by Jaime Samms
She smiled sweetly at him and flipped through her notes. “Let’s see…. Vance demanded it. He thought it would be best for me to get away from Trev.” She flipped a few pages. “Clive goaded the others into voting me out.” Flip. Flip. “They don’t need me, they have Christian, now, and he’s a good influence. Beks writes most of their music. They’re doing just fine without me.” She peered at him over her glasses. “Those all sound to me like things other people did. Decisions other people made. Why did you leave Firefly? Because no matter what Vance said, you could have told him no. Whatever Clive said, you could have pled your case, made it up to them, found a way for them to accept you back. But you didn’t, and you haven’t. So.” She set her notes down and crossed her hands neatly on top of the pad. “Why did you leave Firefly?”
“I—” He closed his mouth with a snap, opened it to answer her, and closed it again.
She just sat there, watching and waiting.
“Vance—”
She lifted an eyebrow and pushed her glasses up her nose.
“I agreed with Vance?”
“Is that your final answer?”
Len curled a lip and flopped into his chair. “Whatever happened to the nice Lenore who was here in the afternoon? She was much more professional and less snarky.”
Lenore’s smile came dangerously close to a grin. “She doesn’t get here until noon. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Why do I need to have a reason other than because Vance told me to?”
“Because that isn’t a reason. Yes, okay, you did what Vance dictated, but you had the choice to walk away from him and keep your job. You chose him. There has to be a reason.”
“He’s better for me than Trev was.”
“Why?”
“He’s stronger.”
Lenore nodded.
“More stable.”
She tilted her head encouragingly.
“I feel good around him. I want to make him happy. I want to do what he says.”
“Yes, but that still isn’t a reason why you made the decision to leave your family, your band, your livelihood, everything you knew, and thought it was safe to go with him into some unknown idea of a relationship that might or might not have worked out.”
“I knew it would work,” Len blurted. “It felt too right not to. It felt more right than anything with Trev ever had. He’s everything Ace should have been. Everything Trev can’t be.”
Lenore pulled in a breath and let it out in a long sigh, even removing her glasses and setting them on the pad of paper. “You’re avoiding the question I actually asked, Len. Why did you leave Firefly?”
Talking about Vance, while the two of them were on this high they seemed to be on, was easy. It didn’t disturb the sleeping ball of emotional goo in his gut. Thinking about the band was like poking a bear.
“Len?”
“I love that band,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to leave.”
“But you did.”
“I was scared.”
“Of?”
“Everything.”
She smiled kindly and replaced her glasses. “Okay. It’s a start. I want you to think about that.”
“I wasn’t good enough,” he said, not really listening to her. “I was faking it all the time. I went out there and played a chord, and Trev would give me that look over the mic, over his hands”—he lifted his and curled them around an imaginary microphone—“and give me that sly you-can-do-this expression, and if he just smiled at me like that, I could do it. I could play, and if I got too tweaked, he’d just give me the look, flirt a bit, touch me, and it would be okay. I wasn’t good enough to go up there without him, and even if I’d stayed, it would be different. It wouldn’t be him and me up there. It would be… something else. I’d be on my own because now he has Stan, and nothing is the same.”
He dropped his hands to his lap and rubbed calloused fingers over the back of his knuckles.
“Len.” She rose from the desk and hurried to sit on the couch opposite him. “What are you doing with your hands right now?”
Len froze and looked down. The back of one was red, not bleeding. Not yet. He separated them and placed them deliberately on the arms of the chair.
“Why do you do that?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
“You have a scar on the back of your right hand. Where did that come from?”
“Probably from rubbing it like that.”
“I don’t think so. I think you’ve had that scar a long time.”
“I thought we were talking about the band.”
She nodded and sat back. “Okay. The band. You left because you thought you weren’t good enough to play with them anymore.”
“I knew I was never good enough. I was only there because I was Trev’s best friend. They put up with me.”
“I read the album notes, Len. You wrote some of the most compelling music on that first CD. I don’t think you really believe you aren’t of the same caliber as the others.”
“You can know something in your head, Doc, and not ever believe it’s true in your heart. It’s like the opposite of God, right? You believe in him in your heart even while your head tells you it’s crazy to think it’s real. I know I can play. I can write. I have skill. I get up onstage and there’s nothing in my head but that Trev’s the only one who believes in me. When he stopped believing, there was nothing left.”
“Well.” Lenore rose and headed to her desk. “I think this birthday party is a wonderful idea. Time you listened to your friends and hear what they have to say. Away from the stage and the studio, a chance to just be you and let them come to you with what they think. I want you to do one thing for me at this party, Len.”
“For you?”
“For you, really, but yes, also for me. For the duration of their visit, I want you to tell yourself the truth about how they feel about you. Listen to what they say. More importantly, listen to your own heart and decide if they actually want to cut you out or if that’s your inner demon talking in your ear. After that, you can think again about why you left the band, and what you want to do about that, because I’ll tell you a secret.”
Len managed not to snort at that, and the expression on her face said she knew he was giving her words short shrift.
