by Jaime Samms
“Shower and change,” Stanley ordered. “I’ll see if I can find food.”
“Hundred bucks says there’s bottles of water, a jug of lemonade, and apples in the fridge, and oatmeal in the cupboard somewhere.”
“Those things specifically?” Stanley asked as he headed across the small space to the kitchen.
“Yup.” Damian hauled his shirt off over his head and tossed it on the floor behind the door. His jeans and socks quickly followed as he talked. “Lemonade and an apple with salt before bed, almost every night.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And oatmeal for breakfast.”
“Rituals, huh?” Stanley asked.
Damian heard the fridge open and then a low chuckle.
“Comfort food, I guess,” Damian said, then twisted the taps and found a comfortable temperature for his shower. He stepped inside, let the spray drown out the rest of the world for a few minutes, and appreciated the warmth seeping into his skin. It didn’t compare to the heat of Stanley’s touch, but knowing the other man was close by let him breathe easier.
When he opened his eyes, it was to see through the clear glass doors that Stanley was leaning on the bathroom doorframe watching him. He wasn’t sure if that should make him self-conscious or not. The look of quiet enjoyment on the older man’s face put him at ease, though. Whatever Stanley was thinking about what he saw, it couldn’t be all that bad.
“Are these things you like, Damian?” Stanley asked after a few moments of letting the awareness of his presence, and his observation, sink in. “Or things you let your mother do for you because it makes her happy?”
Damian turned under the spray as he thought about that. He held his arms out, keeping his hands away from the water, and that let him see the faint prickmarks on his arm. “Things I miss,” he said at last, glancing over to find Stanley still watching him intently. He turned back to the water and tried not to wonder what the other man was thinking. Easier to focus on answering his question. “So I guess I liked them. I guess I do like them. Apples and lemonade and oatmeal, I mean.” He snorted softly. “Not exactly high-rolling, I guess, huh?”
“There’s a back brush on the ledge. Use that to wash,” Stanley said. His voice held a melody of contentment, satisfaction, and indulgence, and along with the hot shower, it warmed Damian to his toes.
It wasn’t a huge surprise to find a glass of icy lemonade and a sliced-up apple with a salt shaker sitting beside the bed when he came out either. Because it wasn’t a surprise, it shouldn’t have made him tear up, but he did. He was way too tired.
Stanley waited patiently while he dressed and ate the snack, and then actually tucked him in with a soft kiss and an even softer smile.
“You’ll be right here when I come back from the house,” he said, not even attempting to disguise the order as anything other than what it was.
Damian nodded. “I will.”
“Good boy.”
He left the bedside without another word, and Damian drifted into sleep feeling like the world could almost turn right-side up again someday.
BY THE time Damian’s breathing evened into sleep and the soft blush of rest began to infuse his cheeks with a bit of a glow, Stanley was more than ready to admit to himself he was relieved. He had been riding the hard edge of his need to control the younger man, and it was getting harder and harder to control himself. There was a fine line between bending Damian over something and taking what he wanted, showing the singer who was in charge, and just throwing Damian down and taking because Stanley wanted him that badly. At this point, Damian would never know—and probably not care—that there was a difference. But Stanley did know. And he did care. It wasn’t where he wanted to start this relationship.
As impatient as Damian was to get on with the down and dirty parts of what they could be, Stanley wanted it more. Only he was the one who had to hold back from sex and the delicious idea of tying Trevor up and keeping him. He was the one who had to remain in control. The bondage could only come once Trevor knew his place, and that would never happen in the bedroom. Damian had to be tied emotionally to the idea before it would ever be safe to introduce the rest into their relationship. And the restraint that placed on Stanley was proving a lot harder to live with than he’d anticipated.
“I am going to die of a heart attack before we even get that far,” Stanley muttered as he watched his singer sleep. He pushed a bit of flopping, silky mohawk off Damian’s forehead. “You, Damian, or Trevor, or whoever the hell you are”—a wave of need swept through him, leaving an ache in his gut that made him wince—“you are going to kill me, you know that?” He dug the heel of one hand into his chest and let the pressure and the friction of his shirt against his skin distract him from the deeper sensations he couldn’t ease.
Trevor moaned. His brow furrowed and he dug his head back into his pillow, tossing it from side to side. His lips moved, forming mumbled dream protests Stanley couldn’t understand.
“Shh.” Stanley cupped his cheek, stroked the slightly stubbly skin with a thumb until the fretting stopped. In a few more heartbeats, Trevor’s features relaxed and his face tilted to rest against Stanley’s palm.
“Yes,” Stanley muttered, feeling the hollow ache shrink into a heavy, tightly knotted lump of pure need. “Just like that. That’s how you’re going to do me in. Terminal want. Fuck.”
He couldn’t resist leaning down to place a kiss on Trevor’s prettily parted lips.
The singer let out another, breathier moan at the contact and Stanley backed away. The last thing he’d be able to resist now was a pair of greeny gray bedroom eyes blinking up at him in soft, sleepy confusion.
“You’re getting old, Stanley. Old and sentimental.” And he was talking to himself as though there was another person in the room who could chuckle and tell him this was all going to work out just fine.
