Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  “Oomph.” Stanley flinched and Vance smacked the other cheek.

  “Stay.”

  “Bossy—ow!” Another slap left his ass burning and his ears ringing. “What—”

  Vance’s fingers, slicked with nothing more than spit, invaded him and he bit down on the questions.

  “Jesus. Vance….” A low moan escaped as Vance eased his fingers out and back in. “Fuck.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  The fingers disappeared and Stanley craned his neck to watch his lover roll on a condom.

  “Lube?” he asked.

  “Not goin’ to hurt you,” Vance muttered, leaning over him for the lube on the bedside table.

  Stanley lay still and listened to the snap of the lid and the squirt of the near-empty bottle.

  “Well?” Vance asked.

  Stanley shuddered. He could never decide if he hated this side of his friend or just needed it. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached back, parted his cheeks, and waited. A moment later, he felt the blunt pressure of Vance’s cock, and it was all he could do to relax and breathe through the long, slow slide and stretch.

  Once in, Vance proceeded to pump, slow and steady, mercilessly, but not cruelly.

  “Vance….”

  Stanley closed his eyes and let himself feel the heat rising in his body, the sweat trickling down his sides, the heady fullness and comfort of Vance’s weight. At last, he gave in and swung his arms up to lay one hand atop the other above his head.

  Just one of Vance’s hands was big enough to curl around both of Stanley’s wrists and the contact released the last of Stanley’s reticence. He relaxed into the bed and Vance really began to move.

  Hard and fast. Punishing, even, until the sound of flesh slapping and Vance grunting filled Stanley’s world. The slick, heavy slide of cock in and out of his body pushed him hard up against his orgasm, but he willed himself still, waiting.

  “You wanna?” Vance asked.

  Stanley squirmed, thinking to free a hand and try to reach under himself, but Vance tightened his grip.

  “You want to?” He asked again, voice hardening as he panted the words out and pumped more determinedly.

  Stanley nodded.

  “Pardon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Vance growled, thrusting hard and deep. “Me first.”

  He pulled at Stanley’s shoulder, ramming them together as close as two people were ever going to get, and snarled something too garbled to make out. His cock throbbed, hard and hot inside Stanley, making him moan.

  “God, Van….”

  “Not yet.” Vance rocked into him, moaning and grinding and finally shuddering out the last of his release.

  “Now,” he said, pulling out and discarding the condom in one deft movement. He tipped Stanley over and wrapped one huge hand around his cock, leaned down, and licked at his tip. Stanley dug the back of his head into the pillows, blinking at the ceiling, and humped into Vance’s big, inadequate fist. Wet heat engulfed Stanley. Vance’s mouth, then his throat, closed over him in one long swallow. The shock of his body being emptied one second and his cock sucked down a throat the next was almost enough to send Stanley careening over the edge into orgasm.

  Vance growled permission, the hum vibrating into and through Stanley. His eyes rolled back in his head, and dark oblivion clashed with white hot orgasm. Stanley arched up into Vance’s mouth and everything disappeared behind the immediacy of brutal release.

  When Stanley managed to get a handle on reality a few moments later, Vance was watching him. His lover’s gaze was a weight across his chest; expectant. It was a long time before he could risk opening his eyes, before he rounded up the courage to see what he always saw there.

  No longer harsh or angry or aggressive, the singer’s golden eyes glowed with the familiar, unsettling mixture of hope and confidence. Confidence he’d scrambled Stanley’s brain, and hopeful that this time, he was sated enough to remain scrambled and under Vance’s sway.

  He never did.

  That utter capitulation to anyone never happened. Never, except with Vance, on rare occasions when the singer demanded every ounce of control, and only rarely did Stanley give it to him. Usually, the sex ended up rough and bruising and exhausting, but not submissive.

  The bed creaked and sank, tipping Stanley’s weight to one side. He rolled, once again pressed tight to Vance’s sweaty, sticky skin.

  “Take your time,” Vance whispered, caressing his cheek with soft touches of fingers and lips.

