Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  “You think?” Stan reared back in alarm. “Did I hurt you?”

  Damian smiled. “No, Stan. You didn’t.” He flexed his shoulders, as though feeling for the residual tenderness of the fingernail marks, and sighed. “It occurred to me, as you were fucking me, well, before you went crazy and fucked all my brain cells out my dick.” He chuckled and Stan swatted him and then kissed him. “It occurred to me that when I wake up in the morning and my ass hurts and I have bruises, and claw marks on my back, what I’m going to remember about tonight is that you tanned my hide and gave me a collar. I mean the sex, yeah. Fuck, yeah, you’re good at that. But I can wake up and not be ashamed of any of it. And the sex, you know we’ll have more of that.” He craned back again and peered up at Stan. “But you’re never going to have to punish me like that again, Stan. I won’t ever give you a reason to.”

  Stan studied him a few moments before snuggling him close and tucking his head under his chin. “You probably will. I don’t expect you to stop being you. But you’re mine now, and you have nothing to be ashamed of here. Nothing.”

  Damian nodded and played his fingers through the hairs on Stan’s chest. “Thank you for saying that.”

  Stan closed his eyes. “I mean it. I love you. Now get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

  “Love me.” Damian tried to wiggle even closer, like he could fuse himself to Stan if he tried. “Love you too.” There was a sound like wonder in his voice, and in a few minutes, his breath evened out and he was a lax, sweet weight in Stanley’s arms.

  25

  THERE WERE dueling guitars onstage, and holy hell, could you tell. Trying to outdo another guitarist was the only time Christian’s playing got that loud and obnoxious. Pitting his skills against Lenny’s, though, was a pretty even match, and the noise had escalated to near concert-level madness.

  This hadn’t been a planned event. Damian and the guys had wanted a night out to celebrate, since that afternoon they’d laid down the last tracks for the new album. Jethro had his own single, a ballad Beks had written just for him, and Christian had managed to talk Wayne into keeping the new mechanic on part-time so he could sneak away from the garage and record the lead guitar tracks.

  Stanley was pleased the guitarist was thinking about staying with the band. He had a good sound and he was a good influence on them. He had a work ethic like nothing Stan had ever seen, and it was rubbing off on his bandmates.

  He was also happy Lenny’s name would appear on the album as a guest artist. It was more than he had anticipated. More than he’d dared promise his lover, but everyone was thrilled he’d said yes. He’d laid down the lead for three songs and played backup to Christian’s lead for the rest, and finally, it was done.

  Tonight, they had tried to keep their celebration a private affair. As if the world wasn’t watching. The world was always watching. They’d all learned that by now. Tonight, though, it didn’t matter. Lenny and Christian played at band wars on the stage of the Evangeline. The owner had been gracious, once Stan explained to him what it would be worth to Firefly, and he’d agreed to close the place down so the band and their families could have some private time.

  Julie and Stephie sat in one corner cooing over Alice and Clive’s nine-month-old baby girl, who was well past the cooing stage. She was a holy terror, just getting her wobbly legs under her enough to wreak havoc. Uncle Jethro was the best instigator any hopeful hell-raiser could wish to have, and he spurred her on with glee.

  Since the tour, the band had closed ranks, and Stan had never worked with a more tightly knit group. He was proud of them all.

  Even Jethro’s father had come out for the meal, and Stan’s driver was just now returning from bringing him home.

  “No problems?” Jethro asked as George took a seat at Stan’s table near the door.

  “No, sir.”

  “Thanks for doing that, George. I know I could have called a cab, but sometimes he forgets and tries to get the cabbie to take him to the house, you know?”

  George smiled. “I know, Jethro. It was my pleasure. I walked him into the lobby and handed him off to the night attendant.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Stan watched the bassist’s face and felt a little bit of sadness gnaw at his heart. Everything wasn’t perfect. When was life ever?

  “You okay, Jet?” he asked as they left George to his late meal and wandered back toward the stage.

