by A. F. Henley
He might be good-looking. He might be sexy. But Doren was obviously a bit of an egomaniac if he thought he could make someone feel like an ass for what was, August had by then decided, a silly little indiscretion. August lifted his chin and set his jaw. "Not if you expect me to answer."
Doren had grinned at the reply and suddenly all the self-important-ism melted away and he was back to the sweet, gorgeous thing August thought he was when he'd first walked in. Doren had winked in that cheesy, hateful, yet oh-so-sexy way that cocky guys always seemed to manage so effortlessly. "Okay, August. Talk to you soon then."
So that had to be a good sign, right? He hadn't been totally dismissed? He'd been glad to be the first one called in. The wait had been long enough as it was and the day was already half over. At least the apartment would be empty. His roommate, Guy, didn't start class until eleven a.m. so he'd be already gone. At the same time it was kind of a letdown. It would have been nice to gloat about meeting Doren. That was going to get him a few days of jealous questions even if he didn't get the job.
He took the stairs two at a time as he laughed at the thought. Even if? Why was he teasing himself with the idea? He wasn't going to get the job. He didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of matching wits with any of the rock zombies from the lobby. Or maybe—he nodded at the grease-smeared door of level six, pushing it open with his sleeve-covered fist—maybe what he should be thinking was that he just didn't have the capability to lower himself to their level.
The door to the apartment was no cleaner than the door of the stairwell and was wrestled open in the same slippery, cloth-sheathed manner, while the phone from within pleated sadly. He should probably run for it; no doubt Guy had forgotten his notes or his textbook or his goddamn student I.D. and needed August to immediately drop everything and rush said item over. At August's own expense and trouble, of course. Instead, he let the phone die off to voicemail, clucking his tongue at the unexpected click instead of the usual frazzled chirps and squawks of his roommate's harassed voice. Then his cell phone started.
It only took a quick look at the display to know the number his heart had already memorized and August's chest skipped painfully. "Relax," he mumbled. "They're probably calling everybody just to say thanks for your time, but ..." He took a deep breath and pressed the talk key.
"Hello? Can I … help … I mean, August speaking."
Diana's smooth voice bubbled out of the receiver. "August, hi! I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time. Are you driving? I tried you at home but I couldn't get you, so I hope you don't mind me calling you on your cell?"
"No, no. I'm good." August shook his head at himself. He couldn't help it. His hands were shaking so hard it was hard to hold the phone. His heart was tap-dancing.
"Oh, excellent!"
Excellent? Excellent that I'm good, he thought, or excellent that I'm available? He closed his eyes and struggled with his reasoning. He wanted this. So was he just hearing the smile in Diana's voice? Or was it really there?
"So, I was talking to Doren and I have another question for you, if you don't mind."
August's voice came out too high and timid. "Please, anything. Go ahead."
"Would you be available for travel this Sunday?"
The line was quiet but August could hear Diana smiling again. And how that was even possible through silence he wasn't going to try and figure out. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"Which part? The Sunday or the travel?"
He laughed, a high-pitched, nervous sound. "I guess both?"
Diana replied in kind, her chuckles bouncing over the phone line like a little rubber ball. "I'm playing with you, August. You got the job!"
August didn't even try to find a chair. He sat down on the floor. Hard. "I—I did? Thanks. I guess …"
Another laugh. "You guess? Come on, August! I was expecting a little more drama at least."
"Sorry," he struggled to speak through a throat that was suddenly dry, "I'm not much of a drama person."
"Good. Seriously. I can't even tell you how grateful I am for that fact," Diana said. "Congratulations, August. I look forward to working with you. But to get back to my previous question, Doren really does need you to travel on Sunday if you're interested in the job. Is that going to be too soon for you? Will you be able to pull it off?"
August had to stop himself from laughing out loud. Sorry, he thought, I'll have to try and fit it around my really busy schedule of doing … oh, that's right, nothing. I have no life. "I think I'll be okay. But, you mean he really does expect me to travel with him? Doesn't it make more sense to be working from the office?"
"Nope." Diana's voice was firm. "That's not the kind of assistant Doren is looking for. We already have lots of office staff. Doren wants someone to be there when he needs something, kind of a go-boy, if you know what I mean. He runs into a lot of issues on the road and he needs someone there to respond, review, and correct things immediately. He needs someone to be there for him and him alone. Not planning the tour or arranging marketing, or whatever people seem to get sucked into doing when they're here at the office. Which is one of the reasons why, as we discussed at the interview, that you will be working for Doren directly and not for the label. Are you comfortable with that, August? Because if you're not, you need to tell me now, before you start. I don't need to be stuck trying to make arrangements home for a suddenly unimpressed assistant around everything else we'll be trying to do."
August blinked hard, and then frowned. "Yes, that's fine. Shall I meet you at the studio on Sunday or what?"
"We'll send the bus for you. I have your address here and it looks pretty simple to find. Can you be out front of the building around seven?"
"Absolutely," August nodded pointlessly. "See you Sunday."
"Wait!" Diana laughed, and August had to bring the phone back to his ear. "Don't you want to know how long you're going for? Or what your salary will be?"
