by L. A. Witt
He grumbled, but switched on a lamp beside the bed. We both flinched. After being in that pitch black bus, even the dimmest light was too bright.
“I guess I should get up,” he grumbled.
I ran a hand over his side. “Don’t rush on account of me.”
Facing me, he grinned. “If I was rushing anything on account of you, it wouldn’t be getting out of bed.”
I chuckled and lifted myself just enough to kiss him. Then he sat up, and I relaxed against the pillows. This part of the bus was too cramped for both of us to try to get dressed at the same time anyway.
Jordan didn’t stand, though. He sat on the edge of the bed and kept his gaze on the floor. His playful, post-orgasmic expression had changed somehow, darkening slightly as if he was deep in thought.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m curious about something you mentioned a few days ago.”
“Yeah?”
“You mentioned me and the… guys before you. Mark and Evan.” Still focused on the carpet, he said, “How much did you hear about them?”
I put a hand on his leg. He didn’t respond, physically or otherwise. Withdrawing my hand, I shifted a bit, propping myself up on my other elbow. “Word on the street was you took them to bed a few times and then cut them loose.”
Jordan closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “It’s not quite that simple.”
Straightening a bit, I watched him. That wasn’t an outright admission, but it wasn’t much of a denial either. And how much of it was my business, anyway? We were sleeping together in between me shadowing him all over God’s green earth to keep him safe. He owed me nothing. No explanations. No commitment. Not even any kind of monogamy. There were no lines because we’d never established any, so what the hell was I supposed to say?
“They knew what they were getting into,” Jordan went on. “When they decided they couldn’t handle it…”
“What exactly were they getting into?”
Jordan said nothing for a moment. Then, “Are you asking if you’re getting into the same thing?”
I nodded.
Jordan took a deep breath. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told both of them.” Slowly, he turned his head until our eyes met. “To put it perfectly bluntly, I’m a guy who needs more than he can give back. I’m… I’m not the kind of man you want if you’re looking for a healthy, stable relationship.”
I swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I need a lot from a man. A lot.” He laughed dryly and looked away, absently brushing a few strands of hair out of his face. “I spend most of my life feeling like I’m stretched so goddamned thin, I’m going to fall apart. And with Daniel hanging by a thread, and Millennium breathing down our—” He paused, waving a hand. “Anyway. Most people realize pretty quickly that I’m not great at relationships. It’s not that I go into it wanting to be selfish and trying to take, take, take, but I—”
“You have nothing left.”
“What?”
I sat up, bending my knees behind him and resisting the temptation to let my leg brush his back. “You’re always ‘on’, Jordan. Promoting the band, leading the band, writing music, taking care of Daniel.” I reached for his arm, and this time, my touch brought a soft breath out of him. “Shit, you can’t even go out without an armed bodyguard because…” Well, that didn’t need elaborating. “I’m not looking to take another piece from you. All I really want…”
Jordan twisted toward me and brought his knee up onto the bed, warming the side of my thigh with the top of his. “You want, what?”
I hesitated, slowly drawing my tongue along my teeth as I considered how to say it. “I’m your bodyguard, and now I’m… whatever I am. Just”—I ran my hand up the inside of his leg—“let me be whatever it is you need.”
Jordan swallowed hard, as if it took more effort than it should have.
“I’m not asking for anything,” I whispered. “Just don’t push me away.”
A smile finally formed, lightening his expression, and he leaned toward me.
“The last thing I’m going to do,” he whispered as his lips neared mine, “is push you away.”
* * *
A few nights later, Jordan stood silently backstage, sipping a hot lemon tea while the opening act finished their encore. He never said much before a show, ostensibly to keep from straining his voice. Most of the time, I believed that. Tonight, I didn’t imagine he’d have been very talkative anyway.
He couldn’t look at Daniel without a painful grimace flickering across his face. He barely looked at me at all. Hopefully he was just being subtle, not drawing attention to the fact that I existed for any other purpose than keeping a watchful, protective eye on him. Rumors were circulating throughout the crew that we were fucking, and this professional distance was the only thing that tamped down some of those.
I shifted my gaze to Daniel. He’d been, as near as anyone could tell, sober for the past few days. The first couple of nights after he’d locked himself in the bathroom, those had been rough. But he’d more or less leveled out since then.
Which was exactly why, I guessed, Jordan was on edge.
And so was I.
It was only a matter of time. Daniel was an addict, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. My ex had done this a few times. Crash hard. Sober up. Threaten suicide. Get everyone to walk on eggshells for fear of setting him off, and at the same time, he’d be waiting for us all to let our guard down. Then all he’d have to do was slip out, score a hit, and lose himself in his drug of choice. Tonight? Tomorrow? A week from now? The only sure thing was that it would happen.
Oblivious to me, Daniel stretched a few times and rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, limbering up for the show as was his ritual. The techs were scurrying around, and the band members were all stretching, the musicians moving slow if at all while the crew rushed around between them.
