Beyond the Footlights, page 15
At the word “dog,” the animal wandered over and sat, plopping his ass on Kilmer’s feet, almost knocking him over with the weight he tossed haphazardly against Kilmer’s legs. So much trust that Kilmer would catch his hairy, oddly attentive ass.
Kilmer narrowed his eyes. “You never used to like me this much.” He stroked the dog’s head. “I never liked you.” Which was not like him, really. He liked animals, but he’d taken an instant dislike of this one in particular. “He brought home a dog to love because he couldn’t love me?” And then he’d never given the animal a name. How did that make any sense?
Of course, the dog wasn’t forthcoming with any answers. Completely unhelpful. Then the back door banged and the dog got up, yammered in his weird not-barking way, and Jacko’s memory curled around him and sank back into his bones, cold and unhelpful.
“We’re going to your boyfriend’s fuckin’ gig,” Vance snarled.
Len followed him in, grinning. “Woot!”
Kilmer tucked the bell and key into his pocket and nodded, trying hard to ignore the soft tinkle. “Cool. Thanks, Van.”
“Yeah.” Vance eyed him. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Kilmer picked up a hammer. There had to be something needing a good hammering.
VANCE DIDN’T much like the sullen turn of Kilmer’s mood. He should be happy, shouldn’t he? He got what he’d wanted. Vance was going to hear his friend sing. He’d say all the right encouraging things to the guy and it would be fine.
The afternoon was a quiet one, though. Kilmer kept to himself, only talking enough to communicate what they needed to do as they cleaned up the remains of a previous demolition attempt and continued dismantling what was left. Whoever had done the demo hadn’t really been very systematic about it.
“So,” he said as they were putting the tools away and gathering up the last of the drywall bits. “This the sort of work we can expect from your—”
“Tanner,” Kilmer said, clearly irritated. “His name is Tanner. Why are you being such a prick about this?”
“You just came out of—”
“Forget I asked,” Kilmer said. “Just—” He shook his head and clawed his fingers through his hair. “Forget the whole fucking thing. Forget me and my stupid ideas. Go home. Fuck your boy. Do whatever.”
“Kil.” Vance moved toward his friend, not at all surprised when Kilmer moved back, like there was something invisible but very solid keeping Vance at arm’s length.
“Van, really, just don’t, okay? I don’t want to do this, keep hashing through everything. Look.” He stalked off down the short hall, and Vance was about to follow when he reappeared carrying a box full of—oh shit.
“Jesus, TMI, man,” Len said, glancing into the box as Kilmer passed him.
“It’s trash,” Kilmer spat. “Jacko destroyed it all. Everything.” He dumped the box into the can they had been tossing the drywall pieces and splintered wood into. “He fucked everything.”
And wasn’t that just the statement to end all statements.
Kilmer drew a shuddering breath and threw the empty cardboard box across the room. It hit the front door and fell to the ground, a little crooked now, where it toppled onto its side. “I don’t want to keep picking at it all,” Kilmer said. “So yeah, I was with Tanner last night, and you know what? It was great. It was refreshing. He let me do whatever the hell I wanted, and he made me smile. Made me laugh, even. So if you have a problem with that, then maybe you shouldn’t come see him play, because I don’t want to drag every-fucking-thing Jacko did around with me everywhere I go. I just want to listen to a friend sing, maybe dance a bit, and get on with my frickin’ life.” He pulled in another breath, still ragged, still uneven and too shallow, but plowed on. “I kicked him out. I’m renoing the house. I’m doin’ what people do after a breakup, Van. I’m gettin’ on. Help me do that or get the fuck outta my way.”
There wasn’t much Vance could do or say in the face of this. Kilmer really thought he was doing what was best. He wanted—no, needed—to believe that. Vance wasn’t doing him any favors arguing with every step he thought he was taking toward healing.
And maybe a part of him sort of liked Tanner and the way the guy had sheltered Kilmer as much as he could from Vance’s ire. Maybe he thought the singer was not so very bad for Kilmer. Maybe Vance didn’t want Kilmer to rebound into a guy Vance thought might be good for him longer term.
