"It's great if you need a quick wank," Jamie said, clapping me on the shoulder. "I can bring it by later if you like." He cocked his thumb down the hall, presumably towards his room. Did I look like I needed…? Could he tell? After two minutes with him, I kind of did need one.
Slipping my hand into my pocket, I grasped the seventy-five cents there and steadily dropped each coin to the bottom of the cotton lining with a dulled clink. Jamie was watching me with an air of openness that indicated it was nothing for him to offer up a supply of masturbatory materials to his acquaintances.
"I didn't know Jeff liked men," I said, which was stupid because I knew nothing about Jeff at all except that he was a photographer. I immediately wished I had chosen another tack of changing the subject because this was more of a lane shift.
"He likes anything that's pretty," Jamie said. "Like you, Andrew."
I looked at Jamie's hand, which was still on my shoulder. The nails had been chewed to stubs. I bent my head to the side, hoping that Jamie would shift with the motion and touch my skin. I didn't know what it was about him, but I had felt it before, in that brief moment when we'd met, and now I wanted to hold onto him, to touch him. Instead, he removed his hand altogether.
"I don't really care about pretty things," I said. I trailed off when I noticed Jamie staring at my neck. I remembered the way his lips tasted like salt and vodka when he'd kissed me.
"That's not what I meant," Jamie said. He tapped my cheek. "I bet you're very lickable." Oh. That's what he meant.
"Thanks." I scratched the back of my neck, which prickled with invisible marching ants. This time the ticklish feeling went to my stomach and sat there, deep and still, as if awaiting marching orders. Doing my best to ignore them, I asked, "So, ah, why is Jeff here?"
"He's doing a book on Paeder. Paeder Gone Solo. Here's your stop." Jamie tapped door eighteen thirty-four.
"Right, thanks," I said. I stood, waiting to see if he would do anything else, like kiss me or invite himself in.
"Goodnight, Andrew," he said. He raised a hand, stopped short of tapping my shoulder, and then turned and walked away.
"Goodnight," I said.
I wanted to run after Jamie to tell him that I just knew we would be friends—the best of pals—and that I was very lickable. Instead, I watched Jamie go down the corridor before I went into my room. His swagger wasn't as pronounced when he was walking away. I wondered if he knew he was being watched. He seemed smaller somehow, more human, less superstar. When he reached his door, he turned suddenly and looked right at me. I had no doubt now that he'd known I was watching, which left me wondering why he'd shown me this glimpse of his unguarded self. He didn't smile, didn't do anything that I could notice, but even from a distance I saw him transform back into that superstar. He disappeared into his room as I fumbled with my keycard and unlocked my door. The room was larger than average, but had all the expected items in it and nothing more: bed with a brown quilt, dresser with television, tea and coffee set, table and two chairs. I tossed my duffel bag onto the dresser beside the queen-sized bed and hung the garment bag in the closet.
Chapter Three
After getting settled, I called Cousin Alfred to get directions to the church for the next day's rehearsal. It was at St. Patrick's. I didn't ask how he'd swung that. The cathedral was within walking distance, so that was nice. Wouldn't have to worry about traffic. I called Michael after I got off the phone with Alfred. He answered on the second ring. "I'm here," I said. "Paeder gave me a speech about respect. You know how he is about it."
"Sure do." I heard the television in the background.
"Jamie Webster is here. Staying on the floor, actually." I tried to sound casual.
"Yeah, I thought he might be."
"Why would you think that?"
"You do know they're on the same label?"
"Yes?"
"And that you are in the hotel that label uses?"
"Oh. That's how you knew?"
"That and Paeder told me. I thought if you knew, you'd be too nervous to go, and this job is too important for you to miss because you're embarrassed about something that happened two years ago."
"I'm not embarrassed," I said.
"And also, I just like messing with you."
"I asked Paeder about the fans downstairs. He probably thinks I was mocking him, pointing them out because I knew they weren't there for him."
"How many times do I have to tell you not to take things so personally?"
"Michael." I let my voice drag into a whine, which I knew would grate on him.
"All right. I should have told you about Jamie. I hope I haven't traumatized you."
"I talked to him," I said. "Briefly. He, uh, he remembered me."
Michael laughed. "I don't see how he could forget."
"Watch it, smart ass. Are you at home?"
"Yeah. I'm watching Dawson's Creek. How do you stand this show?"
Dawson's Creek meant one thing: "Are you with a girl?"
