Beyond the Footlights, page 6
Kilmer raised his half-empty bottle.
Was that his fifth? Or sixth? Tanner should have been paying better attention. Dammit. No. It wasn’t his problem. If the guy wanted to drink his troubles under the table, that was his own business.
“Bob!” He called the bartender over and leaned close to block the conversation from Kilmer. “Keep an eye on this one, yeah?” He jerked a thumb at Kilmer. “He’s probably had enough.”
Bob nodded and clapped Tanner on the shoulder. “No worries. I know my job.”
Tanner felt like an idiot. Of course he did. He spared a glance for Kilmer, who was eyeing him. Tanner shrugged. “Take it easy, man.”
Kilmer nodded and set the empty bottle down. He didn’t immediately order another, but ten minutes later, as he set up his equipment for a second set, Tanner noticed he called a waitress over and ordered from her instead. He also ordered something harder, and Tanner sighed. The idiot was going to be falling-over drunk before the end of the set at this rate.
And why the fuck did Tanner care?
Thankfully Kilmer’s consumption slowed once Tanner was onstage, though it didn’t stop completely. And why Tanner kept searching him out on that end barstool through the ever-changing stream of patrons, he couldn’t say. But the man looked lost. Under the bleary-eyed gaze and the veneer of anger, both of which were understandable, Kilmer looked like he wasn’t entirely sure which end was up. It gave Tanner an uneasy feeling, distracted him from his work, and the set passed in a fog of mediocrity.
Bob met him at the bar with a wad of cash and a whiskey and told him he didn’t have to play the last set. It was a hard slog on his own, anyway. He was getting paid in full, since he’d been game to finish without the band, but no one seemed to care much that he’d stepped off the stage. Those left in the bar were happily playing pool or darts, or slow dancing to the canned music. Good enough for him. He accepted the pay but not the drink, and went to pack up his gear.
The vibration of boots on the stage got his attention. He looked up to find Kilmer standing a few feet away.
“Yes?” Tanner asked, flinging hair over his shoulder. He paused just long enough to locate an elastic on his wrist and twist his hair into a messy knot at the back of his neck.
Kilmer stared at him a moment, then shrugged.
“Sit.” Tanner pushed the stool he’d used during his set toward the swaying man.
Kilmer plopped onto the offered seat. “You kinda sing like an angel,” Kilmer said. His voice was a bit gravelly, the words indistinct under the ambient bar noise. Adept since childhood at reading lips, Tanner made them out anyway.
“Thanks.” He turned back to his work. It was a few moments before he heard a noise and looked over his shoulder.
Kilmer had wandered over to the bass stand and was looking at him, a frown of annoyance on his face. “This is Jacko’s, ain’t it?” He picked the instrument up and plucked at the strings. “Bit out.” He fiddled with the tuning pegs, and despite the constant gentle sway of his body, he handled the instrument with a deft hand. He slung the strap over his head and strummed. It wasn’t plugged in, so there was no real sound, but Tanner was close enough to feel a driving country-blues riff vibrate off the strings.
“It’s Jacko’s.” Tanner stood and tucked the cord he’d been coiling into a box. “You really his boyfriend?” He picked up the end of the next cord and began to wind.
Kilmer shrugged. “Thought I was.” His fingers flew over the instrument and he almost smiled. “Like riding a bike, ain’t it?” He played a more complicated pattern and a soft grin covered his face. “Never quite goes away.”
“Jacko never mentioned—”
“Yeah.” Kilmer flattened his hand over the strings and removed the strap from his body. He set the instrument down with a negligent thud. “I figured that out. Thanks.” He turned to jump from the stage.
“Hey, wait.” Tanner grabbed at his arm and closed a hand around his wrist.
Kilmer stilled instantly, his entire body stiffening. “What?” he asked, his teeth clenched almost too hard to let even that one word free.
Oh! Now isn’t that interesting. Pissed off? Or something else?
Tanner released him and watched closely.
Kilmer closed his eyes, albeit briefly, but when they opened, there was a little less drunk, a little less angry, and whole lot more lost in them.
Oh. Something else, then.
