Syncopation

by Anna Zabo

  “Anything your heart desires, sweetheart.” She headed for the door.

  When it clicked closed, Ray rose. Mish couldn’t give him his heart’s desire, not really. What he wanted most was Zavier.

  He fingered the note, then set it on the dresser when he crossed back into his room. When you’re ready. That was a double-edge command. Ray wanted to call Zavier now—but he also knew he wasn’t ready. Not in the way Zavier meant.

  He had shit to dig through before he would be ready to call. Best to get started now.

  * * *

  Ray took off Zavier’s leather bracelet before showering, but tied it right back onto his ankle when he was done. He liked it there and he needed the reminder that Zavier wasn’t gone gone, even if he wasn’t here at the moment.

  The A/C in the hotel room cooled his damp skin when he plodded out of the bathroom. The shower had helped clear his head, but not enough. Too many questions and fears swam like sharks around him. Problem was, he didn’t have nearly enough information to even start to chart a course. So, first things first.

  He got dressed. Comfortable clothes. Loose jeans and an old T-shirt from the Wildwood Boardwalk—a little memory of home.

  Mish had left coffee and a bagel on the dresser, next to his phone and a business card. He took his time eating and letting the coffee work his magic. Next, he turned on his cell. The business card was from the police, and had a case number scrawled on the back.

  Yeah, he’d have to talk to them, since he’d been the victim of a crime.

  Ray shivered. Why why why why did Carl hate him? He couldn’t work it out. Even jealousy didn’t make sense and not having a reason—a legitimate reason—baffled him more than anything else. He could have died that night.

  Mish had suggested getting a lawyer, but who knew how the fuck he was going to find one of those? He wasn’t about to trust any who called him, since he had an inkling of what this whole series of events could mean.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to go through the pain and drama of suing the record label. Yeah, it might mean big bucks, but what would it do to him and the band?

  Shit.

  Once he turned on his phone and sifted through the messages—text and voicemail and email—he didn’t have many more answers, either. The label wanted to talk; there were several messages, both from execs and label lawyers. The underlying theme—the unwritten thought—was that they wanted to work things out without lawsuits.

  How complicit had they been, though? Did he want to keep making albums and money for the company that had given him Carl Roberts as an advocate?

  Yeah, he needed a lawyer of his own, and to figure out what he wanted, which was whatever was best for the band. He’d need their input for that—including Zav’s thoughts.

  ’Cause Zav was as much a part of this as everyone else.

  When you’re ready. He nearly heard the words in Zavier’s smooth voice, and nodded absently. He had a good idea when that was. Hopefully Zavier would be ready by then, too.

  That time wasn’t yet, though. Lawyer first. He rubbed his eyes and paced the room. If Zavier were here, he’d ask him about Nadia Rudd. Surely she’d know a good entertainment lawyer. But he had to do this without Zav. Problem was, he didn’t know anyone else, really. Just the band, the crew and—

  Five Asylum. He sucked in a breath. Gregor had given him his business card. If you ever need to talk shop.

  Well, this was shop, wasn’t it? Ray dug out his notebook and fished the business card out of the little pouch in the back. He dialed the number before he changed his mind and listened to the ringing while his breath caught in his chest.

  “Hello?” Given the deep voice, it absolutely was Gregor Daye on the other side.

  “Hey, it’s Ray Van Zeller.”

  A pause. “Hello, Ray. I suppose I shouldn’t be entirely surprised to hear from you, given everything.”

  He couldn’t help the bitter laugh. “To be honest, I have no idea what’s out in the public right now. It really doesn’t matter.”

  “It never does.” Spoken like Gregor knew and felt that. But then, he had fifteen years of stardom, so Ray bet he did. “Are you healthy?”

  “Yeah, I am. I’m—lucky.”

  “Good. And yes, I gathered that.” Another long silence. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you could recommend a lawyer. Or knew someone who could.”

  A laugh. “You’re a smart kid. And yes, I can. She’s worked very hard for us over the years, and I’m sure her firm can help you with what you need.”

  Ray scribbled down the name, Tara Gonfaus, and the number into his notebook. Everything about the band was there—and this wouldn’t be any different. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “Shit, there’s no need. Just be yourself and do good for someone down the line. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  Another chuckle from Gregor. “Take it easy, Ray.”

  “You, too.”

  And that was that. Ray put the phone on the bed and walked back and forth to burn off energy and anxiety.

  Breathe. There was Zavier’s voice again. He obeyed, too. Because it helped. Those little tricks and the leather around his ankle. Being naked at Zavier’s feet.

  Yeah, that wasn’t happening, not now. He wasn’t ready. But he could do something similar. Ray stopped pacing and pulled his T-shirt off. Everything else followed. Then he knelt on the floor, in front of the chair Zavier would have sat in, and folded himself into child’s pose.

  In an instant, he was alive and so aware of himself, of how naked he was, how vulnerable. And yeah, he got hard. But he also let go. Let all of the shit vanish and slip away, except for his heartbeat and his breath. He even let Zavier go—and the fleeting wonder if he’d be proud of Ray right now. Inhale, exhale, melt.

