Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  “Stupid horse,” Stan muttered, even as he nodded.

  “I loved that horse. She was everythin’ I had left of the good things on that farm. Of my life. Or at least I thought she was. I would have sold the place, given up the music then, but you wouldn’t let me. That isn’t how a manager deals, Stan. That’s how a friend deals. A smart manager would have walked away from me an’ my issues. A stellar one hung on, rode it out with me, and reminded me I wasn’t dead. I made it because you didn’t give up on me.”

  “You made it because you’ve got a buttload of talent.”

  Vance shook his head and moved a little closer. “I’m not talkin’ about my career, Stan. I’m talking about me. I’m here because you held me together. I’m strong because you were strong first. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. You don’t need anyone to teach you how to be who you are.”

  “You said you had mentors.”

  Vance lifted a shoulder and a twisted smile flitted over his face. “I ain’t you. I had a lot of conditionin’ to overcome. A lot of people tellin’ me I was nothin’ and nobody because I’m gay. Because I was someone else’s kid, or too sensitive, or because I didn’t look like my daddy. I had you to remind me I was worth somethin’ to someone, and I had mentors to teach me to control my temper and my ego. Everyone’s different. And you’ll always have me to ask if you really need that kind of advice. But you should trust me one more time, an’ believe if you really want him, you can have him.”

  Stan remained leaning, gazing onto the stage where he could see Damian from behind as he spoke to one of the sound men about the mike levels. “So what is it you really want, Vance?”

  “Honestly?” He glanced across the stage too, and eyed the little guitar player. “I’m not goin’ to mess with your band, Stan. I only know what I see. What I’ve been trained to see. Two subs do not make a good pair. It kills me to watch because if no one does anythin’, a lot of really good music and talent is goin’ to go to waste, but it ain’t really my place to do anythin’ about it.”

  Even as he said that, the side lights blinked out and the work lights came on. Lenny looked up, and his gaze zipped across the expanse of stage, unerringly locking with Vance’s.

  “I wouldn’t turn him away if he came to me.”

  “There are worse things I could think of than you taking him on.”

  “Hope you still think that if it actually happens.” Vance turned his attention back to Stan. “But not the immediate issue. What you have to worry about is your singer’s imminent self-destruction. Good luck with that.”

  Stan groaned and pushed himself away from the wall and Vance away from him. “Thanks.”

  “You do tend to pick the interestin’ cases, Stan.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Vance grinned. “I ain’t above pointin’ out the truth, my friend.”

  “Yeah, well.” Stan offered a smile at least. “Stop saying ‘ain’t.’ You sound like a redneck.”

  It made Vance laugh, turning all heads onstage to their dim corner. Stan had been trying to tame the twang in his speech for years. He couldn’t help who he was.

  They went back to watching the sound and lighting check, companionable silence building between them. Vance wasn’t sure it would stay that way. If he did get his hands on the guitar player, the very first thing he would do, by whatever means necessary, was get him away from Damian. The two were very, very bad for one another. A blind man could see that train wreck coming a mile away.

  14

  “COME WITH me, if you’re so worried about it,” Damian snarled as he put the finishing touches on his spiked hair. He dusted the tips with shimmer and glanced at Lenny in the mirror. “You’re so worried about me going off the rails, come with me and keep me safe.”

  “How about you just don’t go,” Lenny suggested. “You hate Boston anyway.”

  “How about you stop being a baby and come loosen up a bit,” Damian shot back. “This isn’t about Boston. I just want to go dance.”

  Maybe he did hate this city, but that wasn’t why he was going out. That wasn’t why he wanted to go out and have a good time.

  “I don’t need to get drunk to loosen up,” Lenny said. “I happen to like getting out onstage,” he said. “Unlike some people.”

  Damian glared at him. “I’m going dancing. Come, don’t come. I don’t really give a flying fuck.” He threw his makeup brush on the table and stood. “And fuck you. I get up there, every night, and I do my job, so fuck you.”

