Off Stage

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by Jaime Samms


  Not the bruises. Not the force. Lenny lifted his shoulders, feeling like he was lifting the weight of his entire lifetime of broken promises and love that only hurt. How was he supposed to put into words that he’d wanted the control Ace had offered, even if he had wanted it to be something it wasn’t. Something gentler. How did he admit he would have done anything for a guy who hit him, but he wouldn’t do the very thing he craved for the guy he said he loved?

  With Ace, there had been a glimmer of something. He just didn’t know what.

  “Len.” Vance cupped his cheek and drew his attention upward. “What is it you want?”

  “I want him to be there when I need him. I want him to hold on to me when it feels like I’m floating away. I want to not always be trying to get him to come back. To stay.”

  “You want him to take control.”

  Len sighed and turned his back, staring out into the rain-soaked night. “I want to give him what he doesn’t want to take,” he agreed at last, coming around to Vance’s point and seeing the truth in it. “Same as he wants me to take it, and I can’t.”

  “Neither can he, Len. You and he are more alike than not. So let someone else be his anchor. And you come away from there and find what you need.”

  “I can’t just leave him. He’ll—”

  “Be fine. Believe it or not, you are not the only one’s got his eye on that singer of yours. There are plenty who’d take him on and be able to give him what he needs. All you can give him is space to figure that out. And the chance to get it from someone who actually has it.”

  “We’re in the middle of a tour,” Len said, the words coming out dull. Tarnished by the realization he wanted to do exactly what Vance suggested and leave. And he wanted to cling to the only thing he knew, as painful as it was.

  “Logistics. I’m not sayin’ you have to decide this minute. But you have to start thinkin’ about it. If you take a break, get some perspective, maybe you’ll have a band to come back to. If you stay, I guarantee, you’ll watch it flit out, exactly like its namesake.”

  Lenny didn’t say anything for a long time. It was a big decision, giving up his life, however temporarily, in the hopes he could figure out how to live it.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said after a while.

  “Sure.”

  He was surprised to realize Vance was still standing where he’d left him, waiting. Still, he hesitated, not sure if he had the vocabulary to make his request.

  “Is there any chance”—he turned around to look Vance in the eye—“that you took me here, brought all this up because you want to….”

  Vance said nothing. He watched and waited.

  “Could you?”

  Vance remained silent.

  “For God’s sake, what do I have to do? Get on my knees?”

  A slow, deeply possessive grin spread over Vance’s face. It lit a fire in his eyes that flared sweet heat right through Lenny. “That’d be a start.”

  16

  “LET GO of me!”

  The man complied, making Damian’s sharp jerk away seem childish. “I’m sorry,” he rumbled.

  “For what?” Damian rubbed briefly at his wrist, but the fiery burn in his hands made him stop quickly.

  “For not being more vigilant.”

  “What?”

  The man sighed and held out a hand. “Gracen Cooper.”

  Damian turned away from the offered hand, more because his own were bleeding and raw and he didn’t want to make it worse than because he didn’t want to acknowledge the other man. A part of him did want to feel the strength of his touch again, if only to feel something grounding him as confusion swirled through his head.

  “Vance called me and asked me to keep an eye on you,” Gracen continued. “And I’m sorry I didn’t do such a great job of that.”

  “Whatever.”

  Gracen shifted. “It would be appropriate for you to look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

  Damian stared out the window a moment longer before turning to face him.

  “As I understand it, Lenny went to talk to your manager after you went out. Concerned for you, Vance said, though he looked more bent on hurting you than helping you tonight.”

  Damian said nothing. When the silence had stretched a bit, Gracen went on.

  “Vance was there when Lenny went to Mr. Krane. He’s the one who called me. Lenny seemed to know where you’d end up, so I went looking and there you were.”

  “To keep an eye on me.” Damian glared at him. “Was the pawing part of the transaction?”

  Gracen grinned. “That was for fun. He never said I couldn’t touch. Only keep you out of trouble and away from needles.”

