by Jaime Samms
“But there is no you without them.”
“Exactly.”
“Sit down.” Krane pointed once more to the stool. “Drink the juice, and try to relax.”
Damian glanced at the glass. “What is it?”
“Helps with migraines. Ginger, apple, and carrot, mostly. The ginger is strong, so be careful. If you can stand it, it will help. You’ll need to try and relax and close your eyes.”
“Why?”
Krane held up a little bottle. “Oil with mint and lavender. Trust me.”
STANLEY WAITED, watching the young man carefully. He was more than a little surprised at the vehemence with which Damian insisted he be allowed to sign his entire band, and not just himself. He was more surprised the young man had swallowed his own ego and let Kelly walk all over him for the sake of not abandoning his musicians. Loyalty like that was rare in this business. Naïveté wasn’t. It killed promising careers every day. It was killing Damian’s shot at the big time, and it was eroding his certainty. Stanley only had to look at the photos of the drunken nights, the hangovers, the ugly truth that Damian wasn’t getting what he wanted and didn’t know how to fix it.
Finally, the singer picked up the juice Stanley had offered and sat on the footstool. Stanley poured a small amount of oil onto his fingers and told Damian to drop his chin.
“I’m going to massage back here,” he touched Damian’s neck, just near the base of his skull, “and your temples with this. Just try and relax.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because migraines suck.”
“So? Not your problem. Why would you care? That isn’t how the world works.”
Maybe not so naïve after all. “You just said you’ve had a good life with people who care, so why do you think this isn’t how the world works?”
“I did. I do. But that’s not the music business. People here only want you for what you can do for them.”
“Well, we’ve already established that is why I want you.” Stanley touched his fingers to the pale skin at the back of the young man’s head and proceeded to move them in tiny, firm circles. He studied the tattoo at the base of Damian’s skull. “Is this a firefly?”
“Yeah.” There was a smile in Damian’s voice. “We’ve all got one. Named the band Firefly, eventually. The night of Jethro’s mom’s funeral we were sitting on the picnic table in his backyard watching the fireflies. He said they didn’t come out all the time. Just once in a while when everything was perfect, and he and his mom would always sit and watch them.
“Lenny was playing this new thing he wrote. Clive kind of tapped along on the table and his legs. Beks started humming. Jethro had this poem his mom wrote. He knew it by heart. Guess she basically wrote it for him, when he was a baby, and she said it to him every night when he was a kid. That night, he fit it to the music. I was sitting there, watching them. Listening. Man, shit like that don’t happen every day, you know? But I knew. That was us, man, just….” He shook his head and sighed. His eyes finally drifted closed, thick black lashes brushing his cheeks. “That was us. We had something. It was beautiful. Before that, we’d jammed together a few times. I’d just met Beks. She was new to the school, but I knew then. Took a year before we were a real band, but that night, I knew what we had.” Another soft sigh snuck between Damian’s slightly parted lips. “Shit. I made a mistake with Granger. She’s going to screw us over, and they deserve so much better.”
Stanley said nothing. It was stunning to think there was so much under the makeup and the spiked hair. It was easy to not bother looking past the glam and the tricks and the attitude, and Stanley had to wonder why Damian didn’t want people to try. What was he really hiding?
“You never answered my question,” Damian said after a few minutes. “What about the rest of the band?”
“Drink your medicine and try to relax for ten minutes,” Stanley advised. “The world isn’t going to end if we take care of your head first and hash out the details later.”
“Don’t think buttering me up is going to change my mind. It’s all of us, or none of us.”
“Stop talking.”
Miraculously, the kid did what he was told, and Stanley spent the next few minutes studying him. Constantly referring to him as a “kid” was doing the younger man a disservice. He wasn’t as immature as he looked. Stanley’s research said Damian was twenty-eight, though popular websites claimed he was more like twenty-two or twenty-three. Using his youthful looks to get the fan base was a good idea. Keeping them, the looks and the fans, was going to be a challenge if Damian didn’t slow down, though. There were enough reports floating around the Internet to convince Stanley the guy was two parts musician and one part hell-raiser. And since, in Stanley’s experience, musicians were already prone to wild living, Damian was on a dangerous path if he wasn’t reined in and brought under control.