The opening act cleared out. The roadies from both bands darted onto the darkened stage, going through the motions with practiced precision as they removed the last act’s equipment and put No Rules’ in place.
While the band took the stage, I stood off to the side where I usually did. It gave me the best view of the entire stage, plus the audience. If someone made it past the venue security, I’d see them and be all over them before they got anywhere near Jordan. Not that there’d been any direct threats against him, or anything more than just overly enthusiastic fans trying to get onstage with him. He’d heard enough horror stories from other musicians, though, that he was more than willing to cough up my salary in exchange for the peace of mind that came with an armed escort. With all the stress and pressure he was under, I didn’t blame him.
From the side of the stage, I watched, and I couldn’t help letting my gaze drift from the crowd to Jordan. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him perform since I’d seen him naked, but just like the first time and every time since, I couldn’t breathe. His voice, amplified and projected to thousands, still held traces of the strain and desperation that was just for me during those late night encounters. The skintight silver leather pants outlined every contour of his lower body, from his tight ass and long, slim legs to that unmistakable bulge. Had I noticed that before? Maybe. I couldn’t remember. Standing there watching him now, I couldn’t remember there ever being a time when I hadn’t tasted Jordan’s mouth or felt him tighten around me just before he came.
When he belted out a long note, and leaned back a little, I couldn’t help thinking of the way his back arched when I fucked him. Or when he was on top and I held him against me so I could come inside him. Or the way he’d come after I’d pushed him up against a hotel shower wall and blown him, and that had me thinking about how he’d melted against me after that, panting and shaking.
Whenever he stood on the edge of the stage, hundreds of hands reached for him. He’d touch as many as he could—a grasp here, a high five
there, sometimes just a brush of fingers over fingers—and my head spun because none of those fans could possibly know what it was like to have those hands really touch them. Sliding over skin, tracing the curve of the spine, cupping an ass cheek in mid-thrust and gripping tense thigh muscles and dragging nails over nipples and abs.
I cleared my throat and turned away from the stage, taking advantage of the shadows to adjust myself before my pants became any more uncomfortable. Maybe I was just Jordan’s bodyguard and stress relief, but damn if I didn’t love my fucking job.
A long set and two encores later, the lights went down and the band left the stage over the roar of forty thousand fans who’d be hoarse as fuck tomorrow morning. The crew scrambled out from backstage and started unplugging cords and coiling them up while the techs carefully put the various instruments in their cases. It was utter chaos back here, voices and feet every which direction.
I kept my eye on Jordan, and from the second he was clear of the stage, I was behind him. I stayed close while he took off his earpiece and the box clipped to his belt. Someone handed him a huge bottle of water—sealed, I made sure before he opened it—and he downed almost half of it before coming up for air. At an outdoor show, he’d have leaned down and poured the rest of it over the back of his neck and into his hair. Admittedly, I was glad he didn’t have a place to do that tonight. I wasn’t sure I could handle that sight right now.
Before long, the stage door was vibrating with the sounds of fans on the other side. They chanted his name, the band’s name, the other members’ names.
Jordan glanced at the door, then closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Really dug his fingers in. Then he rubbed his left eye. A minute later, he rubbed it again.
Oh, crap. That wasn’t good.
I stood closer to him, doing my level best to loom over him like a bodyguard so no one suspected anything else. “You okay?”
He sighed and looked up at me, struggling to hold my gaze. “Migraine coming on.”
Shit. Exactly what I was afraid of. “You going to be all right?”
“In about eighteen hours, yeah.” He stretched his neck to one side, then the other.
I pulled the Tic Tac box containing his migraine meds from my pocket. I popped the top, let one of the pills drop into my palm, and offered it to him.
“Thanks.” He threw back the pill and chased it with some water.
“What about”—I gestured at the stage door—“your adoring public?”
Jordan winced. Then he took a few deep breaths, set his shoulders back, and pulled a Sharpie from his pocket. “Let’s do this before I’m in too much pain to see straight.” Past me, he called out, “You guys ready?”
“Whenever you are,” Milo replied. He and Daniel followed us, along with the rest of the band, and I nodded to the burly security guards manning the door. One of them pushed it open. The chanting outside erupted into a roar of voices with a few shrill shrieks to top it off. Jordan, still not visible to the crowd yet, winced, but then took a few more breaths, squared his shoulders under his sweaty T-shirt, and walked out behind Daniel with me on his heels.
No one in the crowd could possibly have known how bad he was feeling. They’d have assumed the fresh sweat beading along his hairline was from the show, and that the sunglasses were merely a fashion statement. When he spoke quietly, his voice must’ve been strained from singing, nothing more.
I was on edge all the way down the long, long line of people. No one pinged my radar as a potential threat—though I was vigilant, as always—but I knew how fast Jordan could deteriorate once a migraine had sunk its claws into him. Every time he stopped to chat with a fan, sign an autograph, and take a picture, I sent up another prayer that his migraine held off until he made it past the end of the line. Once it really started, he’d have no choice but to bow out and get back to his dark, silent tour bus. With any luck, he’d make it before the nausea set in. That was an image his fans didn’t need.
