by Jaime Samms
“Oh, no.” Damian snatched up his coat, turned for the door, unsure whether he was about to bolt or hang the coat in the closet until Stanley had taken the three strides that allowed him to slam his hand against the apartment door and stop Damian in his tracks.
“Rock star, or not, you will clean up after yourself, Damian,” he said, voice low and just this side of threatening. “And after me. You stay, you pay. By keeping house.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind.” Damian reached for the door handle, sure Stanley would move aside and let him out.
Stanley didn’t. He took Damian roughly by the shoulder and spun him until he was standing, back to the door, Stanley towering over him. “You questioning my rules?”
“That’s not a rule,” Damian protested. “It’s slave labor.”
“It’s being responsible for your own shit.”
Damian stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t have to stay here, you know,” he said quietly.
“By all means. Go back to your own apartment and stay there. Make sure you are not late for rehearsal, and stay out of the bars.” Stanley yanked Damian from the door, opened it, and shoved him toward the opening. “I’m not forcing you to stay. Only to live by my rules when in my home.”
Damian glared out into the deserted hallway, the scent of a warm dinner in his nostrils and the prospect of his and Lenny’s cold, empty apartment looming large in his mind.
He turned away from the open doorway, went to the closet, and hung up his coat.
Stanley gently closed the apartment door. “Thank you.”
Damian said nothing, but hurried to the guest room where he kept his things so he could change out of the restrictive “public clothes,” as Stanley called the tight goth black he favored, and into something more comfortable. He was careful to fold or hamper everything he removed and rejoined Stanley in the main room in time to find two dinner plates heaped with roast beef and potatoes on the dining table. Stanley was just uncorking a bottle of red wine.
They didn’t talk about the sex scandal or the cleaning lady over dinner. They didn’t mention the Entertainment News segment from that afternoon, flashing pictures of Lenny and Vance at a restaurant near Vance’s small family ranch west of Toronto either. That left the band. It was doing well. Christian was flying through the new pieces, and while Stanley thought it was a little early to know if he’d be ready for their first concert when the time came, Damian was confident his cousin could deliver. That exhausted that topic.
Damian was smarting over seeing Lenny so obviously with Vance, and Stanley was growly over Vance letting the media speculate over his sexuality after years of carefully keeping the country star in the closet. He was growly over everything, Damian had noticed, and it was getting worse.
“I’m sorry about being messy,” Damian said tentatively when half of the meal had passed in silence.
“We already talked about that. It’s settled,” Stanley replied bluntly without looking up.
“Okay.” Damian set down his fork. “Then why are you still mad?”
“I’m not.” Stanley took a sip of his wine and set the glass back with a thunk and a sigh. “I’m not mad at you.”
“Then who?”
“No one.”
Damian watched him slice bits of beef and carefully spread a thin layer of horseradish over them before spearing a potato and putting it in his mouth. Was it crazy that everything the man did, no matter how mundane, made him want to stop and watch?
“Can I ask you something?” Damian tried once Stanley had swallowed.
Stanley shrugged. Still, he didn’t look up.
“You’re the rule maker, and I’m the rule follower.”
“That’s not a question,” Stanley pointed out.
Damian swallowed a smartassed remark and spun his wine glass by the stem. He wasn’t really interested in the drink. He found being alone with Stan made him giddy enough these days.
“Don’t think I don’t know what that actually makes us, even if neither of us have said the words,” he went on.
That got Stanley’s attention, because his hands stilled in the act of slicing another bit of meat. Even now, though, he didn’t look at Damian.
“So.” Damian spread his hands over the tabletop. He’d removed the thin bandages when he’d changed, to let the air at his wounds for a while, and he tried to ignore the ugly marks. “Why am I sleeping in the other room?”
“What do you expect?” Stanley asked. He set his utensils aside and sipped his wine.
“I’m not sure. Something. You saw Len and Vance on the tube today and nearly had a conniption because they were holding hands. Is it so much to ask for you to want that with me? I’m not even in the closet, so where’s the harm?”
“First of all, you and I are not Vance and Len. What applies to them does not apply to us. And my conniption as you put it, is over the fact that I was happy to think his career could manage itself, and now I have to figure out how to let him come out without losing half his fan base.” He shook his head and huffed out a breath. “My reaction had nothing to do with him and me personally. Only professionally.”
For a while he was silent, but when he did speak again, he caught Damian’s eye and held his attention. “Secondly, and far more importantly, the harm in playing that sort of game is you don’t know anything about what sex actually means.”
Damian stared at him. “What?”
Stanley pulled in a deep breath that lifted his chest, like he was bracing himself. “You’ve thrown your virginity away.”
Damian clenched his fists, wanting to hit him, but Stanley didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“And you keep doing it. Over and over. You throw yourself away every time you’re with someone who only wants to fuck you because you’re pretty or famous.” He finally looked Damian in the eye. “Or because you’ll simply let them.”
“And you don’t want a slut,” Damian supplied, getting up from the table. So much for wanting to hit him. Now he just wanted out of there.
