by Kim Fielding
“Can’t we do it somewhere else? I mean, if this place is booked, we could find another indoor location. I’m really not that picky.”
Albina shook her head. “No, I am very sorry. It must be in main square.” She attempted a smile. “Prime minister has invited whole city to attend.”
Oh, lovely. Before Jaxon could raise a protest, Reid stepped in. “What’s wrong with that venue?”
“Weather. Acoustics. Security.”
“Forecast is good,” Albina said. “And in any case, stage will be covered by tent. Which will help with sound also, yes?”
“A little,” Jaxon admitted.
“Good. Starograd is very safe city. Not like United States. We have no guns, no crime. And also many police will be there.”
Reid looked at Jaxon with concern. “Can you handle that?”
“I guess I have to,” Jaxon said sourly. But he didn’t have time to brood because he and the band really needed to get some practice in. Still, he scowled briefly at Reid before stalking over to pick up a guitar.
BY the time Albina informed him that practice was over, Jaxon was tired and cranky. The rehearsal itself had gone okay, and the tech guys seemed to know what they were doing. But Jaxon and the band were just getting to know each other. Even if they didn’t have a language barrier, he’d have wanted to spend at least a couple more days together, working out the kinks.
“You will have dinner in hotel restaurant,” Albina announced during the drive.
Jaxon groaned at the thought of more heavy food. “I’m not hungry. Couldn’t I just have a sandwich in my room?”
Looking distressed, she bit her lip. “You are expected at dinner.”
“But I don’t—”
“We’ll go,” Reid interrupted. “It’s fine.”
It was not fine. Jaxon didn’t want the fucking dinner. But he was also reluctant to make a scene in front of Albina and the ever-silent driver, so for the moment, an evil glare had to do.
Predictably they had the dining room to themselves. Jaxon would have fled to his room, but Reid had their keys. And Jaxon wasn’t completely certain those undercover cops—or whatever they were—in the lobby wouldn’t tackle him if he deviated from the plan. When Jaxon glowered and refused to even listen to the menu choices, Reid ordered for him. Humiliating. Jaxon got his revenge by not eating a single bite, even though he was aware that most Vasnytsians could only dream of food like this. And even though, well, the chicken in paprika cream sauce smelled fantastic.
Reid made a few yummy noises while eating his. Which he did incredibly slowly, as if he needed to savor every goddamn bite. After he’d cleaned his plate, he ordered chocolate cake and coffee.
Finally, when Jaxon was three seconds short of committing mayhem with a butter knife, Reid wiped his hands on the napkin and stood. Albina appeared like magic to whisk them to their rooms. Jaxon did not wish her a good night.
Alone, he rubbed his stomach. He really was a little hungry—not that he’d admit it to anyone. Maybe he had some peanuts or something in his suitcase. As he was rooting through underwear and T-shirts that he hadn’t bothered to unpack, Reid burst through the connecting door.
With his jaw set, Reid grasped Jaxon’s upper arm. “You’re tired from practice. Time for your aqua massage.”
“What?”
“Your aqua massage.” As if that explained everything, Reid tugged Jaxon toward the bathroom. Jaxon would have resisted, except it was pretty damn clear Reid would win that battle. Besides, he was curious about what was up. When Reid slammed the bathroom door behind them and turned on the shower full-blast, Jaxon just waited.
Reid waited too, standing near the shower with arms crossed.
“What the hell—”
Reid shut him up with a vicious cut motion. Only when the mirror was thoroughly steamed up did Reid budge, but that was only to turn on the sink faucet.
“Are you trying to cause a drought?” asked Jaxon.
“I’m hoping the running water camouflages our voices. And the steam fogs up any cameras.”
Alarmed, Jaxon looked around. “They have cameras in my bathroom?”
“Probably not. But just to be safe.”
Great. Some Vasnytsian bureaucrat had the job of watching Jaxon take a shit.
“What do you want?” Jaxon demanded.
“I want you to stop acting like a spoiled child.”
“I don’t—”
“Complaining about the tours. Balking at the second concert. Throwing a hissy fit over dinner.”