  Damian held up his hands. “Letting me get beat up was okay, though.”

  “I said I’m sorry.” Gracen’s levity vanished. “I’m his friend, not a bodyguard. I did my best, and you need to learn to show some respect.”

  “For what?”

  Gracen glowered. “Vance is right. You’re trouble waiting to happen. If you don’t know when to keep your trap shut and be respectful, you’ll never have what you want.”

  “And what is it you think I want?” Damian spat back.

  Gracen curled a hand around the back of Damian’s neck and forcibly made him turn. “You go ahead and deny it, but you made it pretty clear what you like tonight. Anyone who turns to putty when another guy tells him what to do the way you did has needs, and when he does it for a stranger? It’s pretty clear those needs aren’t being met.”

  Damian tried to shake the man’s grip off, but the fingers only dug deeper.

  “The longer you run from this, the worse it’s going to get. That Lenny, he wanted to see you hurt. Why?”

  Damian shrugged and gave up trying to free himself.

  “You don’t seem to mind taking orders from a complete stranger, maybe you’ll take a little bit of advice.” Gracen’s grip remained strong, but somehow, suddenly felt less constraining and more grounding. “Find yourself someone who wants you because of who you are under all the glam and hype. And stop waiting for something from that guitar player of yours that he doesn’t have to give you.”

  “What would you know about it?” Damian asked, angry, but unable to brush off what he was saying. Not with the heat of that rough, centering touch on him as proof Gracen wasn’t talking out his ass.

  Gracen gazed into Damian’s eyes and there was a power there, and a compassion Damian didn’t see often. Most people looked at him with calculation, trying to determine what they might be able to get from him.

  “You have no idea why Vance called me specifically to track you down, do you?”

  Damian shook his head. “Because you live in Boston, and he knows you, I suppose.”

  “Because he knew you’d respond to me if I did find you. And he was right. The way you instantly capitulated, Damian, it’s almost scary. You have no idea how many guys there are out there who will use you because you’ll let them.”

  Damian snorted. “Sure I do. What makes you think I don’t want them to?”

  Something unsettled snuck into Gracen’s eyes and he shook his head. “You’re not just a danger to Lenny. You’re a danger to yourself and anyone else who cares about either of you.” The cab pulled to a stop outside the hotel. Gracen paid the cabbie and walked Damian through the lobby. “Do everyone a favor. Find yourself a Dom who can control you before you self-destruct.”

  Damian would have informed the man he didn’t need or want what he was suggesting, but the words stuck in his throat as they neared the elevators.

  Krane sat in a chair next to the gold doors of the elevator, impassive. Waiting. His gaze fixed on Damian, and the singer was trapped. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t tell what Krane was thinking. Was he mad? Worried? Did he even care at all? His dark eyes were deep, nearly black in the subdued lobby lighting, making it impossible to tell what was in them.

  “You must be Gracen,” he said finally, standing and offering a
hand to the bear. What was in his eyes, though, was dangerous, and his gaze strayed to where Gracen’s hand was still circling the back of Damian’s neck. Damian, he didn’t spare another glance for, as though he didn’t matter. Or as though he had a place, and it wasn’t in the conversation between the two bigger men.

  Gracen nodded and deliberately removed his touch.

  “Thank you for this,” Krane said evenly.

  Gracen offered him a thin smile. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “He’s here and in one piece. You’re doing better than the rest of us tonight.” He spared a quick glance for Damian. “Who’d he fight with this time?”

  “I’m standing right here, assholes,” Damian said. He shot a glare at Gracen. “And who I fought with is not his business. Thanks for the fucking escort.”

  Mercifully, the elevator opened, offering Damian an immediate escape. He boarded and stabbed at the close button. Krane nodded once more at Gracen, who turned and headed out of the hotel.

  “You’re an ungrateful brat,” Krane said coldly, entering the small box and taking up a position at Damian’s back.

  Damian glared straight ahead and said nothing.

  “YOU WANT to talk about this?”

