Lazy Sundays (Lazy Days Book 1)

by K-lee Klein

  “He’s awesome, right?” Scott jumped when Marshall was suddenly beside him, bending down to lift one side of Scott's headgear. “So fucking awesome. One of the nicest guys you'll ever meet too.”

  “That's what I used to think,” Scott mumbled, dipping his head to his chest.

  Marshall cupped Scott's shoulder. “What was that? You think he's what?” Scott shook his head instead of answering. Marshall didn't seem to care. “Your nephew is eating it up, huh? Good to see. Smokey Grey is great with their fans too. Lots of visits to sick kids and old people, and they're always stoked to meet their fans after the show.”

  “No!” Scott startled himself with the force of the single word. “I mean, I think we'll pass this time. Eddie’s just glad to be here. Besides, it's late and he's got school tomorrow.” He faked a kind expression before turning back to the dishonest rat on stage. He needed another Ativan before his body plotted against him and he lost the upper hand.

  “It’s Saturday, S-Man!” Eddie piped in, unhelpfully.

  A wide grin cracked Marshall’s face when Scott’s excuse had been called out. “Ah come on. Might be his last chance to meet the guys, Scott. Rumor is they’re tentatively retiring after the next couple of shows. Family stuff I think.”

  “That’s, um, that's too bad, but I think Eddie changed his mind,” Scott lied like a really bad uncle who lies.

  “Could have fooled me,” Marshall retorted, cocking his head to the side where Eddie stood not three feet away, eyes closed, shouting the lyrics or something, his body fluidly moving in time to the music—in perfect unison with Devon.

  There was no way this side of hell that Scott was taking Eddie backstage, no way he was letting Devon see him or meet him. The whole thing would be uncomfortable and awkward and everything in between. And even though Scott wanted to give Devon DuCaine a piece of his mind, bringing attention to himself by making a scene, especially in front of Eddie, was the worst case scenario. And though Scott had never considered himself to be a vindictive man, the thoughts that zipped jaggedly round his brain were not kind nor humanitarian, and he didn't need anyone to know or see that.

  No one needed to know how his heart squeezed painfully against his ribs, how his stomach had crawled into his throat and made a nest of cotton and regret. He was better than that and he'd faked his way through worse situations than this, or at least, ones almost as bad.

  Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Eddie was leaping into the air, both arms waving as he yelled. His actions seemed to be directed at Devon who was cupping his ear at the front of the stage. The crowd was even more frenzied until security pulled a young woman over the barrier and hoisted her onto the stage…and into Devon's waiting arms.

  She proceeded to scream and hug him to within an inch of his life. And he let her while the rest of the band kept banging out more noise. When the tempo slowed, Devon gently pushed the girl away but took her hand. He flipped his hair off his face, bending back when she grabbed at him again. His eyes glowed like dying stars under the lights.

  “You guys know what's happening, right?” Devon, asked, mouth close to the mic so his voice vibrated through the massive speakers. “Last song and we're gonna slow it down. I wrote this one for my mom who passed away not too long ago. She was the most important person in my life, you know? You should all be kind to your moms, right? They're the ones who brought us here after all.” He looked honestly pained when he paused, the girl pressed to his side and staring up at him, fascinated but still trying to cop a feel. Scott clucked his tongue in disgust but had to look away because Devon's emotions struck a sour note inside Scott. “It's called Bella. And hey, thanks for coming out guys. You've rocked the fuck out of this place. We love you.”

  Later Scott would remember how tenderly Devon talked about his mom but wouldn't recall any of the lyrics to the ballad. However, other things were imbedded in his memory—how Devon danced and swirled the young lady around the stage, how he sang as she twirled and squealed, how his eyes followed her every movement, how he beamed at her when he wasn't busy with the words, how he tugged her close at the end and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. She was pretty in a heavily-made-up kind of way, but young, no more than eighteen and wearing a black leather skirt that barely covered her pert ass. Scott hated her.

  So yeah, he'd remember that song for the rest of his life.

  Security led the girl from the stage while the band stopped their racket. They waved to the crowd then disappeared behind the curtain. The audience went ballistic after; screaming and stomping and generally adding to the raging headache that had taken root in Scott's head. Eddie turned to beam at Scott.