Jaxon marched closer. “It wasn’t a hissy fit! I’m a professional, dammit, and I’m just trying to make sure my performances reflect that. And I’m a fully grown adult who knows when and what he wants to eat.”
“Maybe. But this isn’t some little show you’re putting on for teenyboppers or stoned hippies. This mission is important. People could die if it doesn’t go well. Do you understand that?”
Snarling, Jaxon moved even nearer until their chests almost touched. He wanted to shout but settled for a low growl instead, hoping the shower would drown him out. “I understand that just fine, asshole. I’m not an idiot.”
“Then don’t act like one.”
Jaxon shoved him. Gently, but a definite shove. Of course, Reid didn’t budge. Well, not at first. Then he narrowed his eyes and, with a surge of speed and power, grasped Jaxon’s shoulders and propelled him backward against the closed door. Jaxon was trapped, so he attacked the only way he could. “Asshole!”
“Idiot!”
And instead of belting him, which was what Jaxon expected, Reid kissed him.
Good Lord. Reid’s kiss was greedy, his mouth devouring as his body pressed full-length against Jaxon’s. But his hands were incongruously gentle, one cradling Jaxon’s skull while the fingers of the other weaved through his hair. And Jaxon was equally hungry, as if this kiss might make up for his missed meal. As if this touch might make up for what else he’d been missing. He placed his hands firmly on Reid’s ass, urging tighter contact.
When Reid dragged his open mouth away from Jaxon’s lips, across his cheek, and down to his neck, Jaxon groaned and tipped his head back.
He groaned again when Reid stepped away.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” Reid whispered. He looked slightly shocked—a man who rarely lost control.
“Yeah. Like I didn’t mean to kiss you in the plane. But it was good. They were both really good kisses.”
Reid nodded. “But we can’t do this.”
“Right. ’Cause you’re my assistant.”
“Because of a whole host of reasons I can’t divulge.”
“You have a lot of secrets.” Jaxon’s anger had fled completely, a fire doused by a tidal wave of lust. Now he was… sad. He was drawn so fiercely to this man who would never let him in. “You knew about the outdoor concert ahead of time, didn’t you?”
Reid shifted his feet. “Not exactly. But I was fairly certain it would need a large venue, and none of the city’s indoor performance spaces seat more than the National Theatre.” He let his head droop briefly; when he lifted it, his expression pleaded for understanding. “For the last few years, people here have protested on National Workers’ Day. We’re talking thousands of people marching in the streets of Starograd, demanding government reform. Every year, the police crack down on them. Beatings, mass arrests. And then the next year, even more people show up. It’s brave and… beautiful, you know?”
“What does that have to do with me?” Jaxon asked gently.
“It’s mostly younger people who protest. I guess that’s often the case anywhere. I think Talmirov hopes your concert will distract them—and will make them think maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all.”
“I’m a dictator’s propaganda?”
Reid came close again, this time for a brief stroke of his fingers against Jaxon’s cheek. His touch burned like fire. “I’m sorry, but yes. You’ll just have to trust me that it’s for a greater good.”
Jaxon didn’t believe in anything except music. But he promised himself he’d try to believe in Reid.
Chapter Six
JAXON remembered to set his alarm, and the next morning he ate a big breakfast without complaint. He steeled himself for more tourism, but Mariya was their guide for the day, and she seemed more interested in fashion. “What will you wear for concert tonight?” She had one of those husky voices straight men found so sexy. Under other circumstances, Jaxon would have found it sexy too.
“This.” He wore a pair of skinny black jeans and a tight black T-shirt with red sleeves. It was the kind of thing he wore for all of his concerts.
She tsked. “This is not what big star should wear.” And she pressed a finger against his sternum.
“People come to hear my music, not admire my outfit.”
“But you are so handsome! I will find you something better.”
Jaxon looked at Reid, who shrugged. After instructing Jaxon and Reid to wait in the hotel lobby, Mariya left. They sat in the squishy chairs and stared at the other two men there, who smoked and stared back. They weren’t the same men Jaxon had seen when he first arrived, but every single time he passed through the lobby, two men would be seated there with cigarettes and closed-off expressions. With no sign of other guests, the men were especially obvious.