  “Trev, just don’t go out here, okay? You don’t know the city. You haven’t been here since—”

  “I haven’t been a lot of places, Lenny.”

  “But your dad—”

  “Is dead! Leave it!” Damian flipped up his collar, stopping to admire the new firefly tattooed across the back of his left hand. It was only a couple of days old. He’d splurged on it, deciding he deserved something nice for putting himself through the hell that was Boston. He gave his outfit one last look in the mirror on the back of his hotel room door, and approved of what he saw. Long, lean, black-clad and glammed up enough to get attention, but not so much people would be intimidated or drop him into the freak category and ignore him.

  “I’m going,” he said to his reflection. He didn’t want to look at his friend. “You coming?”

  Lenny said nothing, and finally, Damian had to look up. Lenny had that cross-armed, bulldog glare that was all the answer Damian wanted.

  He left. Lenny knew where bars were as well as he did. It didn’t matter if he joined him or not. He was going to go have a good time. Maybe he did hate Boston, the one stop on the tour cycle he had actively fought against, but Stanley had held his ground, and here they were. In the city that made Damian crazy.

  And not just for one show either. This was the end of the cross-country leg of their US tour. They’d played tonight, and they had two weeks to cool their heels before playing Boston again as the first stop on their way down the Eastern Seaboard and back up through the Gulf States and the Great Lakes and home to Toronto for the grand finale.

  It didn’t matter. He’d decided tonight was going to be for fun and screw the rest of it, screw the stage fright and the stuttering and everything that made him want to get the hell out. He was not going to let this place get to him. It was just another city. Nothing special or terrible about it.

  The first bar was too quiet to suit, and the dance mixes sucked, but the twinks were a nice start. Plus, they came with complimentary pharmaceuticals that didn’t leave damning track marks. They got boring quickly, though, looking to him for the kind of domineering fun he wasn’t inclined to give. Receive, yes, but give? Not tonight. And there was no one in that establishment who would do what he wanted either.

  He downed his shot, finished a beer, and moved on. As soon as he walked into the next club, he felt the groove of it in his soul. Some places got immediately under his skin and set him free inside. It didn’t hurt that the first men he saw were twice his size, a decade older, and wearing it very, very well. They watched him with calculating expressions, and he gave them an eyeful. One of them—or both of them—could steer him across the dance floor with those huge, meaty hands and he wouldn’t complain.

  As he sauntered to the bar, a dozen sets of eyes offered hot, luscious strokes to his ego, and he swayed his hips a little. He wondered how many of the men watching him knew who he was. He wondered how many of the ones who knew cared. He didn’t. Tonight, he didn’t want to be Damian the goth rock star, he wanted to be a guy on the dance floor with someone’s hands on him, guiding him through the moves.

  “You’ve never been here before.” The gravelly whisper in his ear sent a cool shiver though him. He didn’t turn, but accepted his drink from the bartender and tipped it back.

  “So?”

  “So.” A hand, hot and heavy, settled on his hip. It was a huge hand. He could feel the heat of a weathered palm on the skin above his jeans’ waistband and the touch of calloused
fingers brushing his stomach. “Little thing like you could get himself into a lot of trouble walking into a place like this all on his own.”

  Oh yeah.

  Damian shrugged and shifted, pushing his hip into the proprietary touch. “Unless I had a big guy like you to keep me company.”

  The fingers tightened, stroked, and the man’s calluses ran a forceful path over Damian’s smooth skin. “You’re coming out on the dance floor with me.”

  Damian nodded at the bartender, holding up his glass for another drink.

  His new dance partner plucked the glass from his fingers and slid it down the bar. “Nope.”

  “What?” Damian whirled. “What do you mean, nope?”

  The man was a good head taller than him, built like a truck, with brush-cut graying hair, nearly black eyes, and a healthy crop of hair covering his mostly bare chest. Straps of leather crisscrossed the expanse of muscle and Damian swallowed hard. He hadn’t really paid a lot of attention to what kind of bar he’d walked into. Other than the leather daddies lounging near the entrance, he hadn’t had a chance to get a good look yet. A lot of gay bars had token old guys hanging around. Not many had ones dressed in nothing but black skin-hugging denim, studs, and buckles.