Oh, God, August frowned at himself, keeping the moan of self-disgust inside his head. What was wrong with him? What had happened to his calm level-headedness? His self-control? He took another breath and forced himself to act his age. "Of course. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a little frazzled at the good news. Please, go ahead."
There were too many details for August to remember them all. A comfortable salary, that would help, and they'd be gone for a while—at least six weeks, maybe twelve. But the more things Diana told him, the more things he tried to cram into his skull, the more they seemed to slip out of his ears and fall to the floor, lost forever. At the end of the call August wasn't convinced he'd be able to tell his own mother when his first payday was. Or even what their first stop was, for that matter.
"Oh, and August?" Diana said finally. "I was asked by Doren to tell you something of the utmost importance."
Just the mention of Doren's name brought new swirls of panic to August's stomach. He gripped the receiver, anxious to hear the words that had come directly from Doren's lips and for him alone. "Yes?"
"He said, and I quote 'Tell him to dress casual. This is rock and roll, not accounting. Get rid of that cursed suit.'" Diana paused, gauging August's reaction. "Sorry."
The words flew out before he had a chance to stop them. "He's an asshole." With a wince August caught the tip of his tongue and bit the offensive muscle. Had he really just done that? Did he just call his new boss an asshole? To the man's Administrative Manager, nonetheless? "I'm so sorry, Diana. I didn't mean that."
The phone crackled with Diana's laughter. "Yes you did. And you're right. He is a diva and an ass." Her voice got quieter, more serious. "You sure you're up to this, August?"
"Yes," August breathed the word, relief obvious. He mustered up as much confidence as he could manage. "Yes, I can do this. He'll never know a better assistant than what he’s going to have with me. I'm one-hundred-percent positive."
And he was. For the most part anyway. He never did anything without giving it his all. Besides, it was Doren. There was no way
he was going to let himself walk away from an opportunity like this. How would he ever live with himself? He didn't deserve to even consider a job in the music industry if he was willing to let something like this slip through his fingers. "You can count on me."
"I hope so," Diana said, "I really, really hope so."
The Long and Winding
Road
Doren
He leaned back against the couch of the bus and closed his eyes. It had been a long ride, almost eight hours, but he didn't mind traveling like this. It was relaxing: no phones, no paperwork, no people poking their heads into the doorway and wanting something, needing something, absolutely-having-to-have-him-do-something right that very minute. The original plan had been for him to fly down and meet the rest of the guys and the equipment at the first venue. He was mostly a one man show, the rest of the guys hired musicians, so Anton had said there was no point in being dragged around by bus for hours on end. Doren had outright refused. That's not how a body went on tour. And Doren wasn't going to miss a single part of the experience. If it all dried up on him in six months or a year he wanted to be able to tell his mates one day that he'd done it all while he had the chance. Besides, the bus was pretty sweet. Big comfy couches, kitchenette, bar and bathroom—he wasn't exactly roughing it.
He looked down at his new assistant, fast asleep on his shoulder. August was going to be pissed with himself when he realized where he'd spent the last hour or so. Doren didn't mind. It gave him a chance to get a good look.
August was cute: nice face, slim body, awesome ass even in hideously tailored off-the-rack slacks, not to mention a mouth that made Doren hard just by looking at it. But none of those things explained the draw Doren felt, that tingle in his sub-conscious, the pull that Doren felt when he caught August's eyes with his own. He loved the way August seemed to go all on-guard when Doren had his attention, and the way August bit the inside of his cheek when he was trying not to say something that he desperately wanted to.
It was odd. And cool. But it was the oddity that was making Doren nervous. It wasn't like he didn't have his choice of hot bodies. Men, women, potentially eithers or boths, were coming out of the woodwork now, falling over their own feet to get into his bed. He had no reason whatsoever to fight anyone for attention. Yet, for some reason, that was exactly what Doren wanted to do. He wanted August's attention—all of it—and that wasn't a good place for Doren to be. He hadn't grown up with a lot, had been poor as dirt for most of his life. When one grew up in foster homes and government centers, one learned quickly that you either got out or you got stuck. He'd gotten out. But he'd worked hard to do it. For that reason alone he tended to fall to the wrong side of self-important too often. If he asked for something, he wanted it. And he wanted it right then and there, without question or argument. He gave attitude. He didn't get it.
Yet as quiet and awkward as August was, it was obvious the man had a mind of his own and wasn't afraid to use it. Like when they'd shown up at the apartment to pick August up. August had been waiting, like Diana had directed him to. He'd had his luggage outside, all ready to go, with his identification in order and his paperwork completed and signed, just like he'd been told. He'd even, as directed, been dressed casually, with jeans and a rock-tee of The Smiths, one of Doren's personal favorites. But over it all August had worn the jacket for that damn suit. Doren could tell by the glint in August's eye when he saw Doren looking at it that August had done it on purpose, too. So had it been wrong for him to take offense? Was it wrong that he had done what any man who needed to assert superiority would have done in the same position? Was it a bad thing that he had pulled rank?