  Stanley let out a sigh. “You did that thing….”

  “Just made an offer,” Vance corrected. “You took it.” It was almost a question.

  Stanley almost didn’t have the heart to answer this time. But he couldn’t lie. Finally, he opened his eyes to find Vance leaning over him, watching, expression softly neutral for an unsettling change.

  He didn’t have to say anything. Vance dipped his chin, the tiniest movement, acknowledging that yes, he’d had his way, Stanley had given him the power, but he wasn’t going to be allowed to keep it. “Shower?” he asked softly. His way of releasing them from the awkward nonconversation.

  Stanley nodded. “If I can walk.”

  Vance grinned, forcing the jovial expression past the darker disappointment in his eyes. “I’m not goin’ to let you down. Come on.” He got up and held out a hand.

  Taking the offer, Stanley managed to limp his way to the shower where he only had to lean on the wall while Vance took very good care of him, soaping him up, rinsing him off, and spending a lot of time kneading out kinked muscles.

  “Spoilin’ me,” Stanley muttered.

  “Givin’ back,” Vance replied. “Now shut up an’ turn round so I can get at your shoulders.”

  Stanley closed his eyes, enjoying the touch and his friend’s drawl as he gave soft instructions and did his best to remove all trace of where he’d been.

  2

  THE CREAK of Stanley’s office chair as he leaned back to enjoy the view out his window blended seamlessly into the predictable pattern of a typical Monday morning. In the outer office, Miranda rattled the coffee maker, loudly. No doubt she wanted to be sure he heard her displeasure with his caffeine addiction and her part in being forced to enable it.

  “Thank you, Miri!” he called through the open door, and got a grunt in response. He chuckled and propped his feet on his desk. “I’m sure my nine o’clock will also thank you.”

  “You have four clients,” she grumbled, sticking her head in the door to glower. “Why on earth did you schedule a nine o’clock appointment on Monday morning?”

  Stanley grinned. “To see if he’d make it, of course. I like the new hair. Purple suits you. Brings out your eyes.”

  “You”—she pointed a finger at him—“are the devil.”

  “Ah, that may be, but do I, or do I not have four of the richest clients in the music industry?”

  Miranda snorted. “No one said the devil was destitute, Stanley.” She spun away, back to her desk, short skirt flipping indecently, tall Dr. Martens clomping on the newly installed hardwood under her desk. A moment later, he heard her clacking at her computer keyboard, probably calling up their schedule for the day. It was part of the pattern. She bitched and snarked and kept him properly fed, caffeinated, and on time. He flirted enough to remind her he was only mostly gay, but not enough to piss off her biker boyfriend.

  “That would be a yes, then, darling, am I right?” Stanley called through the open door separating their workspaces.

  The door between his office and hers swung shut.

  “Hmm.” He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes to better feel the morning sun on his face. “Still not a morning person.”

  Twenty minutes later, he heard the outer office door open and a muffled voice ask after him. He pictured Miranda peering at the newcomer over her horn-rimmed glasses and pointing to the tiny waiting area.

  Stanley tapped a few keys on his computer and the
speakers in Miranda’s area came on. God, he loved how tech-savvy she was.

  “Fetch me a coffee, will you?” a young male voice asked.

  Stanley smirked. He’d know that voice anywhere, after having shamelessly soaked in it at the Evangeline two nights in a row and letting it lead him to that hotel room with Vance.

  Miranda snorted and the distinctive sound of her long nails clacking on her keyboard told Stanley she hadn’t moved from her desk.

  A text message popped up on Stanley’s computer screen: “Eavesdropping much?”

  He smiled to himself and typed back, “Of course, Miri. Get the boy some coffee.”

  “Eat shit,” she typed. “Boss.”

  “Don’t forget to ask if he wants cream and sugar.”

  “He’s late. Shouldn’t I send him in?”

  “Turn your webcam around. I want to see him.”

  “Pervert.”

  Stanley tsked and tapped his keys. “Just want to see how hungover he is.”

