Off Stage

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Off Stage Page 23

by Jaime Samms


  Jethro shook his head. “No way, man. We are not picking a new member, even a temp, without Damian’s say so.”

  The other band members made noises of agreement.

  “Fine. But you can narrow it down, can’t you? I’m going with Vance. If we have to cancel, I don’t need to be here to do that. When we find Trevor, I need to be there.” He straightened his tie and resisted the urge to swear. “Wherever ‘there’ turns out to be.”

  Vance caught his eye from across the room and motioned to talk in private. Inwardly, Stanley sighed. He knew exactly what his friend was going to tell him. He knew exactly what his own reaction would be.

  “What?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation the minute the door closed behind them.

  “You know what.”

  “Don’t even bother, Vance. He needs—”

  “You?”

  Stanley bristled. “Yes.”

  “Have you fucked him, yet?”

  “How is that even remotely your business?”

  Vance smirked. “So no, then.”

  “Glad this is funny for you, now that you’ve got what you wanted all along.”

  The smirk vanished. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You going to tell me all that bullshit about you knowing I wanted the singer had anything to do with me at all? It was all about Lenny all along. Now you’ve got him. You have no right to ruin this band.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Help him to stay.”

  Vance shook his head. “He’s my problem now, and I’m going to do what’s best for him. Trust me, Stan.” He met Stanley’s gaze, but there was no softening in his eyes. “It’s best for the band in the long run. I know what I’m doin’, as a musician and for Len.”

  “You’re dismantling Firefly. For what? So you can have him?”

  “You think I’m poachin’? Really?”

  “He’s a good musician.”

  “He’s better than good,” Vance said mildly. “So what?”

  “So how long did it take you to convince him to leave Firefly?”

  Vance straightened, towering to his full six-foot-plus height. Stanley knew exactly how strong the singer was, and the menacing attitude didn’t faze him. “If you were anyone else, Stan, I’d flatten you. But you’re upset right now. Worried. I get that. But know this.” He lifted a finger and pointed it in Stanley’s face. “First and only, as far as my boy is concerned, I look after his welfare. If that means leavin’ Firefly, then he leaves.”

  “Your boy?” Stanley studied Vance. “Just exactly how do you mean that? You never keep any of them. If you fuck him over….”

  “I never have kept any of ’em,” Vance agreed. “None of them have been Len.”

  “And he’s different.” Stanley didn’t ask. It was clear from Vance’s demeanor this was not one of his usual flings.

  “I understand Firefly is your top concern―” Vance said, but Stanley cut him off.

  “Trevor is my priority. Firefly can look after themselves. No one else in the band seems to be arguing with you that Lenny—”

  “Len,” Vance corrected.

  Stanley almost grinned, but didn’t argue. “None of them seem to think Len should stay. Whatever has gone on between those two, everyone sees they need to be separated. Everyone but Trevor. Len can play and write and thrive without them, as long as he knows they’ll be there when he gets back. I’m not so sure Trevor is in the same place.”

  Vance shook his head. “He ain’t, Stan. Len might be the more broken one of the two, but I would not take Trevor on in a million years. And I have a lot more experience than you do.”

  “I’m not exactly asking your permission, here.”

  “Or my advice,” Vance said, amusement and skepticism equally present in his tone.

  “I already know what you’ll say. You’ll tell me to let him go. You’ll tell me to take the band and move on, even though you’re the one who’s invested in his career.”

  Vance shrugged, neither agreeing, nor denying.

  “But I can’t. I don’t trust him not to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. I don’t trust him not to destroy himself. I would think for Len’s sake alone, you would want me to at least try.”

  “For Len’s sake, I do want you to. For yours, I wish you could walk away. It’s only going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “All the more reason to find him before he does something really stupid.”

  “I hope you don’t get your heart broken, Stan.”

  Stanley smiled. No use pointing out it was already too late for that. “Me too” was all he said.

