Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  “S-sorry.” Len blinked up into the dark, trying to see Vance’s face. He could make out only shadows and the soft glint of dim light from the window bouncing off his eyes. “Guess it was a dream.”

  “I’ll say.” Vance settled beside him and gathered him close. “Want to talk about it?”

  Using the excuse of getting comfortable, of coming to terms with the idea arms could comfort and not harm, Len didn’t answer right away. He thought back into the depths of sleep, but there were only wisps and hardness and retreating dregs of something he couldn’t really remember. He said as much, and Vance held him a little bit tighter.

  Suspended over the abyss of blind panic, feeling the ghosts of all those memories fluttering around the edges of his sleep-fogged mind, he waited for the inevitable cloud of smothering panic. It didn’t come. Vance’s arms, beefy, solid, incredibly gentle, held but didn’t hold down. Vance’s scent sank down around him, washing away the rancid stench of fear sweat. Len eased his back more firmly against Vance’s chest and let out a long, sodden breath. It shook there, at the tail end, and he gulped in more air.

  Vance kissed the side of his head and began to hum.

  They lay like that, spooned together again, darkness floating around them on summer breezes and fading moonlight. As Len dozed, the tatters of the dream came together at the edges, like a jigsaw with only the border pieces in place, the middle yawning blankly. He shivered.

  “It was about Ace.” He whispered, in case Vance had fallen asleep. He wasn’t entirely sure it had been about his dead lover, but the feeling it evoked, the remnants of upheaval in his gut, were consistent with Ace’s effect on him.

  Vance’s thumb, where it rested on his wrist, moved, lightly stroking.

  “Mostly. Sometimes, in the dream, when I opened my eyes and looked, it was Ace, but it wasn’t. You know how dreams do that? It was Ace, and it was Trev, but he’s never treated me like that. Not ever. And it was—”

  The night held its breath. Vance’s thumb slowed to a stop.

  “It was what, darlin’?”

  “Scary, is all,” Len said, aware in some deep part of himself he had made a lot of that up. If the dream was an excuse to say something about his past, it was okay to invent details, wasn’t it? They felt right. They felt horrible enough to be the truth that left him feeling this way. “It was scary. Because I couldn’t get up and… always on my back,” he whispered. “He always had me on my back. I hated seeing his face.”

  It took him a lot of time to realize he was shaking, and longer still to feel Vance’s arms around him and his hands circling his wrists and holding them painfully tight, fists close to his chest, keeping his entire body surrounded and tight to Vance’s own, containing him and the raging emotion he often couldn’t control alone. It felt as though it took him hours to loosen his fingers and let go of the anger.

  They didn’t talk any more. Vance held him, and Len eventually sighed and allowed the comfort. The shaking subsided, and he could no longer keep his eyes open. Distantly, he heard Vance start to hum, then to sing, and he thought he should know the song, but he couldn’t place it. It was nice, though, and it blended with the man’s touch, fingers still lightly circling his wrists for the soothing effect, now, rather than restraint.

  Len marveled at the calm washing through him with the realization Vance could hold him like this. It was different from Ace. Loving, for one thing, and calm. The heavy weight of Vance’s hands around his wrists calmed, soothed, and held the terror off where Len could sense it but not feel it invade his being. Gently, he flexed one wrist and Vance murmured in his ear.

  “Too much, darlin’?”

  “Just right,” Len assured him.

  “Good.” Vance went back to his quiet music. His breath on the back of Len’s neck pulsed with the tune. At some point, Len began to think maybe he could go back to sleep.

  THE SUN in his eyes woke him next. It slanted cruelly across the pillows, and he rolled over, body protesting the very idea of movement. Vance had warned him he’d be sore, but this was beyond the ache of a strenuous night onstage or even one of Ace’s long nights of unwanted, drunken attention. This was bone-deep and angry. His body was pissed off at him, and he sighed and covered his eyes with his arm instead of attempting to turn his back to the light.

  A heavy thump on the floor, just below the end of the bed made him jump, then moan.

  “No,” he said, reaching and finding the other half of the bed empty.