  “Encore! Encore!” he shouted even as he looked at Scott.

  All Scott could think was “please no”, but his wish was foiled again when the band trotted back on the stage. Devon let out a bloodcurdling scream, his top lip curled in a sneer as he gyrated his hips and banged his head to the new beat. It was awful and made Scott feel even worse. There wasn't a part of him that didn't hurt whether from the fact he'd been tightening every muscle in his body since Devon stepped out on the stage, to the internal pain that raced through him, taunting him, shaking him from the inside out. He needed to get out of there and Eddie was the biggest obstacle to getting Scott home to weep himself to sleep.

  When Scott crawled out of his chair he had to wait until his legs didn't feel like jelly and his knees weren't threatening to throw him face-first onto the concrete floor. Eventually he sauntered up behind his nephew and touched his shoulder. Eddie turned, his face flushed, lips curved in excitement, his head still moving to the overbearing beat.

  “I'd like to beat the crowd to the parking lot,” Scott told Eddie. The kid looked confused. Scott spoke louder. “I'd like to leave now! The parking lot is going to be crazy!”

  Eddie's face fell. “Marshall said we could go back stage, S-Man! The crowd will be gone by then anyhow!”

  Damn the kid for his logic. Scott tried again. “I'm not feeling well, Eddie. I've got a bad headache!”

  “Can I meet you in the car then?”

  It was almost surreal, trying to have a polite conversation with one hundred decibel noise driving Scott mad and Devon shouting a few feet away. Eddie looked hopeful as he squinted at Scott. “I'm not leaving you here by yourself!” Scott shouted again, sticking to his guns despite the puppy eyes currently fluttering in his direction.

  “Hey guys. We can start heading backstage as soon as the crowd thins out a bit!” Marshall's timing was the worst and Scott felt himself crumble under the weight of Eddie's pleading face. The kid didn't play fair at all.

  He stepped closer to the security guard. “Can I wait somewhere else for him? Somewhere close but not with the band?” It was the best solution he could think of on the spot.

  “You don't want to meet the guys? They're really great.”

  “No!” Someone needed to save Scott from this whole situation, some nice guy on a white horse to take him home so he could never leave his house again, or answer his phone, or remember Devon DuCaine even existed. “I mean, I'm sure they're fine gentlemen, but I could stay close and have Eddie meet them without me?”

  Marshall answered with a shrug. “Okay. You can wait in the hall if you want.”

  Scott was positive it wouldn't be cool at all, but he tried to think of Eddie and how excited the kid was. He'd be over the moon if he got to meet…him who shall not be named.

  After surviving not one but two encores, Scott was a pained ball of tension, every nerve in his body alert and biding their time until they could gang up on him. He kept wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks, the pits of his golf shirt were soaked through despite the air-conditioned venue being comfortably cool, and he was seriously considering running to the bathroom to throw up. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Devon for the final songs and wasn't that adding fuel to the fire?

  Devon worked the stage with confidence and beauty, and when Scott pul
led himself from his shuddering feelings long enough, he could appreciate the expert showmanship. Despite the music being so outrageously loud that it vibrated the entire arena, and the spotlights casting such light harsh enough to turn Devon's olive skin ghostly pale. The result emphasized the dark smudges of kohl around his eyes, and shamefully Scott couldn't look away, couldn't stop watching. He didn't want to admire the way Devon moved. He didn't want to be amazed at the way he connected with the audience of every age and gender, or the way he looked at home in front of thousands of people when all Scott wanted to do was go home and become a neurotic hermit. He had the neurotic part down pat already.

  Everything was too bright, too loud, too chaotic, and watching Devon hold the crowd in the palms of his hands frankly caused Scott a little extra nausea. It was hard for him to believe the screaming, jumping, cursing man on the stage was the same one who drank lemongrass tea, helped Scott with his chores, and whose favorite spot was curling up on the sun porch like a contented cat.

