It was a miracle he’d been able to keep singing. Perhaps it was the song—which he’d been singing, thinking about Patrick—so he’d already had the man on his mind. All he’d wanted to do was put the guitar down, get off the stage, and cross the floor. But that was where clear thinking ended. Chance was torn between yanking the man in, kissing him senseless, and telling him that he couldn’t leave and that was that. And going the other direction, walking out of Sophia’s, getting into his car, and driving until he ran out of gas.
But he got through the song. He’d gone into one of his standard songs he could play in his sleep, only barely paying attention to it, watching out of the corner of his eye as Patrick sat down. It took a supreme effort to keep the scowl off his face when Sophia went over and talked to Patrick, but she didn’t stay long. A moment after that, he saw Rhys join Patrick, and it took everything Chance had in him to keep going.
He hadn’t even thought about what song he played next. His fingers started picking it before he thought it through. Half a dozen bars into the song, he seriously considered changing it but kept going anyway. The song about killed him, because it only reminded him too well that the one thing he loved most in the world, that he wanted most, wasn’t and never would be his.
By the time he’d finished, he knew he couldn’t sing anymore. He’d managed to excuse himself for a break and headed to the edge of the stage, only to be greeted by Sophia.
He refused to listen when she tried to tell him Patrick was miserable. He’d been with Rhys. Obviously, he’d found someone more worthy. Chance didn’t quite understand why he’d have brought Rhys there, though. Patrick really wasn’t a spiteful person, and he couldn’t imagine Patrick rubbing something like that in his face. But Chance couldn’t come up with any other reason Rhys would be there.
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud when Sophia answered, pointing toward the table Patrick was sitting at. “I asked him.”
Chance finally focused on Sophia when she stomped one foot and pointed again, pulling his attention from his ex-boyfriend. “What?”
“I asked him to bring Patrick.”
Chance shook his head, completely lost. “Who?”
Sophia sighed. “Rhys. I called him. I asked him to bring Patrick here.”
Chance scowled. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Because you’re being a fucking idiot!” she nearly shouted, throwing her hands up.
“Fuck you, I am not. He broke up with me, remember?” Chance asked, shaking his head again.
“Aw, darlin’. He didn’t want to.”
“Bullshit.” Chance started toward the bar, leaving Sophia to follow or not.
Of course she would. “Chance Dillon, you are driving me fucking nuts!” Sophia tugged on his arm, turning him around. “What on Earth makes you think that boy feels anything but pain over this?”
Chance blinked. “Well, let’s see. He broke up with me rather than face his family. He’s out at a club with Rhys—don’t give me that, I don’t believe for one minute that you asking him to bring Patrick here is the only reason they’re out together.”
Sophia scowled. “What the hell else would it be?”
Chance simply stared at her. “Really? I’d think you know how dicks and asses work.”
Sophia closed her eyes, and Chance could see her counting silently to herself. He opened his mouth to speak around number six, but she held up a finger. She finished at ten and opened her eyes again. “You are the most bullheaded man I know, Chance Dillon. And that’s saying something.” She shook her head. “He’s hurting, as much as you are. Talk to him.”
“No.” Chance turned and pointed at the taps, and Andy nodded. Chance looked back at Sophia and sighed. “Sophia, not everything’s a romance. Not everything works out happy in the end. He doesn’t want me. I’m not good enough, and I should have known that a long time ago. So… just… stop. Okay?” He took the beer Andy handed him, drank it down in one long pull, then picked up the water bottle that had been set next to the glass. “I’ll do the other set, but just… drop it.”
He was pretty sure he heard her grumble “bullshit” and then something about “men” as he walked away.
As he shut the sound storage door, he sighed. He’d reorganized all the cabling, separating anything even remotely bad, labeled everything, and organized every tiny item of sound equipment in storage. There was nothing else to do, at least for the moment.