  DAMIAN STARED into the bottom of his third… or maybe fourth drink. The whisky stuck like tiny, amber claws to the sides of the glass as he swirled it.

  “You flying out today?” the bartender asked, eyeing him with a dubious expression.

  Damian shrugged and fingered the ticket on the bar beside him. “Guess.”

  “Probably had enough, then, friend.”

  Damian deliberately picked up his glass and tossed back the double. He pounded the tumbler down and nodded at it. “Another.”

  “Can’t do it. Not if you’re flying, friend.”

  “Fucktard,” Damian muttered, tossing payment onto the bar and getting up. Someone would serve him. Or he’d visit the duty-free. Didn’t matter. As long as he was drunk enough not to notice he was flying alone, it didn’t matter he was also drinking alone.

  He scooped up his ticket and left the bar. His flight didn’t leave for another two hours so he had time to obliterate the morning if he gave it some serious effort.

  In the duty-free shop, he managed not to slur so badly the vendor refused to sell him a forty. He took the bottle to the restroom and managed to get a good third of the way through it before he felt relaxed enough to consider finding his gate and checking in.

  The security check had him glad he had sneakers on and not his Docs, for a change, though it took some time to get all the metal except his piercings off so he could go through the detector. It was probably lucky for him that the couple behind him had a pair of wild, screaming preteen twins to distract the security guards enough to hustle him through without bothering to notice his wobbling.

  He found his gate and a seat in the crowded waiting room beside a young woman who reminded him of Alice.

  “There are not enough breath mints in the world,” she muttered as Damian leaned past her to grab a magazine off the seat next to her.

  “Fuck off.” He rattled the reading material in her face and sat back.

  “Ma’am?” One of the desk attendants caught their attention. “Is everything all right?” She glanced between the woman and Damian, a dubious look on her face.

  “Everything is fine,” Damian said, proud of how he was managing to speak clearly, no stuttering in evidence.

  The woman pursed her lips, rose, and moved to another seat, which caused Damian no end of amusement. He grinned up at the desk attendant. “See?”

  She frowned, but turned her attention back to the computer screen in front of her. After a moment, she began reading off the names on the list in front of her. She read his and Damian snarled.

  “I’m right here. Don’t need to call me like I’m late. Going to start a riot, you idiot.”

  “Pardon me, sir.” The flight coordinator smiled sweetly with steel behind the curve of her lips. “But if you had registered, I wouldn’t have to call your name. If you would care to hand me your ticket?”

  “Fine.” Damian swayed to his feet and managed not to trip over anything taking the three steps to her counter. She checked his ticket and advised him to have his passport ready for boarding, never once glancing at him with more than a cursory inspection of his features.

  “Thank. You.” Damian snatched back his ticket.

  “Do you have any luggage to check, sir?”

  “Do I look like I have luggage?” Damian held out both arms, empty hands splayed wide.

>   The woman glanced at the brown paper bag sitting on the seat where he’d left it. “Just your carry-on, then?” she asked, acid eroding her polite calm.

  Damian curled a lip.

  “Will you be declaring anything when you land, sir?”

  A smirk replaced Damian’s snarl. “Not unless they plan to pump my stomach.”

  “Very good, sir.” She didn’t even blink. “Your flight will board in fifteen minutes.” She smiled the steely sweet smile again. “Thank you for flying Air America.” She turned her head, blanking him completely. “Next.”

  Damian snatched up his bottle and headed for the nearest restroom.

  He only emerged when his seat block was called. Carefully, he made his way to the desk and took a few minutes to fumble his ticket and passport from his jacket pocket since his fingers were a little numb.

  “Have you been drinking, sir?” The airline employee manning the check-in line frowned at him.

  “J-jus a n-n-nip,” Damian admitted. “H-here.” He opened his passport and held it out. It wavered in the air in front of the man’s face.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid we cannot allow you to board if you are inebriated.”

  “N-not in-n-in-nebriated,” Damian muttered. “I st-t-tutter.”

