by K-lee Klein
Hell, he'd never considered asking Devon about his home either. For more than four months he didn't know where Devon lived or inquired about what he liked to do in his spare time. Devon had become more than a repeat offender of one-night stands; he'd become the best friend Scott had ever had, so in theory he'd not only lost his lover, but an important part of Scott's life in other ways.
After four days of living more with a ghost than the actual living, four days of no sleep, very little food, and an out-of-character crappy attitude at work, Scott made a decision. He needed to tell Devon he wanted him back, even if it was only a small part of him. Friend. Lover. Whatever Devon would agree on. And he didn't necessarily feel like he'd be settling because having a piece of Devon was better than living without. Scott loved him and that was no small admission. He loved Devon and was in love with him.
He didn't know if it was even possible for them to be civil to one another again, possible for him to swallow his pride and admit what an asshole he'd been. Could they move past the pretty nasty things that had been said, mostly by Scott?
Regardless of his apprehension, shoving aside the writhing fear that snaked through his body, he was going to find out.
* * * *
Marshall was agreeable when Scott called him with his award-winningly vague reason for needing to see Devon. He had no idea what he actually said. He imagined it was something to do with taxes, but he hoped Marshall didn't mention it to Devon beforehand.
He was let in the side door of the arena, back to the scene of the dreaded crime. It had been a lucky break that the band was still in town since Marshall had mentioned a retirement? Apparently this was the final show in their trip, or was the word tour? Of course, Scott hadn't asked for admittance to the show, only an audience afterwards. His hearing had only returned to normal after all.
Inside, there were fewer people milling about, but Scott was just as nervous as the first time, possibly more. He’d tried to fool himself into believing he was going on a blind date, not that he'd ever done that either. From what he had seen online, his lack of sexual experiences made him feel like a bit of a prude. That was fine with him. He'd never caught any diseases or been gay bashed and left for dead, so he counted himself lucky.
But his nervousness couldn't be explained away by a date of any kind. He was there to face one of his ultimate fears—taking a chance on someone who could very well hurt him. Devon hadn't done that yet. Scott wanted Devon back and no one else but himself could do it for him.
Scott had been keeping tabs on Smokey Grey—the name had made him chuckle and awww all at the same time—and he knew it was his last chance to seek Devon out without turning into a stalker and taking to the Internet to find him. He’d considered bringing Devon’s clothes with him, but that would have been admitting defeat before he even went for the win, so he’d left them in their designated, familiar spot where Scott was free to sniff and fondle them.
Devon must never find that out.
So Scott took one last calming breath before he lifted his hand to knock on the same door Devon had been behind before. But the door was partially ajar, and he couldn't stop himself from sneaking a peek inside. He wasn't being nosy, simply making sure he wasn't walking in on some meeting or fan greet and meet or whatever.
The light in the room didn't seem as harsh as Scott remembered. It was dim, but Scott could still make out the silhouette of two men. They were embracing, and even with only a split second of seeing them, Scott could tell he was interrupting an intimate moment. He should've turned and walked away right then, headed down the hall to ask Marshall what room Devastation was in.
Instead, Scott shifted a little further into the doorway, curious about the scene unfolding in front of him. He did have voyeur characteristics, but in this case he should've followed his first instinct to leave—because he suddenly recognized one of the men. It was Devon of course, and yeah, of course it was. Another popped bubble in Scott's long list of popped bubbles of disappointment.
He hadn't known it was Devon at first since his head had been buried so aggressively against the other's guy's neck he was practically inside him. And that was not what Scott wanted to be picturing inside his head, but what has been seen cannot be unseen even if it wasn't lodged in reality.
Devon's eyes were closed, his nose tucked against the other's guy's ear as they gripped the hell out of each other. They were speaking softly and Scott couldn't look away. The second man was as long haired as Devon. Of course, he was. Long platinum locks streaming down his back and partially covering the silver logo of a snarling cat that Scott now knew was part of Smokey Grey's brand. Definitely a groupie then and Scott couldn't help taunting himself that this guy was more Devon's type, more in his wheelhouse than a schlumpy accountant.
Devon was wrapped as close as humanly possible around the guy, both sets of hands fisted in clothes and around the other's skull. Scott felt nausea creep up his throat, nausea and bile burning their way up his esophagus. He was pretty sure it was all thanks to the fiery knot of jealousy singeing his belly and shattering the last pieces of his heart. It was all so dramatic but if ever there was a time for that, it was in this horrific moment.
But as hard as it was to see Devon with another guy, and as contrary to Scott’s nature as one could possibly get, Scott refused to jump to conclusions. It could be a cousin or buddy from another band or just a friend period. He supposed friends hugged each other like that, not that he had any experience in that area. So, he waited for the right moment to get Devon's attention or at least until his eyes opened.
He didn't have long to wait since Devon broke the embrace but didn't actually separate from the other guy. Instead he cradled both sides of the man's face, muttered something, before he tenderly kissed one cheek then the other, followed by a soft kiss on his mouth. Scott was pretty sure friends didn't do that.
