by Kim Fielding
“Yeah, sure. It’s not a bad setup. I wish I’d had more time with the band, but….” He shrugged philosophically.
“It’ll be a select crowd tonight. Tickets by invitation only, and most of them went to government officials and their families.”
Mindful of the likely presence of cameras or bugs, Jaxon simply nodded.
After a pensive moment, Reid squinted at him. “It’s a big deal that you’re here, you know. You’re the first non-Vasnytsian to perform in this theater in… well, a long time.”
Jaxon didn’t feel honored. He felt burdened and used, a trained monkey trotted out to appease a tyrant and mollify his constituents. But Jaxon’s own government was using him too. And while he was in favor of democracy, world peace, and all those good things, he wasn’t convinced these stupid concerts would help achieve any of it. He was just a token in an endless game. He was the damned thimble on the Monopoly board—and hadn’t they recently gotten rid of the thimble?
He set the bottle of water aside, unopened. “I’m tired.” He scooted around so he lay on the couch with his feet hanging over the end, and he closed his eyes.
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.” Jaxon opened his eyes and turned his head to see Reid. “Just turn out the lights, okay?”
“Sure.”
The room went dark except for the thin band of light under the door. It wasn’t bright enough for Jaxon to see anything, but he heard Reid breathing. More importantly, he felt Reid sitting just a few strides away, a watchful presence even when he couldn’t see.
“What do you think of my music?” Jaxon asked. “Honestly.”
“I think you’re incredibly talented.”
“Yeah, okay. But what about the songs?”
Reid didn’t answer immediately. Jaxon was okay with not seeing his face, because Reid’s expression would, as usual, have given nothing away. Darkness seemed more honest. “I think,” Reid said slowly, “your songs are your soul. I think that even when they seem as if they don’t mean anything important, that’s not the case. Every word and every note is a true piece of you. I think that’s why you have so many fans. Not because you’re pretty and your melodies are catchy, but because when people listen, they know you’re genuine. You’re real.”
Jaxon found it hard to breathe. He’d read a lot of reviews of his work over the years, received a lot of compliments and fan mail. But nobody had ever acknowledged that his music was him.
“But do you like them?” he asked.
Another long pause. “They’re not my style. Not my usual genre, I guess.” Reid chuckled. “I like the Beatles. But your songs… the more I hear them, the more I like them. Maybe they could be my style. Someday.”
Oddly comforted, Jaxon drifted into sleep.
Chapter Seven
REID woke him with a gentle tap on the shoulder an hour before the show. Jaxon had dreamed of crumbling castles and men with guns, and the nap had done little to refresh him. But he got himself ready, including putting on the newly delivered shirt. It fit perfectly and, admiring himself in the mirror, he had to admit he looked really good. Better than in a T-shirt.
“Do you want to stay in here all night?” Reid asked, looking amused. “I can ask them to put a mirror onstage if that will help.”
“If you were about to be stared at by hundreds of people for an hour, you’d care how you looked too.” Except Reid always looked great, damn him. Even after hours of schlepping around Starograd, his suit was neat, his shirt crisp, and his tie knotted just right. He always looked as if he’d stepped right off the page of a magazine ad. He probably looked great even when he was just out of bed—naked and barely awake.
And that sent Jaxon’s mind to places it shouldn’t go.
The Ivans and Igor seemed nervous and smelled like booze, but they managed the sound check just fine. Then the crew did some last-minute fussing with amps and lights and the mixer board. Instead of using in-ear monitors, the theater had onstage loudspeakers for Jaxon and the band. It was an old-fashioned approach, but Jaxon had done it before and didn’t mind. On the other side of the heavy curtains, the sounds of a gathering crowd were evident, and Jaxon imagined a theater full of men in uniforms and women in suits, each man a clone of Talmirov and each woman a variation of Albina, Halyna, or Mariya.
Reid paced slightly backstage—the closest to anxiety Jaxon had seen from him—but he managed an encouraging smile. “Do you need anything?”