  He opened his eyes to find the corner of Vance’s pillow closest to him still flattened. The covers were humped oddly, as though Vance had slid off the side of the bed, out from under them, rather than tossing them off. There was a deflated hollow in Vance’s place, and Len smiled at the idea his lover had snuck out of bed without waking him.

  The thump came again. It sounded like someone banging a broom handle pointedly on the ceiling below. So much for not waking him.

  Groaning with the effort, Len forced himself up and his feet onto the floor. He catalogued what felt like bruises all along his legs and the ache in his back, the strained abdominal muscles and tension in his shoulders. Riding the horse hadn’t felt like that much work, but his body’s complaints proved he hadn’t been paying attention the day before.

  Shuffling, he managed to make it to the door and was halfway down the stairs when he registered that the man standing in the living room at the bottom, back to the stairs, wasn’t Vance.

  “Shit.”

  Though he had the breadth of shoulders and the height, the expensive suit wasn’t something Vance wore, even to the most formal of award ceremonies. He was strictly a cowboy boots, jeans, and flannel sort of guy, especially in his own home.

  “Oh shit!” Len spun and dashed back up the stairs, barking a shin on the edge as he tripped and fell over himself most of the way to the top.

  The rumble of laughter followed him up, and only the slam of the bedroom door silenced it. At least to his ears. He was pretty sure both Vance and his visitor were still chuckling at his expense. A moment later, there was a rap on the door, and then it opened. Len dove for the bed and the cover of the sheets.

  Vance laughed as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

  “You could have told me someone was here!” Len snarled, pulling the covers up to his chin and curling his knees up too.

  “I didn’t expect you’d traipse on down in your birthday suit.”

  “I thought it was just us.”

  Vance smiled happily at him. “It was until five minutes ago. Wasn’t expectin’ company, or I would have warned ya.” He strode to the bed and pulled the covers out of Len’s grasp, then off his body. “Now up with you, darlin’. You’ve got work to do. Well.” He stared at Len’s groin. “Would you get a look at that. You already are up.”

  Len wrapped a protective hand around his erect cock. “Ever heard of morning wood?” he mumbled, heat flushing into his face.

  “Morning wood?” Vance’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. “Or the thought of gettin’ caught naked as a jaybird?”

  “Jays wear feathers.” Len grabbed for the sheet, but Vance denied him. “And that is such a country expression.”

  “I’m a country kind of guy, lover.” He gave Len an amused smile. “You going to stroke that or just hold on to it?”

  Len’s face went supernova, and he jerked his hand away from his prick. “Shut up.”

  Vance took a step closer, put a finger under Len’s chin, and lifted. “Did I tell you to let go?”

  Len shook his head and swallowed.

  “So?”

  “Shit,” he whispered, taking hold of himself again, as though his hand—and his cock—had no use for his brain at all. He stared into the depths of Vance’s amber gaze as he began sliding his hand over his dick, and there was no hiding the thrill that shivered through him as Vance held him with his gaze and that one finger.

  “That’s my boy,” Vance whispered. �
�Just like that.”

  It was impossible not to be excited by the deep, burning lust in Vance’s gaze. It was impossible not to want to appease it, however Vance commanded, and so Len stroked and a different kind of heat rose though him.

  “Oh Jesus,” he whispered, hyperaware if he made much noise, if he moved enough to make the old bed squeak, whoever was downstairs would get an earful. “Oh fuck.”

  Vance grinned wickedly. “If I weren’t in a hurry, I’d hand you the lube and watch you fuck yourself while you do this.”

  Len groaned, beyond words.

  He wanted to lie back and relax, give himself purchase to hump his hand, but Vance still had that finger under his chin, still commanded his attention with that look, and he was stuck, upright and frantic to make his hand enough to get off.

  “He’ll come up here looking for me soon enough, Len. He’s had the run of my homes since we were kids. I’m not letting you go until you shoot, so take your time if you’d like an audience.”

