Loverman

by B. D. Roca

  Like being able to pay for a private room in a private hospital and not blink twice.

  Like it helping to save the life of the man he’d realised—almost too fucking late because he was that fucking stupid—it would rip his heart out to lose.

  Priorities. And opening the garage door back in Balmain yesterday and finding himself in the middle of a bloody Tarantino movie had shown Kemp starkly exactly what his were.

  Number one, a certain blue-eyed Charles Augustin Eckart Durant right now lying looking like a total GQ motherfucker in his hospital gown in that narrow bed. Thank Christ, a fucking GQ motherfucker with a good steady pulse and some colour back in his face.

  Not that Charles was currently looking exactly camera-ready. He had bruises across his face and a cut finely stitched into his hairline that made Kemp angry just to look at it. Bruises under that gown too, which would hurt like all hell once Charles really decided to try and get up and move around.

  Even as Kemp sat by the bed, eyes gritty and mouth tasting of the heinous coffee they had here, Charles moved and shifted.

  He gave a grunt of pain, and his eyes opened. It wasn’t the first time he’d regained consciousness since that wild rant in the kitchen.

  Kemp had dug the wallet out of Charles’ chinos as he lay there on the kitchen floor, waved it in his face to calm him down, once more in the middle of the 000 call, and nearly had a heart attack when the guy had passed out again.

  Jesus. That wallet—or rather, the USB it seemed to hold—had a fierce grip on the man and a connection to Viva he couldn’t even begin to think about right now.

  Charles had ranted at him in the ER about it, in the space between the doctors and nurses. Later there had been a looming police presence. Kemp had zipped the wallet into an inner pocket of his jacket. He’d also made an ER phone call at Charles’ request to Charles’ security dude, a tough, urbane man by the name of Edward Williams. Kemp guessed him to be ex-military, sharp suit or no. He’d turned up at warp speed but kept out of the way while the police spoke to Charles. In the background, Williams had watched it all with a cool, focused stare.

  Kemp liked that. He liked anyone around Charles that looked to keep him safe.

  Charles had given the cops a statement that pretty much said nothing. Kemp couldn’t tell them much either.

  Once the room no longer felt like a transit lounge, he found Williams waiting for him out in the corridor.

  “Perhaps we can grab a coffee,” the man said. “There’s a room down there for visitors’ families.”

  Kemp had nodded. Charles had been knocked out by a painkiller, so he had a few minutes.

  In the sunny little room, Williams wanted to know what had happened. Kemp told him. No reason not to.

  “I walked in, they were fighting in the kitchen, the guy knocked Charles out, I slammed him with Zelda.”

  For the first time, Williams looked bewildered. “Excuse me?”

  “Zelda.” Kemp raked his tangled hair back. Any other circumstances, he would have laughed. “My guitar. I name my guitars. She did some damage too, but the fucker still got to his feet and ran for the door. I could have gone after him, but shit, I was more worried about Charles. What do you think it was? The place was empty all week. You think the guy scoped that and picked today for a burglary?”

  The man looked at him for a long moment, considering. Finally, he said, “I think that’s the line the police will be following. Perhaps you should have a conversation with Mr. Durant. He knows more than I about exactly what happened.”

  Which left Kemp sitting in a hospital room the next morning looking at Charles as he stirred awake. Kemp drank some more foul coffee and considered that very damned enigmatic statement. It wasn’t much of a distraction from the nerves hitting him. What he was planning to do scared the hell out of him. Way worse than fronting a gig in a fucking arena.

  When Charles finally shifted in the bed, wincing as he hauled himself up an inch or two, Kemp drained the last of that crap coffee and put the cup aside. He sat forward, elbows on knees, eyes devouring him. “Charles, thank Christ.” He dragged in a breath, tried not to give in to the crazy, fearful thud of his heart. “We’ve got to talk, Charles, about exactly what happened. But before that, one other thing.”

  Charles looked wary. “Yes?”

  The word sounded rough, forced out. Kemp didn’t blink, eyes fixed on that bruised, beautiful face.

