by Lane Hayes
However, his job wasn’t to entertain me. He was the body between me and a slew of rabid Spiral devotees. This leg of the tour had been particularly hectic. Screaming fans had waited for a glimpse of the band at our hotel, outside of radio stations, and at the back entrances of concert venues. We stopped for autographs and photos when we could, but the crowds had grown considerably. It was overwhelming, and frankly sometimes it felt downright dangerous to be the focus of such impassioned adulation. I hadn’t wanted a bodyguard, but I was ready to admit it was nice to have a buffer.
“Any plans tonight, Bri?”
His eyes glowed eerily in the glare of headlights as our driver sped along the Manhattan Bridge toward the Lower East Side. He turned slightly to face me. “No, sir. Were you planning on going out?”
“Me? No way. I’m exhausted. I was just making small talk. I bet your girlfriend will be happy to have you home.”
“I’m not seeing anyone, sir.”
“Right. You told me that. Do you have a crush on anyone?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I do. Crazy crush.” Silence. “Aren’t you going to ask who it is?”
“It’s not my business, sir,” he replied in a monotone voice.
“Hmm. Has anyone ever told you that you remind them of Spock on Star Trek?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I nodded and turned to stare out the window at the familiar storefront of Bowery Bagels as we passed by. Almost home. Ten minutes or less. “You should. He was pretty kickass.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I swiveled back to meet his gaze with a wide grin. “Are you a Trekkie?”
“I am. Yes.”
“Me too. I’m not a superfan, but I liked the show. Have you ever been to a convention?”
“Yes, sir. Many times.”
Bright lights and resounding bells chimed in my head. I’d finally found a way to communicate with my elusive shadow. “How do you feel about The Big Bang Theory?” I asked.
“I love it, sir.”
I let out a howl of glee and threw my hand up for a high five. He stared at my hand for a moment before tentatively touching his to mine. “I love it too. See, Bri? I think we’ve got a lot in common after all.”
His dubious stare made me laugh a little harder, but it also went a long way toward making me like him. Or at least, it made me think twice before I gave him a hard time when he followed me upstairs. I tried anyway.
I made a crack about the potential awkwardness involved if we walked in on my roommate naked again. Brian’s response was a bland “Mr. McBride is at work.” I rolled my eyes and let him get on with thoroughly inspecting my condo before declaring it free of boogeymen, while I set my bag on the island and did my own reconnaissance. The lights were on in the living area and the blinds were drawn. Adam’s old guitar was propped against the barcelona chair, and a water bottle sat on a coaster on the coffee table. But there were no telltale shoes lying around. I was tempted to ask Brian if he’d found any dildos in the bedrooms as I flipped through the stack of mail lying on the kitchen island, but I took pity on him. We were both done for the night. I moved back to the foyer and set the mail on the entry table before opening the door, hoping to give him a not-so-subtle shove if needed. When he didn’t appear, I headed into the kitchen and found him staring into space.
“Want a water for the road?” I asked.
“No, thank you.” He nodded curtly before moving toward the front door.
“Okay. Good night.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and uncapped the water bottle in my hand. Alone at last. My pleasure was short-lived. Brian rounded the corner with a furrowed brow.
“Sir, the door was ajar.”
“I know. I left it open for you.”
“You should never leave the premises unlocked, sir,” he scolded.
“Oh my God. You’re right. But it’s all good. I’m safe, and now it’s time for you to go,” I singsonged as I escorted him to the foyer.
I closed the door behind him and locked it, then leaned against the wall to type a quick text to let Adam know I was home. I pushed Send and straightened away from the wall. My gaze was drawn to the flash of red on the side table. The carnations. He’d forgotten to throw them away. They were definitely goners now. I fingered the wilted lacy petals and was about to walk away when my cell buzzed in my hand.
Here til 2. C u in the morning
I typed sad-faced emojis and an obnoxious number of Zs, then turned back to the dead flowers. I squinted at the stack of mail. I was pretty sure I’d left it on the corner of the table, not next to the vase. Weird. I rifled through it again absently as I made a list of to-dos in my head, beginning with take a shower, when something caught my eye.
