Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  HIS CHANCE came much sooner than he anticipated. And he wasn’t given a choice. Vance simply announced they were going into the city together on one of his recording days, because he had things to do, one of which was go to Stan’s office on business. Len would accompany him.

  Len had assumed they would go see Stan. He hadn’t anticipated that Trevor would be there, and Vance didn’t tell him until they were parked outside the building.

  “I’m not—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re not ready.”

  “You can’t tell me I am or I’m not, you don’t know.”

  “I know you have to take the first step.”

  “Maybe he should. He’s the one who was wronged. Maybe it’s right for me to wait for him to come to me.”

  “He has to know he can be safe in the same room with you. For his own good. Don’t think of this as somethin’ I’m doin’ to you, darlin’, think of it as somethin’ you’re doin’ for him because he needs to move forward, and Stan can’t make him see he’s strong enough if he’s never face-to-face with the problem.”

  “So this is what you and Stan cooked up. For his own good.”

  Vance got out of the truck and closed his door.

  Len toyed with the idea of being stubborn, remaining in the vehicle, and refusing to do what Vance wanted, but that wasn’t really acceptable. He didn’t want to make this a fight they had to hash out. He didn’t want to put Trevor between himself and his lover and make his friend into a reason to face Vance’s punishment.

  If a part of him felt as though maybe he deserved someone’s wrath over what he’d done to Trevor, a bigger part of him realized almost immediately it was not Vance’s responsibility to mete out that recrimination.

  Maybe he’d punished himself over the whole thing enough already.

  Reluctant, he opened his door and hopped down.

  “Good boy,” Vance said, pushing fingers through his hair and kissing him firmly. “Thank you.”

  “I hate this,” Len said quietly. “Just so you know. I don’t think either of us are ready.”

  “You’ll never be ready. But you have to do it. Stan’s office is neutral ground. Safe for you both, and we’ll both be there too. Nothin’ bad is goin’ to happen, that I can promise you.”

  He couldn’t really make that promise, but Len understood how his lover needed to say it, needed to believe it, and so he nodded and followed him to the parking garage’s elevator and inside. He’d do his best to make the prediction come true. For Vance.

  The quiet ride up only amped his tension to near-unbearable heights, and he was practically vibrating by the time they made it to the top floor.

  Instead of stepping out when the doors opened, though, Vance waited until they closed again and took Len in hand, turning him to look at Vance.

  “You can do this.”

  Len stared up at him, wishing desperately for another of those kisses that whited out all thought and made it hard to breathe or think. Even a few minutes of reprieve would calm him. Maybe.

  As if mind reading were a natural talent, Vance bent and took his mouth, hard, unrelenting until Len moaned and sagged in his lover’s hands. He gripped handfuls of Vance’s neatly pressed shirt and closed his eyes, parting his lips and allowing full access as Vance’s tongue invaded.

  The kiss was every bit as overpowering as he could have wished, and when Vance straightened, Len was grateful for the hand in his hair, and the support of the elevator’s back wall.

  “Okay?” Vance asked.

  Len blinked, nodded, and let a deep shudder course through him. “Okay,” he whispered.

  “Good boy.” Vance smiled at him, probably knowing how deeply those two words affected Len and offering them as encouragement. “Let’s do this.”

  When the doors opened this time, Vance strode out and Len followed, borrowing confidence from his Dom to boost what little he had of his own.

  Stanley opened the door to Vance’s knock, and the two men greeted each other. Deferring yet again to Vance, Len waited until he was addressed before smiling faintly at Stan and entering the office behind Vance. Stan motioned to the weight room on the left.

  “Trevor is through there. He just finished his workout.”

  Len nodded, but waited, unsure, until Vance nodded at him, kissed him softly, and shooed him into the other room.

  “You’re sure about that?” he heard Vance ask.

  He didn’t hear the reply, but he was too distracted anyway. Trevor stood in the center of the room, hair dripping and feet bare. Physically, he seemed fit, but so sad. Kind of hollow.