Reid leafed through one of the pamphlets from the lobby rack. They all featured Talmirov on the cover.
When Mariya returned a half hour later, she appeared excited. “I take you to tailor now. He is prime minister’s personal tailor! Best in Vasnytsia.”
Fantastic. But Jaxon smiled sweetly, followed her to the SUV, and was whisked to the oldest part of the city.
The tailor was a tiny man in a shop crammed with bolts of fabric, some of which, Jaxon imagined, dated from the Ottoman Empire. There were no other customers, but maybe the guy didn’t need anyone else if the country’s head honcho was a regular. The tailor measured Jaxon carefully and then, with Reid interpreting, got Jaxon’s input on fabrics and styles. Mariya chimed in too. In the end they agreed on a black silk button-down with emerald-colored piping at the cuffs, hem, and collar. It wasn’t nearly as flashy as Mariya wanted, but she gave in. She decided Jaxon’s jeans were acceptable too. The tailor promised to have the shirt delivered to the theater before the concert.
On their way to the SUV, they walked for a few blocks along the pedestrian-only street and came to a café with outdoor tables. Several patrons nursed tiny cups of coffee. Jaxon turned to Mariya. “Can we please stop here for just a short time? I’d like to get a better idea of how Vasnytsians live.” Not a complete lie. Mostly he wanted to fend off more sightseeing.
Although Jaxon expected resistance from his companions, Reid nodded and rested a hand on Mariya’s shoulder. “He could use some relaxing time before the concert.”
She clearly wasn’t thrilled with this development, but after a long pause, she said, “Yes. For short time.”
Jaxon wanted to kiss them both.
Mariya guided them to an outdoor table close to the café’s facade, and Jaxon quickly took the outward-facing seat. Slightly rude, maybe, but he wanted to be able to see something besides her. Reid sat to his right, and Mariya settled across from Jaxon. The waiter arrived—the same model of dour, efficient server that Jaxon had seen in countless cafés and bars in Eastern Europe—and Mariya ordered Turkish coffees all around. Jaxon could decipher that much without translation.
Then they just sat there. The agenda having gone off track, Mariya didn’t have a script, which clearly distressed her. So Jaxon attempted small talk. “Have you had this job for very long?”
She blinked, taken aback by a personal question, perhaps. “Since I finished school. Six years.”
“You must meet some interesting people.”
“Many important people wish to visit our beautiful city.”
Jaxon doubted that but didn’t let it show. “Are you from Starograd originally?”
“Ah, yes. We live on hill. My father is deputy minister of defense. He will be at concert tonight.”
“Is he a fan?”
She laughed as if that were a really funny joke. “No. Of course all important members of government will be there.”
Sounds like a fun crowd.
The waiter appeared with their drinks, and Jaxon took a careful sip of his. He loved Turkish coffee, but it was thick and bitter, and if you weren’t cautious, you ended up with a mouthful of coffee grounds.
A young family sat at the table behind Mariya—father, mother, and a little boy maybe three or four years old. As the boy drew on a scrap of paper, his parents stared at Jaxon. They must have been startled to hear people speaking English. But then the woman’s eyes widened, and she nudged her husband and whispered in his ear. He scrutinized Jaxon for a moment before recognition lit his gaze too; he whispered back to his wife.
Moving furtively, as if wanting to make sure nobody else noticed, the woman held her fist near her mouth and briefly mimed singing. Not wanting Mariya to notice what was going on, Jaxon risked a quick wink. That sent his little audience into a minor flurry of thumbs-upping, waving, and incomprehensible gestures. It was adorable. But then Mariya must have noticed Jaxon’s attention had strayed, because she twisted around to look behind her. The couple stopped at once, the father leaning over his son’s drawing and the mother staring stone-faced into her coffee.
