by Jaime Samms
Stanley sighed and Trevor stroked the back of the big man’s hand.
“I can’t really explain how I love him. Not like Wayne, and not like you. Just. He’s Lenny. My Lenny, and yeah, I know he’s Vance’s now, and that’s okay. He’ll be happy, and that’s good. But please don’t ask me to stop loving him. I don’t think I can ever do that.”
Stanley kissed the back of his head, flattened his palm against Trevor’s chest.
“Go to sleep, Trevor.”
Was there disappointment in his voice? He sounded so tired, it was hard to tell. “Stan?”
Another sigh, then, eventually, “Yes?”
Trevor snuggled deeper into the embrace. “I’m here with you, Stan. Where I want to be. Where I want to stay.”
A few heartbeats passed. A few deep breaths, and then Trevor felt the heat of lips on his skin at the nape of his neck and the tightening grip of those muscled arms around his body, holding him in, keeping him.
“Don’t let go, okay?”
“I’m not going to let you go, brat.”
Trevor smiled and let that be the promise he needed to hear. It carried him to sleep and pulled him awake the next morning.
Sunshine glowed all over the apartment. He’d forgotten how bright the place could get, but miraculously, sleep seemed to have taken care of his pounding head. He heard the soft rumble of the kettle boiling on the stove and rolled over in the big bed to see Stanley standing at the kitchen counter cursing at his phone and holding a spoon.
“Problem?” Trevor asked, digging out from under the warm comforter and padding toward the kitchen.
In the spill of morning light, the specter of Krane, the megastar manager, had vanished. Even Stanley, strict and formal, had given way to the simplicity of an utterly gorgeous lover standing in the kitchen making breakfast and being positively domestic and normal. He wrapped his arms around Stan’s middle with a contented sigh.
“This is Vance’s phone. I can’t figure out how to get to my e-mail.”
Trevor snickered. “You let your browser remember all your passwords for you, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be a brat. I’m not in the mood.”
“Here. Give it to me, old man. What e-mail client do you use?”
“What e-mail… what?” Stan looked up from the offending device to glare at him, and Trevor couldn’t hold in the laugh.
“Gimme.” He snatched the phone from Stan’s hand and flipped through Vance’s My Ten for the number he wanted and dialed. It picked up after a single ring.
“Vance?”
“Morning, Miriam,” Trevor said, grinning at Stan and dancing back when Stan grabbed for the phone.
“Damian?” Miriam asked.
“Yeah.”
“What the hell have you done now, you little dipshit? Why are you calling from Vance’s phone? Where is he? Where’s Stanley? Put him on the phone!”
Trevor laughed. “He’s having a technology meltdown trying to check his e-mail. Is there anything he needs to worry about?”
“Put him on the goddamn phone, asshole.”
Trevor tsked. “Hey, I’m trying to help, here.”
“Would you—”
“Fine. Fine. Here he is, but don’t keep him all morning. He’s making me breakfast.” He finished the last sentence in a rush as Stan grabbed the phone from him.
“Hi, Miri.” He held out the spoon toward Trevor, indicated the two bowls on the counter and the kettle, and gave Trevor a threatening look.
Trevor took the spoon, hands up in surrender, though he had no hope of wiping the grin off his face. Stan wandered into the bathroom and closed the door while Trevor made their oatmeal and chamomile tea breakfast.
He was just stirring water into Stan’s portion when the manager emerged.
“Any emergencies?”
“You mean besides you?”
Trevor tilted his head and picked up Stan’s tea, holding it just out of reach. “Now is that nice, Stan?”
“Truth can be ugly.”
“Touché.” He relinquished the drink.
Stan took a sip and watched as Trevor carried their bowls to the tiny table by the window. “No emergencies. Just that she’s been making enquiries and fielding calls all morning looking for a new guitarist.”
“Oh.” That brought Trevor back to reality in short order. He plopped into his seat and stirred his spoon around his bowl. “Any luck?”
Stanley sat opposite him, took a few mouthfuls of food, and then put his spoon down. “Tell me about your cousin.”
“Christian?”
“You said he used to play with the band.”
“Yeah. Before he got married.”
“Does he still play?”
Trevor shrugged. “Campfire guitar, maybe. I don’t know.”
“Find out. If he still knows any of your material, he might be our best short-term solution.”
Trevor nodded. Oatmeal congealed around his spoon as he stared into his bowl. “I’ll ask Wayne for his number and give him a call.”
Stanley pushed Vance’s phone across the table until it touched Trevor’s fingers.
“Sooner would be better than later. Whoever fills in will need all the time we can give them to get up to speed.”
“I kn-know.”
“Trevor.”
There was that tone again, that way Stanley said his name that went straight to his gut and warmed him, made him want to do whatever the other man said.
“The show is going to be completely different,” Trevor said, keeping his gaze fixed on his breakfast.
“If you don’t think Christian can handle it—”
“He can.” That wasn’t at all what Trevor was worried about. He was so used to looking up from that mike when the nerves dug into his gut and seeing Lenny there, smiling at him through his lashes, shy, encouraging, the glow in his eyes telling Trevor without words that he could do this. He could be Damian onstage: sing, reel all the screaming fans in, and wrap them around the music until they couldn’t think of anything else. How was he going to do that without Lenny there?
