by BA Tortuga
His head pounded, and he thought maybe it might fall off, especially if Bev’s heels didn’t stop click-click-clicking. He’d been to Jack’s doctor this morning, explained that the pills weren’t working anymore. He was tired, hurting, and grumpy, so the man had written a new prescription and given him a shot and a bunch of samples. Hopefully things would ease up soon.
“Sebastian. So good of you to show.” Jack was waiting for him, a sheaf of dailies for the interviews in hand.
“Fuck off, man.” He did his job. Always. He’d never missed a rehearsal, a recording, a show. Nothing.
“Here. Don’t let that little chick from Independent Songwriter ask one question that’s not on the sheet. She managed to twist John Stylie’s words, even.”
John Stylie was huge in Christian country and was as clean as they came. That was talent, if a reporter could make him look bad.
“I’ll be careful.” He wasn’t the rambling type, really.
“Seb, I know you’re not stupid. I’m just warning you; she’s a barracuda.”
“Did you get Rick Wilder to run the tour on my side?” They were running two entire crews, one in front of the other, and Markus had hired Gray Michaelson.
“I did. I got your memo.” Jack pulled a cigar out of his pocket and started chomping on it, but didn’t light it. “A damned memo. You used to call.”
“I didn’t have time.” He didn’t really care. He wanted to go sit somewhere and make music with someone who couldn’t be around him anymore.
“Too busy surfing and jumping off bridges. Christ, Sebastian, you made the evening news two weeks ago.”
“I did.” And he’d do it again, in Mexico.
“Just don’t break your neck.” Jack cracked up. “Or anything more important.”
“Not going to happen.” And if it did, it did. “I have rehearsal, man. Anything else you need from me?”
“No. I’ll see you at the production meeting. Bev has the schedule.”
“Of course she does.” He gave his best friend and the person he trusted most in the world a smile. “You ready to listen to music, girl?”
“You know it.” She led him toward the auditorium. “I’m trying to get you a shake for after, okay?”
“Whatever. I’m good.”
“No, you’re not.” Bev lowered her voice, her icy eyes warming for him. “You’ve lost at least five pounds, Sebastian. You need to eat.”
“Shh. I’m fine. Is my guitar here?”
“Both of your acoustics are. Your electrics are ready for rehearsal, but the others are in your room.”
“Good girl.” Then he asked what he really wanted to know. “Markus here?”
“Yes. He got in yesterday, did a walk-through on the staging. He had two interviews this morning, but no one has seen him since.” Trust Bev to be on top of everything.
“Thanks.” He headed in, made it to the stage, nodded to Bruce. “Hey, hotshot. Como estas?”
“Good. Good. The set looks good. You want to do a walk-through?”
“Let’s do it. The single sounds kickass.”
“I do like it.” Bruce sounded like he didn’t really want to like it.
“Cool. The family ready for you to be on the road?”
“Hell, yes. They’re sick of me.”
Sebastian cracked up, his laughter ringing out, echoing in the auditorium. The place had good sound. He liked it.
“Hey. Y’all ready to get going?” Markus looked… tired. Still edible.
“Hey, Candy.” He nodded, staying far enough away that Markus wouldn’t think he was breaking the don’t-touch rules.
“Good to see you, Seb.” Markus was very deliberately not looking directly at him, which was probably good. Neither of them needed to be doing the hungry-eyes thing.
“Yeah.” He grabbed his guitar. “How do you want to do this?”
How would they manage to seem like friends without actually touching? Or looking at each other?
“I figure we’ve always done pretty well just winging it.” Markus got his guitar too, and maybe that would work. If they picked, they couldn’t glad-hand each other.
“Sure.” He and Bruce worked the opening of “Fireworks and Old Flames,” the notes already familiar as breathing.
It took them a few tries to figure out when Markus ought to come in, but they got it going on in no time. They ironed out all the kinks way too fast for his taste.
Markus put his guitar down, nodded, and that was that.