He took the long way to the sound booth, pausing for a bottle of water at the crafty. He picked up a granola bar and ate it too, though he still had no appetite. But it would make Marcy happy, since she was expecting him at Pablo’s for dinner. She and Sophia were ganging up on him to make sure he ate and took care of himself. After his last show, Sophia had insisted on picking him up for lunch the next day. She’d stayed until Marcy had shown up, refusing to leave until he went along for dinner.
They’d been switching off like that ever since. He hadn’t been alone except for a shower and sleep. And the latter had been a battle royal. Sophia wanted him to stay with her and Andy at their house, but Chance had refused. He wouldn’t tell her he didn’t want to be that far away from Patrick, even if he couldn’t see the man. Finally, he’d had to promise to eat or call to get her off his back.
The one time both Sophia and Marcy had been busy, Chance thought he’d get a night alone. He could admit he wanted to mope, but he didn’t get the opportunity. About an hour after Sophia left, Angelo and Sebastian showed up to take him to dinner. He really didn’t want to go with them, had tried to tell them they were more Patrick’s friends, but Sebastian had just slapped him in the back of the head and tapped a foot until, with an eye roll, Chance had grabbed his keys.
He wanted to be pissed at all of them for their attitude, for treating him like a kid. But the truth was, he appreciated it. It was only their insistence that he get out of the apartment that kept him from going back to bed and not moving. Because that’s where Patrick was. In his dreams, in his sleep, he could remember when things were good.
When he got back out to the sound board, he saw the filming was halted for the moment as the crew moved stuff around. Selia smiled up at him. “How’re you doin’?”
Chance sighed. He was getting tired of that question. Everyone kept asking it. Marcy at Pablo’s. Sophia every time she called. Selia. Randy. Even Zach at the crafty and Mel in cleaning. “I’m fine. I’ve told you this.”
“No, you’re not, but I’ll let you lie to yourself. I need help on the board after this break. I was about to call for you.”
Chance frowned but nodded. “Okay.”
“There’s a couple things happening at the same time.” She picked up her sides and handed it to him.
The “NADIR” on the page caused a sharp stab in his chest, but he forced himself to ignore it and read the directions. “Yeah, I see what you mean.” He handed the sides back to her and settled into the other seat behind the board.
He was able to concentrate on the sound for a while, as Angelo and Sebastian were the focus of the scene. Then it cut to the assassin, and it took a few takes until Jack was satisfied with Hemmy’s part.
Then Patrick stepped forward to start his lines. Chance couldn’t look away, no matter how hard he tried. Patrick smiled, then laughed at something Rhys said before turning around and walking back across the set. In the back of his mind, he knew—knew—Patrick was acting. But that didn’t seem to make a difference to his heart.
Or his stomach as it did its now-familiar twist. It was only because Selia poked him that he realized he wasn’t paying attention to his job. He refocused on the board until he heard Jack call “CUT!”
Chance glanced up and stopped, unable to look away. Patrick wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t laughing. But he was talking to Rhys and Sebastian and certainly didn’t seem upset. He nodded at something Sebastian said, and then Rhys tilted his head toward the dressing rooms and Patrick nodded again. He waved at Sebastian and Ang
elo, who waved back, then turned away.
If Chance had been thinking clearly, he’d have seen the strain around Patrick’s eyes. If he’d been able to get past the hurt, he’d have noticed that Patrick held himself very stiffly, as if he was keeping himself together through sheer force of will. But he wasn’t thinking clearly; he wasn’t ready to get past the hurt. And so when Jack wrapped for the day and Selia said she had what she needed, he went the other direction, sure Patrick was already over him.
Patrick stepped into his dressing room, then closed the door, leaning back against it with his eyes closed. He let go of the act, the façade he’d kept up all afternoon to please Jack, to keep going. As he did, he flipped the lock while he counted first to ten, then twenty, and even thirty, but the pressure building in his chest wouldn’t go away. His stomach wouldn’t stop twisting, even when he got to forty. And when he got to sixty and still couldn’t breathe right, he gave up counting.