  Stanley stood behind him, watching in the mirror as he began to remove his smeared makeup. He’d had Damian fetch his toiletries from his room next door under a watchful escort, and brought it all back to clean up here. He was resolute in not leaving the singer alone even to change out of his sweat-and-rain-soaked clothing or wash his face. If he was determined to act like a schoolboy, Stanley was prepared to treat him like one.

  Damian shook his head and continued to carefully slough the makeup off his bruised face. A darkening splotch across his cheekbone looked like it hurt like a son of a bitch. He sat on a creamy white seat in a small alcove in Stanley’s bathroom at a vanity made from pretty white marble and frosted silver fixtures. The space somehow suited him. It brought out everything delicate and vulnerable about him and still set off his masculinity, perched on that tiny stool. Stanley carefully controlled that line of thought.

  “Tell me what happened,” Stanley tried again.

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it.” He winced as he ran the cotton swab in his hand under his eye and the alcohol-laced remover dripped down his fingers and ran over his split knuckles. “Fuck!” He tried to fling the stinging liquid off his fingers and sent bloodied drops spraying over the mirror.

  He was silent as he stared at his reflection in the splattered glass.

  “What happened?” Stanley asked again, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. He wanted very much to hit something himself, seeing the dark smears of makeup dribbling down Damian’s cheeks. He knew it was the rain and blowing wind that had left him this disheveled, but it didn’t lessen the impact on Stanley’s protective instincts.

  Damian shook his head. “I should have kept my cool, ya know?” he asked, dropping the used-up cotton onto the marble and picking up another.

  “Probably.”

  “The guy was just showing everyone a good time, ya know?”

  Stanley reined in his instinct toward anger. He wasn’t mad at Damian. Probably. But he had to get to the bottom of what had happened and find out how much damage control he had to do. “What guy?” he asked.

  “Never mind. Just some guy. Too grabby. I just….” He glanced at Stanley, a slightly feral, untethered look in his eyes. “Never mind.” He turned away and Stanley saw the split skin on his cheekbone for the first time. “He was just…. Then Lenny jumped in, and you know, he’s fast and vicious. I was just trying to keep him from…. You don’t fight Lenny when he’s like that, though.”

  “Like what? Did you hit him?”

  Still, Damian shook his head. “I wouldn’t hit him. He’s been hit enough,” he said, as though explaining to a three-year-old. He examined his scraped knuckles. “Ripped the shit out of my hands, though. Look at that.” He sounded whimsically surprised to see the damage. He raised the cotton ball to his face and winced again when more liquid ran down his fingers.

  Stanley studied the younger man. He was lying. He wasn’t even particularly good at it. It almost seemed like he didn’t really care if Stanley believed him or not. He simply was not interested in telling the truth. Stanley wanted to know why.

  “Here.” He took the swab from Damian. “Let me. Sit.” Pointing to the chair beside the sink, he tossed the cotton and rinsed a clean towel under cool, clear water. “Hand.”

  Holding out his hand, Stanley waited, and finally, Damian placed his torn fingers lightly on his palm. A delicate trembling ran through those digits and Stanley took another, closer look at him. The trembling didn’t stop with that one hand. Damian was shivering, gritting his teeth, and swallowing repeatedly. His gaze darted back to the mirror again and again, flitting between his own reflection and Stanley, to the door, and back to his face. His feet shifted restlessly.

  Perhaps the methodical cleansing had been keeping him occupied enough not to give in to his reaction to whatever had happened. Stanley needed to see the honest effects, though, if he was going to piece together what had transpired and figure out what to do about any of it.

  “This will help,” Stanley assured him. He wrapped the damp cloth around Damian’s hand, pressing the cool towel firmly in place with as much care as he could.

  “Fuck!”

  Anticipating the instinctive jerk to get away from the pressure and the wetness, Stanley gripped Damian’s wrist tight to hold the hand still. It avoided any further abrasions of the cuts, and made Damian gasp.

  Stanley glanced up, his attention caught in the wild glitter of uncertainty in Damian’s eyes, the wide-open expression on his face.