  The noise in his head softened and vanished, and he melted, letting the floor support him. Letting himself be. Just as slowly, a quiet voice spoke, the assured one in the back of his head, the one so often drowned out by worry and the world. What do you want?

  If he could have anything, if the world were fair, the best option for the band would be to cancel the contract with their label without penalty. He had no trust in them; he doubted anyone in the band did. Their playing and his composition would suffer if they stayed. He didn’t want to give the label any more—especially since he’d nearly given his life because of their ineptitude. Carl worked for the label and fought against Twisted Wishes and Ray at every turn.

  Twisted Wishes would be better off elsewhere, either on their own or with another label—they could figure out which later.

  Ray wanted Carl in jail. A deeply vindictive part really wanted him behind bars and suffering. More than anything, he wanted to know the reason behind all the shit he’d been through.

  If the band was truly in debt to the label, he wanted that gone. Erased. And then some, because the label didn’t get to put them all through hell only to walk away with clean hands and no damage.

  Yeah. That was a decent start. Ray pushed himself up to sitting and peered around the room. Everything seemed a little brighter and the tumult in his head was gone.

  He dressed, grabbed his phone again, and made another call.

  It went straight to the lawyer’s voicemail. He left a coherent message, and not five minutes later, got a call back.

  “Mr. Van Zeller.” Ms. Gonfaus’s voice was clear, with a faint accent he couldn’t place. “I’m pleased you’ve reached out and I do hope we can help you.”

  They spoke for quite some time, long enough that both Mish and Dom poked their heads in, and he waved them off. He took three pages of notes and gave the contact information for the police and the case number to her.

  “I don’t think your wishes are unreasonable,” Ms. Gonfaus said. “Though I don’t
think we’ll see Mr. Roberts in jail, given what we discussed.”

  Yes, attempted murder was a serious charge, but the best they could hope for was attempted manslaughter, given the fact that Carl hadn’t meant to kill him. That severe an allergy to what had turned out to be a common sleep medication was pretty rare. No, Carl had wanted to embarrass Ray and destroy his career—not kill him. Plea bargaining would likely take that down more, especially since Ray didn’t want to be dragged through a long and protracted court case.

  “More’s the pity.”

  She grunted. “Your bandmate is correct, as well. Someone from your legal team should be there when you speak to the police, even though you’re the victim.”

  God, he hated that word, even if it was true. “I think Zav talked to the police that night.”

  “Very likely.” She sighed. “We’ll also want to talk to your partner and the rest of the band if we’re to represent Twisted Wishes as a whole.”

  “We can set something up.” He paused. “I haven’t even looked at the press.”

  “Don’t if you don’t want to. Do if you do. But do not respond to any of it. There are two words you need to start using: no comment.”

  He repeated them back to her, tasting them in his mouth. Yeah. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” Something in Ms. Gonfaus’s voice softened. “You’ve been through quite a time, Mr. Van Zeller. Let us take it from here. I’ll call you tomorrow with an update.”

  They said professional goodbyes and hung up. Ray stared at the time on the phone: 8:22. Holy shit. He wondered if lawyers charged time and a half. But then, he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be the one paying for Ms. Gonfaus’s services once all this was over.

  He shuffled to the adjoining room and found both Mish and Dom there. “Hey.”

  Both of them wore worry in their own way. Dom stood. “Hey, man.” His voice was a mess.

  God. Ray was a fool to think he was the only one affected by all this. He crossed the room and pulled his oldest friend into a hug. “Dude, I’m fine.”

  “Obviously.” That came out broken. “But you weren’t. Yesterday, you weren’t.”

  He pulled back and gripped Dom’s shoulders. “Yeah, but it’s today, and I’m here and fine. And I’ve just spent god knows how long talking to a lawyer to get all this shit figured out.”

  Dom blinked. “You—found a lawyer?”

  Ray flopped into the chair Dom had vacated, and filled his bandmates in on what he’d been up to, leaving out the whole meditating-while-naked part. They didn’t need to know that.

  He’d tell Zav later.

  “So, now what?” Dom chewed on his nail.

  Ray shrugged. “We wait. Lawyer said she’d call back tomorrow.” His gaze drifted to Mish’s tablet. “I also kinda want to see how this is all being spun.”

  She grunted. “What I want is dinner.”

  That would probably be a good idea. “I’m guessing that heading down to the hotel restaurant or going out would be a very bad plan.”

  Dom’s laugh was bitter. “Oh yeah. I went down just to see what was up, and the place is crawling with paparazzi. I hightailed it out of there, just in case someone did recognize me.”

  “The label hired some security. I think mainly to appease the hotel, since this shit is hitting them, too. Though I bet their bar receipts will be good,” Mish said.

  “Fuck their receipts. And the label.” Ray sighed. “Guess it’s room service, then.”

  She pushed a menu over. “We were waiting for you.”

  He had to laugh. Then he had to keep from crying. Everything was so out of hand, but they’d get through it. “You guys are the best.”

  Dom fidgeted. “What about Zav?”

  Oh. Ray’s heart flipped at the thought of Zavier. His voice. Filling him in on all that had happened. Hearing what was in Zavier’s head, because he was damn well gonna pry that out. If nothing else, Zavier owed Ray that. “I’ll give him a call after dinner.”