  “Hey.” Len tried a smile. “You look good.”

  Trevor nodded and twisted the towel in his hands. “You too.”

  “Vance is a good cook,” he lied. Now was maybe not the time to get into the shit-shoveling fiasco and the desperate breakdowns that had led to it.

  “Huh.” Trevor turned his back abruptly and went to the window. No doubt he suspected the lie. It didn’t matter if it was a trivial one, it was still a lie, and it wasn’t fair. But Len wasn’t sure he could tell the whole truth of his life. Not yet, and not with Trevor so obviously shaky in his own.

  He joined him at the window, and they chatted softly about the other members of the band, Alice’s pregnancy, anything simple and distant enough not to trigger actual emotions. When Trevor kept rubbing the towel over the scars on his hands, Len broke. He couldn’t take it, and he pulled the bit of fabric free. He dared to touch and took Trevor’s hand. “Hands are healing up nice.”

  “Yeah.” So blank a reply as he yanked free, and Len, desperate, reached for the other and the ruined tattoo that hadn’t been fixed. Regret etched deep gouges in his fragile calm as he recalled that night in the rain when his temper and his patience had finally snapped and he’d done this horrible thing to his best friend. Those ragged scars were his doing. He didn’t know how to apologize for the viciousness with which he’d inflicted so much pain.

  It had taken him some time, piecing the night back together between the flashes of blank outrage so he could tell Dr. Stanton how he’d beaten Trevor up, callously ground his hands against the brick until he’d eliminated that tattoo and mutilated the man he should have been trying to help.

  The words “I’m sorry” stuck to his lips like a cheap balm, and he couldn’t see how they began to be adequate.

  “Are you coming back?” Trev asked. “For the new album?” For real his eyes asked, though he didn’t voice it. Because sneaking into the studio only when he wasn’t there wasn’t being back for real, and it was a cop-out. Damian would have called Lenny on it. This man, broken, stuttering Trevor, couldn’t even ask.

  “I don’t know, Trev.”

  “We have to know—”

  “I know. And I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  “Do you even w-want to come back?”

  That hurt. More than anything, he wanted his family around him. He wanted his place back. But how could he take what was no longer there? What he had been in the band was gone. Everything was different now, and the fact that Trevor couldn’t even look him in the eye was proof of that. But he couldn’t keep away either.

  He wrapped an arm around Trevor’s waist and rested his head on his shoulder. “I miss you guys, Trev.” He squeezed. “I miss you.”

  “So?” The one word was so hopeful, so needy, and Len knew, in that instant, that Vance had been right. Trevor needed him to let go, to move away from what had been and maybe, someday, figure out something new. But right now, he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t give more, to the band, the album, or his former best friend, than this quiet moment, a few songs, a vague promise. Not until Trevor moved past what had been and accepted it was lost forever.

  They stood quietly, Trevor eventually draping an arm over Len’s shoulders, but he didn’t ask again, which was good, because Len had no answer. Not yet. Not until he knew the damage he’d done was healed, and that was something he couldn’t do.

&n
bsp; “Len.” Vance’s voice was a barb and a balm. He didn’t want to leave now he was here. He didn’t want to let go of whatever fragile thing was threading between him and Trevor. But his Dom called, and he went, because ultimately, what he needed was what Vance had and Damian—or Trevor—did not, and they both knew it.

  So he kissed Trevor’s cheek, and when Vance held out his hand, Len went to him and took it. That was his place, his safety. He glanced over his shoulder, mustering as cheerful a smile as he could.

  “See ya round, Trev.”

  “Yeah.” The smile he received was broken and sad. “See you.”

  They rode the elevator back down to the garage in silence. It wasn’t until they were in the truck and driving that Vance finally spoke.

  “Didn’t go how you would have hoped, did it, darlin’?”

  Len sighed. “I don’t even know what I wanted.”