“Well, shit.” Tanner dropped the cord he held into a crate. “Okay. Just sit a minute, will you?” He motioned to the stool.
“Why?” Kilmer wouldn’t look at him. He had fixed that delicate blue gaze firmly on the floor. His hands were fists and his back ramrod straight. He looked like one good hit would shatter him.
Who has been looking after you, cowboy?
“Because I want to talk,” Tanner said, reaching for anything that would convince the man to stay put. Tanner didn’t trust him to go off on his own. Though, again he was at a loss to figure out why he had decided it was his problem.
“Got nothin’ else t’say.” Kilmer didn’t move a single muscle. “Don’t even know you.”
Then why are you listening to me at all?
“Let me drive you home at least?”
“I can walk.”
“Then I can walk with you.”
“Why?”
Tanner had no idea. “Look. Just give me another ten to put the rest of this crap away, will you, please?”
Kilmer’s head came up on the “please.” He stared at Tanner like he hadn’t seen him properly until now. Then he shook himself. “Why the hell do you care?”
Tanner tried a grin and a shrug. “No idea, Tex.”
“Don’t”—Kilmer pointed a wavering finger at him—“call me that. I ain’t Texan. Not no more. I’s Onatrio-an…. Ontran…. Ontariana…. Fuckin’ Canadian.”
Tanner could not stifle a laugh. “That so?”
“Damn straight, Angel.”
Tanner lifted one eyebrow. “Tanner.”
“Whatever.” Kilmer plopped down on the edge of the stage, as if it hadn’t entirely been a planned-out move. He tilted over almost completely but then managed to right himself. “Think… whiskey somewhere….” He gazed around, as though Tanner had completely disappeared from his mind, and some of his words wandered off into the noise of the crowd, along with his attention, when he turned his face away from Tanner.
For Tanner, the word “whiskey” was enough.
“Oh, you are already three sheets, my friend,” he muttered and turned to swiftly pack up the rest of the band’s gear.
Thankfully Rocky borrowed the bar’s kit for tonight’s gig, citing that his own didn’t really travel well in the trunk of his environmentally conscious Nissan Versa. Tanner had wondered at the time why he didn’t carry it in Jacko’s truck, as he’d done for weeks. He guessed now he knew why.
He shot a glance in Kilmer’s direction. A group of persistent young women was hauling him off the stage. He looked ever so slightly confused, and Tanner hurried over to rescue him.
“Not tonight, ladies.” He freed Kilmer’s hand from their grip. “’Fraid I’m in charge of this one for now.”
“Aww, not another one, Tan,” one of the women simpered, making it harder to read her words. “You’re… whole town gay on us!”
Kilmer grinned and touched the side of his nose and pointed at the young man hovering at the rear of the little entourage. “I’ll—I’ll dance with ’im.”
The young man blushed and raised both hands in front of himself. The women giggled at him, making his blush flame even redder.
“Come on,” Tanner spoke low in Kilmer’s ear. “Get up here, Tex. You need to stay out of trouble.”
“Aww, c’mon,” Kilmer complained, though he did let Tanner haul him up and toward the back of the stage. “You are positively no fun.” He tripped over his feet and slammed into Tanner, forcing Tanner to wrap an arm around his waist to keep them both on their feet and out of the drum kit.
Kilmer’s body was hot and hard against his. The guy obviously either worked hard for a living or spent way too much time at the gym. “I think you’ve had all the fun you can handle for one night, don’t you?”
Kilmer swung back and craned his head around to get in Tanner’s face. “I only just got started, Angel.” He puckered and Tanner had to pull back to avoid the sloppy kiss aimed his way.
“No.” He said it firmly, hardening the one word to utter command. He hated to use that kind of manipulation but suspected Kilmer might respect the tone if not the word. He was right.
Kilmer drew up short and blinked at him. “Wha—what?” He blinked more and swallowed hard. “Lemme go,” he whispered. “Lemme—”
Tanner released him, resisting the urge to reach out when Kilmer swayed alarmingly and tried to steady himself on a mic stand, which only began to sway with him. Tanner grabbed the stand and stilled it until Kilmer was straight once more.