  It was like taking a huge jump, flying, out into the void, and having faith that there would be something at the other side to soften the landing. Some brand of gravity to save you.

  Someone’s arms to catch you. Kemp didn’t exactly have faith. He did it anyway.

  “I love you, Charles.” He couldn’t breathe, but went on, because it was the raw truth. “And I thought I’d lost you yesterday, and I don’t want to live with the voices of what I should have done, what I should have said. So laugh your arse off if you want, but I love you. I think I always have.”

  A roughly indrawn breath, and then, shakily, “Always?”

  Those guarded eyes had widened a degree, but…

  “Well…” Charles wasn’t mocking him, and that was something. The world hadn’t exploded either. Kemp said slowly, truthfully, “Well, perhaps not right at the start. Not insta. You were a bloody shit at times. And—and, well, you were off limits. I can’t explain why, but I didn’t think I had the right to fall for you, let alone tangle with you, but I did anyway, because, fuck, well… my good intentions don’t last long around you.” He choked on a laugh. Nerves. “But despite that… yeah, despite that, Chaz, you had me. Always. Whether or not you wanted me, you had me. And yeah… I love you. I always bloody will. I realised that yesterday. I would have died if anything had happened to you. It would have killed me. So yes, for better or worse, you got me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the brief silence that fell where I love you too could have fallen, a couple of nurses came in. A moment later the doctor appeared.

  Charles was silent. Kemp didn’t know what he’d expected. An answer? A response to that statement? Instead, he waited. Before being released, Charles was put through the kind of thorough examination that seemed prompted as much by his financial and social clout as his injuries. They’d been concerned about the possibility of concussion.

  Now they seemed equally concerned about a lawsuit if every i was not dotted and t crossed.

  Eventually Charles was told he could leave and given several pages of aftercare instructions.

  Williams had arrived and stepped into the room once the medical staff had departed. “The media are aware there’s been an incident.” His eyes went to Kemp. “Given the level of interest that’s been generated, I don’t think your Balmain property is going to be an appropriate place for Mr. Durant to convalesce. At least in terms of securing privacy.” His gaze returned to Charles, now sitting, dressed and looking impatient. “There is the Vaucluse house, but—”

  “That will be fine.” Charles was dismissive. “It’s been cleaned up since the break-in, correct? Then it will do. Only this time, lock it down tight.”

  Kemp froze at that, a dozen questions on his lips at the break-in at the Vaucluse place. That gem certainly hadn’t been mentioned to the cops yesterday. He continued to listen as Charles gave some sheerly goddamned bizarre instructions to Williams. Something about retrieving an old laptop from Kemp’s and delivery instructions for it to Charles’ official home—a house that Kemp had never so much as set foot in.

  Seemed there was media lurking about the hospital. No surprise given the public profile of them both. They were ushered out through a side entrance, and Kemp had to admit, having your very own personal security team had its advantages. The black Range Rover that met them was chauffeured by yet another suited ex-military type, this one younger. Kemp had used security before, sure, but only on tour or during gigs. This was next level.

  While Williams rode shotgun, Kemp sat in the back with Charles, wondering wha
t the hell was going on behind that perfectly cut profile. He would have reached for Charles’ hand, but given the lack of response to his big declaration—which he didn’t regret, but which now seemed incidental—he did not. Instead, with every passing minute he was even more aware of the huge gulf between them.

  A gulf that he’d allowed himself to forget when Charles pushed back into his life. The kind of gulf that came with harbourside mansions, a private security team, and an inheritance that made its owner richer than god.

  Sure enough, there were news crews outside the high, solid gates of the Vaucluse place. The gates peeled open and they drove through, the yells blurred by the dark, tightly shut vehicle windows. Once in the grounds, they were greeted by yet more security.

  The house itself was a lot less flashy and way smaller than many in the area—what Kemp had been able to glimpse of them over the walls. It was a sprawling mid-century place, one of polished hardwood floors and massive expanses of floor-to-ceiling windows. He was blown away by the long glass-walled living room with its multimillion-dollar view out over a deep, fiercely blue bay studded with boats. A terraced, surprisingly wild garden led down to a glimpse of a swimming pool down by the water and a private jetty.

