by Jaime Samms
“Trevor.”
He turned.
Stanley straightened and lifted one arm, holding out his hand. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there with his hand out.
Trevor almost didn’t know what to do with that. Was he supposed to hand him something? He glanced at the towel on the floor, then around the room, and finally back to Stanley. He hadn’t moved.
Vance had done it and Len had gone to him immediately, and happy to do it.
Trevor’s brow furrowed. So simple. Put his hand in Stanley’s and—and what? Risk he’d never be able to hold on tight enough when the older man was ready to let go? Or spend how much energy hoping he never did? Hoping that somehow, this time, accepting that invitation would lead to something more than more rules and petty tasks.
How many minutes had passed? He still hadn’t moved.
Trevor took a step forward. One step more, and he would be able to place his fingertips against Stanley’s palm. It would be warm, dry. Strong.
Fuck it. If he ignored the offer, it might never come again.
He rested his fingers on the pads of Stanley’s hand.
Like a steel trap, Stanley’s fingers closed over his and he was yanked forward so hard he fell into Stanley, off-balance. He caught one brief glimpse of Stanley’s face, a look of such utter relief as his eyes closed that Trevor almost choked.
Stanley wrapped his free arm around Trevor’s shoulders.
He didn’t say anything, but Trevor didn’t want him to. He just wanted to stand there, warm, safely held, and knowing his capitulation had eased that look of worry off Stanley’s face in a way all his previous obedience hadn’t managed to.
They stood that way a long time. Trevor wondered if Stanley took the same sort of comfort from the proximity he did, or if the older man was simply humoring him.
He straightened, peeking up through his shaggy, damp bangs to see if he could figure out what Stanley might be thinking. The moment he shifted his weight, Stanley’s grip tightened around him, and he released Trevor’s hand to slide his fingers through Trevor’s hair and take a grip there.
“Going somewhere?” he growled.
Trevor’s pulse sped up hearing the rough edge to Stanley’s voice. He shook his head. The tight grip in his hair pulled at his scalp. It sent a fast and brilliant flash through him, much like the electric hum that sparked when the stage lights came on and the crowd called. It felt like when he wasn’t just pretending to be Damian. When he really was that dynamic guy who didn’t need drugs or sex to come alive. When he wasn’t faking it.
“’Course you’re not going anywhere.” Stanley released his embrace, though not his hair, and dragged a thumb over his lips.
Strong fingers wrapped halfway around the back of Trevor’s neck and that thumb poised under his chin and pressed up. Trevor lifted his head, lips parted, letting the dazzling sensation rip through his body over and over.
How often had he searched for this off the stage? How many times had he thought maybe he’d found it only to realize what he had was a pale reflection? A fleeting drug high. Orgasmic euphoria that ended in a stranger’s bed the morning after.
Stanley’s eyes narrowed and grew dark. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. He tightened his fingers, scraping them along Trevor’s scalp, and shifted his hand until he was cupping Trevor’s chin, palm resting against his Adam’s apple.
“Well, hello, Damian. I wondered where you went.”
Trevor felt like he was hanging by that two-handed grip, by those words, swaying, about to be dropped into nothing. Every instinct screamed at Trevor to hold on, grip Stanley’s wrist, and never let go. He fought the instinct. He clawed at it, tensing, but forcing his arms to remain at his sides.
Trusting.
Stanley wouldn’t let him go. He had promised all those months ago in a lux hotel room that he would not let go.
Trevor closed his eyes, licked his lips, and swallowed against the fear.
He felt hot breath first. He heard the rustle of movement and then felt the firm, demanding pressure of lips over his. A sound snuck out, half need, half surprise. His knees wobbled. Still, he refused to grip Stanley’s arm. Refused to show that need. Maybe refused to admit he was afraid at all.
But he did kiss back, because the contact slaked the thirst in him for physical affection he’d talked himself out of needing or wanting. Just another near-addiction he was learning to live without. Until now.
