by M. C. Roth
He stopped in the doorway, his body frozen taut. Ian was sitting on the edge of the bed with the mattress dipped low under his weight. One knee glanced off the dresser while the other nearly touched the wall. The man made the small room look like a child’s playhouse. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. Ian was looking at something in his hands. Trent followed his gaze to the slight glimmer in his palm.
He squinted against the low light, wishing that he had turned on the lights or at least opened the blinds. The dawn light was just enough to catch a shine of something metal in Ian’s hand. Trent wondered distantly what the man was so interested in, his mind working slowly in the early hour.
“So, if I give you this, will you take it?” Ian asked as he closed his hand around the glint of gold.
“What?” Trent asked dumbly as he tried to get a better look. He expected Ian to hand him whatever it was that he was clutching so tightly, but instead, the man slid to his knee. Trent took a step back in growing confusion and with a hint of fear. “What are you talking about?”
Ian held his hand out and opened his fingers. In the middle of his palm sat a gold ring. It was simple and thin. There were no diamonds or platinum marring the surface with overlaid designs, just simple beauty. It was the most terrifying thing Trent had ever seen.
“Will you take it, T? I was going to wait until later and do it right, but I can never think straight around you. Please, say something.” Ian’s heart wasn’t on his sleeve. It was etched into his face like the most beautiful piece of art.
Trent’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. He swallowed, but there were just no words, not even the hum of a whisper. He saw Ian’s expression of hope slowly crumble until it was hidden behind a blank façade. His shoulders drooped and he curled his hand back into a fist.
“Yes.”
Ian’s gaze shot up to his face at the word, his mask tumbling away as quickly as it had come. “What?” he asked in a voice so low that Trent could barely hear it.
“Yes.” This time it came out as less of a squeak and more like his normal voice. Suddenly everything moved. Trent grabbed for the ring in panic, thinking that Ian might somehow try to take it away. At the same time, Ian surged to his feet in an attempt at an embrace. Trent’s face collided with the top of Ian’s head with a loud smack.
“Ah, fuck!” Trent’s head jerked backwards, and the sharp ache hit him immediately as his eyes started to water. He brought both hands to his nose, even as he tilted off balance. Ian was reaching for him, but he was too slow. With a groan, Trent landed on his ass in the middle of the vinyl-floored hallway.
“You broke my fucking nose,” Trent yelled and let out a startled, high-pitched laugh. He thought he tasted copper, but it could’ve just been from the salty tears that were already pouring down his face as he gasped for air. The initial stun was disappearing, leaving only throbbing pain behind.
“Ah, fuck, T, I’m so sorry. I’m such a shitty lover,” Ian said as he attempted to lift Trent off the ground. His hands were shaking and warm as they grasped Trent’s arm.
“Fiancé,” Trent ground out through the pain, as blood started to drip down his face. “Fuck, I’m going to pass out.” He cackled again as his vision wavered and two thoughts stood out in his mind. The first was that the key he’d wrapped for Ian was definitely anticlimactic next to a marriage proposal. The second was that this had to be the best concussion in the world.
Epilogue
The ring on his finger still felt new, despite the pale line on the skin below. For a time, he’d been worried that it would slip off as he typed on his computer at work or that it would disappear to the bottom of a pool. But it stayed on, solid and strong—the perfect symbol of what it was meant to represent.
He slipped his hand over the one chicken’s back as she snuck by, stalking a cricket. She scooted away, unwilling to divert her attention during the hunt.
“Fine, no more tomatoes for you,” Trent called after her as he plucked a cherry tomato off the vine and slid it into his mouth. The skin burst under his teeth, sending sweet tartness over his palate.
“Give her a break, T. She’s just grumpy that she got kicked out of the garden.”
Trent smiled and looked back to his husband. Ian was sprawled across the lawn chair with a pad of paper in his hands as he quickly scribbled notes. Cadbury was nestled between his ankles with her feathers ruffled in sleep. She roused slightly as Ian spoke, only to shake her head and settle back down against his legs.