Betrayal reared its ugly head beside the jealous streak creeping through Scott and suddenly he couldn't breathe. If he had a dollar for every time that fact surprised him, he'd be living the life of a rockstar himself. It took so much out of him to turn way, more like tear his eyes from the tragedy playing out only feet away from him. He ignored the urge to rip Devon from the other guy, to let loose some dormant alpha posturing he knew he didn't have in him. At the very least he could hit him with his messenger bag. That'd teach him. Internal eye roll on that one.
But Scott couldn't stay. Staying would definitely be bad for his health. So he slipped away from the door, his lungs already tingling, and his palms sweaty. He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to reach the mindful part of his brain, but all he managed was dizziness from the black spots popping and locking in his vision. Fight or flight. Those were always his first instincts, but had staying to fight gotten him anywhere last time? No, so the only option was getting the heck out of there before anyone—Devon— noticed the weird guy hyperventilating in the hallway.
Except he was disoriented and had no idea where the exit was, and he might have spun in an actual circle without realizing it. When inhaling became a chore and his legs threatened to give way, he tried to hold himself up, but the concrete wall provided no grip and he landed hard on one knee. He balanced precariously, struggling to find some sense of direction, though the reasonable part of his brain—oddly still present—told him he wouldn't make it more than two feet if he tried to stand in his present state.
For some reason his messenger bag wasn't hanging on his shoulder and that increased his steadily rising panic. He reached out blindly, his fingers dragging against the dirty concrete floor. When he managed to pull the bag closer, he automatically stuffed his hand inside. The tiny bottle of Ativan was there, like a shelter in the storm, a very small shelter that had nothing to do with storms except for the one crashing through Scott's body.
His hand shook when he pulled it out and he lost his grip immediately. The bottle rattled to the ground, but thankfully, there was no telltale ping of pills scattering everywhere. “Thank God f
or small favors,” he thought out loud as he finally dropped to his bottom on the disgusting floor.
“Here, let me help you.” Scott startled, one hand slapping the floor and the other rising to defend himself. It was a weird reaction, more like a cornered prey than a guy flailing around on the dirty floor, but in his defense, the voice was unfamiliar and female and close enough to send shivers down his spine. He stayed as still as possible, but the speaker didn't touch him like he feared. He heard the rattle of the pills in their container. “Do you need one or two?”
He managed to croak, “Two,” before his lungs gasped for air and his head dropped forward. He knew he was close to passing out but that was simply not an option—he hoped. He started his mantra but only inside his own head.
“Swallow or under your tongue?” The question would have made Devon chuckle if he were there and Scott would have chastised him for his dirty mind, but he wasn’t, and it was a woman speaking and oh-my-God, I need to focus.
“Tongue,” he moaned before two tiny, white pills were pressed into his palm and warm fingers wrapped around his. His guardian angel guided his hand to his mouth and Scott stowed the medication under his tongue with a sigh. He breathed through his nose, concentrating on the texture of the pills under his tongue, how they dissolved and turned to nothing, his Mississippis still running through his mind.
“Why don’t we get you some place more comfortable until those take affect?”
He tried to shake his head but was already being tugged carefully but with strength off the floor. An arm wrapped around his waist and he grasped the woman's fingers. “Just wanna…go home,” he breathed. “Please.”
“Let me help you. You’re Scott, right?” the still faceless woman asked.
Scott breathed deeply while his mantra ran silently through his head. It didn't matter if she knew who he was, but he was curious about her question. How did she know that? The last thing he wanted was for someone to recognize him and tell Devon he’d been rolling around on the floor outside his dressing room like some goddamn fan in heat. He needed to get out of there. Someone get me out of here.
He didn't answer right away, couldn't answer. Instead he found himself led into a room, thankfully not the Devon one. The stench of sweat assaulted him but that was the least of his problems. “Just want…want to go home,” he stammered.
“Give yourself a minute, hon. Would you rather sit or lay down? You might be able to stretch out on the bench.”
“Sit. Fine.” So he sat, head tucked between his knees, hands gripping his thighs. He tried to be quiet when he whispered, “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…”
“That's it. Does that help? Is there anything I can do? Get you some water or something?” Scott shook his head or at least he hoped he did. “Dev described you perfectly, you know? He talks a lot about you, even now when he claims you dumped him.”
“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.” He recited softly, his breaths were slowing, body relaxing and unclenching. He focused on inhaling and exhaling slowly. His angel turned silent but he could hear her breathing softly close by, her feet shifting against the floor, the quiet vibration of a cellphone in her pocket. She ignored it, rather placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
“Is this okay? My mom has panic attacks and she says touching helps to ground her.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Scott mumbled, then, “I didn’t dump him.”
She chuckled softly but didn't pursue the line of questioning. “He's easily confused.” She rubbed her thumb over his collarbone and it felt good. “Does he know you’re here?”
Calmness started to settle in, Scott's head was still a little fuzzy but not screaming with anguish anymore. His restless nerves turned from slithering, destructive snakes to worms squirming sluggishly under his skin. And the woman had been right, her touch centered him in the moment and made him feel less alone. He wasn't sure if he'd ever realized that phenomenon before, having someone help him when he was going off the rails—except Devon. Devon had been very kind that way.
