by Anna Zabo
They’d spent a lot of time naked over the past two days. Sleeping. Fucking. Playing. They’d also spent time with the band, horsing around at the pool, going out to eat. Had been so good to connect with all of them, but being with Zavier was like nothing else. His touches, his glances. They could inflame or be friendly or drop Ray straight to his knees. He loved every single minute of his time with Zavier. The benefits were outstanding.
The paparazzi did have quite the time photographing them, including shots of some very intense looks Zavier had given Ray—his I’m going to fuck you so hard later gaze. But there weren’t any photos—yet—that anyone could point to and identify them as a couple. They didn’t hold hands, and, as Dom had pointed out, didn’t stare into each other’s eyes, or any other couple-like activity.
Had to confuse the hell out of the press. Didn’t bother Ray, though. Zavier was Zavier. Ray loved him for who he was, even if that meant the reciprocal wasn’t quite the same. Zav cared for him—Ray knew that in his bones. He also knew it from the bright cotton bracelet Zavier had tied around his wrist under his shirt before they’d left the hotel room. So you remember who you are.
His own person. But also the man Zavier had promised to tie down and fuck later that night.
Mish might have been wearing an elegant black dress, but she still kicked him from her seat across his in the limo. Even in sleek heels, she could pack a wallop. “You’re off in lala land...nervous?”
“Nah. I’m thinking about the last couple of days, that’s all. Gonna be weird to get back on the road.” They still had a concert in Seattle, and they’d added a stop before that in Oregon.
“I’m kinda looking forward to being done,” Dom said. He was the only one not quite in fancy duds. Domino wore the tux jacket, but a black pair of jeans, a bright red T-shirt, and his studded collar. His usual makeup, too. “I want to be myself for a while, and get some sweet, sweet loving, like Ray’s been lucky enough to get.”
He flipped Dom off, but laughed. Couldn’t fault Dom for playing up the persona or wanting out of it, either. Dominic Bradley in a tux looked very different than Domino Grinder. People expected Domino to be outrageous, but apparently Dom-the-twink got more action in bed.
When they arrived at the restaurant, there were photos and handshakes and fans wanting autographs. Took them forever to get into the place. The venue was all glitter and chrome that sparkled and pulsed like a glass full of jewels. A little glitzier than Twisted Wishes themselves, but it was a nice change of pace, even if Ray did feel like he was playing dress-up. Out of all of them, Zavier looked the most natural in his clothes—but then, he was used to wearing a tux from his orchestra days. Plus he moved like sin in any clothing. Hell, he moved like that naked.
Ray worked his way to the bar and ordered a tonic water with a lime wedge speared with a cocktail sword. “I’m not drinking,” he told the bartender.
A moment after he got his drink, he was dragged off by some marketing guy who wasn’t Carl to chat with one of the VPs of the label he’d yet to meet. Well, chat really meant shake hands, listen to praise, and nod and smile while the press took countless pictures.
A few journalists asked him some pretty easy questions about his feelings on the success of the band, what was next, and how Zavier Demos fit into the picture. He set his drink down and answered their questions, including the one he expected.
“Are you and Zavier lovers?”
Ray laughed. “That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it? I know people are saying there’s photos of us, but—” He let the reporter squirm a bit, then shrugged. “Zav’s become a very good friend. He’s a phenomenal musician, and hell yeah, I look forward to working with him on our next album.”
No one asked about the hazy photo that had been taken through the sheers. No mentions of young fans. The rumor that it was Zavier standing behind Ray had taken hold. The fact that it wasn’t a rumor at all? Not his problem.
Given the paparazzi and what had already happened, at some point photos would come out of him and Zavier that would solidify all the speculation, but for now, he wouldn’t give them anything to go by. Besides, the label’s lawyers had gotten the blurry shots taken down. Maybe that would make the gossip sites and the photogs think twice about taking very personal photos.
Still, someone was bound to catch them kissing, even though they weren’t all over each other in public. Zavier might not be romantic, but he obviously still enjoyed physical contact of all sorts.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to find Carl leering at him. Ray didn’t put his fist in his face, but did twist away from his touch. “Yeah?”