“Coming along okay?” asked Trent as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was especially bright for the warm September day, and he had left his hat inside. He refused to get it, knowing that it would rouse Ian from his concentration and Cadbury from his legs. She would probably peck Trent a few times in retaliation.
“Mmm, yeah. Better than yesterday, that’s for sure.” Ian nodded and flashed Trent a smile before returning to his notebook. “It’s too bad that Mac can sing but can’t compose worth shit.”
Trent wiped his hands on his pants and rocked back on his heels. The garden was green and growing well, despite the lateness of the season. He had managed to plant everything from tomatoes to watermelons this year.
“You headed out tomorrow then?” Trent already knew the answer, but he asked simply out of habit. It wasn’t the first time they’d been apart, but it was the first time since they’d been married. The ring he wore was the same one that Ian had used to propose to him. He’d only taken it off before the ceremony so that Ian could slide it right back onto his finger, followed by a kiss. A matching band, a few sizes larger, was sitting on Ian’s finger, catching the light as he wrote. He wrote with his left hand today. It was the one he used when he was feeling more creative—his right hand when he was stressed or working on something particularly difficult.
“My flight leaves at eight.” His pen dropped into his lap and he shut the notebook. “At least it’s only eight weeks this time.”
“Eight weeks and you’re back here with me again. I think I can deal with that.” Trent nodded once and turned back to the garden. It was the only favour Trent had ever asked of Ian’s friends. They were glad to oblige, some of them already sick of working near non-stop for years. They would tour or record for two months, then he would have Ian at home for another two.
“Just try not to break anything while I’m gone this time,” said Ian in mock seriousness. He sighed and leaned back in the chair before ruffling Cadbury’s feathers.
“The lawn mower was not my fault,” said Trent as he threw up his hands. “There was a squirrel’s nest in the bottom. Those guys are supposed to live in trees, not in my mower.” It was a good thing he’d checked before starting it up for the season. He never would’ve gotten over it if there were chopped squirrels all over the yard.
“Yeah, but did they have to live in the house after?” Ian chuckled over the argument they’d had many times. He’d returned home after a stretch of too many weeks away, to find Trent perched on the edge of the tub in the basement with three tiny squirrels in his arms. “Not to mention the roof,” said Ian. “I was gone two days before you call me and tell me that the roof blew off.” He motioned one hand to the edge of the roof, where a new layer of shingles lay with a slightly darker shade.
“It was only the corner,” Trent squeaked with indignation. “There was a windstorm. I can’t control the wind.” He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels.
“What about the kitchen fiasco? Was that the northern lights or the Loch Ness monster?” Ian shifted until he was leaning over the side of the lawn chair with a goofy grin on his face.
“Let’s never speak of that again.”
They both burst out laughing, disturbing Cadbury from her roost. The hen clucked aggressively before jumping down and running across the lawn.
“Love you, T.”
Trent turned back to Ian with a brilliant smile. Their lives weren’t perfect, but they were good for each oth
er. Trent broke things so that Ian could fix them, and Ian came up with fantastical ideas so that Trent could try to create them. He would never get used to Ian being away, but it made him cherish the time that they had together even more. What mattered most was that they were both happy.
“Love you too, Ian. Now, get off your ass and help me weed.” The garden was growing well, yes. That also meant that the weeds were invading like conquistadors.
Ian grunted and lifted himself off his lawn chair before kneeling beside Trent. He placed a single peck on Trent’s forehead before he thrust his hands into the garden, gripping a green stem and pulling it up from the roots with a smile.
“Ian, those were my ghost peppers,” said Trent, wondering if the plant was at all salvageable. Dirt speckled Trent’s leg when Ian gave the plant a slight shake before tossing it behind him. Ian shrugged before he reached for another stem, pausing and looking to Trent before he pulled it.
“That’s asparagus.” Trent deadpanned.
Yep, life was pretty perfect.