  This groan turned to a whimper, and Len huffed out a breath, unable to draw another deep enough. He panted and moved faster and lost himself in the idea of offering Vance the kind of show he really wanted. Finally, desperate as he heard the sound of dress shoes on the floorboards below, Len spread his legs and pulled his balls out of the way to run a finger over his entrance.

  Vance’s eyes went dark as he dropped his gaze, and he parted his lips in a gasp. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s what I want, boy.”

  Len had no way to explain why hearing Vance call him “boy” made his bones shake and his blood boil and his heart thunder crazily, but it did and he wanted to hear it again. He tugged at his balls, drawing Vance’s attention again. That got his hand batted away. Vance manipulated the tender bits in bruising fingers. The pain was excruciating and exquisite, and Len came with a cry, shooting his load onto the sheets and reveling in the heat of jizz on his fingers.

  The ensuing whimpers were swallowed in Vance’s hard kisses, and Len found himself grounded, flat on his back on the bed, staring up. Vance had a hand under Len’s head, tight in his hair, and another on his face.

  There was no room, between Vance’s hands, the kiss and his soft, heated gaze, for fear. Len’s heart raced, but the usual fearful pounding was absent. He almost soared off the bed in sheer wonder that this thing he’d just done had not only felt fucking fantastic but hadn’t brought along any baggage to weigh them down this time.

  “Thank you, boy. Now.” Vance stood, drawing Len’s attention back to earth. He stood straight, hands in his back pockets, tightening his jeans around his sizable, obviously swollen package. “You’ve got ten minutes to shower and dress and come downstairs. Stanley’s here and he wants to talk to you. And Kilmer’s waitin’ on you.”

  Len groaned and Vance grinned, his expression all the things Len loved—wicked and amused and indulgent, full of promise and affection. Len nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  When Vance moved, the sun flashed into his eyes.

  It made Len flinch. “Since when does the sun get up at five in the morning?”

  “It don’t.” Vance laughed at him. “But you didn’t sleep sound last night, and I knew you’d be sore. I called down to the barn and let Kilmer know you’d be a bit late. Horses won’t starve if they got to wait an hour, but keep ’em much longer, and’ they’ll be gettin’ restless, so git a move on.”

  Len watched him for a few heartbeats before nodding and offering another heartfelt “Yes, Sir,” that made Vance give him that precious smile again.

  “Hurry, now,” he said over his shoulder as he left. Len scrambled to his feet, ignoring the complaint of his abused body, and dashed for the shower. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time.

  8

  “TEN MINUTES?” Stan lifted a brow, and Vance curled a lip at him. Much as he’d practiced when they were kids, he’d never perfected that exact tone of sardonic incredulity that Stan was so good at, one brow up, the other curled down in a knot over his left eye.

  Instead of trying, he went back to the stove, where he’d already put on a rasher of bacon, and started flipping the meat one strip at a time. “What about it?”

  “What are you going to do when he comes down in fifteen?”

  “He won’t.”

  “I don’t know.” Stan sounded skeptical. He raised that eyebrow again as he sipped from the coffee he’d poured for himself while Vance had been upstairs.

  “You’re my manager, Stan, you ain’t the boss of my love life.” Vance leveled a gaze at his old friend and onetime lover. “And you sure as shit don’t know about my boy better’n I do.”

  “Shower and dress in ten minutes, though? You’re asking a lot, don’t you think?”

  “He ain’t Damian. He don’t preen like that brat.”

  “Wow, Vance, I leave you alone for what? A month? Six weeks? And you sound like you’re right out of Texas again.”

  Vance fashioned a grin and tossed a look at Stan. “I’m home, Stan. I can talk how I like.”

  “Bad habits, buddy. You start that again, it’ll take me forever to break you of it when you have to go out in public.”

  “I ain’t goin’ anywhere anytime soon, so forget it.”

  “You do remember you’re a megastar, right? All those number-one songs climbing up the western charts for the past, what, ten years? People expect to see you doing shit.”

  “I do plenty. I break horses and breed ’em, and I look after my boy. All I need to be doin’ right now.”