Perhaps, Doren considered, making August take the jacket off right then had there had been a little much. Maybe insisting that August would not be allowed to step one foot on the bus before the offensive clothing was gone had crossed some boundaries. One thing was very clear, however. August had been furious. And while August had fumed in silence, Doren had stood his ground, eyes mocking, mentally egging August on. How far could he push before August told him to fuck off? Considering August had to force himself to stutter words since the moment they had meant, Doren thought it might be fun to see if August could get a little spicy when nudged.
He hadn't. He'd stood there, stoically steaming, and taken the jacket off. So Doren had pushed harder. For no good reason—none at all—just to see if he could away with it, Doren had stepped off the bus, reached for the jacket, and then dropped it on the sidewalk. It had still been on the walkway, a deserted, crumpled pile of cloth, when they'd driven away.
August hadn't spoken a word while he was shown around the bus. He remained quiet as he was introduced to the guys who would be playing for Doren on the tour. It wasn't until they were back at the front of the bus with the sun streaming in through the windows that Doren noticed the defeated expression in August's eyes. And it had made his stomach tighten like he was about to be sick. He'd been expecting anger, playful taunting, maybe even some flirtatious back and forth to make the drive go a little quicker; not hurt feelings. He'd been swept with the urge to stop August, pull him aside, and whisper that he was sorry. But that wasn't going to happen. Not there. Not in front of everyone. So instead he offered August a drink, and August had merely lifted his chin, took a breath, and looked past Doren instead of at him. "No. That's my job."
Then he'd gotten up, grabbed Doren a beer, selecting the brand that was piling up beside Doren's chair already and popped the lid. "Glass?"
Doren had shaken his head, feeling strangely chastised, and they'd sat without conversation while August made notes in his planner. August had fallen asleep a few hours later while Doren was playing with the guitar, strumming the strings slowly and methodically, letting the guitar weep to the hum of the tires. Doren had finally put it down an hour ago, hoping to get some shut-eye himself, and when he'd leaned back against the couch August's head had slipped against his shoulder. Doren's response to August's closeness had been immediate: all those light curls against his cheek, August's breath on his neck, August's chest, much firmer than it looked, pressed against his arm—and it was total madness, Doren was sure of it. If August had been a groupie he would have made a move right then and there, no matter who else was on the bus or what they were doing. But he wasn't. August was his assistant—his employee. And how he was going to deal with that fact with the way his body had felt at the moment, Doren didn't have a single clue.
He knew one thing though; it was going to be a long trip if he didn't get a hold of himself.
August
The bus shuddered and slowed and August opened his eyes to still-dark skies.
"Morning, sunshine."
The closeness of Doren's voice shocked him and he looked up quickly, confused and displaced, the color flooding his cheeks instantly. Oh, God, no. Please no … "I'm so sorry," August muttered, struggling upright. "You should have just pushed me away."
"Are you kidding me? You can fall asleep on my shoulder any time," Doren teased, his eyes roving over August as if August was breakfast being served just for him.
The door opened in front of them and the bus driver walked through the cabin, eyes on the floor, doing his best to pretend he couldn't hear the conversation. August watched the expression change in Doren's face, watched Doren's eyes shield over before Doren leaned in close and spoke, just a little louder, a little more cocky, "Next time why don't you try it in my lap?"
August pulled back, disgusted, and with a quick snap of heel to floor and a stiffening of spine, Doren stood and left the bus. Within minutes August could hear the busy sounds of people digging out luggage and the casual laughter of the musicians. He needed to get his ass up, get himself in gear and make sure all of Doren's stuff got where it needed to be, check the room was up to par and ready. Instead he sat for a long stretch of minutes, staring blankly at the front of the hotel.
"I've made a mistake," August told himself, listening to his voice echo in the empty vehicle.
There was a time in August's life when he stood back and let people do what people did without fighting back. He was raised to let his parents make the decisions, to listen to his superiors and smile and nod. Stand with the crowd, not against it. Be part of the scene, but never fight it. It had made both his parents very comfortable. His father was an Executive Director at a marketing firm. His mother was the Distributions Manager at a cosmetics company. They both went to church on Sunday and were active in their community. In fact, they spent far more time on work and society than they'd ever spent with him. When August finally worked himself free of that knot, retreating to college to pursue music as not just an escape but as a career, he'd been convinced he'd finally get a chance to shed himself of smug, self-righteous posturing. College had proved that falsehood immediately. The professors, the staff, even the other students had been lousy with it. They were either better than everyone else, knew more than everyone else, or just downright full of themselves. His roommate had been a nightmare. His job had been a joke. Then this. This job. That had seemed like a perfect way to round things up and get himself back on stride … and all he'd ended up with was more crap. The hero he'd admired behind the gloss and glitz of advertisements and interviews was just another self-important, smug prick with an indulgence for showing off in front of a crowd.
Maybe it was time to go home, accept his father's suggestion of an entry-level position and dig his heels into becoming a marketing guru; sell his soul for the promise of a forty-hour workweek and weekends off, buy a house in the suburbs, and wait for death.