“I don’t want a slut,” Stanley agreed.
Damian whirled to shout some vile thing back at him, but Stanley was right there, having crossed the few steps between them on silent feet. The big man’s hands closed around Damian’s arms and held him fast.
“I want you when you know as well as I already do how precious a thing it is you’re giving me. You’ve given little bits of yourself away to anyone who asks, and partly, that’s your job when you get up onstage. If you don’t feel what you’re singing, no one would come and listen. No one would care. Certainly none of them would come back, and thousands of them do. They follow you around the country, hang on every scrap of you they can collect to pin on their walls. And then you go out and have sex with men who never, ever come back, hoping they’ll rebuild those things inside of you that your livelihood depletes.”
Damian stared up at him, all his fight and anger draining away.
“When I have you, Damian, it will be because you thoroughly understand what it is you’re giving me. I will never, ever take from you what you can’t afford to give. I could fuck you. Right here and now, but that’s all it would be.”
Damian struggled faintly, not really sure he wanted his freedom. He didn’t know what he wanted.
“Why don’t you? What else do you expect it to be?”
“If you don’t know, then you aren’t remotely ready. I won’t take something you can’t afford to give,” he said again. “You’re worth more than that.”
Damian twisted again and this time, Stanley let him go. “I don’t like sleeping alone.” God, he felt like a little kid begging for a treat, and he hated it.
Stanley snuck a hand up around his neck and closed his eyes, leaning a bit forward, like he couldn’t bear to see Damian’s eyes.
“Just being in the same room with you gives me a hard-on. I want you.” He touched his lips to Damian’s forehead and let out a sigh, like it was still the same huge breath he’d
sucked in at the table. “You want to sleep in the same bed, I don’t know if I can keep my hands off you if I allow it.”
Damian heard a choked sound come out of him, not sure what it conveyed. He wasn’t used to being turned down. He always got what he wanted, especially in this. And he should be mad at Stanley for calling him a slut. Except the man hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. He never did.
Which meant he was speaking the truth when he said he was tempted. That he wanted Damian. So maybe it was true it was worth waiting. Worth him figuring out whatever it was he was supposed to figure out.
“I’ll wear pajamas,” he offered. “I won’t try and seduce you. I just….” He took a small step and Stan’s arms went around him. “I have dreams. I wake up in the dark and there’s no one there. It’s stupid, I know.”
“No, it isn’t.” Stanley kissed the top of his head and stood back, setting him upright from where he’d been leaning against his broad chest. “It isn’t stupid.” Another kiss on his forehead, with Stanley lingering for a moment over the contact, and then he let Damian go. “Go clean up the kitchen.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s you learning to do as you’re told. I have an errand to run. I won’t be long.”
And he left. Just—left. Without a kiss or a backward glance, he slipped on his shoes and walked out the door.
Damian stared at the closed door for a long time, trying to get his head around what was going on. Finally, turning to the stereo, he cranked up one of his favorite bands. A little angry punk music might soothe his soul. Living with Stanley didn’t seem to be doing the trick anymore, and it was sad how quickly that had happened, but the man was a bossy, belligerent control freak, and there weren’t even any fringe benefits for living with him. Just grunge work and more rules.
Damian tried hard not to slam the dishes around as he rinsed them and put them in the washer. Neither of them had finished their meal or their wine. Damian didn’t have an appetite for any of it. He tried not to show his anger. Tried not to feel it. But he’d just bled a little bit of himself onto Stanley and got “clean the kitchen” in response. He had a right to be mad.
Every muscle was tense by the time he was done wiping down the surfaces, and he fired the wet cloth into the sink, sending up a spray of suds and water to splash over the back of the counter.
The music went dead.
“You finished?” Stanley asked, a dry note of what might have been amusement in his voice.
Damian whirled. Stanley stood next to the stereo, a gift bag from the shop in the lobby in his hand.
“Uh.”
Stanley visibly held back a grin. “I know. You were pissed off. And that’s okay. I didn’t really explain very well. You caught me off guard. I needed a moment.” He held up the bag in his hands. “Here.”
“What is it?”
Stanley lifted an eyebrow. “Clean up your mess and come and see.” He toed off his shoes, put them on the rack, and set his gift on the coffee table, taking a seat on the couch and turning on the television. He was done with the conversation, evidently, at least until the kitchen was spotless.
Quickly, Damian cleaned up the splattered water and drained the sink, satisfied the kitchen looked the same as it had when they’d come home, before he went to stand next to the couch. Somehow, it seemed presumptuous to sit down beside Stanley and assume it was fine he’d acted like a spoiled teenager.
“I’m sorry. For the music, and the….” He waved a hand at the kitchen. “Everything.”
“It’s okay.” Stan patted the seat next to him. “Sit.”
He did, keeping what felt like a safe distance between them. He was done feeling like a puppet on the end of Stanley’s strings. If the man didn’t want him in bed, fine. He’d find someone who did.
The TV went off and Stan set the remote beside the bag.
“I meant every word I said, Trevor.”