  “Sunglasses. Limp mohawk.” There was a pause in the messaging as Miranda’s laptop camera came on. He saw a flutter of papers as she pulled a file across her desk and deftly turned her laptop so he could see the sofa through the camera.

  Stanley got a good look at his nine o’clock appointment. Limp was right. The kid was slumped on the sofa, presumably glaring at the wall just over Miranda’s head; it was hard to tell with the dark glasses on. He had on black jeans, black T-shirt, black mesh… something over the top of that, and enough leather and silver buckles and straps to dress a horse. Everything black, from the tips of his five-inch mohawk—which did lean slightly to one side—to the toes of his shiny combat boots.

  That ridiculous haircut, Stanley decided, would be the first thing to go. Underneath the thick eyeliner, black lipstick, and faux tears drawn on his right cheek, Stanley saw the bones of a delicate, probably very lovely face. He thought again how sad it was the kid tried so hard to hide it.

  The guy straightened, drew in a breath, and Stanley’s interest flitted to his defined chest and abs, not even pretending to hide under his tight, sheer clothing. He was no kid. Not as lean, filled out, and… endowed as he was. That body belonged to a man who knew exactly how much power it had to attract attention.

  Miranda set her papers aside and turned her laptop. The camera went dark and the message window popped open.

  “Get a good eyeful?”

  “Kind of a mess, isn’t he?” Stanley typed, though he doubted Miranda would even for a minute fail to notice all the things about the singer that would push Stanley’s buttons.

  “Don’t bring me into this. He was your idea. MLC.”

  Stanley puzzled over that, but had to concede after a moment and ask. “MLC?”

  “Mid. Life. Crisis.”

  “What?”

  “Hello, Mr. Country Music Agent. He’s goth. Heavy rock. What are you thinking? Wait. Don’t answer that.”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Well, you’re crazy.”

  “Thank you. Coffee.”

  “Bite me.”

  He heard her puttering around again, and soon enough, the door to the small refrigerator opened and closed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that his caffeine would soon arrive. Instead, though, another text message popped up on his screen.

  “So? Send him in?”

  “Wait for it….”

  He closed the chat window and turned his attention back to the view. In less than three minutes, the outer office door opened again and a booming voice greeted Miranda.

  Unlike her surly attitude toward Stanley, Miranda greeted this visitor with warmth and a smile in her voice.

  “Go right on in, Vance.”

  “Here, darlin’, let me take that. I’ll give it to him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” The way he drew out the words, twanging in his heaviest western drawl, almost made Stanley laugh out loud.

  A second passed and Stanley’s door burst open.

  “Mornin’!”

  “Vance.” Stanley let his feet fall and his chair squeak upright. He took the coffee and sipped. Perfect. Just as he knew it would be. One and a half packets of sugar and a splash of Irish Creamer. Miranda was a doll. He sipped and sighed and set the cup down. “Close the door, please.”

  Vance did, but not before a glance into the waiting area and a shake of his head.

  “So you’re really goin’ to do this?” Vance asked as he took a seat on the sofa opposite Stanley’s desk. “What is he? A midlife crisis or somethin’?”

  “Et tu, ami?”

  Vance tipped his head to one side, clearly puzzled.

  “Never mind.” Stanley offered, grimacing at the gimmicky name scrawled across a page on his desk. “He is Damian, of no last name, apparently.”

  “That’s not really his name?”

  “It’s Tyler. Or Taylor… something like that.” He flipped through his paperwork. “Trevor. Trevor Learner.”

  “Oh.” Vance nodded. “Damian is better. But Stan, have you seen that kid?”

  “Vance, everyone and his dog have seen that kid over the past month,” Stanley reminded his visitor. “And he’s not a kid.” He ignored the reference to his midlife, and the crisis it may or may not be in. “He came this close to being the Next Big Thing.” He held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Not winning hasn’t slowed him down perceptibly. At least, not until he ran into the wall that is Kelly Granger, manager of the slutty beefcakes.”