My bills were forwarded directly to one of Spiral’s bookkeepers, so most of my mail consisted of notifications from the building regarding improvements and maintenance. Occasionally I received a thank-you note from a friend or from my mother, but never any fan mail. Anything that resembled fan correspondence was forwarded to the studio for Tara to go through. I simply didn’t have time for the distraction. But this one hadn’t been caught.
I looked at the white envelope with my name neatly typed on the front. The postage was marked from the city but was dated a week ago. I stared at it for a full minute. I could barely breathe. My heart tripped and then sped at a breakneck pace that made me nauseous, because I had a feeling I knew exactly what this was. I chided myself to pull it together and open the envelope.
Two small cards were tucked inside: One new. One old.
The first read:
You almost lost this. Keep me close.
You are the brightest star, I am your biggest fan.
The second card was the original note. The one that had disappeared almost two months ago. My mouth went dry. I dropped the cards and took a step back, casting a feverish look between the white letters and the door.
Brian.
Holy shit. This was like something out of a horror movie where the guy who’s supposed to be protecting you turns out to be the one trying to kill you. I swiped my sweaty palm over my jaw and shook the paranoid thought. It wasn’t Brian. It couldn’t be. He was diligent. Overly so most of the time. The chance that he’d taken the letter and re-sent it with something even creepier was slim. Besides, he was with me a week ago. The timing didn’t jibe with the date on the envelope. Nonetheless, I couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.
Fuck, I had to get out of here. Now.
IT WASN’T going to be easy with the gaggle of fans parked in front of my building. Brian’s usual modus operandi was to check in with security downstairs and settle in a lounge room so he was on site and ready to go at a moment’s notice. It didn’t matter if I told him I planned to be home for the night, he always seemed to be nearby. I had to be sneaky if I wanted to escape unwanted attention. Back door, dark clothing, the works.
Maybe I was paranoid. In fact I probably was. But something was definitely wrong, and I wasn’t convinced I could trust Brian. I was driven by a need to be close to the one person who felt safe. Granted, I wasn’t in the right state of mind to make a rational call. Adrenaline coursed through me, making me feel high one minute and sick the next. My saner self would have thought twice before I skulked out the rear exit of my building to hail a cab. This me was a loose cannon.
“Where to?” the driver asked in a thick Brooklyn accent.
“Jock’s.”
“I don’t know no Jock’s. What’s the address?”
“It’s on Eighth. Just head north and I’ll look it up on my phone,” I instructed.
I googled the address and recited it to the cabbie, then sat back to study the accompanying website with its plethora of photos of hunky, fashionably hip, young men bellied up to the bar. Bare-chested gods with washboard abs and come-hither smiles holding drinks graced every picture. This was Jock’s? A fierce wave of jealousy hit me out of the blue. Not good when I was al
ready on unstable ground.
What was I doing? Adam was working. At a sexy bar with scantily clad hotties, no less. He didn’t have any answers, and he wouldn’t be free until two o’clock in the fucking morning anyway. I should have called one of the guys, but we’d just spent a week together. Everyone was anxious to get home to their significant others. The last thing they wanted was me showing up on their doorstep.
I stared out the dirty cab window and tried to come up with an alternate plan, as neon lights reflected in the car’s interior like a pulse. A beat. I could feel the city moving around me, pulling me under. I tried to shake the sensation that I was spiraling out of control. I wasn’t calling the shots, and the ones I was calling were suspect at best. When the driver stopped at a busy corner on Eighth Avenue, across from Jock’s, I knew I was in trouble. Shit. I hadn’t thought this one through. A popular new gay bar on a Friday night in the heart of Chelsea was not the best place for a guy who was supposed to be keeping a low profile. I hesitated for a long moment before finally handing the driver a twenty and stepping onto the sidewalk.