  “Sir, please step to the side.” The attendant moved to block Damian’s access to the boarding ramp.

  “I h-have a t-t-ticket!” Damian held up his ticket, waving it in the air hard enough to make the paper rattle.

  “Sir, please.” The attendant tried to guide Damian away from the line of people impatiently waiting to get on the plane. “If you could just step to one side and clear the ramp.”

  “I h-have—”

  “Is there a problem?” A deep, authoritative voice broke the tension beginning to show on the flight attendant’s face.

  Damian spun to find himself face-to-face with a huge man in a white and black security uniform. “I h-have a t-ticket,” he said, waving said ticket in the security guard’s face.

  “Have you been drinking, sir?” the guard asked.

  “Just.” Damian belched. “Maybe.”

  “Come with me please, sir.” The guard took his elbow and attempted to lead him away.

  “I h-have a ticket!” Damian yanked his arm free.

  “Mr. Damian!” Yet another guard approached. This one was much younger, cuter, and blond. He hurried forward. “Jack, let me handle this,” he said to the bigger guard.

  The big man looked less than pleased, but he stopped hauling at Damian’s arm. He didn’t let go.

  “Mr. Damian, I’m sure we can work something out with your ticket,” the younger of the two said kindly. “If you will just step this way to allow the other passengers to board. I am afraid we won’t be able to accommodate you on this flight, but we can reschedule for you.”

  “I. Have. A. Ticket!”

  “I understand, Mr. Damian,” the young man assured him with a vapid smile. “However, airline policy will not permit anyone under the influence to board the plane. I’m afraid we cannot waive that policy, even for someone such as yourself, sir. If you will just come with me, I can show you to a comfortable—”

  Damian yanked his arm free and took a swing, hoping to smash the ridiculous little sycophant in his pretty little mouth.

  “All right.” The bigger guard intercepted his swing and dragged his arm down. “You can settle down, Mr. Damian.” He made a smirking face and yanked on Damian’s arm, rubbing the scraped back of his hand across his jacket and sending a flare of pain through Damian’s brain. “Or we can do this the hard way.”

  Damian whimpered, unable to see past the blinding sheet of pain.

  “Thought so. Come on.”

  “Jack.”

  “Shut it, Pauly.” The guard shot his younger counterpart a hard look. “Drunks, you don’t reason with them.”

  “Just that you don’t want to make a scene. You’ll have a mess of press all over this airport if anyone else recognizes him.”

  “Whatever,” the guard growled, but he did keep his voice down and relented on the way he was restraining Damian.

  Damian didn’t have a lot of choice about being led off to a miniscule room down a narrow corridor. Inside, a small desk with a computer housing a squeaky cooling fan, a metal office chair, a bulletin board, and a paper calendar didn’t do anything at all to make him feel comfortable.

  The guard pushed him inside and closed the door.

  “I have a t-ticket,” Damian said quietly. He held it up, as if it made a difference the guy could see it.

  Jack plucked it out of his hand. “Not anymore. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops for that little display back there, but Pauly seems to think you’re some cool bastard. He’s a kid.” Jack frowned at Damian. “He doesn’t know any better. Sure wish if he was going to look up to someone, it was someone worth the effort. Just sit tight. I’ll be back as soon as the plane takes off.”

  He left, locking the door behind him.

  Damian sank to the floor, knees up to his chin, and curled his arms over his head.

  After what seemed like forever, the door opened again, but it wasn’t Jack who peered in at him.

  “Mr. Damian?”

  Pauly.

  Damian didn’t bother to lift his face. “G-go ’way.”

  “I brought you some water.”

  “Go. Away.”

  “Mr. Damian, if you don’t mind my saying so—”

  “I do.”

  “I’d like to help, Mr. Damian.”

  “Would you please stop calling me that?” Damian finally lifted his head. “I’m not Mr. anything. Just D-d-d-d.” He closed his eyes. “Damian,” he whispered.