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Success: Never Too Famous
Thom Collins
Excerpt
A line of people stretched around the block as the black Mercedes turned in front of The City nightclub. Not yet midnight and the place must be on its way to being crammed. From the back seat of the car, Harry Alexander watched the queue through the tinted windows. The patrons in the crowd were typical of those he met at any weekend club night—young women in scanty dresses and men who looked as if they’d spent the entire day and a month’s salary grooming themselves for the event.
And there, right by the entrance, he saw himself. A life-sized poster in which he wore a white shirt, open to the waist, and a sea captain’s hat. ‘Tonight,’ the poster announced, ‘Meet the Star of Ship Mates, Harry Alexander.’ It was an old photograph, taken around five years earlier, when he’d been at the height of his fame. Mega cheesy. Harry had never liked that image, but the damn thing followed him everywhere.
“Look at all those people,” Vanessa exclaimed from the seat beside him.
“Relax,” Harry said. “They’re here for the club, not me. I’m just a sideshow.”
“The club thought enough of you to send this car, didn’t they? You’re a big deal here.”
A big deal. He knew it wasn’t true. Not anymore. True, someone still valued his celebrity enough to book him for this gig. Despite the saturation of reality-TV stars on the market, places like this were willing to shell out a few quid to have a well-known face on the premises. He didn’t understand why but had milked it for all it was worth, prolonging his fifteen minutes of fame to a decent six years. The offers were a lot less frequent these days, but there were opportunities to be had, as long as he wasn’t fussy, or too proud.
The Mercedes slipped into the alley at the rear of the club and the driver came around to open the door. Harry stepped out, followed by Vanessa and her husband, Ross. Best friends since childhood, Harry had seen little of Vanessa since she’d married and moved to Manchester. Now work brought him here for the weekend, it gave them the perfect opportunity to catch up, all at someone else’s expense.
Vanessa and Ross were dressed for a big night. She had on a full, sequined evening dress with narrow straps, low at the front and even lower at the back. Ross, a vet in his mid-thirties, wore a black suit and white shirt, more appropriate for a formal dinner than a trendy city center club. Ross put his arm around his wife’s waist, and they followed Harry through the back door of the club.
Harry Alexander was six-foot-two and every inch of him looked like a star. At thirty-two years of age, he had an effortless, old-fashioned look, at odds with the overly Botoxed, waxed, polished, buffed and styled images of his contemporaries. Brown hair—thick with a natural wave, cut short at the back and sides and full on top. Icy-blue eyes—like Franco Nero or Paul Walker in their prime. A straight nose and strong, handsome jawline. He had a wide-shouldered build, slim through the waist and powerful in the butt and thighs, all achieved through good diet and a healthy fitness regime. In an industry where many young men go to extreme lengths to reach unachievable goals of perfection, Harry was comfortable in his own skin. That comfort and confidence made him sexier, more desirable than all the others.
Tonight, he wore his regular uniform for this kind of thing. Narrow-legged navy trousers to show off those assets, and a slim-fitting, short-sleeved shirt, which revealed his strong, tattoo-free biceps and forearms.
The club security led them into a small waiting room. There were drinks laid out—wine, champagne, spirits and beer. Harry told Vanessa and Ross to help themselves.
“Is this what your life is like all the time?” Ross asked, opening a beer and dropping into a sofa. “People just give you free stuff.”
“Not really,” Harry said. “Only at times like this. Though other people play the game a lot better than I do. They rarely pay for anything. I don’t like to take the piss like that. Some things should be paid for.” All true. On a job, Harry had no qualms about taking the clubs for all they would give. But he didn’t behave that way through the rest of his life, expecting freebies just because he was well-known.
Harry looked at his watch. It had gone twelve. He was due on stage at one. These things followed a format. A brief turn on the stage, followed by photos and autographs with anyone who wanted them, then a seat the VIP room, where he was obliged to stay for one hour. That was where the clubs made the real money from these celebrity appearances. Regular punters would pay upward of one thousand pounds for a table in the VIP just to be close to the famous guests. Once there, they’d be stung with minimum spending restrictions on the bar, at least another grand toward the club. The hotter the celebrity, the higher the prize of a table. Harry’s days as a top earner were long gone, though he could still command a decent fee for a few hours of what he could never call work.