  A quick glance around told him this was not the average gay bar.

  “You wanna play, you don’t drink,” the man said.

  “I just want to dance,” Damian told him, wondering if maybe he’d wandered into something he wasn’t prepared for.

  “We can start there.” Those big hands, both of them this time, circled his waist, and his brain shorted out long enough for his feet to get him to the middle of the dance floor.

  Loud music and groping hands kept his brain shut down for what was probably most of the night. He didn’t need alcohol to feel like he was off-his-head drunk. The leather man who’d chosen him wasn’t averse to watching him dirty-dance with a dozen other men. Twink or bear, he didn’t seem to have a preference. As long as he had one hand on Damian’s body and the privilege of choosing his dance partners, the man was pleased, and Damian was a little high from the rush of the man’s copious displays of gratitude.

  His hands, big, strong, and rough, were the perfect counterpoint to the almost gentle rumble of his voice in Damian’s ear. The commands whispered in that voice, dance with him or kiss that one, weren’t intrusive, dangerous, or anything more than what Damian might have done left to his own devices. It was the idea of his every move being choreographed for the big bear’s pleasure that went to his head. He liked the feeling of being under someone’s constant eye and direction. He knew he’d do a lot to have the man show some real appreciation with the thick hardness he so often pressed to Damian’s ass. The night was young.

  He had his back to most of the crowd. The man he danced with this time was not much older than he was, handsome and grabby. He hauled Damian close, grinding their cocks together. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue, but when Damian glanced at his keeper and saw the dark scowl on the man’s face, he pushed himself free of his dance partner’s grasp and swayed backward toward the center of the floor. The man followed amiably enough, but the moment Damian was surrounded by sweaty, gyrating bodies, the dancer’s hands were back. Pulling him close.

  He shouted something at Damian, something the music and other dancers drowned out. Damian just smiled distractedly as he looked around for the bear who had sent him to dance with the jerk. He couldn’t see the guy and didn’t want to lose his approval, so he kept dancing, squirming away as often as his partner grabbed. It seemed like the dancer had more hands than he did, though, and before he realized what had happened, he was pinned against the far wall with the unwanted man’s crotch grinding against his own, his lips and tongue sliding wetly along his neck.

  “Get off!” Damian shoved, but he wasn’t strong enough, didn’t have the leverage to free himself.

  Then his bear was there, yanking the creep away and dragging Damian through the crowd.

  “You are trouble,” the man growled, finding a chair and pulling Damian into his lap as he sat.

  “Hey, you picked him.”

  “A mistake I won’t make again.” The bear shifted so they were both comfortable, resting one big hand on Damian’s ass and splaying the other across his thigh, fingers brushing his package.

  “How long are we going to stay here?” Damian asked.

  “Someplace you need to be?” The bear looked up at him, eyes gleaming, suggesting the only other place Damian had to be was in the man’s bed.

  “Fuck yeah.” Damian grinned. “Under you.”

  “In a hurry, then?”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “Too eager is a sign you aren’t being properly cared for.” The big man’s hands roved more freely over Damian’s body. One slid up his torso where fingers found his nipple, and the other slipped past his waistband and into his jeans, hard, rough fingers scraping over his cheeks.

  Damian shivered and turned his head, eyelids drooping at the stimulation across his chest.

  “You like that.”

  “Sure you could take real good care of me,” Damian purred, wiggling until he felt a finger slip down his crack.

  Fingers fiddled with his belt buckle. Lips closed over his throat. He had the giddy realization he was about to be put on full display in the middle of the bar, and he didn’t care. He didn’t need to be drunk to know this was a rush to rival that of the stage when he finally had the crowd in his hands.

  “Fucking asshole!”

  Damian didn’t know the words were directed at him until he was being heaved off the big man’s lap, nearly onto his ass on the floor. He barely got his feet under him before he was being dragged away. Laughter followed him out of the bar as he shook off the near euphoria he’d almost succumbed to.