Vance would tell him he was horny. Or in love.
Stanley sighed. “Or both.” He itched to reach out and sweep the hair off Damian’s face again. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands, or his thoughts, to himself. It was ridiculous that he was still sitting here, trying not to move the bed so he could watch another man sleep. He hadn’t been this bad since his high school crush on Vance. But then, this was different. The only thing crushing about it was the feeling he got every time Damian talked about Lenny and that devastated look crept into his eyes. The rest of what he felt tangled itself up into spider-silk strands, sticky and unbreakable, around every thought. Every heartbeat. Every breath. It went bone deep, and tonight, it was giving him a headache.
Migraines were something he really could not afford, and it only now occurred to him that some of Damian’s discomfort over the past few days might have stemmed from the same issue. Some caretaker he was turning out to be.
And speaking of taking care of things, he’d promised Trevor’s family some sort of explanation. He’d brought him home for the support and understanding his family could offer. He owed it to everyone to make the best of the opportunity.
The house was quiet when he mounted the back porch, which was the closest entrance to the house from the garage. The door opened at the first tap of his knuckles on the wood, however, and Wayne ushered him inside.
“It’s good to see Trev back, Mr. Krane,” he said as he led him toward the warmth of the kitchen. “Kind of a surprise, though, being in the middle of a world tour.”
“Stanley, please. I save the ‘mister’ for business and strangers.”
“We barely know you,” Wayne said. His tone suggested this was an oversight he was going to correct, whatever Stanley might think about it. He wasn’t unfriendly, but understandably, perhaps feeling protective of his little brother.
“I hope we get a chance to rectify that,” Stanley told him. “It has been an oversight on my part.”
Wayne stopped at the end of the hallway he’d been guiding Stanley down. He swung the kitchen door most of the way closed, blocking the light from inside and their conversation from those waiti
ng beyond. He turned to face Stan. “Are you sleeping with him?”
Stanley blinked at the mechanic, the tightening knots in his guts making themselves known again. It wouldn’t do to lie to this man. Not now, and not if he wanted Trevor to maintain his relationship with his family. He needed that connection and lying to them would only undermine it. Besides, Stanley hoped for allies here, not suspicion and resistance.
“No.”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed.
“Let me finish, please.” He held up one hand, hoping to stave off Wayne’s protests.
Wayne lifted one shoulder noncommittally and very deliberately crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. It might have been amusing if Stanley hadn’t been fully aware the man had plenty to be worried about over his brother.
“I haven’t slept with him. He’s not in any way ready for that. Not that he would ever acknowledge that fact, and not that I haven’t wanted to. But like you, I want to help him. I’m more interested in his well-being than my libido.”
“So there is a relationship.”
Stanley drew in a deep breath and nodded. At some point, he was going to have to admit how he felt. These weren’t the circumstances under which he would have preferred to do it, but this was when it needed to be done.
“It’s early days,” he admitted. “And believe me, I’m taking my time, because I want it to work.”
“Isn’t this some sort of conflict of interest? Sleeping with a client? I thought he left his last manager because she was slutting around with one of her clients.”
“It would be a conflict if any of the other acts I represent had even the remotest vested interest in any of the venues or promotional opportunities I plan for Firefly, but they don’t. They are all older, more established acts, and all play to a very different audience. I have made a point of being up front with all of them, and with Trevor’s band, about our relationship, which is a step forward as far as he’s concerned.”
“Meaning?”
“Trevor has not been very… forthcoming about his relationships and activities lately. It’s part of the problem, and believe me, before the band implodes completely, we are collectively working on a solution.”
“Part of which you figure is you staking a claim.”
This was not proving as easy as Stanley might have hoped, but before he could formulate a reply, the kitchen door opened and Trevor’s mother peeped out.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Wayne, stop bullying. Stanley, please. Come in. I have some chamomile tea brewing, and a bit of lemon cake, if you’re hungry.”
“Ma, really?” Wayne dropped his arms and rolled his eyes at his mother, who barely came to his shoulder, but exuded the air of a woman used to having her sons do as they were told.
“Yes, dear. Really. Come in here and sit down. We will talk about this in plain sight, not skulking in the back hall like hoodlums.”
“Wayne!” Another female voice from the other side of the door made Wayne sigh and step aside. He motioned for Stanley to precede him into the well-lit room.
“Julie calls,” he muttered, and Stanley hoped the twist of lips he saw from the corner of his eye as he passed was a rueful grin, and not a grimace of annoyance that his interrogation had been delayed.
The kitchen was a cheery place. The central element was a large, round oak table surrounded by heavy wooden chairs that looked like they may have seen duty in an office sometime in the seventies. Each place at the table was set with round, blue-flowered placemats that matched the wall color, and the back of the kitchen counter was home to a collection of canisters and jars filled with everything from wooden spoons to tea bags to dry pasta and cookies. The room looked well used, well loved, and busy. A tall vase of vibrantly pink daisies sat in the center of the table, and a battered, green metal teapot and four mismatched coffee mugs sat next to it.