  “You’re not mad?” There was confusion in Dom’s voice.

  He wasn’t. God, he missed Zavier so fucking much...but he was kind of glad for his absence, because it had proved something to Ray. He could be in control of himself and solve his own problems.

  “He’s done so much for me. If he needs space to figure shit out, it’s the least I can give him.”

  When you’re ready.

  He was. All he needed was some food in his stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Zavier bought a small roll of antacids, a toothbrush, and some toothpaste from the truck stop across the street from a motel somewhere outside of someplace. He had no idea where he was, only that he might need to stop eating hot dogs from disreputable establishments and maybe he should have had the forethought to take a bag with him when he’d gone for a “walk.”

  He jogged back across the road and to his room. Place looked like a shithole, but the rooms were clean enough. Not even bed bugs, thank goodness.

  He should have anticipated that he’d do this, wander far and wide. He’d left that note for Ray, after all, knowing that there’d be a decent possibility he’d not be back right away.

  But it was easier to think that he was just going out to clear his head. To ponder. Not that he would hunt down a rental place, plunk down money for a compact car, and hit the highway. He wasn’t about to admit to himself that he’d gotten in over his head and that large questions about what exactly he was doing loomed over him.

  It was—as Nadia had once said when he’d first realized he liked tying people up, beating them, and then fucking them—existential crisis time.

  He wasn’t running from Ray. He was running from himself, which was a futile and foolish exercise. And yet here he was, in a tiny concrete room off some state route, who knew how far from the posh hotel Ray was holed up in.

  He missed Ray with every fiber of his being. They hadn’t been out of each other’s orbit since that first practice. They’d eked out a friendship and a kinky relationship and now they had something—something Zavier didn’t want to name and didn’t want to face and never ever wanted to let go of.

  He stripped the comforter off the bed and lay down. It wasn’t the most comfortable bed, but no worse than the bunks in the tour bus.

  He’d known for most of his life that he was a little off center of normal. First he realized he had no gender preference when it came to bed partners. He’d found a word for that fairly fast—pansexual. The kink was easy enough to quantify, too. He loved dominating. Enjoyed the tears and moans of his partners. He was, as Nadia put it, on the mild side as a sadist, closer to a service top, since he so enjoyed giving his partners what they desired most. He had a passion for making his subs fly or go out of their heads or whatever they needed most from their kink.

  But his aromanticism? That had been harder to find words to describe. He’d never particularly understood the trappings of romance, from the diamond engagement commercials to why people found giving flowers some holy romantic gesture. The whole concept of starry eyes and falling so in love that your whole being was consumed with the thoughts of another scared the shit out of him. People actually lost their whole sense of self to love? That sounded like some kind of nightmare, like love was a zombie that ate your brain. He’d seen it, too, people changing their whole selves to be with someone. Even politics and interests and religion. Atheists becoming born-again. Liberals turning right wing simply because they’d fallen in love with someone.

  Being completely uninterested in romance had made sex in high school and college a lesson in how he absolutely had to set expectations early. Because, man, did his bed partners expect him to fall head over heels for them. God, even that expression sounded painful. Like, how was ramming your face into the ground a fun experience at all?

  People seem to obsess over romantic love and the const
ant declarations and gifts. He’d been raked over coals when he hadn’t met whatever romantic standards his partners expected, even when he’d worked so damn hard not to lead anyone on, and set expectations. The worst was when his partners had claimed they would die if he didn’t return their love in the way they expected. Guilt wasn’t caring.

  He did care for friends and family. Hell, he’d go out of his way to help them, care for them. Be there to support and cheer and listen. Provide a shoulder when needed. That was the “love” he understood, his definition of what friend and family meant. The sense the word made to him.

  Everything else seemed like play-acting.

  It had been such a fucking relief to discover that he wasn’t screwed in the head when he’d finally stumbled across the aro community. A breath of fresh air. He could finally be who he was: Zavier Demos, the guy who utterly enjoyed sex and kink and didn’t do romance.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, unwrapped the antacids, and popped two in his mouth. Mint. Would go well with the toothpaste later. His stomach roiled. Fuck. Usually he could stomach questionable rest-stop meals.

  The ceiling had water stains in a corner. Lovely. Zavier closed his eyes. He’d been in worse.

  He couldn’t say he was in love with Ray, because he wasn’t in love with Ray. He’d never felt any of the things society said he should feel when someone fell in love. He hadn’t lost his sense of self. His heart didn’t flip over and over when he thought about Ray—at least not when Ray wasn’t in the middle of anaphylaxis. He’d contributed the latter to being terrified he was about to watch his best friend die.

  He had been so very afraid and angry and desperate to do something—anything—to help. That was a moment Zavier never wanted to live through again. Ray collapsing into his arms. Watching Ray struggle to breathe. Not knowing if he’d see Ray again. That had hurt so fucking much.

  The worst part had been watching Dom leave with Ray. Oh, he didn’t begrudge Dominic at all—Ray had been smart to give someone in the band medical power of attorney. Hell, they all should do that.