  More silence coalesced between them.

  “You said we were doing this for Trevor.”

  Vance nodded.

  “I don’t think he was ready to see me. I don’t think it helped him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s so sad. So lost.”

  “Like you were when you first came to the ranch. So lost I had no idea how to bring you back.”

  “But you did.”

  “We’ve made a start.”

  “They haven’t.”

  Vance made a sound in his throat, but finally, he nodded. “They will. Trust me, darlin’, Damian needed this. He needed to see a piece of the future, and that’s you, gettin’ better. Being strong enough to walk away from him.”

  “Are you sure that isn’t just going to hurt him all over again?”

  “He has Stan to look out for him.”

  “You lied to me,” Len said after a few minutes.

  Vance glanced at him, and the surprise for Len was that there was no surprise on his Dom’s face at the accusation.

  “How so?” Vance asked mildly.

  “You said it was for him, but you did this for me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You needed me to see I’m not who I was when I left. I’m not the guy I was when I did that to him. Not the guy who could ever do it again. I’m not who he thought he needed. So maybe he can move on seeing that, but it was about me, and you wanting me to see that I’ve changed.”

  Vance shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I have changed,” Len said. “I have. I could go back, someday. And be good for him.”

  “Not today,” Vance said firmly.

  Len gazed out his window, watching the scenery flash past. “Not today,” he whispered to himself.

  22

  LEN HAD completed a long session in the sound studio and was wearily setting his guitar into its case when the door behind him opened.

  “Hey.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Jet. How’s things?”

  “Not bad. Just wanted to see ya.” He jerked his shoulders forward and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he entered the small space. “You headed back to the ranch now?”

  “Yeah. Well, soon. Vance had some interview to do, so he’s still in the city. He said he was going to dinner with Stan, so I was going to sort of hang out a bit.” He didn’t want to admit he wasn’t keen on going back to the ranch without Vance. It was too empty, and though Kilmer would still be there, he was still uncommunicative and withdrawn. Len felt guilty as hell over it. Whatever had passed between Kilmer and Jacko had not been good, and they were still rocky. Kilmer didn’t talk about it, but it was made plain by his subdued manner that his world was not right.

  “Well, if you aren’t in a hurry, you know… we were going to jam for a bit. You want to join us? We’re ordering in.”

  Len glanced up to meet Jethro’s gaze. There was a friendly, but hesitant look in his eyes. “I—”

  “Just say yes, idiot,” Jethro said irritably.

  “Well, okay, then.” Len lifted the lid of the guitar case again and plucked the instrument from its velvet bed.

  “That isn’t your guitar,” Jethro pointed out as they wandered down the hall. “I noticed a while back you weren’t playing yours. That one sounds sweet, but what happened to the blue one?”

  Len’s cheeks flushed, but he sighed and told Jet the truth.

  “Jesus, dude. You gotta calm down.”

  “No shit.”

  “So did they fix it?”

  Len nodded. “Yeah. But it sounds different. Doesn’t feel the same. I mean, all he had to do was replace the neck, but….”

  Jethro held open the door to a larger studio where the rest of the band was sitting around waiting.

  “It isn’t the same,” Jethro finished for him.

  “No. It really isn’t. Hey, guys.”

  Friendly greetings circled the room, and Alice rose as Jethro hefted his bass. “Come on, Stephie. We’re going shopping.” She rubbed a hand over her belly. “Have fun, boys.”

  Christian’s wife grinned and rose, and arm in arm, the two women sauntered off.

  “Don’t bankrupt me, woman!” Clive hollered after them.

  Alice tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder in response. They didn’t even look back.

  “You would think being a rock star would be better for my bank account than being a mechanic was,” Christian grumbled, and everyone laughed.