  “Does it hurt?” he whispered, unable to make his voice any louder.

  Damian shook his head. “Fine.” The trembling increased, but he wasn’t trying to pull away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Damian shook his head, licked his lips. “Fine,” he said again, staring at Stanley, lips parted, breath coming in short little gusts.

  “Damian.”

  The singer twitched, twisted his hand, and glanced away, but only briefly. Stanley could feel the insubstantial shaking deepen, and Damian swallowed hard as he looked into Stanley’s eyes.

  “Trevor.”

  Smoky gray eyes widened, dark lashes free of mascara, now that the black mess was streaming down his cheeks, fluttering with the movement.

  Stanley’s gut shimmied lower and his breath caught.

  “You’re all right, now, yeah?”

  “I—” Damian nodded. “Yeah.” The restless movement of his trapped hand and wrist stilled and he nodded again. “Yes.” The trembling eased, but didn’t go away, though Damian let his fingers rest lightly along Stanley’s wrist.

  “Now the other,” Stanley instructed when he thought Damian had calmed somewhat.

  There was less hesitation, less jumpiness, and Stanley secured a towel around Damian’s other hand, letting the cool damp cloth soothe the torn flesh.

  “Close your eyes, then,” Stanley said, voice gruff. He laid Damian’s hand on the edge of the sink and located a fresh cotton ball. “I’ll clean you up. What do I use to get the makeup off?”

  “Th-the white bottle,” Damian said as his eyes drifted closed.

  The sight of dark lashes on too pale skin made Stanley’s insides do another uncomfortable flop. He willed his hands not to shake and picked up the indicated bottle.

  “Um….”

  A thin smile appeared and disappeared on Damian’s face. “Just squirt a bit onto the cotton ball,” he said. “It’s good stuff. Takes the makeup off, then I can rinse my face.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “Normally, it is, when my hands aren’t torn all to shit.”

  “You’re sure nothing is broken?” Stanley asked, using the conversation to steady his nerves. He’d never done anything like this with any of the women he’
d been with, never mind with a man. It didn’t help that, given half a chance, he would strip a lot more than makeup off this one.

  “I’m sure.” To demonstrate, Damian flexed both hands, cringing at the pull on damaged skin, but clearly able to tighten both fists despite the mess.

  “That’s something, anyway.” Being as gentle as he knew how to be, Stanley dragged the cotton ball across one of Damian’s closed lids. Tiny fibers caught in his lashes as Damian’s lids trembled. “Hang on,” Stanley whispered, leaning close to make sure he plucked every last bit of cotton free. “There.”

  Damian lifted his chin slightly. “Now the other one,” he breathed.

  Stanley nodded, distracted by the motion and the brief glimpse of Damian’s tongue darting out to moisten parted lips. He drew in a shuddering breath. “Right.”

  He repeated the process on Damian’s other eye, and then moved on to the drying blood and makeup on his face. He took extra time around the cut over his cheekbone, applying antiseptic and a small butterfly bandage to close the wound.

  “Okay?” he asked, when he was satisfied the cut was clean and properly taken care of.

  Damian nodded, but didn’t open his eyes. He was still breathing too fast, still shaking.

  “Face next,” Stanley informed him, taking up another cotton fluff and dousing it in remover. He took his time, making sure to get all the rest of the residue of dried, smeared makeup and grit from Damian’s fine features, and taking an extra moment to smooth his fingertips over the revealed skin to free it of the pesky strands of fuzz. By the time he finished, Damian’s shaking had ceased and his breathing had deepened to something approaching normal.

  Stanley was entirely too close when those lashes fluttered and he found gray-green eyes gazing up at him. “There,” he whispered.

  Damian licked his lips, a tentative smile dancing over his features. “Lip gloss.”

  “How do you get that off?” It was Stanley’s turn to breathe too shallowly, Stanley’s turn to find himself too shaky.

  “Best way I know.” Damian cupped one towel-wrapped hand at the back of Stanley’s neck and drew him the rest of the few inches down until their lips met.

 

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