It was sweet that Jaxon seemed to have adoring fans in Starograd, but it disturbed him that they didn’t seem free to openly acknowledge that. It reminded him of being a teenager in Peril, desperate that nobody should know he liked boys even more than girls. Had he been found out, he would have faced social rejection, bullying, maybe even a beating or two. But the citizens of Vasnytsia had it worse. Disobedience regarding any of the regime’s many restrictions could result in harsh imprisonment or even execution.
As he sipped his cooling coffee, Jaxon thought about change. Maybe it was cliché to say so, but things got better. At least they had for him. Nobody cared which gender he slept with. Hell, things had even improved in good old Peril. Sometimes fits of morbid curiosity hit him and he’d read the Peril Union-Herald online. He didn’t really care who won the regional calf-roping competition or what modifications the city council made to park usage, but seeing those familiar names helped ground him. It was a much-needed reminder that he was a real human being, not just a brand name.
Two or three years ago, he’d been thrilled to find an article about the winter dance at Peril High. One of his first public performances had been at that dance. Photos with the article showed kids dressed up and smiling, eating, talking. But what truly caught his attention was a picture of the dance floor—where a pair of boys in suits held each other tightly in a slow dance. None of the other kids were paying them any attention; they were too caught up in their own dancing. The article didn’t mention the boys either.
Maybe if the people of Peril could be nonchalant about a gay couple at a high school dance, there was hope for Vasnytsia too.
JAXON didn’t know whether the café stop meant Mariya had to cancel a visit to a dusty museum or more circling in the SUV. But after they finished their coffees, she had the driver take them straight to the theater, which was excellent as far as Jaxon was concerned. The band waited there, fussing with their instruments. Jaxon spent several hours practicing with them, doing sound checks, and having complicated translated discussions with the light and sound guys. He always loved preparing for a performance, and this was no exception. Reid proved a capable assistant, not just interpreting when needed but also making sure Jaxon was kept supplied with bottles of water.
To Jaxon’s delight, assistants carried in a lunch of sandwiches and fruit, a welcome respite from the heavy fare he’d been forced to eat since he arrived. But the way Ivan One, Ivan Two, Igor, and the crew fell on the food made him wonder how often they went hungry. Or at least how rarely somebody else picked up the tab.
Late in the af
ternoon, Jaxon finished his fifth rendition in a row of “Lightning Bugs,” one of his biggest hits. It was a jaunty tune with a slower bridge and finale, and although the words were about childhood summers, the song also conjured the loss of innocence and the bittersweet sense of growing older. Ivan Two, the bass player, hadn’t quite caught the right mood yet; he wavered between funereal and rockabilly. So Jaxon demonstrated one more time and then waited while Ivan One and Igor—who’d caught on some time ago—tried to coach their compatriot. Just as Jaxon was about to launch into the sixth round, Reid stood in front of him.
“You need to take a break, Jax.”
“Later. Ivan’s still—”
“He’s close. He can keep practicing. You need to save your voice and energy for tonight.”
Reid was right, but Jaxon didn’t admit it out loud. Instead he unstrapped his guitar and set it on the stand. “Are we going back to the hotel?”
“No. It’s not worth it since it’s an early show. But you have a dressing room to yourself.”
That would have to do. On the bright side, it would keep Mariya from making him tour a factory or eat more meat-butter-cheese-cream-flour concoctions. Jaxon nodded at the Ivans and Igor before following Reid backstage.
Unlike the public spaces in the theater, the dressing room wasn’t plush or grand. It held a white leather couch that looked identical to the one in his hotel room, a dressing table, and a few chairs. An ancient TV—the kind in a huge wooden case—squatted on a stand in the corner, its screen dark. Whatever color the walls had once been, they had now faded to a sickly yellow. But there were bottles of water and a couple of bowls of shelled nuts, and the room was blessedly quiet. Jaxon collapsed onto the couch.
“Do you want me to stand in the hallway and make sure nobody disturbs you?” Reid asked.
“Could you stay in here instead?”
“Sure.” Reid grabbed two water bottles. He handed one to Jaxon and then pulled out a chair so it blocked the closed door. He sat and drained half his bottle in one go. “You doing okay?”