If Stanley was even a little bit honest with himself, part of his reason for wanting to take the musician on was the challenge of taming his wild side and polishing all the rough edges away to find the professional underneath. He just wasn’t sure if keeping the entire band on would work for him or against him. One thing he hadn’t been able to figure out was who the instigator was.
The entire band had had their fair share of dubious publicity. Stanley hadn’t been able to pin down who got the parties started, or who, if any of them, suggested an end to the nights of drinking, dancing, and trashing hotel rooms. If Damian was the troublemaker, then removing his posse would either turn him to the music and encourage the creativity Stanley knew was in him, or drive him to even deeper depths of depravity.
If it was one of the other band members, it would be a lot easier to remove the destructive influence if he didn’t sign them all to the same contract he was prepared to give Damian.
On the other hand, if he said no, he wouldn’t get Damian either, and the entire debate would be moot.
“Here.” He took the singer’s shoulders and pulled him back to lean on him. “Relax for a minute. Lift your head.” He dropped a bit more oil onto his fingertips and moved his ministrations to Damian’s temples. “Close your eyes.”
“Fuck, that feels so good.”
Once more, lashes fluttered against overly made-up cheeks, and Stanley noticed their thick, black length wasn’t enhanced by makeup. If his hair was dyed, there was no hint of roots, and even spiked into the heinous mohawk, Stanly could tell it was thick, rich, just the kind to tangle around your fingers and enjoy.
“Deep breaths,” Stanley encouraged, focusing on his task, willing his wandering mind back on track. “Do you have breathing techniques?”
“What?”
“Breathing techniques. You’re a singer and you don’t know how to breathe? There are ways to combat these headaches, you know. A lot of things you can do that will prevent them ever getting this bad. If you take a few steps every day, you’d be surprised how many fewer migraines you get.”
“Thought no one knew what triggers them.”
“You can narrow it down. Caffeine. Alcohol. Stress.”
“Dude.” Damian shifted restlessly. His bony back ground against Stanley’s thighs. “I’m a professional musician. Those are, like, two major food groups and the result of being awake.”
“A professional takes care of himself so he can perform.”
“One thing I don’t get from Kelly,” Damian said, pulling himself upright, “are lectures on how to live my life.”
“No.” Stanley took a napkin from the bar and wiped the residual oil off his fingers. “And what does she tell you when the migraines are so bad you can’t see?”
Damian shrugged.
“I’ll never tell you to suck it up.” He went to his desk and searched through the top drawer for a business card, which he handed to Damian. “A naturopath. Call her. Tell her I sent you. She’ll ask a lot of questions. She’ll never judge you for the answers, but she will figure out what will work best for you to get your head under contro
l.”
Damian took the card and examined it before looking up at Stanley. His eyes, now that Stanley could actually see them, were a pale shade of gray-green. The black outlining them only emphasized the way even the dim lighting of the room picked out their shimmer.
“So.” Stanley motioned to the little slip of cardboard. “Call her.”
“I will.” Damian smiled, and the effect was unlike anything he could achieve with all his scowls and pouting. Stanley caught his breath. “Thanks. Whatever you just did, it worked. I mean, the head’s still there.” He slipped his glasses back in place. “But not nearly as bad.”
“Good.” Stanley motioned to the chair by his desk, and went around to take his own seat, determined not to show his disappointment at the deprivation of those seriously expressive eyes. “Sit. Let’s put our cards out there and see what we have, shall we?”
It turned out to be as simple as he’d suspected. Damian insisted he sign them all, or Stanley got nothing. There would be no difference in contracts. Whatever he offered Damian, he offered to the entire band.
“Fair is fair, after all,” Damian said, sitting back. “I wouldn’t be where I am without them.”
Stanley took the opportunity to splay his hand over the array of less than flattering pictures. “Does that include this?”