I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets and made my way across the crowded avenue, noting a group of underdressed twentysomethings smoking under a lamplight in front of the bar. They were good-looking, athletic types dressed in beanie caps, tight designer jeans, and super-snug T-shirts. I glanced up at the street sign above their head… and immediately tripped over the uneven curb.
Heat flooded my face as I regained my balance. Of course no one noticed. This was New York City. No one anywhere in the city paid attention to normal people dressed in dark colors. Even ones who tripped over their own two feet. I squared my shoulders and nodded absently at the group of young men as I corrected my balance. The tallest one returned the gesture, then did a double take. And so did I.
He was wearing a Spiral concert tee. Except it wasn’t a generic shirt with all of us on the front or a picture of our last album cover. It was me posed in full rock-god style with my classic shiny white Fender.
Oh. Fuck.
“Isaac D?” The tall guy cocked his head so his dark bangs fell away from his eyes. I saw the recognition in them and froze.
“Isaac D! Is that you?” another masculine voice asked.
“Is that him? I can’t tell. Isaac!”
“I’m not sure. Get your cell ready. We’ve got to take a selfie. Is the rest of the band here? Who’s he with?”
The flurry of questions was disconcerting. I tried to ignore them and keep walking, but the crowd was thick here, and there was no bodyguard to buffer me from unwanted adulation. I was exposed. I took a deep breath, put my head down, and stepped away from the stranger and the chorus of voices around him. I’d dealt with this hundreds of times, I assured myself. I was practically a pro. Except I usually wasn’t on my own.
“Whoa! Is that the guy from Spiral? No fucking way!”
“Can we get an autograph, Isaac? Would you sign my shirt?”
“I….”
One mere step and suddenly I was surrounded. There was nowhere to go.
Cameras were flashing. Someone jumped in to take a picture with me, while another person waved their hands above their head and shouted my identity and a quick plea to their friends to hurry up if they wanted to meet me.
The barrage of sound, lights, and unfamiliar voices was a normal part of my professional life. But I hadn’t mastered the art of dealing with it offstage and without my bandmates. I didn’t know whom to address first: the person standing in front of me politely asking for my autograph or the wild-eyed fan behind him screaming my name. Their excitement was frenetic, and it was building by the second. They were getting a rare glimpse of Isaac D without his band. Timing was everything. Spiral’s latest single had just gone to number one, and we were wrapping up a hugely successful world tour. This was a big fucking deal.
There was only one way to play this and maintain a shred of dignity: with some serious acting skills and a whole lot of swagger. I stepped away from the stranger and turned to address my growing fan club.
“Hi. Yeah, it’s me. I—”
I was immediately ambushed by at least fifteen people. Between the press of bodies and the strong smell of cologne, I felt claustrophobic. I took a deep breath and tried to block out the fragrant odor of the guy in my face snapping countless pictures, paparazzi style. Someone else handed me a pen and begged me to sign his T-shirt. Cell phones, hands, people everywhere. I smiled until my face hurt, nodded politely, and even managed to exchange a few words with a hyper fan who listed his favorite Spiral songs and every concert he’d attended. Part of me surrendered to this moment. I hadn’t planned it, but I owed these people a modicum of my time and courtesy now that I was here. But when a pretty young woman pulled up her top and then begged me to sign her tits, I was done.
Getting away wasn’t going to be easy. I was completely circled. I wasn’t tall enough to see above the crowd, and I doubted I could be heard above the din of voices and the sounds of the city. But if I didn’t act soon, I’d lose my cool. I leaned sideways into the tall guy wearing my face on his shirt.
“What’s your name?”
“Colin. Dude, I’m huge a fan. Huge! I have all your—”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. I need your help. Go into Jock’s and ask for Adam. Tell him I’m out front and ask him to hurry. Please.”
For a moment he stared at me in confusion. I got the impression he wasn’t sure I was serious until I pushed his arm and pointed meaningfully toward the bar. When he finally nodded and slipped through the crowd, I made an attempt to follow him, but someone closed in behind me, trapping me in a circle of rabid fans. One of them directed my attention skyward, and that’s when it happened.
