by K-lee Klein
“Ahhhhh, Uncle Scooottttt.”
It was ironic and mildly humorous since Eddie rarely called him by his title, plus he sounded like a whiny toddler. Scott didn't take the bait, only cocked his head, amazed at his sudden ability to keep his cool and negotiate with a teenager when all he wanted to do was go home to his quiet apartment and indulge in his nightly glass of wine. And take a lot of Ativan. Stat.
Instead, he crossed his arms over his thudding chest. “Take it or leave it kid. That’s my final offer.”
Marshall watched the whole exchange with an amused expression. “How about I sweeten the pot?” Scott tilted his head in question. “I can get you guys backstage after the show.”
God love him but no. “I don't know if that's a good idea—”
With a whoop, Eddie jumped up and down like the child he was—the child Scott thought he should still be. “Oh my god! That would be so awesome!” his nephew squealed above the noise.
Scott wondered where all the years had gone? Where was the wide-eyed little boy who Scott had taken to the zoo, the child who'd held Scott's hand so tight he'd lost feeling, the one who trusted his uncle implicitly. Memories circled round his head—Eddie sharing his sloppy ice cream cone whether Scott wanted it or not, Eddie calling Scott because he'd lost his cellphone for the second time and he was afraid to tell his mom, Eddie suddenly becoming a teenager in torn jeans, untied sneakers, and scraggly hair that hung in his eyes with no remorse?
“Eddie,” he warned but was swiftly ignored for more hip-shaking and hooting. Scott was equally intrigued and frustrated.
“It'll be fine, Scott,” Marshall was saying. “I swear. No one’s gonna mess with him. The band's great and they love hanging with their fans. Besides, I owe you for getting me that awesome refund last year. The kid can meet some of the guys then everyone’s happy.”
But Scott wasn’t happy at all. Yet if he put aside his fears and dug deep for some trust, he supposed it was a compromise he could live with. Plus, Eddie looked like he was going to internally combust and that would be very messy.
“Please, S-Man.” The puppy eyes had returned with a vengeance. “I'll come over and mow your lawn every weekend for a month. Two months!”
“Condo Board does that,” Scott teased, one hand pressed to his mouth to hide his delight. Messing with his nephew was a tad too fun.
Eddie groaned and stomped one foot. “I'll go grocery shopping with you.”
Scott eyed him with confusion. “What?”
Eddie shrugged, calmer now but still visually vibrating. “Mom says going to the big stores stresses you out, so if I go with you it'll be faster and you won't have a panic attack.”
Oh bless his heart. There was no way Scott could play the mean uncle now.
Marshal's smug expression made Scott consider forgetting to carry some numbers forward on his taxes. “Bet they'll even pose for pics, man. Your friends will be so jealous.”
Scott moaned while Eddie did a strange little dance. “Okay. Okay. As long as nothing weird happens during the show, we'll give it a try.” The something weird referred to Scott's anxiety level, and his ability to stave away any panic attacks that might try to grab hold of him.
Eddie was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning when the band took the stage. Scott looked at his watch, pleasantly surprised that the show had actually started at the scheduled time. Of course, Marshall and Eddie were quick to inform him that Broken Evolution was only the first of two opening bands. The main event wouldn't happen as soon as Scott had hoped, that hope being going home as early as possible.
Scott reached into his pocket for his earplugs only to come up empty handed. “I must have left the damn earplugs at home,” he groaned. Lucky for Eddie, not so fortunate for Scott.
Because of, or despite, all his years of concert security, Marshall had seemingly developed bionic hearing. “That's why I always carry extras,” he said pointedly. “And I even have some special ones for the dudes who don't appreciate good music.” He reached into the bag he'd set down beside him and offered Scott a little piece of heaven disguised as full-blown noise-cancelling headphones still in the package.
“Oh Marshall,” Scott gushed, actually clapping his hands in a direct copy of Eddie's proverbial kid on Christmas morning act. He caressed the equipment between his hands like a lover or at least the most precious of gifts. It really was. “I'm going to pay special attention to your taxes this year.”