  Jesus.

  He glanced back into the room. Simple future, mostly mid-century, a lot of it Danish or Scandinavian he guessed. Long tan leather couches, large, colourful paintings on the walls. A couple of big, squashy leather seating cushions on the floor. A broad, stacked-stone fireplace with built-in bookcases crammed with books—that actually looked read—on either side of it. No big-screen TV, but he guessed there would be a set-up in another room. All of it more about comfort than show, but pretty fucking stunning for all of that. Books, a blinding view, and a calm haven seemed the priority in here.

  No wonder Charles had winced at his second-hand sofas and battered amp bedside tables.

  “Can you collect some clothing for Kemp, as well?” Charles was saying.

  Kemp’s eyebrows rose a degree. He’d been wondering, not sure if he was invited, and not looking forward to having to ask.

  “You’ll be staying here,” Charles said, matter-of-fact. “You can’t go back to the Balmain place… well, not for a week or two. Not until the attention has died back.”

  “And we’ve ascertained exactly what prompted the break-ins and the attack on yourself,” Williams said.

  Charles’ mouth tightened. The two exchanged a look that spoke volumes. “Yes, of course.” Something flashed between the two of them, something Kemp did not understand but which he was damned well certain he was going to get to the root of. “Well, that covers it all. One of the men can collect those items, and you’ll be accompanying me to that meeting we discussed. It’s set up. We leave after lunch.”

  The guy did not look happy about the whole thing, but Kemp handed over his keys and just asked for the luggage he’d left in his car from the Three Cats stay. It held enough clothing to get him through, and his wardrobe was the least of his concerns.

  Finally they were alone, but for the guard left on security detail prowling around outside.

  Kemp turned to Charles. “Just what gives, Charles? This place was broken into as well? Seriously? What’s going on?”

  That big hearts-and-flowers declaration back in the hospital room might never have happened.

  Charles looked every inch the rich man’s son he was. Self-possessed, distant. Well, except for the bruises across his face and the occasional flinch when he moved. That just made Kemp’s anger spike. He wanted to beat the shit out of that would-be thief. He wanted to know where the fucker was. Until he was found, Charles wasn’t safe. Kemp’s tension ramped.

  “I need you to bring Viva here.”

  Of all the things Charles might have said, that was possibly the most unexpected. Then again, there was the whole bloody USB in the wallet thing going on. Back in that kitchen yesterday, half-fucking-dead, Charles had ranted about Viva and some USB.

  They hadn’t been alone long enough to discuss it. They were now. “Yeah, well, what the fuck gives about Viva, Charles? What was so urgent about that USB?”

  Charles shook his head and ignored Kemp’s frustration.

  “Not yet. I have to speak to her,” he continued. “They should be back with my laptop in an hour or two. Can you arrange that? Get her here? Maybe later this afternoon? Once this other business is done?”

  Turned out, Viva and Red had taken a detour on their drive back from the vineyard to stay at a little motel near the beach. They’d headed back when a reporter had rung her up asking what she knew about the break-in at Kemp’s place and the attack on Charles.

  Fuck. Kemp hadn’t even thought she might get dragged into the circus of it. Checking his phone, he could see she’d been trying to contact him for hours. Her genuine concern for the guy actually made him choke up, and bloody hell, getting sentimental wasn’t exactly Kemp’s thing.

  “She’ll be here late this afternoon,” he told Charles.

  He’d found him out on the terrace at the back of the house. Classic Ray-Bans shielding his eyes, Charles was stretched out on a lounger, grabbing the sun. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Bullshit. Kemp pulled up another lounger and sat down on the edge of it. He reached out, but Charles drew away, sat up with a wince. Kemp gritted, “Fine, you clearly wish I hadn’t made that fucking crazy declaration back at the hospital. Okay. But you can’t stop me getting angry when I see you like this. I—”

  “Did you mean it?”

  The words were a tense undertone. Kemp still caught them.