  “So.” Len glanced around, his gaze falling on the lonely mic stand. Clive, behind his drum kit, and Beks at the keyboards, avoided looking at him. Christian grew interested in his guitar strings as soon as Len looked to where he lounged on a couch. His guitar rested across his lap as he played passages Len hadn’t heard before. Jethro bent his head to tune his bass. “Who’s going to sing?” Len asked.

  “You can.” Clive rolled a riff of aggressive sound off his skins. “Thanks for volunteering.”

  “You guys jam without him a lot?”

  Uneasy glances flitted around the room.

  “I can’t tell if all the uncomfortable silence means he hasn’t been up to singing, or that you got rid of him tonight so I could hang out.” Neither scenario was really acceptable to Len.

  “We can’t force him to do anything,” Beks said at last. “He lays down all his tracks, he comes to rehearsals. He does his job. If he doesn’t want to hang out, we can’t force him.”

  “So if he’s not with you guys, and Stan’s out with Vance, where is he?”

  “He’s a big boy, Len,” Clive said, and there was an edge to his voice. “He can take care of himself for one fucking night.”

  Of course he could. Len fished his phone from his pocket and pulled up his list of contacts. Trevor’s number was there, because Vance had insisted he keep it up-to-date. He wasn’t going to call, but maybe sending a message wouldn’t cross any lines.

  He texted before he had a chance to change his mind.

  Jamming @ studio tonight. U coming?

  Thank God for autocorrect. Texting was one form of written communication he didn’t have to feel self-conscious about at least.

  He waited for what felt like forever for his phone to chime. Everyone was watching him. He could feel them staring. The agitated tap-tapping of Clive’s sticks on the edge of his snare was not helping. But Len didn’t look up. He watched the number of his clock tick through a minute, and then the phone vibrated and the tinkle of sound overrode Clive’s nervous tic.

  He turned the phone for Jethro to see, and the bassist read it aloud.

  Thought you’d be there. It’s okay. Have fun. :)

  Such a neutral message. Len couldn’t decide if it was cold or just careful. He texted back.

  If your sure. You away can change your mind and join us.

  He didn’t expect a reply, so he stuffed the phone into his pocket and draped his guitar strap over his shoulder. “Okay, then. Let’s start with something old. I haven’t done this shit in too long.”

  Grins broke out around the room, and Clive’s st
icks flew over his drums in a cascade of happy sounds that morphed into a familiar beat. It was a song they often opened with, one he’d heard Jet sing on various occasions, and the bassist took up the first verse. Len joined him on the chorus and, as if by magic, his fingers flew over his guitar strings without thought.

  It was better than the recording studio where he played his part but the rest of the band played only in his head through the earphones. It was better than practice where the focus was on learning the songs as quickly as possible so they could be recorded. This was the real thing. An electric hum of energy zinged between them as Christian took over the lead, and Len dropped into the background with a supporting riff. Jet launched into the second verse.

  They’d never worked out a rhythm-guitar part for this song. They’d never needed one, so he did it now, on the fly, and hoped he could remember it later to play back for Beks so they’d have a written copy. He didn’t dare stop to think about how that was an assumption about touring again that he might be better off not making.

  They played through a few more of the old numbers before finally moving on to the new material.

  Len did a lot of listening and followed Christian’s lead, playing the parts he’d recorded and watching the other guitarist learn the leads. When Chris glanced up and nodded, Len took over a lead riff of a song he knew by heart and ran away with it, improvising into the bridge. He transitioned to the higher key and handed it back as Chris began to sing. This was a register Jet’s voice couldn’t reach, and Len wasn’t familiar enough with the lyrics to sing it, so he blended his sound into the background and listened to Christian belt out the words.

  It was an aggressive song, tailor-made for Damian’s voice. No doubt he’d written the lyrics. They were right up his alley, dark and sultry and pouting, but the edge to them was new. Sharper. They cut deep because the metaphors weren’t even that well disguised. It was a total “fuck you” song, and one Len could imagine singing about Ace. Only Damian had written it, and there was just one person he could feel that way about.