“Here we all are then.” Trevor’s mother made a contented sound and motioned for everyone to sit down. “Stanley, you’ve met Julie?”
Stanley nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Learner. Last year before the tour.” He glanced at Julie, and she smiled kindly and nodded.
“It’s nice to see you again, Stan.”
That made Stanley smile. So few people called him Stan, and usually only those who knew him well. He’d long ago resigned himself to the fact he just carried himself more like a Stanley than a Stan. It served him well in his business world. It was less appealing among those he would have wanted to be less formal with.
“I would have preferred more favorable circumstances, but yes. It is good to see you looking well. The children?”
She offered another smile. “Dying to torture their uncle with a ton of questions and demands he listen to them perform, and to find out what he brought home for them, but otherwise, doing fine, thanks.”
As if that was their cue, the kids in question poked their heads into the room from the living room beyond.
“Is he here?” the girl asked.
“Honestly, Tracy, will you please go in the other room. Read a book or something.” Julie sounded exasperated and didn’t turn to face her daughter. The boy behind Tracy grunted and returned to the other room without speaking.
“Yes. Lovely. David has progressed from preteen awkward to the grunting stage.” She shot a look at her husband. “That could last a while.”
Wayne grunted at her and made a face.
“You see what I mean?”
“Give him time, Julie, darling,” their hostess said. “He’s better than either of my sons were at that age, I can tell you that.” She turned and lifted the teapot. “Tea, Stanley?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Learner. That would hit the spot, actually.” He tried to gouge a finger into his temple and dig out the pain throbbing more insistently behind his left eye.
“Oh, dear, please call me Stella. Mrs. Learner is so stuffy. Does your head ache?
Stanley nodded, but said nothing. Like always when they got out of control, this migraine was slamming into him with a vengeance.
“I know. Trevor used to get the most dreadful headaches.”
“He still does. Probably part of what’s done him in so thoroughly tonight.”
“What about his hands?” Wayne asked as he accepted a cup of tea from Stella, but kept his hard gaze on Stanley.
“I will leave that explanation to him. It’s important that he tells you what happened there.”
“Why?”
How did Stanley answer that? He could hardly tell them it was part of Trevor’s personal growth in learning to follow rules. “Partly,” he said at last, opting for as much truth as he figured any of them could handle, “because I wasn’t there, and I don’t know all the details. And partly because what I do know of it is very personal, and I doubt Trevor would thank me for exposing his personal issues, even to his family, when he’s not here to speak for himself.”
That seemed to satisfy Wayne, who nodded and sipped his tea.
“Is that why you brought him home, Stan?” Julie asked. Her spoon made a delicate tinkling noise against the side of her mug as she stirred honey into her drink. “Because of his personal issues?”
Stanley considered. “I guess, yes. He’s been working hard.” A frown tugged at his expression and intensified the ache behind his eyes. “Partying too hard. And it just came to a head in Boston. He needed a break, and this was the best place I could think of to bring him where he could basically hide out and feel safe.”
They all nodded and exchanged glances. Clearly, there was an understanding Trevor’s family had of his ways, and the circumstances, even not knowing exactly what had happened in Boston, that he wasn’t privy to. “Lenny made an allusion to Boston, that Trevor disliked the city. He didn’t explain why, but I gathered being there was a contributing factor to his… behavior.”
For a long moment, no one said anything. It was finally Julie who spoke, reaching for her husband’s hand as she did. “Lenny is probably right, I’m afraid. Boston doesn’t hold good memories or
associations for us, really.”
When no one spoke up to explain further, Stanley had to ask. “It sounds like something I should maybe know. As his manager, if nothing else. If I had known scheduling dates in Boston was going to be this big an issue, I would have avoided it. Certainly, I would have picked somewhere better for their hiatus.”
No one said anything.
“It would help to know.”
“I didn’t think it would be an issue.” Trevor’s voice from the doorway behind Stanley got all their attention.
“You are supposed to be in bed.” Stanley rose and hurried the few steps to where Trevor leaned in the doorway. “Asleep.”
Trevor offered him a thin smile. “Head,” he said quietly. That explained why he was lingering in the darkened back hallway rather than entering the brightly lit and cozy kitchen. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any of that miracle juice in your pocket or anything?”
Stanley rubbed at his temple again. “I wish.” He glanced around, hoping to find a light switch, knowing these headaches made Trevor more photosensitive than they made Stanley.
Julie beat him to the punch. She rose to flick off the overhead fixture while Wayne turned on a front porch light that glowed through the window with enough illumination they wouldn’t be sitting around the table in complete darkness.
Trevor sighed and shuffled into the room to sit in the vacant seat between Stanley and his mother.
Wayne’s kids appeared at the door to the kitchen, gleeful smiles on their faces, but turned and disappeared at one stern look from their mother.
Trevor sat with his bandaged hands on the table in front of him. “Thanks, Jules. I promise I’ll spend time with them tomorrow.”
She shook her head at him. “Don’t worry about them. In fact”—she raised her voice just enough to carry into the other room—“if they aren’t upstairs and in their beds in the next half hour, Uncle Trevor can go back to work without having to bother with them at all.”