“Just keep some water handy. I’ll signal you if I need some. Oh, and when we’re done here? My throat’s gonna be pretty raw. If you could arrange for tea with honey and lemon to be waiting at the hotel, that would be great. Add some rum and it’s even better.”
“Rum’s unlikely. Will vodka do?”
“Sure, why not?”
Then Zima scurried over and said something.
“Time?” Jaxon asked.
Reid nodded. “Break a leg.”
Jaxon never experienced stage fright. As a kid he’d been awkward, the type to skulk around the edges of social gatherings and spend his lunches alone. Part of that had come from the early realization that he was different from his peers, but part of it was just him. He wasn’t great at peopling. Not even now, really. He was fine with fans and had no problem finding someone to hook up with, but conversations could be painful if he wasn’t high on something.
Despite all that, he was perfectly comfortable when he stepped onto a stage. Shine the lights on him? Stick a mic in his hand? Make him the focus of thousands of eyes? All perfectly good. In his personal life, he was a graceless man. Onstage he was a fish in water, a snake shedding its old skin, a lion surveying his kingdom. He was fully himself.
Jaxon and the band exchanged a round of thumbs-ups. Then he took his spot behind the mic stand and waited, but not for long. The curtains crept open.
Despite the lights in his eyes, Jaxon could make out what seemed to be a full house, the audience older than his usual fans, the men well dressed in suits or uniforms, and the women in dresses. A lot of watchful-looking men stood against the walls, some with guns slung over their shoulders. Jaxon decided to ignore them.
A recorded orchestral swell poured from the speakers and cut through the silence. Everyone scrambled to their feet and sang along with what Jaxon assumed was the national anthem. He just stood there and tried to look respectful. A man with a ridiculous mustache and an impressive potbelly strode onstage for a short speech. He bowed to Jaxon when he was finished, then exited.
As an honest-to-God fanfare blasted through the auditorium, everyone rose to their feet again. A slight rustling occurred backstage, and then Jaxon got his first in-person view of Prime Minister Talmirov, dressed in a military uniform heavily festooned with medals and ribbons. Talmirov, despite his straight back and assertive stride, was quite a bit shorter than he appeared in the propaganda. When he reached Jaxon, Talmirov smiled broadly before grasping his hand and giving it a firm shake. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said in a voice not meant to carry. Although he was smiling, his gaze was hard, cold, and calculating.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Jaxon replied, because Best Behavior. “I was happy to learn I have such an eminent fan.”
Looking pleased, Talmirov gave a minuscule bow. Then he took the mic and gestured at the crowd to sit down. While they were obeying, Albina showed up onstage in the type of sparkling tight gown usually reserved for game-show hostesses. She took her place beside Jaxon and quietly interpreted Talmirov’s speech.
The speech didn’t really need translating; Jaxon could have guessed its main content. Lots of bullshit about how wonderful Vasnytsia was, how strong a nation, and how super cool that a huge star like Jaxon Powers wanted to perform here. Jaxon wondered whether Talmirov wrote that crap himself or had a minister of malarkey do it for him. In any case the audience ate it up, staring in adoration and clapping wildly.
Jaxon was relieved when Talmirov nodded regally at him and swept off the stage.
&nbs
p; That was Jaxon’s cue to begin playing, and he plunged directly into a song about a farmer who feared his crops would fail. Metaphor, sure, but it had been a huge hit early in his career, and Jaxon thought it appropriate for this country, whose economy relied largely on agriculture. When he’d added the song to the playlist, he wondered what would happen if some of the farmers from Peril met their Vasnytsian counterparts. Would they have the same things to complain about—the weather, commodity prices, the cost of equipment, difficulties finding good labor, stupid government policies? At least none of that criticism would get the Nebraskans tossed into jail.
Now, though, those thoughts were far away. As he coaxed the chords from his guitar and the words from his throat, he was that farmer—a man desperately worried about his future and blaming himself for bad decisions while trying to keep his cool around family and friends. That man was angry too, and frustrated and sad, yet he held just enough hope to keep going on.