“Photo time with the record.” Carl marched away.
Well, okay then. Ray grabbed his drink, took a quick sip, and coughed. Damn. Bitter. Lime must have been strong and bled in a bit more. He set it down again near the staged shoot.
The platinum record and certificate looked stellar, even if their album had never been released on anything resembling the shining large disk above the certificate. His head swam a little as he held the plaque with Dom, Mish, and some label exec. Zavier stood off to the side, grinning. After about fifteen minutes of being maneuvered and primped for the best shots and then posing with the execs, too, they eventually got a few shots with Zavier as well. Even if he wasn’t on the album, he was part of why they were here tonight. It was only fair to include him.
Ray rubbed his eyes—all the flashes from the photographs left after images, and his head felt weird. Probably too much heat and not enough liquid. He extracted himself from the crowd and found his drink again. Still on the bitter side, but wet and cool.
Another reporter cornered him, and he answered more questions and sipped his drink. Wasn’t helping. His brain swam and his eyes felt wrong. Everything was bright, and he couldn’t clear his throat.
He excused himself once the questions petered out to get some water, but got lost along the way. Too many mirrored columns and twinkling lights. People everywhere. The room swam. Shit. He took a breath and wheezed.
Okay—there was definitely something wrong with him. His throat itched all the way down and it felt tight. Tighter by the second. What the hell? He put down his drink and grabbed the little cocktail table to steady himself.
Oh fuck. Oh god. His throat. He tried to gasp for air and only managed a little. Someone grabbed his arm.
“Are you drunk already, Ray?” Carl’s face swam in Ray’s vision.
No. No. He tore away. Not drunk. Couldn’t breathe. He needed Zavier. Where the hell was Zavier? He pushed through the crowd, trying to find those broad shoulders and dark hair. There...!
Noise all around now, though none of it made sense. He tripped over something and stumbled.
“Ray?” Warm hands caught him and Zavier’s voice sounded in his ears, frantic and worried. “Ray!”
He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Or in. You needed breath, a throat that worked, to get words out.
I’m dying. He clawed at Zavier. I’m gonna die. He wasn’t ready. Not at all. Please don’t let me die!
The last thing he heard was Zavier shouting his name.
* * *
Ray collapsed into Zavier’s arms, and his emotions shut down. They had to, he didn’t have time to contemplate worry or fear or anything.
“Call nine-one-one!” he shouted over the suddenly panicking crowd. He laid Ray on the floor and racked his brain for what to do next as people crowded around and a fucking flash went off. “Get back!” His voice was a growl in his own ears. “Get a doctor!”
Blotchy skin. Swollen lips. Breath coming in tiny wheezes. Fuck. Fuck. Allergic reaction? Anaphylaxis maybe. Probably. Shit.
“Zav!” Mish was next to him in an instant, a bright yellow tube in her hand. “EpiPen.”
“I don’t know how—”
She popped a blue cap off and jammed it
against Ray’s thigh. Held it there. Counted. Pulled it away. “I’m allergic to bees and wasps.”
And they’d been playing outdoors all summer. “What’s Ray allergic to?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know he had any.”
Neither had he.
Zavier’s head swam with every awful outcome as they waited for what seemed like hours for the first responders to arrive. It was probably minutes, eight or ten or something like that. Ray was breathing, though, and the crowd wasn’t pressing too close.
Lots of clicks of phone cameras. Zavier wavered between anger and nausea. Thankfully movement and commotion swarmed around them again, then a woman in a uniform was kneeling with them. A paramedic, with more following. The band answered her questions as best they could and Mish handed over the EpiPen.
“Food allergies?” The paramedic took Ray’s vitals.
“None that I know of,” Zavier said.
Mish shook her head. “Same. He never mentioned any.”
“Where’s Dom?”
“Here.” A quiet voice behind Zavier. “He doesn’t have any food allergies. He’s allergic to penicillin and derivatives.” He fidgeted. “I have power of attorney for his healthcare.”