  He said flatly, “Yes. Of course.”

  Charles took a deep, shaken breath. He removed the Ray-Bans, folded them in his hand. “Then if you—if you care the way you said you did, bear with me.” Kemp began to speak, and he cut across. “Wait. I have to go out to that meeting. I’ll have security, but I’d like you to go with me. Please. I just—I can only focus on this right now. Please. Later, after we’ve returned, after I’ve spoken with Viva, then… then you and I can really talk.”

  Kemp frowned. Charles still looked wrecked. “Of course.”

  Blue eyes flickered down over Kemp’s jacket. “You still have my wallet?”

  That fucking wallet. “Yes.” Kemp unzipped his jacket pocket and returned the slip of black leather to Charles. “Okay?” he bit out. Christ, the anger hitting him. “You’d better explain this to me soon.”

  He felt locked out. And what the fuck gave with that thing?

  He wasn’t imagining that curt nod, that look of relief as Charles shoved the wallet away in a pocket. Fuck it. He sat on the edge of Charles’ lounger and smoothed his fingers through that golden hair, holding his head still as he brushed his mouth against Charles’. Charles stiffened, whether from pain as he shifted under that soft kiss, or simply from surprise, Kemp did not know.

  He did know that Charles clenched a fist in Kemp’s long hair, holding him close. He whispered against Kemp’s lips, “One thing—the meeting’s private. You’ll have to stay in the car. Yes?”

  A fierce, ugly spike of anger hit.

  Kemp drew back enough to stare at him narrowly. “So I’m good enough to tag along but not trusted enough to actually sit in on this thing? Fine. I don’t give a fuck what shady shit’s being pulled. I don’t give a fuck if it’s even legal. I just don’t want you landing in the hospital again.”

  “Trust me, Kemp, you don’t want to know. And I’ll be safe. There’ll be no repeats of yesterday. Ever.”

  Whatever this meeting was about, Kemp waited, feeling useless. The driver had pulled the black Range Rover into an underground parking garage in the midst of Sydney’s central business district. Now the guy stared stoically through the windscreen. Kemp answered a few of his neglected texts, soothed alarmed messages from the band, and finally returned to scanning the looming empty concrete bays.

  Charles and his security chief had headed in the direction of the lifts. As Charles
had made so very clear, the meeting was private business.

  He would never put up with this shit from anyone else. Kemp forced himself to take a deep breath and concentrate on the sole positive: Charles was alive and well, and without the concussion the medicos had feared. Otherwise Kemp’s mind kept replaying that movie from hell, Charles scrambling with that fucker in the kitchen, Charles getting slammed full force into the cabinets. Blood and grunts and the sounds of a fierce scuffle.

  Breaking his guitar across the intruder’s head and shoulders had been animal instinct. Pity it hadn’t been something heavier. He wanted the guy dead.

  Well over an hour later, the lift doors in the distance peeled open and the two men appeared. The guy behind the wheel slipped out and held open the rear passenger door for Charles. Kemp’s gaze was pinned to his face.

  Sunglasses back on, the bruises mottling that golden skin still told a terrifying story.

  No wonder Charles was doing everything he could to avoid paparazzi cameras. Questions would be asked that he clearly did not want answered.

  Seatbelts fastened, the driver started the vehicle up, and Charles’ head tilted back as he rested it against the leather upholstery. His eyes slid shut behind the Ray-Bans.

  He said flatly, “That was bad. Very bad.”

  “Are you okay?” Kemp asked.

  He reached a hand out, and this time, Charles took it. “I am now.”

  They sat in silence, hands linked, while the Range Rover headed back through the city traffic to the blue skies, high walls, and locked-tight security of Vaucluse.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kemp’s hand in his felt so good, the fingers long and firm and strong, fingertips slightly and erotically calloused from guitar strings. For the first time in days, Charles felt almost safe. The tension gripping his body leached out, degree by degree, until it became mere background noise. The meeting had been ugly. Eyes closed, he felt the faint changes in the road surface that the vehicle’s superb suspension could not quite absorb.