Damian blinked at him. It had been a few days, and Stan hadn’t called him by his given name since he’d gone back to the studio with the guys.
“You might not see how fragile you are, but I can’t look at you without seeing the cracks. I won’t add to them. I want you. I can admit that, and I can be as strong as you need me to be, but you have to meet me halfway. For both our sakes, you have to agree to let me set the pace.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a history of not knowing what’s good for you.”
“And you know.”
Stanley studied his hands, laced together in his lap. “I’m not perfect. I don’t think I’m perfect, but I do think in this case, yes, I know better than you do right now. Everything is fresh and raw, and your cure for the discomfort of Len’s outbursts is to go somewhere and find someone to show you a bit of affection. This is the biggest blowup of all, and I won’t be the temporary fix for you.”
He shifted to look squarely at Damian. “I will help you put yourself back together permanently, though, and for that, you need to understand your instincts aren’t very good. They’ll get better. They’re already better than they were. I expected you to leave right after I did, and instead, you stayed.”
Damian nodded, aware that Stanley was right. A week ago, he’d have walked out on Lenny telling him what to do and found a fix of one sort or another. This time, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to leave. He’d actually done what Stanley demanded, and now that he was sitting here, thinking about it, he knew he felt better than any high he might have found.
“So.” Stan pushed the bag toward him. “Open it.”
Damian plucked the tissue from the bag and peered inside. Black silk caught the glow of the overhead lights and he pulled out a set of luxurious pajamas. The comfortable-looking bottoms and tank were soft cotton and the outer jacket silk.
“Wow. These are nice.”
Stan smiled and nodded. “Go put them on.”
It didn’t matter that it was way too early for bed. It was Stan’s answer to what Damian needed, and it was good enough. He went and changed into his new sleepwear and rejoined Stan on the couch. He didn’t remember what they watched. It didn’t matter. It mattered that Stan held his hand for a while and draped an arm over him later, and when he was finally sent to bed, he went.
“You’re not coming?” He turned at Stanley’s bedroom door and looked back.
“I’ll be in. You go. You have an early day. Don’t forget, you have to make us breakfast and clean up before practice tomorrow.”
Damian nodded, searching for the annoyance that pronouncement should bring and only found it made him feel like he had a purpose. “’Kay.”
He curled up under Stan’s covers and didn’t remember falling asleep. He had a vague awareness of a warm, solid mass pressed against his back when he stirred from some unpleasant dream, but he woke to a bed as empty as the one he’d fallen asleep in.
Stan’s side was still warm.
Damian smiled and got up to make breakfast.
23
LOGIC TOLD Damian the stage lights weren’t any brighter or hotter than usual. The crowd was loud, but not screaming for his blood, like his brain seemed to think, judging by the way it was shooting adrenaline through him. They didn’t want to lynch him because it wasn’t Lenny out there playing his intro.
The press conference introducing Christian the day before had gone well. Sure, there had been questions, and they’d been prepared for the media frenzy around the bar fight and Lenny’s relationship with Vance. Stanley had kept to the script and told them only the parts of the truth that pertained to the band and the music. He deflected any and all questions of a personal nature and the band had jumped in to protect Damian if any of them got too aggressive with their tactics. He couldn’t have hoped for more and he ignored the headlines that made assumptions anyway.
He gazed out over the crowd and for an instant, every face was Lenny’s, or his father’s, or an eighteen-year-old boy whose appearance he could barely remember, or a vague reference to som
eone who’d used him for whatever he’d let them get away with. Every face was an accusation, a reminder of his failures, and he couldn’t make his feet move.
Jethro’s voice rolled over the crowd, a low soothing croon that brought a momentary hush through the entire venue, then a heady cheer. Christian eased from the usual opening sequence to their backup plan and Jethro stepped up to Damian’s mike. Though his voice shook slightly at first, the bass rhythm issuing from his instrument never faltered. It was as though his fingers knew what to do and didn’t need his attention to pull it off. Clive carried him through the first few uncertain strains with his steady beat, and Chris smoothed it all over with clear, cool harmony. Before the first verse was over, Jet was grinning down into the throng and carrying the melody of one of their newer numbers in a voice that seldom got the attention it deserved. Jet had the chops and was slowly building his confidence and his stage presence. They had Christian. They didn’t really need him.
“Do you see how they have your back?” Stan asked in his ear.
Damian smiled, but it was weak and his stomach churned. “They’re doing just fine without me.”
But even as he said it, he noticed that each one of them glanced his way periodically. They couldn’t see through the lights to where he was standing, but he could see the concern on their faces and he remembered the moments in the dressing room before the lights had gone up and the band took the stage.
“You got this,” Christian assured him.
“I d-don’t kn-know.” The closer it came to time to go on without Lenny, the worse his guts got. The harder it got to talk. The more his hands shook.
“I do.” Christian gave his shoulders a quick knead and Jethro punched his shoulder lightly.
“Me too, dude. ’Sides, I only really know, like, two numbers, so you’d better not flake out.”
Damian met his gaze in the mirror and tried to smile. He couldn’t even promise he could get onstage.