When Stanley pulled back, it was a moment before Trevor could breathe again. The sparks of desire had been lit, though. His chest heaved with the effort to keep himself contained.
“Open your eyes, Damian.”
Another of Trevor’s layers peeled back and he found himself obeying without thought this time. For once, it didn’t matter who he was, or who he thought he was, or what name he used. There was one person who wanted his full attention, his honesty. Him, even if he was slightly used and broken.
For a long moment, Stanley stared at him, dark eyes glittering, drawing him in. He made a satisfied sound, deep in his chest, when Trevor didn’t look away, and it only fanned that elusive flame of consuming excitement flaring through Trevor.
At last, Stanley released the grip in Trevor’s hair and took a step back so the only contact between them was his hand on Trevor’s chin. His gaze swept down Trevor’s body and back up.
“Shirt,” he said at last, and the glittering edge to the command ratcheted everything tighter inside Trevor. “Shoes.”
“We’re going somewhere?” Trevor asked, managing half a crooked grin.
“Now.” Stanley turned Trevor’s head toward the workout room door and the shower and change room beyond. “Move it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Stanley dragged Trevor’s head around to face him, thick fingers digging into Trevor’s flesh and making his blood rush in his ears at the force. “Do not throw that around lightly, boy.”
Trevor swallowed, once again feeling the way Stanley’s palm brushed his Adam’s apple. He blinked, considered, and minutely shook his head. “No, Sir.”
Stanley’s lips pursed. His eyes got even darker. It was impossible to tell if he was displeased or not. “Shirt,” Stanley said again, more quietly. “Shoes. Go.”
Trevor nodded and nipped out of the room the moment Stanley released him. He grabbed his T-shirt and shoved his feet into the first pair of sneakers he found, snatched up his wallet and keys, and hurried back to find Stanley hanging up his phone from calling the car around.
“Ready,” he said, amused with himself and the way he sounded so breathless.
“Good.” Stanley looked him up and down again and nodded. “You’ll do.”
“Do?”
Stanley flipped the light switches off and headed for the office. “Sound check. You don’t have to be pretty, but you’ll be late if we dawdle any more, and your bandmates will not thank me for making them worry about you.”
Sound check.
That’s right. There was a show tonight. Trevor had completely lost track of time.
Stanley waited until Trevor had emerged into the reception area, flicked off the office lights, and locked the door behind them.
“They won’t worry. They know where I am. I’m always with you if I’m not at the….” He frowned. “Where are we playing tonight?”
Stanley snickered. “The Evangeline.”
“What?” Trevor stopped walking, though his heart thudded hard. He hadn’t played his home city since Len left the band. The whole east coast of the United States and Canada, yes, but not his home base. And now Stanley was throwing the Evangeline in his face. The one place he’d ever felt like the stage was home. As small and divey as the bar was, he’d never expected to play there again. Especially not without Len.
He shook his head. “I’m not playing there.”
“You don’t have a choice. It’s booked.”
“So unb-book it.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” They were standing in fron
t of the elevator, and as the doors slid open, Trevor found himself once more in Stanley’s grip, forced to look the bigger man in the eye. “What was that?”
Trevor swallowed, searched for the fire he’d been feeling since that kiss, and found a small, fluttering spark deep in his belly. “N-nothing.” He pulled free and entered the elevator, desperate to be out from under the appraisal that found him lacking in some way.
Stanley followed him in and punched the lobby button. “Not nothing. You don’t stutter over nothing. Tell me.”
“N-not important.” Trevor glared at the toes of his sneakers.
“You have to trust me sometime, Trevor. All the obedience in the world doesn’t mean a thing if you won’t tell me what’s going on in here.” He tapped the side of Trevor’s head. “Or here.” He pressed a palm to Trevor’s chest. “Whatever it is, I can’t help if you won’t talk to me. I can’t decide what’s best for you if you won’t tell me what’s hurting so much.”