  “Yeah, man, I’m fine. It is what it is, ya know?” He shrugged and managed a soft smile. “He’s doing all right, all things considered. And he’s in a good place now. I don’t have to worry so much when we’re on the road.”

  “Okay, babe?” Beks slipped an arm around his waist and he kissed her head.

  “Sure. You going to get up there and play a little somethin’?”

  “Are you?”

  “Maybe.” He grinned at her. “You gonna sing?”

  She laughed at that. Of all the band members, Beks was just not a singer. Whatever she heard in her head when she wrote, it wasn’t what came out when she opened her mouth. “But I will play for you, if you want.”

  Jethro eyed the stage. “You think we can get those maniacs off there?”

  “Doubt it, but we can try.”

  They sauntered off, heckling the guitar players until they gave up and the two of them took the stage along with Clive and played a short set of calmer cover tunes with Christian occasionally joining in. Stan sat with Damian and watched, their fingers loosely knit on top of the table. It was a calm sort of victory party. So unlike the many drunken nights in the band’s past. They’d all come a long, long way.

  “WHY AREN’T you up there?” Vance’s voice startled Damian and Stan felt his shiver.

  “How the hell do you and Stan do that? You’re both too big to be sneaking up on a guy like that. Shouldn’t be possible.”

  Vance settled his ass on the edge of the table with a shrug.

  “How’s Len?” Damian asked after a few minutes of listening to their friends sing.

  When Len had recorded his tracks for the album, it had been mostly when Damian hadn’t been at the studio. No one had specifically made it a requirement that he not be there, but even after more than a year, everything was still fragile. He didn’t want to push either one of them or their friendship.

  “He’s surviving.”

  “He looks….” Damian frowned and Stan would have said rough, but he didn’t want to insult Vance.

  “It hasn’t been easy.”

  Damian drew in a breath and let it out. “He’s had a tough life.”

  “I had no idea how tough.”

  Damian glanced up. “You regret taking him on?”

  “Not for even a second, ever.”

  “If a guy listened to gossip, he’d think you two were on the rocks.”

  It was Vance’s turn to sigh. “Nothing really worth it is ever easy.” He snickered, but it was a sad sound. “I was an idiot to think all he needed were a few rules and a strong hand.”

  “He needs a lot of love.”

  “He’s got that.” Vance looked around the room and found his lover sitting with Alice and her daughter. “I just wish he would let himself wallow in it a bit more.”

  Silence fell again and they watched Len play with the child. He looked like he always looked lately, Stan thought. Cautiously content. Like he expected the good things he had to be ripped away any second. Like he didn’t trust the people around him not to hurt him. How Vance lived like that, day after day, he had no idea. His friend was a lot stronger than he imagined he could be.

  Getting up, he almost missed Damian’s question, and paused to listen.

  “Did he ask to go to the studio when I wasn’t there?”

  “No. But he always made the bookings himself, Damian, so I can’t think it was coincidence.”

  “Hm.” Damian watched the show a few moments, and then shrugged. “Maybe someday. You should get up there and sing, though.”

  �
�Me? This is a Firefly party.”

  “Yes, it is, but you have something to celebrate too.” He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and pushed it across the table. “I thought one last payment in small, unmarked bills would be sufficiently dramatic.” He looked up and grinned. “Paid in full. You no longer own a piece of me.”

  Vance took the fat envelope and matched his grin. “I’m proud of you, you know. You did real good.”

  Damian let his grin soften, but he nodded. “I had a lot of help. Now take Len and go sing something for us.”

  Stan walked away as they bantered about who should take the stage next. A part of him missed the simplicity of the friendship he and Vance had shared, but mostly, he knew it was another holding pattern like they went through periodically. Once Vance’s love life calmed and his lover was more stable, they would reconnect. On a different level now, because Stan couldn’t see a day when either one of them would be single again, but it would be richer, because now they shared something they’d never had before. An understanding about themselves and their lovers Stan had denied for most of his life.