Damian lowered his glasses slightly to peer at Stanley over their rims. “Everything we do, we stand together. One of us fucks up?” He shrugged. “It’s on all of us.”
Stanley nodded. He couldn’t help but admire that he wasn’t selling his friends out, either on their talent, or their mistakes. Whoever the main culprit was in their wild nights, Stanley would have to take the chance he would be able to either weed them out and fix the problem, or he would be forced to walk away now. He knew there was no chance he was getting Damian without the entire band into the package.
In the end, it was the singer’s tenacity on that one point that finally swayed him.
“You have a lawyer?”
Damian nodded.
“Leave their contact details with Miranda. She’ll be in touch with contracts.”
“For all of us.”
Stanley nodded. “For everyone.”
The glasses came off and Damian’s grin was so wide it lit up the room. “Excellent.” He shot to his feet and held out his hand. “They’ll be stoked!”
“Good.” They shook, and Stanley noted that, as thin as Damian might appear, his grip was in no way uncertain or tentative. He had strong hands. It was like a jolt of electric fire through him to be caught in the grip and bright smile, and he found himself grinning back. “I look forward to meeting the rest of the band.”
“You won’t regret this, Mr. Krane.”
As Damian left, and Stanley sank back into his creaking chair, that tingle still flowing through him, he’d already begun to wonder if he hadn’t fallen further under the singer’s spell than he’d anticipated.
4
MOST OF the pain in Damian’s head had dissipated by the time he got close to home. He’d called an emergency meeting of the band, and almost all of them were assembled at the studio when he got there. They had been practicing in the same place for six years, ever since their drummer, Clive Kerrington, and his girlfriend, Alice, had bought a house on the edge of the downtown core. That house happened to have a two-story detached garage. The upper floor had been converted to an apartment for Beks, the lower floor soundproofed and turned into a practice studio. The acoustics largely sucked, but it was better than the apartment Damian shared with Lenny or the tiny bungalow their bassist, Jethro, shared with his ailing father. Jethro, coming from across town, was the only one to arrive after Damian.
“Always the last one in,” Damian groused when Jethro finally sauntered into the studio.
“Dad had a thing.” He waved his hand vaguely, but didn’t offer any other explanation.
“So?” Lenny asked after a moment of expectant silence failed to yield any further information on Jethro’s late arrival.
Damian tossed himself onto the couch against the far wall and lifted his glasses to rest in front of his mohawk.
“So, it’s practically a done deal.”
“What is?” Alice asked, entering through the door leading to the house.
“New contracts,” Damian said, rather proud of himself for being able to bring this coup to them.
“What?” Alice turned on him, eyes narrowed. “What new contracts?”
“Relax!” Damian laughed. “Nothing’s been signed. And I made it very clear it’s all of us or none of us, and everyone gets the same deal. None of this three-year-trial bullshit like what Granger made you guys sign.”
“You do realize you can’t sign anything with anyone else unless she approves it.”
Damian frowned. “It’s my music. She can offer what Krane’s offering, or too fucking bad. I can take my music, and my band, wherever the fuck I want.”
“What don’t you understand about signed contracts, asshole?” she asked, sinking onto Clive’s lap. “And who is Krane?”
“Stanley Krane.”
Lenny hooted with glee and Damian grinned at him.
“Do you mean the Stanley Krane?” Alice asked. “I hope you didn’t promise him anything you can’t deliver. And you can’t deliver anything until your contract is up with Granger, and that isn’t for another year. Well. One for these guys. Five more for you. Unless she lets you out of it, which she isn’t going to do.”
“Don’t worry. I gave him your contact information, Alice. His people will get in touch with your people, and you’ll figure it all out.” Damian dismissed the issue with a wave of his hand.
“There is nothing to figure out, Trevor,” Alice said, her voice hard. “You signed a contract with Granger. She is not going to let you out of it so you can sign with another agent. Are you crazy?”
Damian pursed his lips. “No. You’ll figure it out.”
Alice shook her head, clearly furious. “You.” She turned on Clive. “Sort him out. This is so not my problem.” She stomped out of the room, heels clacking on the concrete.