“You’re… fuck.” Trevor stepped back, but inside the elevator, there was nowhere he could go that was outside Stanley’s reach or influence. The brightness of the fire the man had lit was beginning to burn right through the walls that separated him from the stage and the music—and Stanley—and kept it all neatly compartmentalized.
“Why is it so hard to let someone care about you?”
“P-people c-care.”
“Of course they do. A lot of them. But the minute it starts to look like you need it, or want it, you close up.”
Trevor wrapped his arms around himself and leaned against the cold metal of the elevator wall. His eyes burned and his knees wouldn’t stop shaking.
“I’m not interested in changing who you are, Trevor. Or Damian, or whatever you want to be called. I like who you are.” He smiled, letting something sharp and predatory curl into the expression. “You’re screwed up and messy, and I don’t care. You get up onstage and everything about you—” He actually growled and the sound spiraled like smoke and lightning down Damian’s spine. “It fucking turns me on. Then you step out of that, like it’s a scratchy pair of jeans, and there’s this.” He waved a hand up and down in front of Trevor. “And maybe it’s wrong I want to either wrap you in silk or fuck you till you can’t think, but that’s what I want.”
“Both?” Damian asked, voice so small he was sure it hadn’t gone beyond the inside of his own head. It was easy to admit he wanted the forceful man in his bed. They both knew it. But to want the silk wrappings, the tenderness, how was he supposed to want that and still be hard enough to get onstage and do what he did without losing himself?
“Sometimes.”
A long silence filled the elevator as it landed on the ground floor. Stanley pressed the close button and waited.
There was a string tied to every memory Damian had of being onstage, and so many of them led back to the Evangeline, to that tiny stage and tiny crowd, and Lenny. “I’ve never played there without him,” he said at last. “First place we ever played.” He bit his lip. “N-never p-p-played home without him.”
“That’s why I chose there to close out the final leg,” Stanley said. “Because it is home. I know one hundred and fifty people are hardly the tens of thousands of screaming, rabid fans you’re used to, but they’re your hometown fans. I could have picked the Rogers Centre or somewhere, but this seemed more appropriate. They’ve known you longest. Supported you all this time.” He cupped a hand around the back of Damian’s neck and squeezed. “If you doubt that, then believe that we’ve sold out three weekends, three nights each, and all within hours of the tickets going on sale. This town loves not just you but your band too, and you owe it to the guys to give them this. It’s been a rough year for everyone. Coming home is good for all of us. Trust me. The Evangeline is the very best place to end this tour.”
Damian nodded without looking up.
“It’s okay for this to hurt, you know. I would be worried if it didn’t.”
“H-he’s not coming b-back. He didn’t want to s-s-say it, but I could t-tell.” Damian’s right knee began to bounce. He jammed it straight to try to contain the jittering.
“That isn’t fair, Trevor.” Stanley moved closer, trapping him against the wall, but the closeness, the way he pressed his legs against Trevor’s, offered support to his shaking and wasn’t oppressive. “You have to trust him too. He wants the very best for you. He loves you.”
“Then he should come back!”
“Giving you what you think you want isn’t always what’s best for you. You haven’t learned that by now?”
“Everyone thinks they know! What about what I know?”
“Which parts of what you know?” Stanley asked. “The drugs? Or the sleeping with randoms while you’re so high you don’t even know if you’ve been safe or not?”
Damian glared at him only a split second before batting Stan’s hand off the button. “And in the past six months, I haven’t touched a needle or a pill or another man, so fuck you!”
The doors swooshed open and he stormed out. He was in the car and staring out the far window within seconds.
Stanley didn’t follow him. He walked to the curb, slammed the open door and wheeled to go back inside.
“Where to today, sir?” the driver asked, voice and expression, when he looked in the rearview mirror, bland.
He was so tempted to say anywhere but the Evangeline. A bar somewhere, anywhere no one would come looking for him. There was no one to stop him doing whatever he wanted. All he had to do was show up on time to go onstage. The guys had done enough sound checks without him.