I could almost hear him smirking. "Call me tomorrow. 'Night, Drew."
"Goodnight."
When I got into bed, I pulled the blankets over my hair. It was a childhood habit that I kept for sleeping in new places. I was out cold when someone knocking on my door woke me. Cursing under my breath, I got up. I felt my way towards the complimentary white robe on the dresser. Shrugging it on, I walked to the door in the dark. It was just like Paeder to want an early start. But when I opened the door, Jamie stood in the hall. He was wearing a T-shirt and boxers and looking sheepish. His left fist held the end of a green wool blanket that was draped over his shoulder.
"Jamie," I said, too loudly, as if he had forgotten who he was and needed me to remind him. He stared at me. Twenty silent, awkward seconds passed. I remembered my last tense moment in a New York hotel. Had Jamie come to break up with me as Kate had? "I've found a new songwriter, Andrew. He's more devoted than you." I was cold. I wished he would wait until morning and do it when I wasn't jet-lagged. Jamie kept staring.
"Jamie, what is it?" I said. My eyes stung.
His words came in a rush. "I'm sorry to bother you. I had a nightmare. Is it all right if I sleep with you?"
I looked at him, feeling my face go blank and slack-jawed. Then the meaning of his babbling sank in, and I stepped aside so Jamie could enter. The end of the blanket dragged along the floor as he walked. What did he mean by sleep with me?
"I just have the one bed," I said. As we stared at it, I wondered if Jamie wanted a follow-through on the seconds prior to his Grammy night collapse. The thought ushered towards a nervous dizziness.
"I don't mind. Do you?" Jamie asked. "Thought I saw a ghost. Could have been just dreaming. Sometimes I can't tell the difference between what's real and what's…" He trailed off. Stood there, hugging himself.
"Jamie?" I asked.
Goosebumps prickled up on his olive-colored skin. I wanted to wrap him up in the blanket.
"I'll go if you want," he said.
I was unaware of the protocol for a situation like this. I itched to hold him."No, I don't mind. You can sleep here if you want, I mean."
"Can I have the left side?" Jamie asked. He moved towards it. If my rushed, trembling delivery bothered him, he gave no indication. Probably, he was accustomed to it from people.
"Whichever." Good. That sounded casual.
"Thanks." Jamie dropped onto the bed. "You're a good mate." What did he mean by that? I needed to assess and calm down.
"I'm just going to go hang up my robe." I backed into the bathroom with both eyes on Jamie as if he would disappear if I turned my head. I locked the door and sat down on the sink.
Jamie Webster, who had spent ten minutes with me, ever, was in my room and soon to be asleep in my bed. I didn't know why he had come to my door with his pitiable expression and his story about nightmares and bumps in the night. I didn't know why I should be his safe harbor.
Things like this did not happen to me.
I
was the man who got dumped on his second honeymoon. I was the little boy who got knocked unconscious by an eight year old girl. I was the teenager who fell in love with laughter and pretty colors. I wanted to believe that he came because he liked me, because he saw something in me that he didn't see in any of his other options. I wanted to believe mine was the first door he knocked on.
I truly did.
But I couldn't. I was never the first for anything. I was the kid who got picked last for dodge ball. I would not be the first to be awoken by an insomniac celebrity, even one with whom I had a sort-of history. I could dream all I wanted, but I knew the absurdity of it. My god, I wanted to get caught in the absurdity of it—of Jamie, of celebrity, of ridiculous stories that were almost believable if you approached them at the right angle.
Jamie was beautiful, successful. Troubled, yes, but unbelievably unique and talented.
I was not a person who attracted someone like Jamie.
Maybe he was high.
Trouble was—and I never thought of it as a negative before—my knowledge of drugs was comically limited considering that I worked in the music industry. My one experience with marijuana in college had made me tired and five pounds heavier.
If Jamie was not in an addict's haze, then… what? I did a rundown of my knowledge of him. Jamie had been famous since he was sixteen, when he struck big in England with a song that sounded like Elton John crashed into punk rock. I had a fifteen-year backlog of Jamie Webster articles and television appearances stuck in my head. I knew that Jamie treated journalists like psychotherapists. Sometimes you had to read between the lines to interpret his secrets, but I was practiced at that. I tried to focus. Had he mentioned sleeplessness before?