Of course he did. Made sense—best friends since high school, and Dom had been by Ray’s side the entire time. Didn’t stop the punch to Zavier’s gut, because he couldn’t do anything. Ray had come to him for aid—and he’d failed. Utterly.
“You should be here.” Zavier rose.
Security and other paramedics were shooing people out of the way as they pulled in a stretcher.
“Zav...” Dom’s eyes were wide, and his face too pale, even with the makeup. Dominic peering out from underneath Domino. “You should go with them.”
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But he was useless to Ray, and Dom was not. He gripped Dom’s shoulder. “You have power of attorney. I don’t. He trusts you.” The fear in Dom’s eyes mirrored the terror lurking behind the locked-down, rational part of Zavier’s mind. “I trust you.”
Maybe that was what Dom needed to hear, because he took a breath and nodded.
“He was drinking.” Carl’s sharp voice.
They both flinched, and Zavier rounded on Carl. “He was not.”
“You sure about that?” Carl nodded back at a tumbler that looked to be a half-drunk gin and tonic sitting on a high-top cocktail table.
Zavier knew, without a doubt, Ray wouldn’t have touched alcohol. Not tonight, not when so much was on the line.
“Did he have a drinking problem?” That was from the paramedic.
“Yes.” Carl’s smile was horrific.
“No,” all three of them—Dom, Mish, and Zavier—answered, in echo of each other.
Zavier continued, “He never did. That was the spin the label decided on.” He glared at Carl. “You know Kevin admitted to being in rehab, right?”
When they lifted Ray onto the stretcher, Zavier put his back to Carl and clasped Dom’s shoulder again. “Go with him. We’ll handle things here.”
Because this—being here to counteract Carl—was how Zavier could help Ray.
Dom nodded, then was jogging after the paramedics.
Zavier turned to Carl. “You know he’s never had an issue with drinking.” He strode toward the other man. “And yet, every fucking time, you blame it on Ray boozing it up, as if he were some out-of-control drunk.” He went straight past Carl to the glass he’d pointed out. “When in reality he hasn’t touched a drop since Kevin left the band.” Zavier leaned over and sniffed. Tonic. Lime. That was all. “This is tonic water.”
“Must not be his glass.” Carl glared at him, seething.
A flash went off—cameras. Phones. Recording. Good.
“It’s his glass.” A man in the simple black slacks, apron, and vest of the bartenders tonight stepped forward. “I watched him put it there before he stumbled. And I served him tonic and lime, like he asked.” His gaze flicked from Carl to Zavier. “That’s all Mr. Van Zeller has had to drink tonight.” He paused and focused on Carl. “You even heard him order that one. Watched me make it.”
From the corner of his eye, Zavier caught the edge of another uniform—this one not a paramedic’s. Not security, either. He met the police officer’s gaze. Cop stared back. “Did you touch the glass?”
“No. I just leaned over the table and sniffed it.”
He nodded once. “You, and you, and you.” He pointed to the bartender, Carl, and Zavier in turn. “Stay here. Don’t touch a damn thing.”
“You should pull the security tapes,” Zavier murmured. A hideous, horrible inkling formed in the back of his mind. Carl wanted Ray to act drunk. There were ways to do that. Drugs you could use. He’d already set Ray up once.
The cop eyed him. “Already being done.” He glanced around. “You three stay here. Everyone else needs to leave this area.” He paused. “Now.” That word was ground out with enough authority that the gawkers finally moved, taking their phones with them. They were directed by some additional police to another area of the venue, away from them, presumably to get statements.
Zavier stared at Carl, that smug bastard. And watched as the smugness melted to worry and fear. Oh, you fucking asshole of a man. If you hurt him, I will kill you.
Zavier pulled out his phone and texted Dom. R may have been drugged. Roofie or something. Still figuring it out.
Across the room, Mish waved as she was ushered out. “Go to the hospital. I’ll meet you there,” Zavier called.
Carl snorted. “Since when did you become the leader of the band?”