“You need to be still,” Tanner told him, keeping eye contact and leveraging what little power he’d just gained. He wasn’t about to ask about Kilmer and Jacko’s dynamic. If that one word, spoken as a command, and a simple tight hold on the man’s wrist got such an immediate response, Tanner’s own training was already filling a few of the blanks for him.
“What would you know ’bout it?”
“Plenty,” Tanner assured him. “Now let me get Jacko’s bass packed up, and then I’m taking you home.”
“Don’t need—”
“Yes,” Tanner told him, no uncertainty in his tone, “you do. You need care.”
“Fuuuck.” Kilmer drew the word out and it seemed to deflate him. “Why the fuck does everyone keep telling me that?”
Tanner just shook his head as Kilmer slumped in on himself, one hand still on the mic stand for balance. “Because it’s true, Tex,” he said, more to himself than to Kilmer. What the hell had happened to the man that he was this screwed up, anyway? Jacko did not seem the type to date loose drunks. Lord knew, he had been strict as shit with what he allowed past Rocky’s lips. Tanner had never outright asked, but all signs pointed to Jacko being a Dom and one with very strict, even old-fashioned, rules and expectations.
So if Kilmer had belonged to him, what had happened? No way would a Dom like Jacko allow this kind of sloppy behavior in a sub. Hell, Tanner would never allow it either, even if there were quite a few of the old protocols that he didn’t exactly hold as dear as some. Drinking, though. That was a no-brainer. Not that it mattered much if there was no scene imminent, but still. He doubted that a man like this would have ever even crossed Jacko’s radar. He was undisciplined and ragged around the edges. Certainly he didn’t act like a sub who had been well looked after for any length of time.
He watched Kilmer carefully even as he dragged Jacko’s case from under risers at the back of the stage. He flipped open the clasps and attempted to lift the lid, but the case didn’t open.
“Shit.” There must be another catch somewhere, but damned if he could see it.
“Here.” Kilmer was suddenly at his side, crouched next to him. His hard thigh pressed tight to Tanner’s and his shoulder crowded into his personal space. He smelled like a still, but under that was sweat and hay and horse and soap. Not altogether unpleasant.
Kilmer reached around the ends of the case and fiddled. There was a faint click and the top popped up a fraction of an inch. Kilmer slipped lithe fingers into the crack, fiddled again, and a second later, lifted the lid of the case. He removed the two cloths lying in the guitar’s depression and used the blue one to wipe both sides of the instrument down thoroughly before reverently laying the instrument into its soft, yellow velvet bed. He did up the straps that held it in place, tucked the picks into their small custom compartment, then slotted the strap into its compartment along the lid. He folded the blue cloth into squares and tucked it into a slot, then laid the long yellow cloth over the guitar and snapped its corners into place. He ran a hand over the guitar to ensure it was correctly seated, then closed the lid with a deft snap.
Tanner let out a breath. “Well.” At the very least, Kilmer had obviously spent some time around Jacko and his instrument. Putting it away was a ritual Tanner had often been annoyed with, because seriously, who took that long to put away a damn instrument? Kilmer did it with swift, practiced ease, despite his drunkenness.
Kilmer’s long-fingered hand loitered on the black leather of the outer case, and he remained crouched, swaying slightly again and breathing in a ragged, off-kilter rhythm.
“You okay?” Tanner asked, trying to see his face.
Kilmer plopped onto his ass and hauled the case half into his lap. He stroked the leather and stared blankly.
“Five minutes,” Tanner promised him. “Hang tight.”
This time he got no protest from Kilmer, so he hurried to the bar and made arrangements for the staff to lock his equipment away in a storage closet until he could come back in the morning. He had to get Kilmer out of there. His dominant instincts and his long-dormant training told him it would be a very bad idea to leave Kilmer alone in this state of mind. Maybe the man wasn’t his responsibility, but he certainly had been someone’s and that someone had done a number on him. He needed care, and Tanner didn’t see anyone else around to offer it.
Back up onstage, he got Kilmer to his feet and conceded to letting the man hang on to the bass. It wasn’t like he was leaving Kilmer alone until he’d sobered up, so if it turned out he didn’t belong to Jacko, Tanner could always retrieve the bass before he left.