  He glanced back to see his friend and his boy deep in conversation and smiled, glad they could be that easy with one another. It was good for them, and ultimately, healthier for Len. If his lover and his best friend got along, it was one less stress in his overstressed life. It would matter if Len and Damian ever mended fences. Maybe it would even help them to do that.

  Eventually, Vance did coerce Len into playing for him and they took over the stage. For three tunes, it was just Lenny, his guitar, and Vance up there. The country tunes went a long way to mellowing the party and when they’d finished and Vance left the stage, Stan expected that would be the last of the entertainment.

  It wasn’t.

  “Hey.” Lenny’s voice in the mike, low and sultry, was a parody of Damian’s that had everybody laughing and Damian smiled wistfully. Right up until he realized Len was staring at him from onstage and crooking a finger at him.

  “Gimme.”

  “GIVE YOU what?” Damian called, feeling the tug of the spotlight even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to share a stage with his old friend.

  “Come sing with me, Trev.”

  It wasn’t like he could say no. It wasn’t like he wanted to say no. He was already walking to the stage before he’d actually made the decision anyway.

  He passed Stan, and his lover gripped his hand lightly, briefly, and offered a smile, then Trevor was onstage.

  Trevor never took the stage. It was Damian’s domain, but tonight, Lenny gazed up at him from the stool he was sitting on as he took a place behind the mike, and Damian was nowhere to be found. It was like they were back in their old place, just them, right where they’d begun.

  He didn’t have to ask what Lenny wanted to play. The soft strains of his guitar filled the room, there was such a hush, and he began to hum. Just as Christian had that night above the garage, Lenny hummed and watched him.

  When the words started, Trevor fumbled over the first syllable and Lenny calmly carried him until he got his tongue untied, and he could croon along.

  Then Lenny went silent, and together, eyes glued to one another, they played the very first song they’d ever written together. It had been a mocking salute to all the horrible crap Lenny had lived through. Then it had been bittersweet and memory-laden when Damian had sung it onstage without him.

  Now it was just the bald truth. Everything ended. People left. Things changed. Life never stopped. It ran on and you ran with it or it left you behind.

  Just don’t say you’ll go

  I need you to hold

  However little we got say you’ll hold

  It’s my heart it’s my life it’s my love and it’s yours till the end of us.

  Just hold.

  And Stanley’s rules be damned, but since there didn’t seem to be anything left to sing after that, Trevor took the guitar and set it aside.

  There could have been a bar full of paparazzi. It wouldn’t have mattered if the way they clung to each other set the world on fire with rumors. Some things you could only say with a hug.

  When they parted, the room was still. Silent.

  Lenny giggled and sniffed and glanced around. “God, did we suck that bad, really?”

  Tension exploded with everyone’s laughter, and if they both looked and felt a little heartbroken under their smiles, no one said anything.

  “YOU GOING to swat me again for letting him hug me?” Damian asked in the car as George drove them home.

  “Did you say good-bye to him?”

  Damian shook his head and laid it on Stan’s shoulder. “Didn’t have to. It’s all said and done between us, Stan.”

  “I’m sorry.” He put an arm around Damian and pulled him close. “I know that isn’t what you wanted.”

  “Thing is, my Lenny, the guy I lived with and fought with and walked through all that bullshit with? He’s long gone anyway. Or he should have been. He can’t heal if I don’t let him go. We’ll never be what we were, but then, that’s probably the best thing for us. Maybe someday, we can start over and be something truly good for each other. I don’t want him to hurt anymore.”

  “So what did you and Vance talk about after I left?” Stan asked, hoping to change the subject and ease his lover’s pain a bit.

  Damian shook his head without lifting it. “Don’t be mad. I can’t say.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask Vance.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Damian snuggled closer and wiggled an arm behind Stan. He said nothing and Stan let it go.