“See you tonight, man. Bruce.” Sebastian nodded and grabbed his stuff, making himself just focus on the business. He had interviews to do.
Sebastian wasn’t sure how in hell they were going to do a whole tour this way, but that was a matter for after Mexico.
After some parachuting and some long days waterskiing.
MARKUS SAT in his hotel room and stared at the glass sitting on the table. The thing was pretty and crystal and filled with two fingers’ worth of the best bourbon the hotel had on hand. He hadn’t touched it since the room service man had left it on the table, but it was there, and he knew it. If he never had to do another day like today, it would be too soon.
Three interviews, a radio station visit, rehearsal with Sebastian—where they couldn’t even look at each other. Then the damned performance, where everything had been fucking perfect except that he couldn’t look or touch or even smile or anything without worrying that what he was really feeling would show.
Goddamn, he hated being a big old ball of drama.
His phone rang, Seb’s number coming up, and he frowned. What the fuck did the man want? Markus almost didn’t answer, but before the last ring ended, he clicked the Talk button. “Hello?”
“Hey. I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“I almost didn’t. What’s up, baby?”
“I’m going to Mexico. I need you to tell me we’re going to survive the tour without you hating me. I know it’s a pussy thing to need, but I do. I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’ve got to stop. It was good—in January, writing, us, and I’m not sorry for Austin either.” Jesus, was the man high?
Hell, who was he to ask that question, even to himself, when he was sitting there with booze in his room for the first time in two years?
“I don’t think I’m capable of hating you, Seb. I’m not. And you’re right. It was damned good.”
“It was. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t call. I know, but we’re friends. We were friends, once.”
“We are friends.” Damn it, they were. Even if they never had anything else. “I’m not sorry for what we did in Austin, but I’m sorry I sent you running. I miss you.”
“I had to go. You know I did.”
Yeah, he did know. They would have done it again. And again. It was addictive as hell. “I promise I’ll be more human when we’re on tour. We’ll work out together and all.”
“Me too. I won’t be… naked.” Seb sighed. “I’m going to Mexico to stay out of trouble.”
Markus laughed. “Stay in one piece too. Okay? I saw how you almost broke your neck on your last trip.”
“Yeah. That was totally fun.” Seb’s chuckle made him smile, eased something in his chest.
“You’re a nut.” He eased back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “I might go to Galveston.”
“Go get tan. Ogle mostly naked rednecks. Eat shrimp.”
“Yeah. Not too many photographers and shit either. People don’t expect guys like us in Galveston.” That sounded better and better, in fact. He did love to swim in the ocean.
“There you go. I’ll draw the press, you relax. Sounds perfect. You flying during the tour or bussing it?”
“Depends on what other commitments we have at the time. I’ll be on the bus, mostly. You?” It was good just to talk, not have to worry about the physical stuff.
“I’m bussing it. All the way. Hell, that bus is my home here in the States.”
“Bev said.” He wished Seb would commit to a condo at least.
It seemed weird to be so rootless. “I told Kyle I’d fly him home for Ali’s birthday. Bruce is welcome to go with him.”
“I let Bruce deal with his shit, the band. As long as they show up for rehearsal and shows, I don’t mess with them.”
“Well, I’ll let him know when I see him.” Markus had always been a little more hands-on with the band. Hell, maybe it was because they all had wives and kids and the shit he was supposed to have, so he got it vicariously.
“That’s cool. They liked working with you. Hell, I bet some of them defect.”
He hooted at the thought. Seb was riding the wave; no one would defect on the man. He was pure gold.
“Uh-huh. I’ll be lucky if Kyle doesn’t poison your Kerry so he can come in full-time on the Horsemen.”
“Shit, man. Kyle loves you almost as much as he loves potato chips.”
“Oh God. Don’t say those words in front of him. He’s still trying to convince himself that apple slices taste just as good.” Markus knew better. The substitute was never as good as what you actually wanted.
“You have my word. No potato chips.” Seb’s laugh made him grin. “Have a good night, Candy. It was good to see you.”