  “It can’t last forever, Vance,” Stan warned, and Vance had to look over at him to gauge how serious he was. “You have fans. They want a little piece of you now and then, and they deserve that. They’ve been pretty loyal through this silence. Have you looked at the website? Answered even a single fan mail in weeks?”

  “It’ll last long as I say it’ll last.”

  “You can’t just go online for even an hour and make a few tweets? Take a picture of a horse, at least, and post that. Do something. They’ll leave if you don’t.”

  “Don’t you automate that Twitter shit?”

  “I do not, and you know it. That’s just a bad idea, and fans aren’t stupid. They want the real deal, and they deserve some attention too.”

  “Len’s priority.”

  Stan heaved a heavy sigh. “If not online, then go to a function. Bring Len with you if you’re scared to let him out of your sight for a night.”

  Vance gave Stan a look. They both knew there was a lot to be done before Vance took his personal life and paraded it down the red carpet. He wasn’t exactly out, on Stan’s professional advice, no less. So there would be speculation and guesswork and a media frenzy if he showed up with Len anywhere and there was even a hint of their relationship.

  Stan met his gaze steadily, and it was Vance who had to look away first.

  “He ain’t ready.”

  “How long do you think you can hide him away on this ranch before his own fans start to clamor?”

  “We ain’t hidin’.”

  “What would you call it, then?”

  “Regrouping. Ain’t no secret he parted from the band on not-so-great terms. Only makes sense he’d take some time to reevaluate.”

  “He doesn’t have a lot of time left before reevaluating starts to look like licking his wounds, Vance. We’ve got his new web presence ready to go, but we need him to launch it.”

  “He ain’t ready!”

  “Then get him ready, dammit. I’m trying to salvage your careers. Least you can do is meet me halfway.”

  “You’re bein’ a prick, Stan.”

  “I’m being his manager.” Stan squared his shoulders. “And yours.”

  “You want your cut.”

  “I want what’s best for him. Has he even picked up his guitar since he got here?”

  Vance stared at the bacon sizzling in the pan and said nothing.

  “Has he written a lick of music?”

  “He will when he’s good and ready
.”

  “I’m in the room now. Can I be part of the conversation about me too?”

  They turned to the door, and Vance smiled to see Len with bare feet, wet hair, and socks in hand, but punctual.

  “Nine minutes,” Len said, shooting Stan a prim look. “Hello, Stanley. Nice to see you well. Hope you didn’t get any horse shit on your nice shoes.”

  Vance turned hastily back to the stove to hide the snicker he couldn’t stop. Not before he saw Stan take a quick look at his wristwatch and lift that eyebrow again, though.

  “Coffee’s ready, Len,” Vance said, diffusing any comment Stan might make in response. “Kilmer likes his with lots of sugar, no cream.”

  “I thought Stan wanted to talk.” He sat and donned his socks, and then the boots that were sitting by the back door.

  “He can talk after you’ve done your chores.”

  “After you’ve had your say, you mean,” Len shot back. He did go to the counter to pour the coffee into two travel mugs, though, so Vance let him get away with the snark. He was entitled to have a say in his own life, after all. “You can’t talk about my career if I’m not in the room. I might be yours, but those are not your decisions to make.”

  “The band?” Vance asked, reminding Len it had been Vance’s say-so that had led to him leaving Firefly in the first place.

  Len’s lips curved down, and he bit at the bottom one. “I didn’t like that decision, but I suppose I would have fought it harder if I hadn’t thought it was the right one. Trev needed to be free of me, and he never would have been unless I left.”

  “Now, Len,” Stan began, but Vance stopped him.

  That truth had been a hard-won revelation for Len. If Stan was going to give him some platitude about it taking two to get into the ugly relationship Len had been in with the lead singer of Firefly, it wasn’t something Len needed to hear. Not right now when he was still accepting his own part in the disaster. Nothing could change if Len didn’t acknowledge his actions first. Whatever Trevor had contributed to the mess—and Vance knew his part had been significant—it was Trevor’s business, and Stan could worry about it. After all, that handful of ego was Stan’s sub, and his problem.