Maybe Vance was a little more jealous than he wanted to admit over Tanner. More so than he had ever felt over Jacko.
“Jacko wasn’t right for you,” he blurted.
Kilmer just looked at him like he’d suddenly popped his own head off and offered Kilmer a handful of Skittles from it like a bowl. “You think?” Kilmer said at last.
“No, I mean….” What did he mean?
“He means,” Len said, coming over to loop an arm through Vance’s and lean his head on Vance’s bicep, “that Jacko was never a threat like Tanner.”
“Huh?” Kilmer now looked completely confused.
“Len.” Vance extricated himself from his lover. Too close to the truth? “You know I don’t think of Kil like that.”
“Oh, I know. He’s your very bestest friend ever, and Jacko was never going to take that part of his attention away from you. Jacko wasn’t looking for a friend. Not like you and I and Kilmer think of when we click with someone. That wasn’t Jacko, and it wasn’t what he wanted. Not what he will ever want. So he wasn’t a threat. But Tanner.” He grinned. “He’s cool. He’s nice. He’s definitely friend material. Maybe more, but”—he shrugged—“he’s a good guy. That could get in the way of you being the good guy in Kilmer’s life. I can see you getting all bent up over that.”
Vance stared. “No more shrink for you. She’s got you talking out your ass.”
Len still grinned away, but his eyes were soft and understanding. “You know Kil’s never going to leave you, right? You know that?”
Vance glanced from one to the other of them. “When did this become about me?”
Kilmer shrugged.
Len clucked his tongue. “About the time you nearly made Tanner wet himself trying to get his jeans over his junk before you saw it all hanging out there, full monty. You freaked him the hell out, you know that.”
“I—he was—Kilmer’s bed.” Vance clacked his teeth together. God. He sounded like a complete ninny.
“I get it, you know,” Len said quietly. “I get it. I see it like I never… saw it.” He blinked. “When Trev fucked around, it made me crazy worried. I got hella mad at him for being careless. But when Stan came along, and I knew—I knew—I was about to lose the only traction I had with Trev, I freaked the hell out. I made it about the club and the drugs and all that shit, but….” He plunked his ass down on a chair and looked up at Vance, his eyes big. “Stan was going to give him what I couldn’t. I saw it coming. I lost my mind.”
Vance crouched in front of him and placed a hand on either knee. “Babe?”
Len smiled. The softness in his gaze was heartbreaking, but his eyes were bright. Too bright to look straight into.
“Hey.” Vance cupped his cheek. “You okay?”
Len smiled, just as soft as the light in his gaze. “I think. I just…. I never realized. I was trying so hard to keep what was never mine in the first place. God.” His smile fell away. “Poor Trev. I did that to him.”
“You did a lot of shit to each other,” Vance said, aching to see the loss all over again in Len’s eyes. He missed his friend so bad Vance could feel it in his own heart, just through touching his lover. He wished to hell and back he could fix the rift, but only time could rebuild the trust lost between Len and Trevor. Only patience would see the day Firefly welcomed Len back into the band and the life he had left behind.
“Yeah, sure,” Len conceded. “But all I can do anything about is what I did. He’s gotta own his own shit. But that ugly keeping, that was me. I did that, and it was killing him a little at a time. I shoulda seen it sooner.”
“You see it now,” Vance tried. “You see it so now you can do something about it.”
Len blinked. “Like let him go?” He looked past Vance to Kilmer. “Let him go like you’re going to let Kilmer go?”
Ouch.
“Y—” Vance swallowed hard around a clawing pain in his throat. “Maybe?” He looked over his shoulder too, to where Kilmer was leaning on the counter, watching, listening, face pale and eyes bright. “I don’t know?” Vance whispered. “I have no idea.”
Len shook himself and leaned forward, planting a sharp, determined kiss on the corner of Vance’s mouth. “We’re going to go see Tanner sing,” he declared. “If the invitation’s still good?” He looked to Kilmer, who nodded, mute. “Good. But we’re a mess, so I’m first in the shower. I’m tiny. I cannot have a cold shower, or I will never get warm again.” He sprang up. “I’ll get our things from the truck.”