“We’ve been trying to find someone for Devon to settle down with for years. He's never really been into the lifestyle, you know.” Scott hadn’t but preferred her banter to the coddling most people served him. “Not even when he was young and girls threw themselves at him every night. Not that he still doesn't but his reputation is pretty set now.”
“Reputation?” Scott asked, the word far quieter than he'd expected. He rubbed his fingers over his chest, providing a little extra stimulation to help him breathe.
“He doesn't sleep with fans. Never has. Well, once or twice, but not for the last five years of so.”
Scott took a long inhale through his nose. “But who—”
“We tease that he should have gone into something stable like business so he’d have the little white picket fence and porch he’s always dreamed of.”
She hadn't heard Scott and it was just as well. But had she said porch? Porch. His heart tried to shove its way into his throat. He coughed to clear the lump, ready to tell this woman—whoever she thought she was who knew so much about Devon—that he was fine. A different voice from down the hall made him snap to attention.
“What the fuck happened, Scott?” Marshall’s gruffness made Scott believe there might be a God and he was happy to have his still-reeling body, chock-full of staggering shame, transferred from the woman’s to Marshall’s hold.
“You know him, Marsh? I think he had a panic attack. Not sure he got to see Dev either. Don’t let him drive home.” Then she was gone, and Scott could finally raise his eyes to the worried ones staring him in the face.
“Hey dude. You okay? Do you still want to see Devastation?”
“No! I need…I need to go home. Please.” Scott sagged against Marshall, partially for effect but mostly because of exhaustion and a feeling of rejection. The fewer people who witnessed his maiden-in-distress schtick the better.
“There’s a couple of taxis outside or do you want me to drive you? I'm still working but I can probably sneak out for a few minutes.”
Scott marveled at his kindness. “No. A taxi’s good. Thank you.”
They made it out of the building in record time, at least it seemed that way as Marshall basically took all of Scott's weight and hauled him out of there. Scott would be forever grateful, and the man would be getting a huge discount on his accounting services from then on. Marshall whistled loud and shrill and Scott breathed a little easier. The security guard helped him into the backseat of the cab, giving the guy instructions after he pried Scott’s address out of him. Then he slipped the guy some cash before taking Scott's phone, programming his number just in case.
Marshall patted Scott on the shoulder, told him to take it easy. Apparently, Scott had come into contact with two very unlikely angels tonight. As he was closing the door, a thought struck Scott.
“Marshall, who was that woman?”
“You mean Charlene? She’s Wolfie’s wife. Real nice girl. Doesn’t let any of the boys get out of line. She’s been around a lot to give her support to Shadow.”
Scott’s head was spinning again, from the vast number of names being thrown his way. He couldn't be expected to keep up, could he? “Shadow?”
“Smokey’s drummer. Beth, his wife…she died of cancer a few days ago. It's been a tough week for everyone. That’s why the boys are taking some time off. Not sure if they'll ever recover.”
“Oh my god. I'm so sorry.”
“Me too.” Marshall looked upset as he closed the door, leaving Scott to hopefully get home without any added complications.
The cab dropped Scott off in front of his house and within five minutes, he'd passed out on top of the covers of his bed—shoes and coat still intact. He awoke a few hours later, took another couple of Ativan for good measure, gulped two glasses of water, undressed
, then crawled back in bed. The next day was Sunday and Scott really hoped he’d sleep the entire day away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Exactly one week later a loud knock at the door interrupted Scott's very boring evening of watching a repeat of some nature show. To be fair, he wasn’t really watching, only using it to break the monotony and silence of another Saturday night with nothing more exciting to do than learn the breeding habits of the Canada goose. It was actually an interesting bird as far as geese went.
He’d considered going out to The Little Shoppe of Jazz, but Saturday nights were much more crowded than during the week and he was sure he wouldn’t enjoy the music if he had to be shoulder to shoulder with other people. Plus, since he’d taken the week off—the first time in his entire life—due to illness, or if he was honest with himself, depressed sulking—he didn’t feel it was appropriate to leave the house. And if he was honest with himself, he possessed no inclination to do so.
The intrusion came as Scott was discovering it was the female goose that did the mate-choosing by effectively stalking her intended victim. They began their courtship by establishing a bond, became completely monogamous and in love, and lived happily ever after. How fucking fabulous and easy was that? Canadians were a pain in the ass.
The first thing that came to Scott’s mind was “the Girl Scouts are back with more cookies” and his brain excitedly did an internal fist-pump. The next, “I don't think Girl Scouts should be knocking on strange doors late in the evening.” Dammit. Who the hell could it be? If they weren’t pedaling cookies, they could take a hike anyhow.
He attempted to ignore the intrusion, hoping whoever it was would realize they had the wrong address without him having to point it out. But when the rapping came again, harder and more insistent, Scott growled and dragged himself off the couch, mindful of his week-long un-showered body—baths notwithstanding—his bed-head hair that had seen a lot of bed recently, and the threadbare pajama pants and t-shirt he hadn’t bothered to change out of since the previous Sunday. He was mindful of them but didn’t give a crap at the same time.