Marshall saluted then threw a wave over his shoulder before making his way through the crowd again. Scott settled into the hard metal chair, delighted to find it had an actual padded seat and back—luxury compared to the other chairs they'd passed. He slowly unwrapped the headphones then slipped them on his head with a contented sigh. They were magnificent. Never had there been a more exquisite pair of headphones.
Eddie squinted and shook his head before turning away, arms crossed over his chest and one hip jutted out. He was really judgy for someone so young and he had more attitude than his mother. His skills in that particular department were scarily on par with his grandmother’s too.
The side of the stage was far less chaotic than the rest of the venue. Thank you Marshall. Eddie didn't look the least bit impressed but once the side stairs rattled and shady-looking guys started bouncing onto the stage, his teenage impatience was replaced by a blood-curdling scream that even Scott could hear through his little pieces of heaven. He was concerned at first, even pushed out of his chair to go to save Eddie from whatever monster had taken over his body, but he quickly read the situation and slunk back to his seat.
He'd admit later that watching his nephew jumping and singing and fist-pumping was rather amusing, especially when he himself didn't have to hear what was causing the behavior. He could still hear noise and the pounding bass gyrated his heart, but at least his ears didn't feel ready to burst. When he stole a glance at what Eddie had called the pit, Scott gaped. Once he'd picked his jaw back up he thanked his lucky stars that he wasn't stuck dodging the fist-waving, pig-squealing, head-banging crowd. Or worse, wasn't having to protect Eddie from those hooligans slamming into each other. The very thought made his heart race more than even the thumpa-thumpa of the band. How did anyone consider that to be any kind of fun?
Between acts, Eddie insisted on going to the concession for a drink and Scott took the time to use the facilities. Of course, he made Eddie accompany him. No way was he losing the kid in the crowd, no matter how many times Eddie threw a well-practiced eye-roll his way. He supposed it ran in the family since Devon often commented on Scott's apparent sassiness.
No.
Scott refused to think about Devon, at least on purpose. In truth, the man occupied his thoughts several times a day in the most mundane moments—watching someone brew tea in the lunchroom, a colleague mentioning some football game or another, a preview for a new documentary on the Discovery Channel. He even found himself composing a text or ten to Devon. Not that he'd sent any of them. It showed how desperate he was since he hated texting even more than he despised eardrum-splitting concerts.
When he was young Scott was habitually the bigger man when it came to disputes or disagreements. He supposed it came naturally since his mom had never admitted she was wrong in the history of people admitting they were wrong, so he'd always been the one to acquiesce. Do as I say, not as I do had been a common theme in his house. This behavior had simply carried on into Scott's school life then into adulthood too. So why couldn't he text or even phone Devon to apologize, or at least explain he hadn't meant to be so harsh?
Rather than fall into a pit of could've, should've, would'ves, Scott brought his mind back to the matter at hand. Apparently, the discomfort of his present situation was less painful than the disarray in his brain. Instead, he concentrated on his nephew's bouncing and flailing, the glee on his face, and the bright enthusiasm in his eyes. Scott was thrilled he'd had something to do with that beautiful elation.
The bass pumping harder and stronger f
rom the numerous huge speakers between bands and the pulsing excitement of moving bodies surely meant the main attraction would soon appear. Between the constant writhing of the crowd and the thrumming vibration in his ears, Scott was admittedly a little nauseous, and a lot anxious. But he held it together once he'd slipped an anti-anxiety pill under his tongue. It was the lowest dose he could take and as he let it melt into his system, he reminded himself it was merely to take the edge off, not to leave him drooling or sliding off his chair.
Eddie was dancing up a storm, pressing himself as close to the stage as possible, his head bobbing so fluidly Scott felt a headache of his own brewing. Surely that couldn't be good for anyone's neck or spine. He considered telling the kid to settle down a bit for his own good, but it wasn't his place to stifle his nephew's enthusiasm. Plus, he did look adorable.