  “Lenny?”

  “What the fuck!” They were outside, now, and Lenny was pushing him up against the side of the building, shouting at him. Wind battered at them, whipping Lenny’s hood up against the back of his head and tearing his hair from its ponytail. Rain spattered on the sidewalk around them.

  “What?”

  “What?” Lenny mocked. “You going to fuck him in the middle of the bar, Damian? That how you get your kicks now?”

  “Calm down.” Damian held up a hand and Lenny grabbed it, twisting until the fresh tattoo was facing Damian.

  “That’s what we built, Trevor!” He shouted. “All of us! And you wear it like you own it. Like it’s your goddamn right to do whatever you want with it because what? You’re you?”

  Damian blinked at him. “What is your problem? It’s not like you give a shit who I’m fucking. It’s not yo—”

  Lenny slugged him. Hard. His head impacted the brick wall and he rebounded like a rubber ball before falling forward. Lenny caught him by the jacket collar and hauled him back up to slam him into the wall again.

  Damian raised his hands to fend off another blow, but Lenny just grabbed his wrists and crushed them against toothed brick.

  “This what you want?” he snarled. His eyes were too bright, his cheeks flushed. Damian had seen him angry. This was something else. If he’d been angry at the hotel, he’d gone beyond that now. He glared at Damian, waiting. When he didn’t get an answer, he dragged Damian’s hands over the brick, drawing sharp agony over his knuckles and the fresh tattoo.

  “Lenn—”

  “You want him to hold you down and fuck you.” Lenny wasn’t asking now. Shards of ice shot from his blue eyes and his lips twisted. “Better yet, get someone else to hold you down right there on the table and let them all watch.” He spoke through clenched teeth and scraped Damian’s hands on the jagged brick over and over, using the searing pain to make his point. “You’re using Firefly to get high and get laid. You don’t deserve us!”

  For a moment, Damian tried to heave him off. He struggled to get his hands free, but Lenny drew him away from the wall, holding him like that before growling and very deliberately smashi
ng him back again and once more abrading his hands over the surface.

  He was doing it on purpose. There was no denying the look in his eyes or that he knew how much the force of contact between Damian’s hands and the wall hurt. He knew. He wanted it to hurt.

  And knowing Lenny wanted him to feel that much pain, wanted to be the one to inflict it, took all the fight out of Damian. He slumped.

  In the next instant, Lenny was gone. He practically flew backward and landed on his knees on the wet pavement in front of Damian. Vance, of all people, stood behind the guitarist, his hand tangled in Lenny’s red curls as rain beat down harder and drenched them all. Lenny struggled only for the barest split second before going limp and lowering his hands to his lap. He dropped his gaze to Damian’s boots and didn’t look up.

  “Get off him!” Damian sprang forward, ready to tear Vance to shreds for daring to touch Lenny, but the bear who’d appeared out of the club grabbed him and held him back. His boots slipped and slid on the wet pavement. Rain dribbled into his eyes. “Get off!” He didn’t know who he was speaking to anymore, but the sight of Lenny crumpled on the pavement, limp in Vance’s grasp, and the flaring image of his fury in Damian’s mind spun him into a frenzy. He struggled free of the bear’s grasp and flew at Vance again.

  Vance caught him by his jacket collar in one hand and quelled every impulse to fight with a look. The man could break him in half. Would break him in half if he wanted.

  “Go back to the hotel,” he instructed.

  “Let go of Lenny.” Damian reached for his friend, but Lenny flinched away from his wild grab.

  “I’ll deal with him,” Vance said, voice like granite. “You go back.” He glanced past Damian at the bear and gave a curt nod. “Cab?”

  From behind Damian came a grunted acknowledgment, and the bear took him in hand and led him to a cab.

  “Vance!”

  Vance was busy lifting a now-struggling Lenny to his feet, but he spared Damian a glance. “Be grateful you’re getting back in one piece.” He looked to the bear again. “See to it.”