There was only the way Stanley would look at him if he found Damian in some stranger’s bed or drunk in an alley. And why did he care what Stanley thought? All this time he’d said the lack of intimacy was for Damian’s benefit when the truth was, he was obviously still stuck on Damian’s past.
“You know what, George? Drive around for a while. I’ll take a cab.” He slipped out on the street side of the car and hailed a cab, crawling in as George was calling out the window to him and frantically searching the speed dial buttons on his cell.
When he looked back, Damian saw Stanley come barreling out of the front of the building, a look of pure thunder on his face. He turned, pushing his shoulder blades into the artificially clean smell of the upholstered seat. The cabby glanced at him. He gave a street name that would land him close to a few bars where no one would ever think to look for him, and crossed his arms over his chest. If all Stanley expected of him was drugs and cheap sex, he could do that. He’d had a lot of practice.
The cabbie let him out at the corner. He chose the first bar on the strip. It was hardly late enough to be hopping, by any means, but as soon as he walked in, the gazes he got fueled his demon. Half-a-dozen men watched him with varying degrees of superiority and possessiveness, and they didn’t act as though they knew him from a hole in the ground. They just seemed to know what end of the bed he liked. And by the looks in their dark gazes, any one of them would be happy to put him in his place. Good. Stanley had awakened the beast again and then left him hanging, and he was tired of the celibacy. He was ready for all the rough he could get from someone who didn’t know who he was and didn’t care to find out.
His cock stirred at that idea and his gut churned. The familiar mixture of sick and fascinated roiled through him and left a film of distaste in his mouth. Experience told him a few shots of something strong would wash that away.
He’d ordered one, tossed it back, and was on the second when one of the men who’d been watching him since he walked in approached.
“New here?” the big man asked. He had a thick beard that matched the black thatch of hair on his head and the curls of it peeping from his open shirt collar. Damian stared at those tendrils. He imagined all that hair rubbing over his back, and the man’s huge paws holding him down. It made his mouth water and his dick stiffen in his loose pants. That made him hyperaware of how little he actually had on. Fully clothed could
feel like nothing when he thought how easy it was to remove a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.
He’d come here with none of his usual armor. No makeup. No hair gel. Not even jeans and boots. Just the look he sported when he was alone with Stan.
“Uh….” He stared into his drink. This guy could see right through him. He had to be able to. “I guess.”
“You need someone to take care of you, little bird?”
“Bird?” What was it Stan had once said about birds with broken wings?
The man gripped his chin and turned Damian to face him. “Delicate,” he said, deep voice rolling the word out and trampling it. “Like a bird.”
He suddenly felt like he was looking into the teeth of a cat.
“Oh.” Damian blinked at him, caught in that grip that wasn’t hard or firm. Just… big. “Maybe I—”
A hand dropped onto Damian’s shoulder, hard, fingers tight to the point of painful, and he made a soft, frightened noise before he could stop himself.
The big man beside him let him go and backed off a step, his gaze dropping in some sort of deference.
Hot breath wafted over the back of Damian’s neck. His hard-on shriveled with the growth of his fright.
“Sorry, man,” the guy from the bar said. “No idea he was yours.”
There was a grunt from behind Damian, and then a familiar voice in his ear, a familiar smell filling his nostrils.
“Get. In. The. Car.” Stanley’s voice crumbled what little self-defense Damian had left. “Now.”
Damian nodded, slipped off his stool, and almost ran for the door. The driver was out there, standing beside the vehicle. His face was as bland and expressionless as always, but he closed the door after Damian, slipped into the driver’s seat, and applied the locks that would keep Damian where he was. Like a kid. Locked in for his own safety.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he grumbled.
“Orders, sir,” the chauffeur said without one ounce of inflection, but the expression in his eyes, when he caught Damian’s attention in the mirror, was one of worry. “To make sure you stay put this time.”