by K-lee Klein
“It was only once and I told you what happened.” Devon's Adam's apple was working hard. Scott wondered how upset he really was since he had a damn good stone face.
“Mistaken identity. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Was that guy another fuck buddy?” Scott spat, his heart splattered all over the floor. He really hated that label. “Was that some alias you use to pick up guys?”
Devon ducked his head and shoved a hand through his hair, mumbling, “I'm not ready for this.”
Scott profited on it immediately. “Not ready for what?”
“I don't know who that guy was. I’m not fucking him. I have never fucked him. And I don’t think of you as just another fuck buddy,” Devon insisted, his demeanor finally cracking. “Can't you leave it alone? We're having a great time and I really…I really like you.”
“Not enough to be seen with me.” Scott flinched when Devon slammed his fist on the counter.
“Oh for fuck's sake! I don’t know everything about you, and your bullshit martyr act is getting old.”
With a gasp, Scott levered a violent look at Devon. “My what? I'm just thinking logically.” And you really wouldn’t want to know all the shit I deal with day to day, how unbalanced I really am, how much of a freak my obsessions and compulsions make me. Not to mention the panic attacks that paralyze me for no reason at all. You don’t want to know, Devon, and I’m certainly not going to let you find out. Not now.
“Try thinking with your heart for a change, instead of misguided logic. I said I really liked you, Scott. Doesn't that even register in your logic?”
His eyes stinging with unshed tears, Scott turned away from Devon. “I think you should go.”
“Scott, come on. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I'm not trying to hurt—”
“There's only room for so many selfish, narcissistic people in my life.”
Devon's jaw dropped open, hurt turning his eyes dark and his mouth into a scowl. “Selfish? Narcissistic?”
“…And my mother has all those spots tied up.”
“Can't you try to see past all the bad shit you think about yourself and believe me? I worry about you.”
“I'm not your responsibility to worry about,” Scott snarled, defensively.
“Give me a little more time to—”
“You need to go.”
The slamming of the front door cued the release of Scott's pent-up emotions. His mind and heart exploded in a gush of sobs and a crash of knees hitting the floor. The panic attack wrapped itself around him, squeezed his chest, turned his stomach to a writhing ball of acid, sending a flurry of anxiety and worthless fear throughout his body.
He knew what was happening, even knew the mechanics involved in how to make it subside, but like so many times in the past, he was paralyzed to control or rein himself in. Scott bent in half, torso curled over his knees, hands flat against the cool surface of the kitchen tiles. Tiny droplets of sweat slithered from his brow to his cheeks before mixing with the salty tears that dripped over his lips and into his mouth. He didn't like to cry, prided himself on that very fact despite all the messed-up things that spun the world of Scott Weston. He craved someone to support him but at the same time, wouldn't let anyone in. He never let anyone crawl past all those self-imposed boundaries and walls of steel he'd built up over the years.
Scott had always lived by a code, so to speak, a simplistic approach to social interactions that only included his sister and nephew, lunch with a co-worker only because they were in the lunchroom at the same time, and when he was lucky, the occasional one-night stand.
Until Devon.
Scott had let Devon do exactly what he'd always protected himself from. He'd snuck past Scott's defenses, wormed his way inside Scott's heart and his head until he became something—someone—who mattered to Scott. And Scott had changed, had been willing to change. How had he let that happen?
Raising his head, his vision spotty with dizziness, his throat fighting the nausea that often accompanied his attacks, Scott reached under the kitchen sink for a brown paper bag. He used them to pack his middle-class lunch to his middle class job every day, but they served an even greater purpose. He sat back on his heels, panting with short raspy pulls from his overworked lungs, before sealing the bag around his lips and struggling to concentrate on his breathing.
“In. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Two M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Three M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Out. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Two M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Three M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Four M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i. Breathe in. One M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i…” Rinse and repeat.