“It was good to see you too, baby. See you again in a few weeks, huh?”
They didn’t linger over their goodbyes, and he was glad. Seb hung up before he could say anything really stupid, and Markus stretched, rolling his shoulders before he got up to grab that glass of bourbon on the table.
He didn’t even take so much as a sniff before he took it right to the bathroom and poured it down the sink.
Chapter Seven
SEB FLEW into Houston and rented a car, hit Baton Rouge to say hi to his sister, then headed to Nashville for a few days of rehearsal. He parked the convertible in the hotel lot, texted Bev to let her know he’d managed to not kill himself, and then let the bellman take him up to the penthouse.
He needed a nap.
The penthouse smelled nice, like lemons and pineapple, and he pondered a shake. Bev would have left them in the fridge.
Nah. Nap first. He wasn’t real hungry.
There was a sheaf of papers on the table, and his schedule would be on his phone. Seb managed to get his shoes off before he collapsed, the alarm on his phone set for three.
When it went off, he could hear someone moving around the suite. “If that’s not you, Bev, I’m going to rip your face off.”
“It’s me. Jack’s calling. He wants to see you. The band is ready for you at six. You have to eat.”
He did love the organized little bitch.
“Tell Jack I will see him at four thirty. Here. I’m tired of driving. Tell Bruce to come up at five thirty. You got the rehearsal area ready? And what about Rick Wilder? When is our first meeting? I don’t want any surprises on tour.” He sat up, scratched his belly. “I need laundry done and a waxing appointment with Michelle.”
“Got it. I’ll make the calls. Your shake is ready.”
“You’re obsessed with feeding me.”
“You’re scary skinny, Seb. Like, whoa.” She pushed the shake into his hand.
His mouth flattened into a thin line. He was sick to death of everyone from Jack to Bev to the press being obsessed with his weight. It wasn’t like he was a supermodel or something. He grimaced, but he drank the damned thing.
“Thank you.” She was actually staring at him with this hurt-deer look, like she thought he’d keel over.
“Do you need to get laid or something?”
“What? No! I’m worried about you.” The nascent tears dried up, and Bev whapped his arm.
“I’m fine. You don’t think I’m a stud? What? Are you gay?” He flexed, pranced around like a gold-plated idiot, just cracking Bev up.
“Idiot.” She sniffed and chuckled at the same time. “I’ll go call Jack and get Bruce on the rehearsal.”
“Good girl. I’m going to holler at Kane, see if the lazy son of a bitch is ready to work yet.” He grabbed the bag with his laptop, plugged in his phone, and dialed Markus.
“Hey. You made it in one piece, huh?”
Bev slipped out just after Markus answered, so he could sprawl and talk.
“I did. The evil bitch woman already invoked Jack’s name and fed me.”
“Good for her. Helen wanted to come to Nashville with me. She says I’m not eating well.”
They got a good chuckle out of that. Markus could flat-out eat.
“You didn’t gain forty pounds in Galveston, did you? All those shrimp.” He did enjoy teasing Mr. Hard Abs.
“Nope. She just thinks I ate too much fried stuff. Wants to feed me turkey burgers and salad.”
“Ew.” Just the thought made him gag a little.
“I know, right?” Markus’s chuckle warmed his belly. “Man, I’m ready to get to work.”
“Rehearsal’s tonight at six. I meet with Jack at four thirty, Bruce an hour after that. You want to show up then?”
“Hell, yes. I’ll bring Kyle. He’ll want the extra time.”
“Cool. Looking forward to it. Did you get the schedule and everything? The first eight shows are sold out.”
“No shit?” He could hear Markus drinking and could just imagine that tanned throat working. Yum. “Well, go us.”
“Yep. Money, money.” Speaking of…. He stretched, logged on, and moved some money around. He liked having bits that Jack didn’t know about. God knew there wasn’t much.
“Yeah. Tawny likes that. I’ve squirreled away enough that I’m more about the fans. Hey, who did they get opening?”