Stanley got up, fetched the kettle, and poured a little more water into Trevor’s cereal.
“Eat your breakfast,” he said quietly, retaking his seat and stretching his hand across the table toward Trevor.
Trevor didn’t hesitate to take the offer this time. He laid his hand in Stan’s and warm strength folded carefully over him.
By the time they had finished eating and washed up their few dishes and Stan had made them more tea, the early morning sun had disappeared behind a glowering sky full of clouds. Rain plopped onto the concrete outside in an ever-increasing cadence and for a little while, the two men sat in silence on the couch, Trevor sprawled against Stan’s chest. They both dozed as the sound of the rain soothed away some of Trevor’s unease. It was nearing noon when they finally roused themselves enough to go to the house and see about getting in touch with Christian.
Stan pulled the edge of his suit coat over Trevor’s head as they dashed across the lot to the back door. It struck Trevor as an old-fashioned, horribly romantic thing for the older man to do, and at the same time, there was something more than perfect about being snuggled close against his side as they made a run from door to door. Like nothing in the outside world could touch him as long as Stan was there to protect him.
Almost, it made him think he would be able to go onstage and do what he needed to do, even without Lenny’s reassuring presence.
Once inside, Stan shed the wet coat and they followed the dim hallway to the front of the house. Myriad voices speaking over each other greeted them as they opened the door to the kitchen.
“What the hell?” Trevor stared at the gathered people, their faces all animated and happy to see him. Not just his niece and nephew, his mother and Julie, but Clive, Jethro, Beks, and Alice―showing a bit of baby bump now―all had gathered in his mother’s tiny house. Even Vance was there, on the outside of the throng, leaning on the kitche
n counter, a mug of something steaming in his hand.
“Dude. Since when do you get the weekend off and we have to keep working?” Jethro asked, a grin splitting his face as he wandered over to fold Trevor into a bear hug.
“Since never, I g-guess.” Trevor accepted the show of affection, surprised by his bandmate’s open demonstration. “H-how did you g-get here?”
Jethro released him, grin still in place. “Fucking Vance has his own goddamn jet. Hey, Stan, why can’t we have a jet?”
“I earned that jet,” Vance said. “Blood, sweat, and tears, boy.”
Trevor looked around again, and then focused on Vance. “Why are you here? Where—”
“Len didn’t come.” Vance pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. “He asked me to give you this.”
Trevor eyed the envelope. “What is it?”
Vance shrugged. “A letter, I guess. He didn’t show it to me. Just asked me to come and give it to you in person.”
“So you did.”
“So I did. Think what you want, but I care about him. I want him to be happy. Healthy.”
“I know.” Trevor snatched the letter out of Vance’s hand and backed to the doorway of the kitchen. “I can’t believe they all came.”
Stanley closed a hand over his shoulder. “To make sure you’re okay, I suppose. They care about you. This is a surprise?”
Trevor glanced around the room. “I guess I th-thought you’d all b-be p-pissed at me.”
“We are,” Clive said amicably. “But what else is new? We also have a tour to finish”—Alice smacked Clive on the shoulder—“and you know.” He waved a hand vaguely. “We thought a break was a good idea. Time to get all our shit together.” He glanced to the corner of the room least visible from the doorway Trevor and Stanley had entered. “Chris is screwed either way, so what’s a few more days, right?” He grinned wickedly. “Welcome to the madness, cuz.”
Christian was skulking in the corner, and he flipped Clive the finger. But he did it with a grin on his face.
“You’re going to do it?” Trevor asked.
“Who else could?” Christian glanced at Julie and offered a wide smile. “Wayne was less than thrilled, but Julie and the kids explained how mechanics are a lot easier to find than guitar players who know all Firefly’s tunes, so he decided to let me go for a few months.”
Alice handed Stanley a stack of paper. “His contract. It’s the same as the one the rest of the guys signed, except for the end date. And there’s a clause about Lenny coming back before the tour ends, and about him not coming back at all. You can read it over and tweak it before he signs. Let me know if you have any issues with it.”
Stanley nodded. “Thank you. Very efficient.”
She sat with her back ramrod straight and her knees daintily crossed, even though she was wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt to accommodate her belly, had bare feet, and was sitting on the kitchen table with her feet between Clive’s legs on his chair. She smiled primly at Stanley. “I take care of my boys.”
“I know.” Stanley held up the contract. “And it’s much appreciated. I’ll have a look later this afternoon.”
“I have some lunch ready for everyone,” Stella announced, dragging her best stock pot out of the oven. “Stew, and Julie brought some of her homemade bread. Grab bowls and find a place to sit.”
There was general hubbub as everyone gathered round and dished out portions of the hearty, delicious-smelling meal.
“You’re not eating,” Stanley whispered in Trevor’s ear as he moved aside to let the others at the pot of stew.
“Not hungry.” Truth was, Trevor couldn’t think of anything but the letter in his hand and that he needed to know what it said. “I’m going back across to read this.” He held it up.
“You want—”
“No. Just want to be alone for a few, okay?”