And he dashed out the front door and was gone, leaving Vance crouched in front of an empty chair.
He was gone a lot longer than it would reasonably take to get their bag. Vance stayed where he was, head hanging. There was not a sound in the room beyond the dog, panting while he watched out the front door for Len.
“Van?” Kilmer said finally.
“Yeah.”
“You—” There came the faint sound of Kilmer clearing his throat, then a quick sniff and another slight cough. When he spoke again, the sound was thick, labored. “You and I, we’re good. We will always be good. You know that, right?”
Vance nodded. He couldn’t look at Kilmer. Not yet.
“And… hugh.” A rough sound, like Kilmer was trying to hold it together but his mind and body had conspired to keep his words locked inside. The sound made Vance finally stand and turn while Kilmer spoke again. “You thought Jacko was no good for me? Did you think that?”
“Kil, I—” He’d never really thought it out. Not like that. Jacko had been a huge influence in Vance’s life. He would even say the older man had saved him from himself, taught him how to be a good Dom, made him the man he was. And Vance was a good man. One worthy of Len, and that was saying a lot. Jacko had helped him get where he was.
“Why didn’t you ever say?”
“I never thought that.”
“But you’re taking him on tour. To get him away from me, right? That why you offered him the gig?”
Maybe? If he couldn’t be here to keep an eye on Kilmer himself, he thought it best that Jacko wasn’t around either. And Jacko, finally doing one damn thing right, had agreed that the best chance Kilmer had for a clean break was for Jacko to make himself as scarce as possible.
“You think I won’t be able to say no to him without you here to coach me?”
No. Of course he didn’t think that. Did he?
“You know I’m a big boy, right?” Kilmer tried for joviality.
“Can I not just want to help? Make it easier for you to get on with your life?”
“That’s what I’m doin’, Van. I’m getting’ on. I like Tanner. He’s a good guy. Last night I remembered what sex is actually like. How it’s supposed to feel. It ain’t been like that with Jacko in a long time. I won’t lie. I’m glad he’s skippin’ town.” He grinned a flash of bitter mirth that was gone in a heartbeat. “I need him gone for a bit. Need to get myself back. But none o’ that means anythin’ between us changes. You are my best friend. That ain’t gonna change.”
“I know.”
“So lighten the hell up. I got this.”
Vance finally cracked a halfhearted smile. “I know you do.”
18
THE BAR was quieter than it had been in a while. Tanner wondered if that was because the marquee tonight had only a lone name on it again. Were people tired of his solo act? He watched the crowd as he set up and a flash of uncertainty knifed through him. Was he even good enough to do this? Was it a waste of time to think he could be anything close to what Vance Ashcroft had made of himself?
“Don’t want to be a Vance Ashcroft,” he reminded himself. He didn’t necessarily want to leave his sleepy little town or his burgeoning business to sweat under the spotlight of the world’s attention.
Look what a mess that had made of Lenny Stevens’s life. His downfall, his split from his band, the rumors of his abuse toward the lead singer and their fraught life together had sent Lenny into hiding. Angry fans of Firefly’s singer, Trevor “Damian” Learner, weren’t yet on board with Lenny returning to the band.
Not to mention that all the press focused on Vance and Len’s relationship had cost Vance a crapload of fans who didn’t hold with the whole gay thing. Country fans could be a bigoted bunch, and Tanner was not crawling back into any closet, ever. He hadn’t done it for a man, and he wouldn’t do it to further his singing career.
Tanner glanced around again and spotted the young ladies and their twink pup and he had to smile. The kid looked fetching, he had to admit, his hair artfully streaked, skinny jeans hugging his ass and thighs, and kitschy plaid shirt sporting shiny silver tips on the collar. He brightened when he caught Tanner watching him and hurried over to the stage.
“Hey!” he called up, lifting a hand in an eager wave. “Hi.”
Tanner nodded to him. “Hey. Good to see you again.” Dare he add Thanks for coming out? Or was this a “where’s your friend” greeting?
“Um.” Cutie grinned and ducked his head, his cheeks pinking. “So, uh. Is your friend coming tonight?”