I looked up just as a fucking enormous cell phone fell from its perch on a selfie stick two feet above me and smacked me square on the nose. White light dotted my vision. I covered my face and felt the warm trickle of blood drip through my fingers.
Everything happened simultaneously. People were screaming or asking if I was okay, and others were still asking for photos. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to keep cool and, ideally… not faint. I didn’t do well around blood. My current situation was a perfect storm. Between fear, exhaustion, a rush of adrenaline, and now a head wound complete with spurting blood, it was a matter of seconds before I passed out cold. I needed—
“All right. That’s enough. Back away. We’re finished here. Say good night, folks,” Adam commanded in a loud voice that brooked no argument.
He slung a protective arm around me and pulled me to safety. The sight of his red Converse sneakers made me smile in spite of the circumstances. I’d just unleashed a potential public relations mess and all I could think was God, I missed him.
“Look at me, baby. Are you okay? What’s that on your—oh fuck, you’re hurt!”
“No. No. I’m fine,” I insisted.
“You have blood—”
“Don’t say that word.”
“What word? Blood?”
My stomach lurched. Any mention of body secretions that had nothing to do with sex was enough to make me nauseous. I gagged. Then I stopped in my tracks. This could not be happening. “Adam, I’m gonna be sick. I—”
“No. You’re fine. I’ve got you. Come on. I’ll get a taxi.”
People had to be curious. Adam’s simple black T-shirt and dark jeans screamed bouncer or bodyguard, but the way he held me close was more intimate than I’d ever let anyone else get away with in public. And I wanted to be closer still. I burrowed into his side as a taxi pulled up to the curb. Adam shot a warning look at someone behind me and rubbed my arm. When I stepped toward the cab, he held my elbow and whispered something I couldn’t quite make out before bending slightly to kiss my forehead and my cheek.
Lights were flashing. Unfamiliar voices were calling my name. Chaos reigned around me, but all I could think was this feels nice. I wasn’t going to shove my tongue down his throat or do anything we’d both
regret, but I was compelled to do something. I took a step backward and linked my fingers with his for an instant, then let go. He recaptured my hand and squeezed it and then pressed his lips to my fingers, before ushering me into the waiting taxi.
Neither of us spoke. We let the tinny sound of the video playing on the small screen in the back of the cab compete with the typical city backbeat of honking horns and raucous New Yorkers celebrating the weekend. For one entire street block, it was bliss. And then…
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Obviously! Crap, you’re still bleed—”
“Don’t say that word.”
Adam mumbled something rude before leaning forward to ask the driver for a tissue from the box sitting on the front seat. He took three and then reached for my nose.
“No way. You don’t know where those have been,” I hissed in a low voice.
“Sure I do. In a box. Isaac, you’re dripping bl—red stuff. Let me help you.” He didn’t wait for my okay. He firmly grasped the back of my neck and held me steady. “I’ve got you.”
It was the second time he’d crooned those three words to me since I showed up unannounced at his bar. I liked them better than “what were you thinking?”
“I think it stopped.”
“It didn’t. There’s a cut on the bridge of your nose. I would have suggested we use the first aid kit in the bar, but that crowd was hungry. Does this happen all the time? No wonder you need a bodyg—where’s Brian?” When I shrugged carelessly and looked out the window, he growled. “Jesus, Isaac. For a smart guy, you do some dumb shit sometimes. Why did you come all the—”
“I just wanted to see you, okay?” I snapped, swiveling in my seat to glare at him.
His smile started as a slow upturn of one side of his mouth, but it soon became much more. “Okay.”
We stared at each other in the dark interior. I wasn’t feeling well and everything about tonight was a bad idea I’d pay for in the morning. But something told me I was fine if I was with Adam.
ADAM CALLED the doorman and arranged to have security open the rear entrance and, if necessary, escort us upstairs. It didn’t occur to me that the doors would be locked from the outside after midnight. I would have been forced to go through the lobby if I hadn’t found Adam. The paparazzi would have had a field day with my bloody nose and unkempt appearance. So much for keeping a low profile.