How ironic was it that he was kneeling on his kitchen floor counting stupid Mississippis after he'd thrown out the only man who’d ever made him feel wanted, and who just happened to be from Mississippi? Damn ironic is what it was. A bubble of choked emotion slid up his throat, the bag fluttering to the floor as he succumbed to a fit of hysterical laughter. A wave of demanding thoughts echoed the pain of past experiences, reminding him there would be less damage if he prepared and accepted the reality of the panic attack’s wrath. Logical. He needed to trust the logical again.
Devon hated his logic.
Scott slipped the rest of the way to the floor, the cold surface adding to the buzzing of his nerves and the twitching of his skin, while unwarranted chuckles succumbed to breath-stealing sobs. Crying was even worse than the panic, but at least he hadn't let Devon see the tears.
His eyes closed when his breathing turned to wheezes and gasps, and a rush of white noise stabbed his skull. The last thing he remembered before passing out was a certain knowledge that no matter how hard his brain and body tried to push away his feelings, it was ultimately hopeless.
Unfortunately, he was almost certain that once he regained consciousness he would remember in painful detail all the fears and insecurities that had put him on the floor in the first place. That's the way it always was. He could never catch a break. But letting it all go for even a little while was the lesser of two evils.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The last place Scott wanted to be after a sixty-hour work week was a loud rock and roll concert, and if the sounds thumping against the walls of the arena were any indication, his ears would be bleeding before the night was over. Why he'd promised his sister he'd take his thirteen-year-old nephew to such a thing in the first place was beyond his comprehension. Hell, he didn't understand why she let him listen to that noisy crap anyhow, and it had been his own big mouth that had put him smack dab in the situation, but still.
It wouldn't have been so bad if the show hadn't sold out so fast and Eddie hadn't been so damn crushed when he didn't get tickets. But he was Scott's only nephew, and probably the closest he’d ever be to having a son of his own. Plus, it was kind of nice that the kid still didn't mind hanging out in public with his uncle—despite Scott's many eccentricities—and actually seemed to love him, unlike other so-called grown-ups Scott was definitely not thinking about.
“You know,” Scott had told his sister, Deanna. “I'm the accountant for the security firm that does the shows. And most of the security guys, too. Saved them a boatload of money over the years. They always say give them a call if I need tickets for anything.”
He still didn't know what had possessed him to offer such a thing, and Deanna knew full well that the most exciting thing Scott liked to do during the evenings was watch the nature channel. He was pretty sure she'd gloated more than a little once the realization of what kind of music he'd volunteered for finally hit him—the worst. But at the same time, Scott loved Deanna and Eddie, and they were the most supportive people in his lives…
…other than Devon.
Scott missed him so much even though he didn't want to.
Two weeks had passed since their disagreement, or argument, or break-up, or whatever the correct term was for ripping Scott's heart out and replacing it with a throbbing black hole. Scott was miserable. That's likely why Deanna had insisted he take Eddie to the noisiest place on the planet, even though that hadn
't been the original plan. Also, according to Scott's sister, he was being a big old, whiny bitch about the whole thing; the Devon thing. She hadn't met Devon but she'd quickly taken his side.
Yes, he’d been moping, and let his sulking bleed through when he'd spoken to her on the phone. But, seriously, how was it possible to not be a bitch about a fight that hadn't even been much of a fight at all, simply a stupid misunderstanding. Scott didn't think telling someone they were selfish was that big of a misunderstanding or cause for a breakup, but saying they were narcissistic then kicking them out wasn't exactly the way you treat a guest, let alone a lover.
In hindsight and after two weeks of nitpicking the memory to death, Scott knew the whole thing had been his fault. He'd overreacted because of crappy history, and lack of self-confidence, and all those things that constantly held him back from living a life worth living. That was a huge catchphrase with his therapist and something they'd discussed ad nauseam, but Scott had never really mastered.