“You going to tell me where you live, Tex?”
Kilmer gave him an address, a clear sign he was not thinking straight. On the upside it was also Jacko’s address, so he might get some answers and deliver the guitar to its rightful owner.
Kilmer walked in a fairly straight line to the door, but once outside he was all over the place. It was all Tanner could manage to keep him out of the street until they arrived at Jacko’s front porch after a twenty-minute walk that might have taken ten under normal conditions.
The lights were all out. The place had an abandoned air about it.
Kilmer trailed fingers through the flowers along the walk and sighed. “I planted those. I thought he liked them.”
“Jacko’s not really a flower kind of guy,” Tanner pointed out. The blooms did smell nice, though, and he said so.
“See?” Kilmer said. “That’s what I said! He just snorted and went back inside. Didn’t give a shit.” He paused at the top of the porch steps. “Wonder if he was already screwing Rocky then?”
“Let’s get you inside, shall we?” Tanner said, expecting that Kilmer would not have keys to get into Jacko’s house anyway and trying to decide what he would do if that were the case.
Kilmer pulled a set of keys from his pants pocket, and Tanner noted the Toyota fob matching the car in the drive. He waited while Kilmer sorted through them, finally made a triumphant noise, and slipped one into the lock.
A click and a curse later, the door was open. The keys dropped onto the threshold, and Kilmer stumbled inside.
“Sir?” he called. “Jacko-Sir?” He was shaking his head, though, and setting the guitar down on the table. “Gone.” He wandered into the living room and fell, full-length, onto the couch.
“Well, damn,” Tanner muttered. He went after Kilmer, but there was no moving him. All he could do was pull off his boots and drape an afghan over him. He was already passed out.
“Guess that’s that, then.” He thought about leaving Kilmer to his own devices, but the way he was sprawled half on his back made Tanner nervous. The last thing he wanted was for the guy to vomit and choke on it. So he closed up the house, turned on a few lamps, and settled into the chair across from the couch.
It gave him the chance to study Kilmer unobserved. He filled out his jeans nicely all the way around, that was for sure. The denim clung to muscle, and his T-shirt stretched across a well-defined chest. Gold from a thick chain glinted at his throat, but that was the only trace of jewelry. Not even a watch on either of his strong, shapely wrists.
“Stop ogling, Jones,” he muttered and closed his eyes, only to open them a minute later to watch Kilmer’s chest rise and fall as he slept. The light stubble shading his chin and cheeks lent a veneer of abandonment to him that tightened fingers of sadness around Tanner’s heart.
I am not going to be able to walk away from you, am I?
Of course his only answer was a soft huff as Kilmer shifted in his sleep, and the chink of his chain as he rolled fully onto his back.
6
SUNSHINE.
Pointed springs in his kidneys.
And oh fuck… his head.
Kilmer rolled over with a groan. His bed ended before the roll did, and the best he could say about that was the springs no longer poked him as he hit the floor.
“Are you okay?” An unfamiliar voice entered his closed universe, full of concern and urgency.
“What? Who—” He scrambled to his knees, looked up into compelling eyes, and the night before confronted him in a flood of shameful memories. “Oh shit.” He diverted his gaze to Tanner’s scruffy face. The man looked disheveled, long hair dragged up into a mess at the back of his head. It stuck out in all directions, and Kilmer got lost in the way the halo of it framed his strong features and soft dark eyes.
“Yeah,” Kilmer whispered. “I—” He noted his surroundings and realized he was in his own living room. “God.” He ran a hand through his hair and dropped his gaze. “I—”
“Come on.” Tanner rested a hand on his shoulder, and Kilmer couldn’t decide if he wanted to flinch away or lean into the touch. The result was that he remained delicately balanced on a knife-edge, completely still, staring at Tanner’s bare toes peeking out from the frayed hems of his jeans.
“Kilmer.” Tanner’s voice was firm, soft. Maybe the most soothing thing he’d heard in months.
Kilmer remained as he was.
“Kilmer, I need you to get up now.” He stepped away, removing his touch.