“Not long.” Stanley kissed his cheek and moved out of the doorway to let him pass. “Don’t wallow, and come back and have something to eat after.”
“Bossy,” Trevor muttered, but he smiled and went up on his toes and kissed Stanley. “I won’t be long.”
In the apartment, he hesitated, though. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was in the letter. If it was Lenny resigning from the band for good, Trevor didn’t want to know. But then, he couldn’t not open it.
Trevor,
Hey. I knoe what youre thinking. At least, I think I knoe what youre thinking. I sent Vance to give this to you in person, because I wanted everyone, espetially you, to knoe it wasn’t him making me stay away. He promised he’d let me say good by before we left Boston, but then you and Stanley took off without coming back to the hotel. First thing Vance did was offer to take me back home, to, so we could do this ‘properly.’ His word.
I was going to say yes, come back with the guys for the weekend, but then….
I couldn’t. And it isn’t because I don’t want to see you. I do. So bad it hurts, but for once in our lives, I’m doing what neither of us have ever had the guts to do before, and I’m saying no.
Ever sinse that night, I can’t breath. I can’t think. All I can see at nite, when I should be sleeping, is the look on your face, how you new what was going on in my head and you just let me do it. Just took it, like you thoght you deserved to be treated that way.
God, Trev, we’ve both been holding our breaths for so long, we forgot what it feels like to be any other way. The world hasn’t ground to a stop because I’m leaving the band for a wile. Because I said no. And it won’t, I promise.
You don’t need me. I knoe, because I thought I’d never want to look at my gitar again, until I was back onstage with you, were I belong. I thoght the music would dry up and there’d be nothing but that hasn’t happened. I knoe how you are before a gig. How you think you’ll go out there and not get one word out of your mouth. You think you can only do it because I’m there, and that isn’t true. You can do it because its in you to sing. You can do it without me.
Besides, I called Chris, and he’ll be there for you. Just. Let him.
You remember that day, way back, at the apartment when Julie waked in on me trying to crack your skull open? Babe, I can’t keep it together anymore. Everyone sees you as being the one out of control because you’re so loud about it, but you knoe me. You knoe what’s really happening, and I don’t want to keep doing that shit to you. For the first time in I can’t even think how long, I feel like I’m not going out of my mind worying about you. About us.
It’s been like I’ve been carying this monster around inside. One I can’t control. Vance can, and I know eventally, I’ll be able to too. But right now, I need to be with him, and not near you. Its not because I don’t love you. Its because I DO love you. I hope you know that. I hope you understand.
I never wanted to let us go, but if we don’t….
We can’t be together and be sane. We haven’t even been able to be freinds and be sane together for a long time. I know youre going to be pissed at me for this for a long time. When the tour’s over, if you ever want to see me, just ask. If you don’t….
Fuck. Love you, Trev. Just take care of yourself. Better yet, let Stan take care of you. He wants to. Let him be good to you. You deserve that. And you’ll see what it feels like to breath again. Try, ok?
Love.
Always, youre Lenny.
Damian stared at the letter as the thick blue lines began to blur and run together. It was probably the longest thing he’d written in his life, and his spelling hadn’t improved since fifth grade. No wonder Beks always wrote the music Lenny created. The thin paper the note was written on was dented with the weight of the pen marks, leaving it bumpy and textured. Lenny’s—Len’s—hand must have ached by the time he’d finished it.
Damian ran his fingers over the marks and tried to keep himself under control as he heard the apartment door open and more than one set of feet clomp across the kitchen.
“Hey.”
His
brother’s soft voice intruded on Damian’s distress and he wanted to tell him to fuck off. He wanted to be alone. And he wanted Stan. Mostly, he wanted Lenny. A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he could no longer pretend to be alone in the cramped apartment by ignoring the people who had come to find him.
“Trev.” Wayne plopped onto the mattress beside him and Chris leaned his guitar on the wall by the door before moving around to lean on the TV stand, facing him.
Trevor smoothed the sheet of paper out on his thigh and began to carefully fold it into a square that would fit into his wallet. “Hey.” His voice came out low and rough and he had to sniffle back the emotion he hadn’t even had the chance to experience yet over Lenny’s note.
“You okay?” Wayne asked.
Trevor shrugged. Besides the note, the confirmation from Lenny’s own hand that his absence was his own choice, deliberately made, he could still feel the emotional backlash of talking about the trip to Boston with his father.
Since he’d unburdened himself last night, he hadn’t had much time to gauge how his family actually felt about his part in his father’s death. Sure, they’d said all the right things at the time. But Wayne looked worn out, as though he hadn’t slept, and their mother hadn’t managed to make eye contact with him since he’d said it.
“Do you hate me?” Trevor asked.
Wayne said nothing.
“About Dad, I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
“So do you?” Trevor risked a glance, to see that Wayne was studying the rug and rubbing at a grease mark on the side of his finger, so ingrained it defined the ridges of his fingerprints with black he couldn’t erase. His hands looked so much like their father’s had. Worn, calloused, and marked by hard work, but strong and capable. Nothing at all like Trevor’s finely manicured and be-ringed fingers.