In his mind’s eye, he saw his future without Chance. He saw himself doing this, acting, not for his job but pretending to be a normal Patrick every single day. He saw himself waking up and never seeing the beautiful blue eyes open for him. He saw himself never touching, never smelling, never simply being near the one thing that truly made everything bright. And it was the bleakest thing he’d ever imagined.
He tried desperately to simply focus on taking air in and letting it out. Forcing himself to simply breathe. But his pounding heart was making that extremely difficult, and when he opened his eyes and his gaze landed on the sofa in front of him, the pressure in his chest exploded.
His breathing sped up, and he fought, fought with everything in him to keep it contained. He hadn’t given in yet, and he would be damned if he did now. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the couch, couldn’t seem to see anything but Chance’s face smiling down at him after they’d made love.
And he lost. All the tears he’d battled so valiantly with sleep and Jameson and sheer will for the last two and a half weeks spilled over, and he slid down the door, sitting in a tight ball, forehead landing on his knees. He was being shredded from the inside out. His heart was being squeezed in his chest. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than for it to end. No matter how that happened.
He gritted his teeth to hold in sounds he didn’t recognize, sounds he’d never heard coming out of him before. He bit his lip brutally to hold them in, but they escaped anyway, spurring the tears to fall faster and harder.
He’s gone. He’s gone and I did it. He’s gone and he’s not coming back, and oh God….
The words played over and over in his head. Patrick couldn’t hear anything but them on repeat. Those words and his voice with more of those horrible sounds.
So when someone touched him, he thought at first it was Chance, and hope bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t anything coherent, just a bright, indefinable hope.
But when he opened his eyes to Rhys’s brown instead of Chance’s blue, pain sharper and hotter than anything he’d felt yet stabbed through him, and he slammed his own eyes closed again. He couldn’t stop the sound that came out, try as he might. He curled tighter into himself, sliding over onto his side, and just gave up.
When he opened his eyes next, he was on the couch. His tunic and boots were off, and a blanket was over him. His head felt like it was stuffed with huge wads of cotton, and around the stuffing was a headache the size of O’ahu. His nose was stuffed up, and he felt… empty. Like there was nothing left inside of him.
“Welcome back.”
Patrick looked up to see Rhys sitting in the makeup chair, a paperback in his hand. He marked his place and set it aside, then crossed the room to squat next to the couch.
“What—” Patrick’s voice was rough, and he paused to clear it. “What… did you…?” He shook his head but stopped when the headache throbbed.
Rhys nodded. “Yeah, I got you onto the couch. You’re more solid than you look.”
“But… how?” Patrick scowled in confusion. “I mean, how’d you get in?”
“I take it you forgot about the other bathroom door?” He gave a half smile as he looked Patrick over. “How are you feeling?”
Patrick blinked and tried to think. “I… I don’t know.”
“That’s fair. Think you can get changed? So we can get you home?”
Patrick nodded and sat up. His head protested, and he dropped it into his hands. “Fuck,” he bit off.
“I’ll get you something for that. Hang on.”
Patrick couldn’t have moved yet anyway. His stomach did a flip-flop with the pain in his head, and the world tilted a little too much.
A moment later, Rhys’s hand appeared in front of his face with two pills on it. Patrick took them and the water bottle, downed the pills, then set the water aside.
Rhys sat next to him on the couch and put a hand on his back. Patrick hated that it felt good, that he wanted it. Needed, desperately, that simple touch. Because he didn’t deserve it. But he couldn’t bring himself to shrug it off either.
“World level again?” Rhys asked.
Patrick looked up, raising an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“Been there” was all Rhys would say, looking away.