When Jaxon sang, the audience became his confidant. They were the type of friend who would listen to his thoughts and feel his emotions, yet never judge him harshly.
The audience clapped when the song was done, but he segued straight into the next one. This tune was newer, written five years before. It was about a woman who’d died from an overdose, and each stanza was from the point of view of someone she’d left behind—her lover, her child, her mother, her best friend, her drug dealer. The final verse was in the voice of the medical examiner who’d performed her autopsy.
The band kept up with him, and Ivan the drummer was excellent. They all sailed through the music, tearing through the faster pieces and taking their time with the slow. At last they came to the final tune, “Dance One More for Me.” It had a retro-punk feel with slightly melancholy lyrics, and he almost always closed his sets with it. Not just because it was one of his most popular hits, but also for what it said to the audience in its plea: Don’t leave me yet. I’ll be so alone when you’re gone.
After the final echoes faded away, a strange hush fell over the theater. Every eye was trained on the balcony where Talmirov sat. Once Talmirov stood and began to clap, the auditorium nearly shook with the sound of the audience joining in.
Jaxon had been instructed not to do an encore. So instead he bowed, first to the audience and then to the band. He waved at the tech guys, who’d done a good job. “Thank you,” he said into the ebbing ovation. He set the guitar on its stand and walked backstage.
After that, everything was fuzzy. Jaxon knew a lot of musicians who were all keyed up after a performance, who wanted to party until they passed out. But not him. After a concert, he felt fragile and empty, like a man recovering from a bad fever. He’d once chatted with a guy who was into BDSM, and when the guy told him about sub drop—the feelings of temporary fatigue and depression he’d get after a scene—Jaxon had immediately understood.
Usually Buzz was there to collect Jaxon, or he’d send someone he trusted. Sometimes that someone might be willing to sleep with Jaxon too, because sex helped a little. But tonight Reid was there with a water bottle in hand. He gave it to Jaxon. “Good? Or do you want something harder?”
“Just want to sleep.” Jaxon slurred the words slightly.
Reid managed to clear a path through the backstage people and ushered Jaxon out of the theater through a back door. One of their guides accompanied them, but Jaxon was too blurred to notice which one. He could barely remember their names anyway. Right now he could hardly remember his own.
In the back seat of the SUV, he slumped against the window and thought about nothing at all.
A large pot of hot tea waited on a tray in his hotel room, along with a sliced lemon and a jar of honey. “You found rum,” he said when he spied the small bottle near the teapot.
“Mariya found it for me. She got the tea too. It has some herbs that are supposed to be good for sore throats.”
“Great.”
Jaxon sat on the white leather couch and watched dully as Reid prepared a mug of tea, complete with a healthy shot of booze. Reid handed him the drink, then sat beside him. Although Jaxon burned his tongue on the first sip, he kept on drinking. Whether it was the herbs or the honey, lemon, or rum, the concoction soothed nicely as it went down.
“Was Talmirov happy?” Jaxon asked after a while.
“Word is he was thrilled.”
“Okay.”
“Jax—”
“I don’t want to hear what a fab patriot I am. Not now.” Jaxon angled himself away from Reid.
“That’s not what I was going to say.” Reid paused. When he continued, his voice was hushed. “I’ve never seen anyone as naked as you were on that stage. I had no idea before tonight what courage it must take to perform.”
Jesus. In his current condition, Jaxon was likely to burst into tears. He swallowed the rest of the tea quickly and set the mug on the table. “I’m gonna crash.”
“Do you want dinner?”
Ugh. “No. Not now. Maybe later?”
“I’ll make sure something’s available if you need it. And there’s nothing scheduled for tomorrow until the banquet, so sleep as late as you want.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Not caring that Reid was watching, Jaxon stood and began shedding clothes. He kept on his boxer briefs and crawled into bed. He wished he had someone to share it with, even if only for the night. Reid’s voice came from across the room. “I’ll be next door if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
The lights clicked off, and the door closed with a soft thud.