If Devon really had nothing to hide or even if he did, Scott should have trusted him, or in the least, handled it better. He'd sacrificed Devon because of fear and insecurity and now he felt like he was walking around with a missing limb. But that was something he could blame on Devon since he'd shoved his way into Scott's life, and in the process caused him to grow that extra appendage Scott liked to call hope. Hope was a real thing to someone who'd never bought into it, someone who'd never dared to believe.
Before that last conversation in Scott's kitchen, Devon had never disappointed him on any of those sexy Saturday nights or lazy Sundays. Now Scott's weekends were simply more days he needed to get through alone, and he welcomed the mundane familiarity of weekdays when he could stay out of his own head and concentrate on something else.
It didn't help that his mother's voice was so vibrant inside his brain at times like this.
“Don't cry over spilled milk.”
“You're acting ridiculously. Westons don't behave this way.”
“When are you going to give up this charade and settle down with a nice girl. You're not getting any younger, you know.”
But fuck it. Devon wasn't spilled milk or any other toppled-over beverage, and Scott certainly wasn't going to be settling down with a girl, nice or otherwise, anytime soon or ever. Those ideas and many others were the reasons Scott hadn't told his holier-than-thou mother a thing about Devon in the first place. There was only so much judging he could take in his life and she'd supplied enough for more than two lifetimes. He'd also sworn his sister to secrecy by threat of death, another reason for his forced concert-going experience, even though he would've rather been home being depressed and rearranging his sock drawer.
After being physically violated—searched to within an inch of his modesty by rough heathens disguised as security personnel—Scott kept a firm grip on the back of Eddie's black leather jacket. Sue him, but it reminded him of Devon so he concentrated on figuring out why on earth a thirteen-year-old needed a leather jacket anyhow? It seemed far beyond his means, let alone beyond his years.
His nephew was almost bouncing off the walls as he immediately tugged Scott through the excited, already sweaty and smelly crowd. It reminded Scott of a rowdy high school party or at least that's what Scott had heard or seen on television, and the show hadn't even started.
There was also a heavy vibe reminiscent of the metal-heads Scott had gone to school with, the ones who'd teased and tormented him ruthlessly because he didn't share their love of fist-pumping, ripped jeans and t-shirts, and loud obnoxious music. Oh dear God, if they could only see him now. What had he gotten himself into?
He'd barely taken two steps inside the facility when the taste of anxiety bit at his tongue and his mouth went dry. His doctor has once asked him what anxiety actually tasted like because apparently that wasn't a common thing. The only way he could describe it was similar to the metallic taste of blood; bitter, but also like his mouth was being filled with toxic gas. He knew it was psychosomatic, or simply more proof that Scott was a weirdo, but it was a real thing for him and often a precursor to a big panic attack.
Scott swallowed around the unpleasant flavor when Eddie tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey S-Man. Why you looking so weird? You okay?” Eddie had been calling Scott by that nickname since he was little. There had never been any rhyme or reason to it, but Eddie still used it and Scott secretly adored it. He was also very empathetic for such a young age.
“I'm fine, buddy,” Scott lied, chest tight and ears already ringing. He was determined to not ruin Eddie's evening with his own issues. “Do you know where we're supposed to sit?”
“Yes! Let's try to get to the front of the pit!” Eddie hooted. He was so electrified that Scott almost missed the dominant word in his squawking.
The pit?
Eddie was off like a shot, turning to walk backwards so Scott could see his mega-watt grin. He waved his uncle forward, but Scott was preoccupied with checking out his surroundings, uncomfortable as they were. It wasn't like he'd been to an arena concert, ever. So, without trying to look too suspicious, he snuck a peek around him while he followed Eddie further into the venue. It was literally a hockey arena so there were rows upon rows of seats as high as the eye could see. He assumed they were standing where the ice usually was but there wasn't even a single uncomfortable chair on the concrete floor.
When realization finally smacked him in the face, he stopped abruptly. His mind reeled, nerves itched under his skin, and his knees threatened to toss him face first onto the floor. That would be a big mess. He shook his head at Eddie who merely glowed and didn't slow his progress into the crowd.
“Eddie, wait!” Scott yelled above the noise.