But in that moment, Patrick understood. Rhys had lied to him during dinner that night. Not about letting Patrick go—he had done that, Patrick could see it in Rhys’s eyes. No, he’d lied to Patrick about how he got to that point. Rhys had gone through this. He’d felt exactly what Patrick was feeling now when he’d been trying to get over Patrick. Patrick remembered Rhys’s face throughout the season, the way Rhys had disappeared into his dressing room between scenes, the way he’d refused to meet Patrick’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, staring at Rhys and shaking his head. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t. It’s okay. Let’s get you home.”
But Patrick wouldn’t move right away. “No. God, Rhys…. How can you sit here like this?”
Rhys looked at him for a moment. “Because, no matter what else is or isn’t there between us, you are my friend, a friend I care about a lot, and I’m not going to let you go through this alone. And whether you want me or not—friend or otherwise—I’m going to be there for you.”
Patrick shook his head and dropped his eyes. “I….”
“Don’t. Don’t give me some shit about deserving it. We all deserve a good friend. If I have to go back to being an asshole toward you, I can. But I don’t want to.”
Patrick swallowed and looked up again. “I…. Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Think you can get changed now?”
Patrick nodded. “Yeah…. Thanks.”
Patrick stood in front of Sophia’s Wednesday night, staring at the door as if it would open on its own and tell him to walk in. He’d managed to convince Rhys he’d be okay for one night, that he really did need to be alone. After a long look and a promise to call if he needed anything, Rhys had dropped him at his apartment and headed to his own home. And left Patrick by himself for the first time since he broke down the day before. Rhys, much to Patrick’s bemusement, had slept on his floor the night before, refusing to leave him after the meltdown.
But Patrick needed to be alone now, needed to do this alone.
He forced himself to cross the sidewalk and step into the cool entryway of Sophia’s. A second door Patrick hadn’t noticed last time led into the bar from another direction. Patrick approached it and saw it opened into the opposite corner, not in direct line of sight of the stage.
Patrick slipped through and discovered a table in almost total darkness in the corner. He doubted sincerely Chance could see him from there, which was perfect. He didn’t think he’d get away with avoiding Sophia, but with any luck he could convince her to keep silent about him being there.
When the waiter came by, Patrick ordered a basic beer and watched as Chance finished tuning his guitar. There were only a few other people in the club yet, and he knew Chance would wait a l
ittle longer to see if anyone else showed up. It didn’t surprise Patrick when more than half the tables were filled within a very short while.
Chance didn’t introduce himself or the song, which was unusual. He simply started playing. Patrick watched the fingers move over the strings, picking the opening notes of one of the standards. But he didn’t pay too much attention to the song. He was remembering when those fingers touched and teased him. He was remembering when Chance used to hold him, wrap those arms around him, like he was the guitar.
He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, did his best to ignore the now-familiar squeezing his heart was doing, and wondered if it had been such a smart idea to come there, anyway. But he’d needed to see Chance, even if he couldn’t talk or touch. He’d known it would hurt.
He needed that too.
It was all he had left of Chance, aside from pictures, a CD, and the T-shirt. It was the only way to see the man because Chance was still staying out of sight at the studio. And Patrick had begun to think Chance jumped out a window, rather than using the lobby in their building.
Anything, Patrick was sure, to not see him.
Chance moved into “You’re Beautiful,” then “Ain’t No Sunshine” again. Each new song meant something in some way, talked about love—like “Make You Feel My Love”—or losing that love, and it squeezed Patrick’s heart tighter. Every time he heard the pain in Chance’s voice, his stomach twisted. And it was there in every single song. Even in some of the songs Chance usually sang, Patrick saw hurt behind the blue eyes. Patrick wanted, so badly, to take that pain from Chance, take it on himself. He hated to see Chance like this, hated more that he’d caused it, even if he knew it was the right thing to do. And each new song only made it worse.
But he stayed.
He hid himself even deeper in the corner, taking a small bit of comfort in the darkness. He’d never have admitted out loud that the moisture on his face had nothing to do with sweat. But at least the dark corner kept him from having to lie.
No Sacrifice Page 57