The crowd was whipped into a frenzy by the time the heavy curtain slid closed. The movement reminded Scott of the disgusting, wiggling things he'd had to view under a microscope in science class. He still hated science. A hush spread through the arena, as if everyone was holding their breath. Even Eddie stopped moving, his face a mask of tension and anticipation. Scott surmised it was the calm before the storm, and he was right.
When the canned music was replaced by a flurry of non-sensical drumbeats, even Scott turned all his attention to the movement behind the curtain. The lone silhouette of a man whaling on a set of drums was soon joined by two guys with guitars and another man with a ginormous mohawk playing the keyboards near the back of the stage.
Eddie was suddenly at Scott's side, shaking his arm and thumping him on the back. “S-Man! Oh my god!” he yelled. Scott lifted one side of his headphones and was rewarded with more noise than he ever wanted to hear again in his life. Plus, his over-enthusiastic nephew still bellowed in his ear. “That's them! Holy shit!”
Scott didn't have time to chastise his nephew for his language because the curtain abruptly fluttered open and a soul-killing scream jolted his brain and the rest of him too. He shoved the headgear into place, his heart beating far too fast and erratically in his ears.
The leather-clad man at the front of the stage had his back to the crowd but he was definitely the one doing the screaming. The guys on stage all had long hair, more ratty than coiffed ,which Scott assumed was the style. It was very reminiscent of the eighties, an era Scott had especially disliked. They were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, except the shirtless drummer whose hairy chest was gleaming under the lights.
The guitarists fist-pumped along with the crowd, their mouths opened wide in a scream of their own while the platinum-haired drummer flashed a megawatt smile between angry drum-beating faces. They bounced on their toes then started in on their guitars, joining the drums in making more noise—music. It was exhilarating in a horrific kind of way but Scott was thankful that they'd started, since that meant he was that much closer to going home to hermit himself away for the weekend.
It was Friday, and Friday would be followed by Saturday, and then depressingly by Sunday—the worst day of the week. The weekdays were trying all on their own when it came to Scott keeping Devon out of his head, but the weekends were far worse. He found himself popping Ativan like vitamins to keep his anxiety at bay and had taken to walking around the block at least twice every day. That proved to alleviate the small panic attacks that left him shaky and panting, at least a little. He told himself all the anti-anxieties he was taking were a short-term thing, only until he could somehow rectify the situation he'd gotten himself into. By that he meant either try to get Devon back, or have a lobotomy to get him out of his head. Scott was only sort of joking about that.
His doctor insisted these times of restlessness and depression were mini panic attacks and warned he shouldn't rely on the medication too much. Scott usually listened to him. Usually. The pills wouldn't cure him, sometimes didn't even make him feel better, but he was helpless to figure out what else to do when his emotions got the best of him and he ended up huddled in a corner sobbing and panicked about absolutely nothing.
He tried to use the skills he'd learned in therapy, even dragged out his old handouts on mindfulness to center himself and concentrate on being in the moment. He habitually cleaned his house from top to bottom once a week, but lately it had been almost a daily method of keeping his mind and body busy. Distraction was usually one of his best skills to utilize, but even that seemed pathetic in the wake of his thundering anxiety.
The mini-attacks left him exhausted and unsettled, almost as wrung out and exhausted as the full-blown ones he’d suffered from since he was a teenager. Scott knew his body was overreacting to missing Devon, but as much as he wished he could snap his fingers and make it better, that wasn't his reality. But back to his current reality.
The crowd was amped to nearly one hundred when the spotlights on the stage flicked off, turning the whole place startlingly dark. The vague outline of a man walked—no, stomped, definitely stomped— toward the front of the stage. He wrapped both hands around the mic-stand before lowering his head. An eerie blue light glowed at his feet, the illumination moving up the legs of painted-on black jeans, past a belt buckle in the shape of a skull, and up the man’s torso to finally settle on his bowed head. Scott was suddenly happy to have such a good seat.