Two-thirds of the way down the line, Jordan stumbled.
“Goddamn,” he laughed as he signed another photo. “Apparently I’m learning to walk today.”
The fans laughed, but as he handed back the photo and posed for a group shot with a trio of teenage girls, my heart was going a million miles a minute. The really bad migraines fucked with his balance. He still had a good fifty people between him and the end of the line, and another hundred feet from there to the bus.
I casually moved in a bit closer, staying out of the way but close enough I could grab him if his legs went out from under him. With the press watching No Rules like a hawk for evidence that Daniel really had fallen off the wagon—again—the last thing anyone needed was for Jordan to start stumbling and slurring in front of fans.
He continued down the line, signing and posing and smiling and talking, and I held my breath every time he moved, sure this was going to be when he lost his footing. So far, so good, but I wasn’t going to rest easy until he was on the bus.
While he posed for a photo with a group of fans, someone just a few feet away snapped another picture, the flash going off almost in Jordan’s right eye. He flinched, putting up his hand as if to ward off another flash and covering his face with the other.
I stepped in, shoulder between him and the other camera, and grabbed his arm. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” He waved me away, so I let him go. The fans stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as Jordan rubbed his hand over his eyes.
Then he blinked a few times, and grinned. “You’d think I’d be used to this shit by now.”
The fans laughed, and he finished posing for the photos without incident, but my blood pressure didn’t come down. I glared at the owner of the camera that had flashed in his face, and the kid turned red and slinked back into the crowd. Whether or not he got the picture he wanted, I didn’t really care. Of course he didn’t know that Jordan was on the verge of excruciating pain and photosensitivity, but goddamn. Who flashed a camera right in someone’s face like that?
Motherfucking fans.
By the grace of God or just a degree of stubbornness I was only beginning to understand, Jordan made it to the end of the line. I teetered between putting a protective arm around his shoulders, which would keep him upright but give away our “relationship”, and just walking beside him and hoping he didn’t lose his footing.
“I can walk,” he said quietly.
“Okay. I’m right here, though.”
“Thanks.”
I stayed close, a step behind and slightly to his right. His gait was slower than normal, but fairly stable. On the way up the bus steps, he kept a tight grip on the railing and took each step extra slowly.
I closed the privacy screen and shut off all but the dimmest light so we could get around without falling. The blackout curtains kept the streetlights out, and the bus was pretty well insulated from the noise too.
It was no surprise when Jordan sank onto the couch, head in his hands, and groaned. I should’ve known this was how it would play out. He’d stay stoic all the way here, and the second he was in the bus, he was at the migraine’s mercy. How he’d kept it at bay until now, I’d never know, but the collapse was as quick as it was inevitable.
I touched his shoulder. “The meds helping?”
“A little.” His voice was flat and quiet. “Think I’m just gonna have to ride this one out.”
“Need a hand getting into bed?” Any other night, that would’ve sounded suggestive, but I was pretty sure he knew as well as I did that it was meant entirely at face value.
“I’ll be all right.” He started to get up, and I grabbed his arm a second before he wavered. Leaning heavily on me, he managed to get all the way to his feet. Once he was steady, I loosened my grasp.
“Do you want me to stay here?” I kept my voice as quiet as possible.
“I won’t be very good company.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He smiled a little, but then met my eyes. “I do wan
t you to stay, but… can I ask a huge favor tonight?”
As long as it doesn’t involve hurting you the way you want me to…
As if he’d ask for that right now.
“Name it.”
“We don’t have another show for three days, and then it’s almost two weeks of nonstop performing. The rest of the band and crew are going to party their asses off tonight because it’s their last chance for a while.” He gestured past me. “Will you keep an eye on Daniel?”
The lead guitarist flickered through my mind. He’d been smiling and high-fiving the other guys when we’d left the backstage area. Even now he was probably still riding the stage adrenaline. Within an hour, he wouldn’t have that to hold onto anymore, and he’d undoubtedly go looking for another source of that euphoria.
“Please, Jase,” Jordan whispered. “If anything happens to him…”
Somewhere deep inside, I felt a pang of jealousy for that unabashed devotion he had for Daniel. What kind of bond did they have to have for Jordan to hurt for him like this and to stick by him after all the hell Daniel had put him through? I’d only been with my ex for two years before I couldn’t handle anymore. Daniel’s substance abuse had started well over a decade ago—years before No Rules was even signed—and Jordan had been there for all of it. Every hospitalization. Every arrest. Every stint in rehab. Every inevitable relapse.
“Jase?”
I turned around and met his eyes, which reflected equal pain over his friend and the massive headache that was probably on its way.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Chapter Seven
Jordan
I lay in bed with my eyes closed, trying to ignore the bus lurching over every pothole in this fucking highway. Trying to ride out the tiny explosions behind my eyes, the nausea swelling in my stomach. I scrabbled around in the dark, my hand closing over the bottle of water I’d brought from the venue. Jase had left my meds right next to it, thank God.