“I’m not.” Zavier tucked away his phone. “Ray’s our leader. Has been all this time.” He cocked his head. “Right now? I’m playing band manager, since ours is an incompetent fool.”
Carl started toward him.
“Don’t.” Zavier’s command rang out, momentarily silencing the entire room and stopping Carl in his tracks. “Don’t even think it. I won’t touch you, but if you lay a hand on me, I will rip it off and shove it down your throat.”
Three police officers descended upon them, and the rest of the night became another blur of questions and answers and anger checked and choked back and checked again. His phone buzzed multiple times, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t look.
Probably shouldn’t have talked to the cops, either, but the worry and fear crept in enough to cloud common sense. Yes, he had threatened to rip Carl’s hand off—but Carl had been storming toward him. Yes, there was a history of animosity between Carl and Ray and the band. No, he didn’t know why.
Thankfully, the bartender corroborated everything he’d said about Ray and drinking. Told the cops what Zavier already knew—Ray hadn’t touched alcohol that night. They noticed some kind of white substance at the bottom of Ray’s glass, but in the end, it was the security recordings that told the whole story. Ray getting his tonic and lime. Chatting his way through the crowd. Putting his drink down for a second while talking to someone...and Carl dropping something in while no one was watching.
Fucking Carl. Again. Carl, of course, had clammed up as soon as the officers read him his rights. Wouldn’t even tell them what the drug was. Said he wanted to speak to a lawyer.
Eventually, the cops cut Zavier and the bartender loose, with thanks and business cards. They’d be in touch. By the time Zavier stumbled out into fresh air, his mind was a mess of emotions and his body buzzed and ached in ways he didn’t know were possible. Chest tight. Pounding headache. Heart racing. He was both cold and sweating. Zavier pulled out his cell and read the first two texts that were visible.
When will you be here? That was from Dom.
Mish, too. Honey, where are you?
There were more. Details about Ray. The hospital name. They scrolled off screen and his vision blurred.
He wasn’t religious, but he thre
w a prayer up into the universe anyway. Ray. Fuck. Ray, please be okay! He closed his eyes, and forced his stomach to quell, tried to take enough deep breaths to get his pulse under control. In, out. Control. Find a center and latch on to that.
From behind his eyelids, he saw a flash of bright light. Cameras. Press. Paparazzi. He opened his eyes. Of course.
They descended on him like locusts to wheat. He’d been Nadia’s student, so he drew himself up, pocketed his phone, and found the restaurant’s taxi stand. “Get me a cab.”
The attendant was wide-eyed. Zavier watched him flick a glance at the reporters, then he ducked his head. “Right away, sir.”
He tucked his fear for Ray deep down and schooled his features, then faced the cameras. They called his name, asking questions on top of one another. A miasma of sound that screeched across Zavier’s brain.
What happened to Ray Van Zeller? Was it true he was drunk? Were he and Ray lovers? Why had they taken away Carl Roberts in cuffs? Why wasn’t he at his boyfriend’s side? How did he feel?
He felt like knives were stabbing through every part of his body. That was how he felt. Ray had needed him—and he’d been helpless. Zavier swallowed the pain and held his ground. “I have no statement at this time.” He spoke low, but with force, like the deep boom of a bass drum.
Didn’t matter. The questions went on. Recorders and cameras were shoved in his face. He couldn’t duck them, couldn’t make them stop. Trapped and enclosed by bodies, Zavier’s every nerve said to fight, to escape.
Once—only once—in his life, he’d been bound. Held by ropes and cuffs and completely at the mercy and will of another. He’d submitted freely then, and had hated every second of that loss of control, but he’d endured, because that too was a type of self-mastery.
If you keep your head, Nadia had purred that night, nothing will ever faze you again.
She’d been so very wrong about that. He could be unnerved. There were some things—some people—that threw him off. Situations that cut to his bone. Ray did more than faze him.
But he’d never let this pile of camera-laden, ethically challenged humans know that. When his taxi pulled up, he pushed through the crowd and slipped into the cool, dark interior, and shut the shitshow out. They rapped on the window and yelled at him.