“You got that guy you asked for—that Houston McMann?” Sebastian liked his shit well enough. “Fancy, that sister group? They’re in for me.”
“That will appeal to both our crowds.” Markus yawned. “Okay, baby. I need a twenty-minute nap.”
“Have a good one. I’ll see you at five thirty.” He clicked the phone off, got to work organizing shit that he needed to deal with. Like putting a new Stairmaster on his bus.
MARKUS WATCHED Sebastian run through his set, which was full of fifteen years’ worth of amazing songwriting, tons of great musicians, and lots of flat-out running around the stage. It was their first full-length rehearsal and Markus’s first chance to sit back and just watch Sebastian perform. Markus was quickly learning two things: Seb was still a damned fine singer, and the man was too damned skinny by far.
After a week of staging and working with the openers and arguing with Bruce and Kyle and Rick Wilder, the tour manager, they were all getting in a groove, and Markus had lost two pounds. Seb, though, he looked like he’d lost another five, and that was five pounds the man couldn’t spare.
Markus was beginning to see why the press were poking at Seb’s weight every time they wrote an article.
The entire show was frenetic, Seb going and going, running from one end of the guitar-shaped stage to the other, the band trying their damnedest to keep up.
Tawny plopped down beside him, beautiful and redheaded and fierce. “You sounded great, hon. Solid as hell. And you look amazing.”
“Thanks.” He tried not to preen, but Markus knew he was fitting into jeans he hadn’t worn since his twenties.
“He’s like a bunny out there.” Tawny’s lips twisted. “I hate to be catty, but… is he sick, hon? Like AIDS or something?”
“No.” The word was instinctive and came out strong. “No, he’s just not eating well, you know? Bev is working with him.” Damn. If Tawny thought Seb was looking too skinny, it was serious.
“Oh, good. That would suck so hard.” Tawny grinned, winked. “I have all his albums, but you know that.”
Yeah, Tawny had kicked herself in the ass for missing that meeting with Seb way back at the beginning, leaving a young singer primed for Jack to sink claws into him.
“I know. He wasn’t so scared of you, I’d set up lunch or something.” He winked, and she thumped his chest, right above his nipple. “Ow!”
They cracked up, then looked at t
he stage. Seb was on his knees, humping the air, the movement natural and blisteringly hot.
They both groaned.
Tawny gave him a sideways glance. “You gotta watch that, Scooter.” She’d called him Scooter since their first meeting. Markus had never known why. He didn’t take offense to the other, though. He’d come out to Tawny right after he went into rehab, told her all about him and Seb.
“I know. I am. I’m not going to screw up.”
“I know. I hate this bullshit.” She didn’t mean Seb; she meant hiding and lying.
Markus reached for her hand, squeezed it. She was a tough broad, but she was also pretty much his best friend. “Thanks for having my back, honey.”
“Until the day I die, Scooter.” She kissed his cheek, leaning against him, watching Seb sweat and dance.
It was easier to be… objective when Tawny was there. To just watch and love Seb’s aesthetic.
And God knew he loved that man’s… look. A lot.
Even if it was too damned skinny.
SEBASTIAN SETTLED into his bus, moaning in pure bliss.
Everything was perfect in his little home on the road. Paul, his driver, had no access to him from the cab; Seb had cable, exercise equipment, his bed, pillows, and a hot tub.
They were opening with the show here in Nashville, then heading out.
The band was tight, the set list was perfect, and he was ready. Hell, if nothing else, he could sit for an hour every night and watch Candy sing. In fact, he totally intended to. Every night. He stroked the ink worked in over his cock, like he was playing his skin.
He’d written “Silent Love” seven years ago, put it out under a pseudonym, and when Markus had recorded it, it had gone platinum. He was an idiot, but it was his love song to Candy, even though no one would ever know. There had been times, during rehearsal, when he’d thought about asking Candy to sing it for him, but that would have been a dead giveaway. When Markus had added it to the playlist for his encore, it had been like a wet dream come true.
Acoustic. Simple. It was perfect, and Sebastian got to see it, every show.