The singer kept his head down, a mass of dark hair draping mysteriously over the mic and interspersed with mutely colored braids hanging here and there. The movement began in his hips, a barely there gyrating that pulled his pants tauter over his muscled thighs. He swayed, shoulders joining the motion, a gentle movement synced to the bass guitar and a barely there shake of his head. The spotlight grew brighter, revealing tattooed, muscled arms as the man's head moved back and forth.
The tattoos were little more than black blurs and the singer's face was still hidden behind his mess of hair. But Scott was truly mesmerized when the guy shook his head from side-to-side harder, hair flicking over the mic, until he suddenly grabbed it and held it high in the air. One loud thump from the drums and the whole venue lit up, followed by a simultaneous scream from the singer, and the appreciative noise of the crowd echoing through the building. Scott found himself inching closer and closer to the edge of his seat, the building adrenaline and excitement carrying him along for the ride. The music still wasn't his thing, at all, but whoever the guy on stage was, he knew how to make an entrance. He exuded charm and sex appeal and obviously knew it.
“Bwahhhhh!” the singer screamed when he finally lifted his head, his face tense and hard as he bellowed again. “Grrrrrrrr!”
Scott’s jaw dropped to the floor and he shoved his body against the chairback. He felt like he'd been dealt a blow, his body breathless, rigid, while tiny beads of sweat formed on his hairline. He gripped his slacks, pressing little moon-shaped indents into the fabric. His lungs emptied and his breath hitched.
It couldn’t be. There was no way in hell it could be…
But it was. Devon. It was Devon Freaking DuCaine. Scott thought he might pass out.
CHAPTER NINE
Devon DuCaine. Scott's Devon—all six goddamn feet of tattooed, muscled beauty was caterwauling and howling on the stage right in front of him. His plaid shirt hung open, putting every single inch of his magnificent chest on display, not to mention the fact his jeans left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Everyone in the arena could see he dressed to the left since the hard line of his dick was there for total public consumption. He strutted shamelessly across the stage, hair flowing over his shoulders when he wasn't whipping it around.
Scott was mortified…and a little turned-on, much to his disgust. What in god's creation was going on? That could not be his so-called boyfriend—was it ex-boyfriend since the argument—flaunting his every attribute in front of thousands of people. And what was that coming out of his mouth? Were they actual words or screamed gibberish?
And holy Mother of Jesus! Devon was wearing eyeliner; thick, black, and shadowing his dark eyes. He looked positively d
emonic.
So this was Devon’s secret? This was why he'd never lost that mysterious edge with Scott. This was why they didn't leave the anonymity of Scott's condo. This strange world of fist-pumping, head-banging misfits, screaming and grunting words Scott couldn't understand, and didn't seem too articulate or even polite in the first place. This was what Devon couldn’t—wouldn't share with Scott? Not a wife or lover or even criminal record, though Scott wasn't positive on that one anymore. He'd been duped in the most surprising way possible.
His brain flung itself against the sides of his skull. So, Devon had been ashamed to be seen with Scott, with his boring accountant haircut and flaky anxiety. Scott, with his crazy obsessive rituals and panic attacks was obviously too embarrassing to be seen with a real life rockstar. He was good enough to fuck in the privacy of Scott’s home. Otherwise he was Devon's dirty little secret. Scott wasn't necessarily new to the concept, or new to being used as such, but he couldn't recall anything ever hurting as much.
He pressed the headphones tighter against his ears, tore his gaze from the stage, and hung his head between his knees. If he shut everything out it wouldn't be real. If he didn't hear or see the deception in front of him, he could pretend it had never happened. Devon could still be the guy who hung out on Scott's porch. Maybe the sensory deprivation could help him think more clearly? If Scott tried really hard, he could invent an alternative reality to obliterate that particular day so he could go back to his obliviously happy feelings for Devon? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
All the maybes in the world couldn't disguise the fact Devon was right there on the stage, mere feet away from Scott under blistering lights with sounds more akin to a dying animal than the sweet human Scott thought he'd known. It didn't matter if he closed his eyes, if he became deaf from shoving the earphones almost through his head. The proverbial cat was out of the bag and it was feral.