“I’m serious. You’ve completely shut yourself off from some of the most important things you’ve ever had in your life. Your family and your music. It’s time to start thinking about why that is and what you’re going to do about it. Because you might be good at shoveling shit, but I guarantee you, it isn’t, by far, what you’re best at. And while it might be good for your psyche to get a good bit of hard work through your system, it won’t sustain you like your music does.”
Len said nothing.
“No thoughts?”
“Did you know I haven’t even taken my guitar out of its case since I got here?”
“Why?”
Len shrugged. He was piqued. Childish, maybe, but he couldn’t deny he wanted to annoy her. “I’m surviving just fine without playing.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What’s stopping you talking to your friends, Len?”
He clamped his mouth shut.
“Or writing some music?”
He looked out the window.
“Or,” she said, leaning slightly forward, “heaven forbid, playing a few songs.”
Len refused to blink so there was something other than the churning in his gut on which to blame the sharp sting behind his lashes.
“Something else to think about, then,” she said, making a note on her pad and setting her pen down. “In the meantime, our hour is up, I think.” She looked at her watch, and as if waiting for the cue, there was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be Vance, I’m sure.” She pursed her lips and rose from the desk to open the door. “Mr. Ashcroft.” A curt nod and one step to the side gave him room to enter.
“Oh, so h
e’s finally done it, has he?” Vance asked, looking to Len who still slouched in his chair.
“Done what?” Len asked.
Vance let an amused smile furl his lips. “Pissed off the nice doctor lady. Knew it would happen eventually.”
“I’m not pissed off,” Lenore said pertly, tugging her suit jacket down with a sharp jerk.
“Okay.” Vance held out a hand. “Come.”
Len glared at the offer.
“What did you two talk about today?” Vance mused, though the amusement was quickly leaching from his voice as Len continued to ignore his hand.
“Nothing.” Len rose and stalked past him out of the room.
Lenore sighed, and he stopped in the hallway to listen.
“What happened?” Vance asked. The deep rumble of his voice vibrated through Len where he leaned on the wall outside the door.
“You know I can’t divulge what we talk about during our sessions, Vance.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just… he looked more upset than usual.”
“Can I ask you something?” she countered, and there was a pause before Vance consented to answering her question, and Len went back to plant himself in the doorway. No way was she going to talk about him without him present. He glared at her, but she only flicked a glance to him and turned her attention back to Vance.
“Do you work from home?”
“It’s a ranch,” Vance said slowly, casting a look between them. “There’s always work going on.”
“No, I mean music. Do you play? Write? Do you do that at home?”
“I usually go to the studio. It’s on the property, but away from the house. Why?”
“Len doesn’t go with you?”
There was another, longer pause before Vance said, “No,” and his deep, resonant voice trailed the word into a world of uncertainty.
Lenore let out a sigh. It twisted Len’s insides. “I thought as much. Well.” The clink of her pen against her mug brought Len’s gaze back to her, and she smiled at him, but it was a less than happy expression. “Enjoy the weekend, gentlemen. I really hope the party goes well. You need your family, Len. And your music.”
“So you think this is the right thing?” Vance asked. “The party, I mean?”
“I think you would know that better than me, Mr. Ashcroft.” There was a firmer smile in her next words. “You love him. Trust your instincts.”
“I try to.”
Len moved out of the way, and the door hinges creaked slightly as Lenore held it open for them. She had her pad of paper clasped to her chest in one arm and her mug and pen in the other hand. “I’ll see you both on Tuesday.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Stanton.” Vance touched the brim of his Stetson with two fingers, bowing his head to her like a true Texas gentleman. Then he slipped his fingers through Len’s, and together they walked down the hallway.
Len had thought to free himself of the tight grip, but when he tried, Vance held on tighter. “You okay, darlin’?” he asked softly.
Len pushed his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “Fine.”
“So she brought up the band again, I take it.”
Len wished he could accuse her of divulging their talk, but he knew she hadn’t. He couldn’t lie to Vance either, so he just nodded.
Vance’s fingers tightened even more, and it might have been painful, except his big hand was so warm and firm, the dry heat soothed and the strength comforted instead. “I know it’s hard to think about, but you know you have to start trying to figure out what you’re going to do.”
“I can be a ranch hand. Kilmer says I’m good at it.”
Vance chuckled and lifted his hand to kiss the back of it. “That’s a little bit like usin’ a Porsche to haul the muck, don’t you think?”
“What?” Len stared at him. “Baby, if you are comparing me to a Porsche, have you got your cars mixed up. I’m a Pinto all the way. Touch me wrong and watch me blow up.”
Vance’s chuckle this time was deeper, and it shook his shoulders. “Nice.” He stopped and turned Len to face him. There in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by shrinks’ offices and blushing receptionists in glassed-in front rooms, Vance Ashcroft took Lenny Stevens’s face in his hands and kissed him until his brain went off-line and his toes curled, and damn anyone who might have a cell phone to make that lip-lock the next viral video.
Sure enough, the soft, fake camera click and flash of a smartphone clicked somewhere in the background. Len couldn’t bring himself to care as long as Vance held him like that.