The club’s manager appeared a few minutes later, while Ross opened his second beer and Vanessa got stuck into the free champagne. Marc Jenner, a guy in his early twenties, had a frozen, shiny forehead and an overfamiliar attitude. Though this was the first time they’d met, he greeted Harry with a brotherly hug.
“Harry, mate, so good to see you.” He grinned, with the wide eyes and overconfidence of a seasoned cokehead. “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, clocking Vanessa’s full glass.
“There’s just one thing,” Harry said, taking Marc by the elbow and guiding him to the outer corridor.
“Anything, mate, just say it. We can sort anything you want. What’s it to be, bro? A cheeky line or two? Or a pretty face plucked out of the crowd?”
Harry held his patience. “My fee. It hasn’t come through.”
Marc laughed. “Don’t worry about it, mate, we’ll see you right. We’re good for the money, you know that.”
How many times had he heard that before? Harry maintained the cool, professional tone. “I made it clear when you booked me for this gig that you would pay me in advance of the appearance. I checked my account in the car here, and the funds still haven’t come through.”
Marc’s smile and confidence wavered for the first time. “Harry, man, it’s all cool, don’t worry. You’ll get paid.”
“Now,” he said, his voice firm and controlled.
“What?”
“I’ll get paid now. Or I don’t go on. That was the deal. That’s always the deal.”
Harry had learned his lesson the hard way. Organizers were always keen to say they’d pay up later, but he knew from experience that the money would be less forthcoming after the gig. Once he’d done his job, they were on to the next C-lister and didn’t care to pay the one before.
“I’ll tell you what,” Marc said. “How about you and your friends take a table in the VIP, and I’ll see what we can do? Have a few drinks, mingle a little, and I’m sure I can get this misunderstanding fixed.”
With his s
mile turned up full, Harry said, “We’ll wait here, until you get it sorted. I’ll take cash or a Bacs transfer, whichever is easier. Then I’ll go to that table in the VIP.” He knew Marc’s trick. The VIP area was a public part of the club, and once he stepped out there, he would work for them, free drinks or not. When he hadn’t gotten paid for several gigs at the start of his celebrity career, Harry had adopted a motto he’d stuck to, without wavering, ever since—no pay, no play.
“What’s going on?” Vanessa asked when he returned to the green room.
“Nothing. Marc needs to deal with a small issue and then we’re good to go.”
Harry poured a vodka over ice and sat in a leather chair opposite Vanessa and Ross. They were both pretty merry. All three had been out to dinner before the car had arrived to collect them for the club. While Harry had paced himself with two glasses of wine across the evening, Vanessa and Ross had polished off two bottles of white wine and one red. He didn’t blame them. He had to work tonight, they didn’t. Let them enjoy themselves. Once he’d done his bit on the stage and posed for selfies, he intended to get very loaded.
The thud of dance music reverberated through the floor and walls. The club must be livening up. All those people in line would be inside by now.
“Do you do this every weekend?” Ross asked, gesturing around the room. “The personal appearance and all that.”
Harry shook his head. “No, but I used to. Sometimes I’d appear at two different clubs on the same night. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, I could do as many gigs as I wanted, traveling all over the country. Sometimes I went abroad. I used to do appearances in Ibiza and Ayia Napa a couple of times a summer.”
“Why did you stop? Getting paid for nothing, who wouldn’t want that?”
Harry laughed. “That’s the problem, everyone wants it. I don’t know how many TV channels there are these days, spewing out God knows how many reality shows. And those shows are filled with dozens and dozens of hot young things who are prepared to do anything for their slice of the fame pie. I’m old hat. A has-been. I can’t compete with the younger crowd. Anyway, they play the game much better than I do.”