“Fuck. Thanks for nothing, asshole,” Clive muttered. “She’s going to be pissed for a week.”
“Awww.” Jethro snickered. “Someone’s not getting any tonight.”
“Yeah,” Clive growled, turning on Damian. “And it’s your fault, you fucker. What the hell were you thinking?”
“That Krane is a big deal. The biggest. If he thinks we’re worth his time, even knowing we’re already signed with someone else, he obviously knows a way out of our contracts with Granger. When he gets in touch with Alice, they’ll figure it out.” He jumped up from the couch and tossed his glasses onto a nearby table. “In the meantime, I say we jam, since we’re all here, and figure out an ending for “Gotta Have” and work on that second set we screwed up at the Evangeline.”
“We didn’t screw anything up,” Jethro complained.
“It wasn’t perfect,” Damian said, gripping his mike and nodding to Clive to flip the sound system on. “One, two….”
Clive scrambled for his drumsticks as Lenny, always with his guitar in his lap, began to strum.
LOUD THUMPING up the stairs from the street caught Damian’s attention from inside his apartment and he cocked his head. He knew Lenny’s footsteps by heart and grinned to himself as he went to the door.
“Where you been?” he asked as he swung it open.
Lenny tripped over the last step and almost fell. His only response was to glare and flex his arms as he struggled with multiple, overstuffed canvas grocery bags.
“Why’s ever’body grouchy?” Damian asked, propping the door for him.
Rehearsal had been choppy and mostly pointless, with everyone sniping and bitching, and even Damian’s charm hadn’t managed to bring anyone but Jethro around to doing any legitimate work. But Jet was always the easy one. He liked hard work, and while music wasn’t difficult for any of them, Jethro’s laid-back attitude disg
uised a man who was very exacting about what he brought to the stage. That and losing himself in a good jam session meant he didn’t have to think about his father or where the old man was or what he might be doing in Jet’s absence.
Lenny staggered past, offering Damian rolled eyes and curled lip. “Thanks. You want to grab some of this shit, turd?” he asked as he passed.
Damian kicked the door closed, held up his bottle and glass as an excuse, and followed Lenny toward the kitchen, almost knocking over a tall stool as he tried to sit at the breakfast counter.
Lenny’s brilliant blue gaze shimmered up through his lashes and his shaggy bangs and left Damian slightly off-kilter. “You drunk already? Jeez. I wasn’t even gone two hours.”
“No!” Indignant, Damian set the vodka bottle down on the counter. He drained the glass and clunked it down as well. “We’re out of O.J. Where you been?”
He got another withering glare as Lenny heaved his burdens onto the counter. “Sightseeing. You want to give me a hand here?”
Damian made a grab for his friend’s ass as Lenny passed him, his hands full of stuff for the pantry.
“Asshole,” Lenny muttered.
“You know you like it.” Damian spun the cap on the bottle and set it aside. “Wha’d’ja get?” He peered into one of the bags and made a face. “Broccoli?”
“I read somewhere that a balanced diet with lots of dark green veggies might help prevent migraines.” He eyed the vodka, sighed, and crammed the bottle into the cupboard. “Help me put this shit away.”
Damian spent most of the next twenty minutes harassing Lenny while he stashed the food.
“You are a fucking gropy bastard today!” Lenny snarled, slamming the fridge closed and lunging for Damian’s straying hands yet again. “What is up with you?”
“Nothin’.” Damian dodged away, but not before he managed to get in a rough tweak of Lenny’s nipple.
“Oh! You fucker!” He didn’t waste time massaging away the pain, but dashed after Damian and tackled him to the couch. They landed with a grunt and a thud, Damian on the bottom, Lenny’s elbows and knees prodding him in uncomfortable places. Lenny managed to get one of Damian’s hands in his grasp and sat heavily on his thighs as he wrestled for control of the singer’s free hand. “You are going to be so sorry you did that.” If he was accidentally on purpose rough, Damian didn’t mind.