  Eddie slamming into him broke Scott from his ruminating. His nephew's face was pulled tight in a smile so wide Scott feared it would crack. His little body vibrated with excitement as he wrapped Scott in an unexpected hug. It was tremendously difficult to be bitter when someone else was bursting with happiness, and though Scott knew he should be the adult in the situation, he had to hold on to a little bitter.

  They waited with Marshall as the crowd gradually herded themselves out of the arena. Scott had to stifle any and all comments he had while enduring Eddie’s non-stop banter about the band and the singer and “oh-my-God wasn’t he the coolest thing in the entire world.” Scott was almost relieved when Marshall finally led them into the dark bowels of the venue. He kept a firm grip on Eddie’s jacket again, not trusting that one of those drug-addled fans wouldn’t grab his nephew and turn him into some equally drug-addled boy whore. Screw stereotypes. They were called that for a reason.

  Scott worried that his anti-anxiety meds were making him paranoid, instead of simply drowsy and calm, though that had only happened a few times before. Under the right, or wrong, circumstances, they could feed his overzealous imagination. Obviously, those circumstances were present.

  He could see Eddie trying very hard to be grown-up about meeting the band and it was adorable. Of course, Scott could see right through it, even in his current state of suspicion.

  “You really like these guys, huh?” he asked loud enough to be heard above the still-noisy crowd. He'd ditched his headphones and his ears pounded a little with white noise.

  Eddie looked like he was going to take flight. “They’re so awesome and I have all their albums and they have some of the best videos. I can’t believe I’m going to meet Devastation Caine. My friends are gonna flip.”

  Scott wrapped an arm around Eddie's thin shoulders and helped to steer him through the maze of hallways and people. “Devastation?”

  “The lead singer,” Eddie mocked him with a snort and patented eye roll that very clearly meant duh.

  Ah, things were becoming clearer and more muddied at the same time. “Does he have a last name?” Scott asked, but already knew the answer.

  Eddie shrugged and stepped away from Scott to catch up with Marshall. “Do you think he’ll give me an autograph or a picture? That would be fucking—”

  “Eddie!”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m sure he’ll let you have both.” Marshall beamed. “He’s a super nice guy. Always catering to the kids at the show with autographs or pictures.”

  “Like a pedophile?” The words were out before Scott could consult with his brain.

  Marshall stopped short, and Scott barely avoided crashing into his back. “What?”

  Scott feigned innocence. “Nothing. That’s not the word I meant to use. What I meant to ask is if Devastation is a um, pedagogist. You know, like a teacher.”

  Marshall and Eddie shook their heads in unison, their confused expressions identical before they went back to walking. Scott huffed out a breath of relief. Goddammit, what was wrong with him? When they reached the backstage area, it was a flurry of activity; people loading equipment, people with clipboards, people standing around talking to what looked to be members of the other bands. Scott didn’t see Devon Devastation Caine, anywhere, but why would he? He was probably holed up in his personal dressing room with some fist-pumping fans kissing his feet or other more private body parts.

  The more Scott thought about it, the angrier he got. Devon had used him, had lied to him and worst of all, had made Scott feel guilty about his suspicions. Devon couldn’t move much lower in Scott’s mind.

  “Scott? Are you coming, man?”

  Dammit, he needed to stop stepping out of reality. “Yes, of course,” he told Marshall. And he meant it this time.

  The security guard knocked on a scuffed and battered door, certainly not the door of a rock and roll superstar. Scott had no idea if that was the right musical term because there had to be another name for music that was composed of repetitive screaming and awful noise. It didn’t matter. Instead of staying in the hall like a chicken, Scott could get the confrontation over with, not let the cat out of the bag so much as snatch that thing by the scruff and spank it.

  All he really knew was that he wanted to go home and have his breakdown in private.

  “Come in!”

  The voice was Devon’s, and Scott’s blood pressure spiked. He held back when Marshall and Eddie entered the room, hiding beside the door frame but still secretly hoping for a peek. He told himself he was prepared to see Devon again, but even the sound of his voice sent sharp tingles up and down his spine.