There was no way in hell he was stepping into a sweaty, dangerous pit of sweaty dangerous men—no way, no how. And Scott didn't want to even think about the stench and germs teeming throughout. Before Eddie reached Scott again, he'd pulled out his patented nephew-infused, sad puppy look complete with sad puppy eyes and a sad puppy wobbling bottom lip. He looked exactly like he had as a spoiled toddler. The kid didn't play fair. But Scott was determined to hold his ground; for his own sanity.
“But S-Man.” Eddie worked the wide-eyed innocence a little further. “It'll be fun.”
“I'm sorry, Eddie,” Scott explained or more like screamed only inches from his nephew's head. And he was truly apologetic. “I just can't go in there. It's too…too much for me. Can’t we sit in actual seats? You know, further back so we don't have to worry about our ears exploding and some disease catching up to us.”
Eddie flattened his palm over his heart and closed his eyes dramatically. “Ahhhh, S-Man. You wound me.” He was such a drama queen.
Scott groaned. How had the kid grown up so fast and so darn mouthy? “There's no wounding involved,” he shouted again. “I did get the tickets, you know?”
Eddie puffed out a heavy breath, one way older and more put-upon than his age allowed. He snagged the tickets from Scott's hand without hesitation. “I can't believe you printed these. That's what your phone is for.”
“My phone is for my calendar, a few texts, and actual calls,” Scott supplied, rolling his eyes. But Eddie wasn't finished.
“Hate to break it to you, S, but these are totally pit tickets. We don't have any choice but to hang out here.” He shrugged but a smile claimed most of his face. The smugness reminded him of his sister.
As he wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks, all Scott wanted to do was sink into the ground away from the noise, and smell, and people, but since that wasn’t an option, he had to find a solution, quick. He utilized his brain all day at work, but it wasn't as efficient in the evenings, especially with one hundred decibels of noise destroying his eardrums.
With a secret glance at Eddie, who was smugly stomping his feet to the thumping beat, Scott had an aha moment. “Okay. Stay here for a second,” he instructed. “Don’t. Move.”
Scott was gone no more than three minutes,
a bigger-than-life man following behind him when he returned. “Eddie, this is Marshall. He works security for the band.”
His nephew shook the big man’s hand, an adorable look of gaping awe on his face as he took in Marshall’s long hair, leather vest, and vastly inked skin. “Wow. Hi,” Eddie blurted, eyes glowing under the weird arena lighting. “Your tattoos are rad.” Scott could see the excitement he was trying to tamp down while he attempted to act grown up.
“Thanks kid. Nice to see you've got better taste than your uncle.”
Scott pulled a disgruntled face at Marshall. “Everyone's a comedian. I'll remember that when I'm doing your taxes.” He turned back to his nephew. “Marshall has the perfect solution. You can stand at the side of the stage and he'll get me a chair so I can still keep an eye on you. How's that sound?”
“But I wanna mosh,” Eddie whined.
Mosh? Okay, Scott knew this one and it was a definite no. “Not on my watch, buddy,” he made very clear. He was kind of proud he even knew what that was, and what it was was dangerous, unhygienic, and did he mention dangerous? Nope, nope, and nope. “I also got us matching earplugs.”
Eddie scowled at him, one hand on his hip reminiscent of his sister, or OMG, Scott's own mother. “No way. Only pussies—”
“Pardon me?” Scott immediately interrupted. Did Deanna know he spoke like that? Did his grandma know because that would be exceptionally amusing? Would he dare encourage that type of language at their next family dinner—not that he planned on that sort of thing any time soon.
“My bad,” Eddie apologized. “I meant I don't need to wear them but it's okay if you do. I get that old people have to be careful with their parts because they're, you know, old.” He flashed a cocky grin and ducked Scott's attempt at smacking him on the head.
“See if I ever get you any tickets to crappy music again. And this is not a negotiation. Wear them or we stand at the very back and I keep my hands over your ears.”