Of course. A wild flare of hands off boiled Tanner’s blood and he stood. “Not sure. I gotta get ready.” Funny how quickly “cute” became fucking annoying as hell.
“Oh. Well.” The kid’s gaze followed him across the stage. “I—oh!” He flushed a deep crimson. “Oh. I… get it.” He tucked his hands into his back pockets. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. I thought….” He shrugged, and while Tanner wanted to piss in a circle around Kilmer to keep the kid away, he also couldn’t help a twinge of sympathetic protectiveness for the little gay boy who thought he’d landed a big fish. “Didn’t know you two…. Sorry.”
Tanner gently set his guitar on its stand and hurried to the edge of the stage. He crouched there, snaring the kid’s attention completely. The kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed and his eyes widened. A thrill wended through Tanner when he saw the way a bit of commanding come hither laced through his words drew every ounce of the kid’s focus.
“Elliot, isn’t it?” Tanner asked.
Elliot nodded ferociously and his blond-streaked hair flopped into his eyes.
Tanner reached down to comb it back. “You’re a cute one, Elliot.”
Tanner wouldn’t have thought it possible for those blue eyes to widen any further. They did, and he was torn between wanting to ease the young man’s anxiety and wanting to eat him alive. He was adorable. He could see why Kilmer had been drawn to him. But he wasn’t for Kilmer. This kid was compliance and service and eagerness in a wired, edible package. Kilmer would have had no idea what to do with such a morsel if he had managed to get him home.
Tanner knew exactly what he could do with such a sweet and amiable companion, but then he would have to keep him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted that kind of constant adoration shining on him 24-7. It was the kind of attention men like Jacko craved but seldom found because it was so rare. So precious. So not Kilmer.
Tanner shook himself. How had Kilmer and Jacko made things work between them for so long? How had Kilmer subjugated his strength and tenacity and independence to bend to Jacko’s will for years?
“What?” Elliot’s soft, curious voice snapped Tanner out of his daze.
“Kid.” He didn’t know what to say to the guy.
Elliot smiled. “Calm down. I get it. He’s yours.” He held up both hands in front of himself and made a funny little duck-bow as he took a step back. “Hands off. No problem, dude. Your fans are waiting. Best get up there and sing.”
“You’re cheeky.”
A wink answered that, proving his point, and Elliot was suddenly a bright, effusive light in the room. “Some guys like it that way, you know?”
What could Tanner do but agree. “True.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Elliot said. “I’ll find a guy who gets all this”—he waved up and down in front of his lean frame—“and knows what to do with it.”
Tanner was still searching out a response to that bold declaration when he realized Elliot had already left, sauntering back to his sympathetic girl groupies with an exaggerated shrug and laughing, faux-forlorn eyes.
It was just as well. Elliot had been right about the crowd. Tanner glanced at his phone to see it was almost time for his first set. He returned to setting up his acoustic guitar on its stand beside the stool and making sure the patch cord for his electric was plugged into the right amp. He was leaning over the amp, peering into the shadows at the settings, when an unintelligible sound behind him, followed by a light touch to his shoulder, alerted him he was not alone onstage.
He straightened and turned to find Rocky standing there.
“Hey.” Rocky flicked a hand up in an abbreviated wave.
“Hey.”
“So I know you’re on the books solo tonight, but…?”
Tanner grinned. “Keep me company?”
“God, yeah.” He looked so relieved. “If it’s cool. You don’t have to pay me. I know I’ve flaked out on you this month enough. I just couldn’t sit home anymore, you know?”
He could tell the kid was at the end of his tether. He needed an outlet. If he was anything like Tanner, getting onstage and putting all the crap he felt into the music was not just a welcome release, it was essential.
“Yeah, man, absolutely. We’ll do the regular stuff. Crowd-pleasers we can play in our sleep.” Rocky had a plethora of acoustic percussion gadgets that would complement the Irish folk Tanner tended to fall back on when he was on his own, so that would work. With two of them, Tanner could play some steel guitar for some traditional country tunes and Rocky could hold his own on rhythm guitar and sing some fairly decent backup vocals.