IF Jaxon dreamed, he remembered nothing. He glanced at the alarm clock and was surprised to discover it wasn’t even midnight. By the time he found a light switch and shambled to the bathroom, he realized he was starving. After pissing and washing his face, he poured a mug of tea from the barely tepid teapot and gulped it down. Still wearing nothing but his underwear, he opened the connecting door to Reid’s room.
Reid and Mariya sat on a love seat, their bodies so close she was practically on his lap. She was fully dressed, but he’d taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt. Mariya’s hand rested cozily on his upper arm, her mouth almost touching his ear.
Both of them moved only their heads when Jaxson took a step into the room. They stared at him, and Reid looked angry. “Jaxon—”
“You’re still awake, I see. Good for you.” Voice steady and cool as the Nebraska Sandhills in January. “I’m hungry.”
Mariya stood and smoothed her skirt, then straightened her hair. “I brought some food.”
“Of course you did. You’re a helpful lady.”
That made Reid glare, but Jaxon ignored him, just as Mariya pretended not to notice Jaxon’s underwear. She crossed the room to the desk, where three dome-covered plates sat, lifted the covers, and set them aside. “Do you want some as well?” she asked Reid.
“No.”
She handed one of the plates to Jaxon, who remained just inside the door. “It is special food from village in eastern part of country. We call it—”
“I don’t care what it’s called.” He bit into a hot dog–shaped piece of baked phyllo dough filled with a mixture of vegetables and minced meat. “Great,” he said with his mouth full. “Delish. You kids have a good night, now.”
Without another glance at Reid, Jaxon stomped into his own room. Yeah, he slammed the door—but who cared? It wasn’t as if he’d disturb any other guests.
Standing in the center of the floor and defiantly getting crumbs all over the carpet, Jaxon ate. Under ordinary circumstances, the food might have been tasty, but tonight it was dry and bitter. Despite that, he ate it all.
He was just debating whether to set the plate on a table or hurl it at the wall when the connecting door flew open. Jaxon wasn’t entirely surprised when Reid rushed in, grabbed his arm, and dragged him toward the bathroom, dish and all.
“Where’s Mariya?” Jaxon asked as they moved.
“Shut up.”<
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In the bathroom, Reid slammed the door, turned on the shower, and snatched the plate away. When he set the dish on the toilet lid, it clattered loudly but didn’t break.
“What’s your problem?” Jaxon demanded. “I wasn’t the one breaking the no-fraternizing rule.”
“I wasn’t fraternizing,” Reid snapped.
“Yeah? So what do you call it? Snuggling? Canoodling? Networking? Fucking your way to world peace?”
“We weren’t fucking!”
“Not yet,” Jaxon said sweetly. “And you know what? If you’re going to be running all that water anyway, I’m going to use it. I reek.” He stepped out of his underwear and into the shower. He yelped—Reid had set the control on cold—but by now Jaxon had figured out how to work the damn thing, and he twisted the knob to warmer.
Reid yanked open the shower door. “You’re being childish.”
“I’m taking a fucking shower.”
“I’m trying to do my job and you’re throwing tantrums.”
“I thought your job was assisting me!” Jaxon shouted. Then he stood completely under the stream, the better to ignore Reid.
Except it was hard to ignore Reid when he stepped—shoeless but otherwise fully clothed—into the shower and got right up in Jaxon’s face. “I am assisting you. And I’m protecting you. You have no fucking idea how much is at stake here. You don’t know what’s going on!”
“Maybe that’s because you won’t tell me!”
“I can’t tell you!”
“Right. Because I’m nothing but a stupid, bratty singer.” Jaxon spun around to face the shower controls. But as he reached for the soap, Reid grasped his shoulders and gently urged him to turn back.
“You’re not nothing,” said Reid, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the water. The anger had drained from his face, replaced by something different, a complex emotional mixture that Jaxon couldn’t decipher.