  Eddie’s voice broke through his worry. “Uncle Scott! S-Man! Aren’t you coming in?” Then Scott was pulled into the room, the scent of musk and sweat assaulted and burned his nostrils. But it was the underlying fragrance that tickled the inside of his nose, the little hints of Devon scattered about in the air. Scott needed to get a grip.

  Scott squared his shoulders and straightened his back. He concentrated on pushing away the flight part of the fight or flight equation firmly stamping its feet inside his head. OhmygodwhatamIdoing? He needed to get back the anger he’d felt when he’d seen Devon up on the stage, the rage that he’d been betrayed over something as silly as his boyfriend being a rockstar, or scream star, or whatever the hell he was. Anger was better than breaking into sobs and losing his freaking mind in front of Devon.

  Unfortunately, all he was feeling was nervous apprehension and fear that Devon would laugh in his face—ha, ha, joke’s on you, you didn't actually think I liked you, did you?—and Scott would return home to melt into a puddle of rejection and embarrassment.

  A hand on his arm dragged him further into the smelly room, sending him sprawling into the back of Eddie. Who knew the kid was so strong? Scott kept his head ducked, tugged on the zipper-pull of his jacket and slowly pulled it up to his neck. It was a ruse to keep from falling immediately into Devon’s gaze; lame but hopefully effective.

  Eddie’s fingers were still wrapped around Scott’s forearm and he tugged a little harder as he spoke. “Devastation! Oh my god. It's really you. I love you guys. You're my favorite band and I have everything you've ever released,” his nephew cooed and squealed. Scott tried to pull away, but Eddie's excitement only tightened his grip as well as making him talk a mile a minute. “Oh yeah! I can't believe I'm here. This is my Uncle Scott. He’s not a fan but he brought me here and he’s pretty cool.”

  Scott looked up into shocked brown eyes, the expression on Devon’s face closer to pain than “ha, ha, joke’s on you, loser.” He recovered quickly, obviously ever the showman, one corner of his mouth curling the way Scott loved so much—correction, loved only two short weeks ago but made him want to slap him now. The inconsistency of having only one dimple glowing back at Scott spoke volumes and Devon’s original reaction was still pulsing through him.

  Devon, Devastation, held his hand out and Scott, being the bigger man, smiled—usi
ng both sides of his mouth—before taking Devon’s hand in a slow, hard shake. “Nice to meet you, Devastation. Eddie is apparently a big fan.” He couldn’t help the sneer that crept onto his face when he spoke Devon’s alternate name or the inflection of sarcasm that wrapped around the word. If he had been made of acid, he would have happily been spewing it. “Thanks for meeting with us.”

  “No problem,” Devon assured with a nervous laugh. He threaded fingers through his sweaty hair in a gesture Scott was very familiar with. “I like to keep in touch with my fans.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Scott replied, maintaining his composure. “Interesting music you guys play.”

  “Thanks. Not your thing I take it?” Devon was good. You couldn't even tell he was a lying sack of crap.

  Scott snorted, hoping his outside demeanor was smoother and less flaily than his inside one. “I’m more of a jazz guy myself.”

  “S-Man listens to really boring stuff,” Eddie added. He flashed Scott a look that told him his time was up, and it was Eddie’s turn for Devon's attention. Scott was happy to comply with the tip of his head. “Do you think I could get a picture with you, Devastation?”

  “Please call me Dev…and of course, Eddie. Do you have a cell phone we can use?”

  “My mom wouldn’t let me bring mine, but we can use S-Man’s, right?”

  Scott nodded, all business and happiness rolled into one fake ball of God-I-want-to-throw-up. “Sure.You guys arrange yourselves and I’ll take it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  He watched his nephew fawn over his former boyfriend/lover/fuck buddy—he hated that phrase—ignoring the way Devon’s fresh t-shirt hugged his chest, and the slim cut of his very low-waisted jeans. His hair was sweaty, and he’d changed out of his stage clothes, and the unmistakable scent of motor oil and sunshine still hung precariously in the air. Scott indulged in a slow sniff, his heart hurting, eyes blurring momentarily as the fragrance buzzed and licked its way through his body. He needed a cold shower, but even the thought of his bathroom at home brought dirty images of Devon in his shower doing delightfully dirty things to him.