When they parted, he gazed up, dazed, confused. Shell-shocked, and all he could think to say was “Stan is going to fucking kill you.”
Vance sighed and took his hand again. “Probably. Come on.”
11
“HAVE YOU lost your fucking mind? God Almighty, Vance, what the fucking hell were you thinking?”
Vance slumped in the chair in Stanley’s office and lifted one shoulder. “That he needed to be kissed?”
“And it couldn’t wait one goddamned minute until you were behind the tinted glass in your truck?”
Vance smiled grimly, but shook his head. “You don’t know him, Stan. He comes apart at the seams sometimes, and he needed holdin’ together. I held him together.”
“Vance, so help me God.” Stan tossed a pile of entertainment magazines onto his desk. Len’s shock of red hair and Vance’s Stetson featured prominently under headlines like “Little Bit Country, Little Bit Rock ’n’ Roll” and “Texas Grunge” and other inanities.
“What happens when he falls apart over this and you aren’t there to tape him back together? I thought this shrink business was supposed to be helping him sort his shit out.”
“He ain’t fallin’ apart over this. He’s been in the headlines enough the past year to make this look tame. He don’t care about bein’ outed, Stan”—Vance sat up straighter and pushed the magazines away—“and neither do I. I know it ain’t how you wanted it to go, an’ I’m sure sorry about that, but it’s out now.” He grinned. “Or I am, so there’s nothin’ for it now.”
“You could have let me handle it,” Stan said, sinking into his chair and sweeping the pile into his trash can. “I would have found you the right interviews and talked to the right people, and made this something—”
“There ain’t nothing to make it but what it is, Stan. I love him, an’ that’s all there is to it.”
“Don’t say ain’t,” Stan said tiredly.
Vance grinned and reached across the desk to pat his shoulder. “You can take the boy out of Texas, Stan.”
“Well.” Stan offered a halfhearted smile. “Let’s see how fast the Lone Star State ditches its darling country star now he’s twinkling a little brighter than they might like, huh?”
Vance laughed. “I’m an expat, buddy. They can keep their prejudice. I got me a Canadian citizenship card says I’m one o’ you now.”
“And thank God for that, at least.” Stan leaned back in his chair, making it squeak loudly as he tipped it back and gazed up at the ceiling. “I suppose you have to get home.”
“If I get on the road now, I can make it before Len’s done his evenin’ chores.” His eyes sparkled. “I’m thinkin’ a hot bath and a lot of bubbles to celebrate—”
Stan held up a hand. “Please, God, spare me the details.”
Vance chuckled. “I miss you, Stan,” he said. “I miss this.”
“This?”
“Us.”
Stanley eyed him, and Vance thought maybe he’d overstepped. “We’ve both had a lot on our plates.”
“How’s Damian?” Vance asked, taking the cue.
“Touchy. Fragile. He won’t be going to the party.”
“He’s invited.”
“It won’t be good for him. Not yet. He’s still tender over the breakup. He’s getting on with the tour well enough, but there’s tension, and I want him more grounded before I let him see Len again.” He let out a sigh. “He’s only finally stopped pi
cking at the mess Len made of his hands and let the scabs heal. He needs more distance, and the last thing I want to subject him to is more stress. Let’s get the rest of this tour behind us and then we’ll see.”
“And you don’t think it’ll be worse for him if everyone comes to the ranch for a party he’s not invited to for a friend he thinks dumped him?”
“Already solved that. We’re flying to Vancouver for the weekend, and yes, he’s upset about it, but he’s also agreed he doesn’t want to see him. Not yet.”
Vance accepted that answer, though he knew Len would be hurt by it. There was nothing they could do about it, though. Stan had to do what was best for his sub, and Vance would likewise do what was best for Len, and for now, the two were not ready to be around each other.
“Okay, then. I have got to get a move on.” He rose and stretched some of the kinks out, not looking forward to the long drive home. The rush hour traffic out of the city could make the two-hour drive more like five if he hit it wrong.
“And please try to stay out of the paper for the duration. I want a vacation too.” He didn’t say it would be easier on Trevor not to see how his best friend was apparently falling into a new life without him with so much ease, because Stan would never put that kind of guilt trip on Vance. He didn’t have to. Vance was perfectly capable of sending himself down that road of recrimination.
“For what it’s worth, Stan, I never meant to grab a headline in the first place. I just did what needed doin’ in the moment, an’ you should know, I’ll do it again.”
Stan shook his head. “You wouldn’t be the man I’ve known and loved all my life if you did otherwise. I get it. I can sympathize. Which is why I’ll be in Vancouver while you celebrate your boy’s belated birthday. Just be kind to him, be kind to his friends. They have history. They love him too. They can be a bunch of rocker trash, some days, but they’re good guys and they want to mend the rift. They’re as committed to Lenny as they are to Trevor, so give them a chance.”
“Did you really just call your gravy-train rocker trash?”
Stan grinned. “I mean it only in the most affectionate of ways, of course. And you had better not ever tell them I said that.”