  Pauly shrugged and scooted into the room. “Here.” He held out a bottle of water.

  “Thanks.” Damian accepted the offering and dropped his gaze again. It took only a very cursory attempt to open the bottle to realize his hands had begun to bleed again and he sighed.

  Pauly retrieved the drink and opened it. “There.” He handed it back. “Do you mind my asking—”

  “Yes.” Damian said. “I mind. G-go away.” He drained the water in a long chug and leaned back against the wall.

  “Why don’t you call someone?” Pauly suggested. “Maybe one of the band? Someone to come get you?”

  Damian snarled, squeezed his water bottle, and flung it at the far wall. “Go away!”

  “Mr. Damian, I have to insist you calm down.” Pauly retrieved the empty vessel. “Do you have anyone you can call?”

  Damian curled his head back down to his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs. “Fuck off.”

  “If I could just call someone. Please, Mr. Damian. Otherwise, Jack will call the cops. He’s an ass that way.”

  Damian kept his head down. “Krane.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say Krane? As in Stanley Krane? The Stanley Krane?”

  Damian said nothing.

  “Um. Okay. Yeah.” Pauly scurried to the desk. “Shit. Stanley Krane. No way.”

  Damian listened to the phone being picked up, keys on the computer clicking, and finally, Pauly’s shaking voice asking for Stan.

  “Um. This would qualify as an emergency, I think. I am calling on behalf of Mr. Damian?”

  There was a shriek on the other end of the line Damian heard from where he hadn’t moved from the floor. Miriam. He almost chuckled. Pauly recited a series of numbers. Ones Damian could mouth along with him, because he knew Stan’s cell number by heart.

  STANLEY GRIMACED at his cell. Dead. Not just low. Not just down to a wavering orange bar. Completely, utterly, dead, and his charger, since it was nowhere to be found in his hotel room, was probably back in the studio.

  “Fuck!” He threw the useless thing onto the dresser.

  “Problem?” Vance asked as he came through the door from the adjoining room, Len on his heels.

  “You packed?” Stanley asked.

  Len nodded.

  “Stan
, what’s wrong?”

  “We have to go back to the studio. My cell’s dead. I need my charge cable.”

  Vance snickered. “Well, look who’s fuckin’ human after all.”

  “Don’t even piss me off,” Stanley growled. “I will kick your ass.”

  Vance actually laughed, which made Len grin. And Stanley had to admit, it was good to see someone was managing not to be completely tense.

  “I’ve got everything I need,” Len said quietly when Vance had quieted.

  Vance nodded. “Good. Come ’ere, darlin’.” Vance looped a finger into one of Len’s belt loops and hauled him over, turning him so Len’s back was pressed against his chest. “You about ready, Stan?” He rested his chin on the top of Len’s head and peered at Stanley.

  “You two are sick.”

  Len smiled and nestled closer to Vance.

  At least Stanley was spared having to watch longer by heading for the bathroom to pack his toiletries. He knew the new couple would have issues to work out, because of Len’s messy past, but seeing the way they looked at one another, the way they fit together and seemed to need to be in constant contact—it was clear they already adored each other. Stanley sighed.

  A part of him could only dream of anything with Trevor ever being that easy or comfortable. Most of him knew if it was, they both would be bored inside of a week.

  Bracing himself for the sappiness, he went back to the bedroom to find Vance and Len hadn’t moved.

  He was about to tell them to get their own room when the phone on his nightstand rang.

  Vance lifted his face from where it appeared he had been smelling Len’s red curls.

  Stanley stared at him. The only time he remembered seeing his friend that affectionate with anything had been with the very first horse Vance had bought. The thing had been a skinny, nervous wreck. Vance had been fifteen and spent every last penny he’d earned at his summer job to buy a nag no one else wanted.

  He’d tamed her, gentled her, ridden her, kept her for twelve years. And when that horse died, Stanley had thought his friend’s heart might never unbreak.

 

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