breather from all this?” he says sarcastically, tilting his head toward the empty stadium, oblivious to his starring role in my very dirty fantasies. “How long has it been since you’ve gone a week without seeing each other? I got the memo,” he says before I answer, raising his palms in surrender. “You all consider yourselves family, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get tired of each other. As much as Sin loves you three, I think she’s lonely for a different type of companionship, and China kicked her ass. It kicked all of your asses. Fuses are short and tempers are flaring. Let her walk away and cool down. Maybe revisit the Vegas thing in a couple of days.”
I nod because he’s right, and because right now the last thing I want to talk to him about is Sin. I’d rather talk to him about the subterranean attraction between us that seems to push to the surface anytime we’re in the same vicinity, which is all the fucking time. Saying what I really want to say can’t happen. I prefer my fucks wild and fun with minimal strings and messing around with one of the members of our security detail is not wild, or fun, or minimal strings. It’s a hot damn mess waiting to happen.
I walk in the opposite direction of Seth. I need to get away from the heat of his stare and the sparks that flair each time we’re in the same vicinity. Just when I get to the heavy, black velvet curtains that hang at the edge of the stage, I hear his voice.
“Hey, Adam?” I look at him over my shoulder, my eyebrow raised in question.
“All you have to do is ask,” he says with a wink, pushing from his lounging position and raising to full height. Our eyes hold for a beat before he turns and walks off stage.
All I have to do is ask. The phrase turns in my mind, taking shape, gathering weight, and becoming an anchor in my psyche.
I blink stupidly at his retreating back as I come to a couple of realizations: one being I haven’t misinterpreted shit, not the curious looks or the heated gazes. Two: this attraction that pulses to life each time we’re in the same room is real and tangible. It’s nowhere near one-sided, which answers a cou
ple of my questions about the new addition to our team but adds a new level of complication.
I keep my private life in an airtight safe. No light, no water, no curious eyes. Have I slept with girls?
Absolutely.
Did I enjoy it?
Mildly.
I enjoyed it in the distant way you enjoy someone rubbing circles on your back. It’s nice and warm, maybe even a little arousing. Even though I’ve slept with women I’m definitely gay.
Women, although beautiful and soft, don’t check all the boxes. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to have a more traditional relationship.
Would I be satisfied? Maybe, but I can guarantee it wouldn’t be exciting, or hungry, or that I-can’t-get-enough-and-always-need-more of that type of passion. It would be me settling. No one deserves to be in a relationship where they’re second best. A choice made from a position of practicality versus an intense passion to possess and be possessed by another.
That burn?
That kind of satisfaction?
I want that. I crave that.
In this line of work, I can’t always have what I want. It’s always been that way for me. My sexuality is the proverbial sharp knife nicking the skin at my throat. It’s the one thing about me that isn’t a reflection of where I came from or the circumstances of my life. It’s who I am, and I learned early on that people will use it against me. One wrong move and the nick at my throat becomes a slit.
So, I cultivated an image. A persona that has been carefully styled and packaged over the last four years. One that requires I appear to be smitten with my best friend that says if Sin isn’t the one, one of you other lucky ladies could be. For all intents and purposes, it’s been easier to cultivate a lie versus acknowledge the truth.
Exquisitely Hidden: A Sin City Tale Page 3