  “Which he is not,” Vance observed.

  “Normally, she goes for the ones with less talent and more interest in her tits. Only reason I can see why she signed him was because of how close he came to winning, and the fact he’s a brilliant songwriter.”

  “Close don’t cut it in this business, Stan, and you know it.”

  “Which is why he’s here. I’m going to take him all the way.”

  “Stan.” Vance leaned forward, concern on his face. “You really are meltin’ down. That kid does not sing what you sell.”

  “No, he doesn’t sing what you sing. I sell what’s hot, and he”―he pointed to the door―”is hot.”

  Vance conceded the point with a tip of his head. “Well, okay. Yes, I’ll give you that. Under all that crap on his face, maybe. But you know Nashville inside out. What do you know about… wherever this kid comes from?”

  “Who cares where he comes from? It’s where he’s going that matters, and I’m going to make sure he gets there.”

  Vance sank back into the sofa cushions. “You really think Kelly will let him go?”

  Stanley shrugged and picked up his mug again, wanting to savor the drink while it was still hot. “She’s one option. I offered him another.”

  Vance raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly waiting for him to continue.

  “The lechery-free option,” Stanley clarified.

  “Oh, give her a break. She doesn’t sleep with all her clients.”

  Stanley made an eloquent face and sipped his coffee.

  “Well. Maybe half of them, but to be fair, so do you.”

  “Did. One I was practically married to, so she doesn’t count, and the other one was you, and if we’re being fair, it was you who seduced me. At least the first time, so that doesn’t count either.”

  “And the other two of your clients are sleepin’ with each other, so where does poor little goth boy fit into happy families?” Vance asked.

  Stanley grinned. “I’m going to guess he’ll be the black sheep. Care to stay and watch?”

  “No, no. I just came to drop off the contracts for the new album, like you asked.” He tossed a stack of neatly stapled papers onto Stanley’s desk without getting up. “Hard copy, just like you like, ya techno-weenie. Did you look through the galleys from the photo shoot?”

  Getting down to business, Stanley set his coffee aside and rifled through his in-box. “Ah, here they are. No. Not yet, but I will, soon as I’m done with
Damian.” He took a peek inside the envelope and whistled. “This will be interesting.”

  “It’s for Men’s Health, so yeah.” Vance grinned and ran a hand down the front of his T-shirt. “You should have fun with those. Don’t get anything on them.”

  “Asswipe.”

  They both laughed and Vance got to his feet. “Let the poor guy come in already. He’s so hungover I can feel his headache from here.”

  Stanley laid the pictures aside and caught Vance’s eye. “Just want to let him know what he’s in for. Careers aren’t built on debauchery, no matter how much sex, drugs, and whiskey you can afford to pay for.”

  “Ten bucks says keepin’ me in line is goin’ to look like a cakewalk compared to this one. Good luck.”

  “A challenge. Just what I need. The rest of you practically run yourselves these days.”

  “Just like grown-ups. Imagine that.”

  “Imagine,” Stanley muttered, thinking back to when Vance had behaved like anything but an adult. It hadn’t been that long ago he was the one Stanley had been doing damage control for, and he didn’t think it would be long before he had to do it again. Vance’s sobriety went in fits and starts, though he got better at it as he got older. His latest stint had lasted nearly three years now. Long enough for Men’s Health to be interested in writing a story on willpower and recovery. And shooting some delicious pictures of the singer’s new and improved body to go with the article.

  “Have a look at those pictures, will you?” the singer said. “An’ call me. We can do lunch.”

  “You paying?”

  Vance snorted and reached for the door handle. “You’re my manager. That’s your job. Aim for around two. I’ve got a hankerin’ for some pulled meat with sauce on the side. Bring your wallet.”

  “Debauchery!” Stanley called after him with a smile.

  Vance waved over his shoulder and winked at Miranda as he sauntered out.

  “God,” Stanley muttered, watching the sway of his sort-of-ex-lover’s ass. “That never gets old.”

  3