  Seemed it was a night for moving forward. He’d already planned how things would go once they reached the apartment. In keeping with their ritual, he’d propped open the lid to their box before leaving the apartment, and he’d left a gift bag on the coffee table. It wasn’t a very large gift bag, but then, gold bands could be considered a little skimpy as far as pajama wear went.

  Stan smiled to himself. One for his lover’s finger and one for his cock. The evening was definitely going to end on a high note.

  Off Stage: In the Wings

  My kids, because without them, I’d have missed out on the music that inspired the entire series.

  Acknowledgments

  THANKS TO S.J. Frost for her advice on horses and their people. She’s my go-to girl on all things equine, and I’m very grateful. Thanks also to my son’s guitar teacher, Jesse, for his advice on which of my guys wouldn’t be caught dead playing which guitar.

  1

  LEN BREATHED shallowly, afraid if he pulled air in too deep, the sticky mass rolling in his gut would rise and choke him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself splitting in two. It was a gory, flesh-and-blood division and fucking hurt like hell.

  He wanted to punch Vance in the face. He wanted to curse him. He wanted to leave him. The hollow space inside him deepened and yawned emptier than ever at the thought, and the sticky mass teetered on the edge of it. If it fell in, filled the hole, nothing else could ever live there. The edges of the abyss pushed outward, and Len clung to the ugly mass of emotions, desperate to control it as that expanding blackness made it ever harder to breathe.

  He couldn’t leave. Vance had given him that small taste of what could be.

  Boston had been… heaven. Tranquil, despite the horror of “breaking up” with Trevor. As painful as that had been—as painful as it still was—it had, at the time, seemed to have a purpose.

  His gaze drifted across the magazines strewn over the coffee table. He wondered absently why they were there. Surely no one sat in here waiting for anything. No one needed reading material to pass the time. One glossy cover in particular caught his notice. The man depicted on the cover was as familiar to him as his own face: Trevor—Damian—for this was a picture of the lead singer of Firefly in full stage persona. This wasn’t Len’s childhood friend Trevor but Trevor’s stage mask, Damian.

  Trev
or’s face was hidden under Damian’s caked-on goth makeup, false lashes, spiked hair, but the eyes, like shards of broken glass, peered out, bereft. Lonely.

  Lenny felt the stab of rejection as if the image was glaring directly at him, full of blame and anger.

  The picture had been taken recently, possibly leaving a venue where the band had played, or maybe it was Damian on the way out of a bar. The headline, even half-hidden under another magazine, speculated on the bandages peeping from under leather gloves on both hands and the haunted look in his eyes.

  Was he in trouble? it asked. He could just imagine what the article would say: Did the injuries have anything to do with the band’s lead guitarist making a sudden exit from the band? Had they been in a fight? Was there bad blood?

  Yes, yes, and a heaping helping of fuck yes.

  Lenny, said lead guitarist for Firefly, had attacked Damian in a fit of uncontrolled rage, done that damage to his hands, hurt him so that when he looked out from behind the safety of Damian’s badass goth exterior, Len could see the hurt and helplessness his friend Trevor had felt. He could feel the recrimination that the rest of the band had heaped on him just before they’d kicked him out of the band and told him to get his shit together before even thinking about coming back.

  Len sighed.

  Leaving the band—no. He shook his head against that thought. Getting kicked out of the band had been humiliating. It had hurt. It had, he knew, been necessary.

  But Vance had been there, steady and reassuring.

  “And now?”

  Len started. Across the coffee table, his therapist watched him over the black plastic rims of her glasses. He liked her. Liked her glasses and her lip gloss and the way she pulled her dark hair back into a tight bun, liked her neat cardigans and pencil skirts. He even liked her name: Lenore Stanton. It was a nice, no-nonsense sort of name that fit the rest of the image. It was all so severe and serious, and yet, her blue eyes were soft, and she reminded him a little bit of Alice. He’d put money on this woman wearing garters and lace under all that severity, where no one could see. He often wondered which side of the cuffs she preferred.