The fact was, my heart had started pounding when I opened the door to let him in and had not stopped. Concentration eluded me. As for thinking of a reason for Jamie to be here—I wanted to be the reason. I still remembered how it had felt when he had kissed me before, how he had gripped my arms so hard that I'd worried he'd leave a bruise. I'd felt needed with that kiss. I never felt that way with Kate, and I certainly didn't feel it with Michael, who took care of himself and me with no effort at all. I'd liked feeling needed. And whatever I was about to pull up from my mental encyclopedia of Jamie, I wanted it to come down to him and me, and even the tap dance my stomach was doing wasn't enough to stop me from knowing that I was acting like a fool.
I had to be calm.
When I went into the bedroom, Jamie was lying on his back with his arms over his head. His shirt hung off a lamp across the room, as if he'd flung it there to filter out the light rather than use the switch over the bed.
I stared at his chest. In all the pictures, I had never seen him so fit. The third round of rehab had been good to him. His torso was muscled, if not chiseled, with a dusting of black hair that organized itself into a single line that descended below the band of his shorts. My own torso was decidedly inferior. I had never been to a gym in my life. The very sight of a treadmill gave me hives. All my life, I'd been slightly soft around the edges with just enough muscle tone to keep me moving. My mother had called me "Chubs" throughout my childhood and not seen anything harmful about it. Jamie opened his eyes.
"Do you want to fuck me?"
Yes. Yes, I wanted to say, but he said it like a normal question—he could ask about the weather in the same tone—so I kept my thoughts to myself. He looked completely unbothered that I was watching him sleep. He stared at me with his gray-green eyes, and I could not speak. As I stood there, I realized that I didn't want to fuck him. Not like this. I wanted the Jamie I had seen a few hours before, the one who was joking, flirting, who treated me to a glimpse of his secret self. Maybe that glimpse had been a test, which I had apparently passed. Fucking him now, when he was shaken from a nightmare and possibly desperate… making any kind of overture towards it… felt wrong, like taking advantage of an innocent. My throat constricted. I was terrified that whatever I said would send him running for the door. I wanted him to stay. Although I didn't know what was going on, I knew he shouldn't be alone, and it was better that he stay here than with someone who would take advantage of him.
"It's all right. Everyone does." He stretched himself out and yawned. "I wouldn't be very good at my job if they didn't."
"Your job?" I asked.
"Entertainment is ten percent talent and ninety percent sex. You're supposed to want me. It's why I get paid so much."
I stood next to the bed like a bug stuck in a light. So there hadn't been anything between us earlier. I had been right in thinking that the flirting was something he did with everyone. But if that was the case, why was he here? "I think the quote goes ten percent inspiration and…"
"I told you it's okay." He looked at me like it was normal, like he had this conversation every day. What was I thinking? He probably did. But with me? No one had conversations like this with me.
"Are you on drugs?"
He flinched as if I had slapped him.
I wanted him to say, "No, I'm not on drugs. I really did have a nightmare and, as you may know from the many unofficial biographies written about me, I often have difficulty sleeping alone because of this. I came to your room because I believe you are a good person, and I secretly fancy you."
He didn't say that. He was too busy glaring at me.
"Two kinds of anti-depressants and a multi-vitamin. You want to see a note from my chemist?"
Now I flinched. He was vitriolic. Still, I had to know. "Any of those cause hallucinations?" My brain screamed at me to shut up and enjoy him while he was in front of me. But what about Jamie? Couldn't he see that the only thing in front of him was me? I was no one's idea of a savior.
I didn't know what I wanted him to say. If he said yes, what was I supposed to do? I wasn't trained for this sort of thing. I wanted to get it right. As for the possibility that he was telling the truth—that his terrors came from seeing ghosts—well, that didn't make me look on the sunny side either because that just meant he was crazy.
Apparently, he could read minds because he said, "I don't sleep. I haven't gone mad. Not anymore than I was, anyway."
He rolled away from me. Even his back looked angry. I'd done it now. Ruined everything. I sat down on the bed.
Anyone else would be thrilled to accept Jamie into his room without question. Not me. Oh, no. I had to worry about the cause of things and why I was chosen. Was I the only person who answered the door? For all I knew, Jamie staged this one-man Las Posadas every night, and I just happened to be the innkeeper with a stable for this one.
"If you want me to leave, just say so," Jamie said. He was talking to his elbow.
"I want you to stay," I snapped.
I had not meant to lose my temper, and I could tell from the way his head ducked into the pillow that my anger had taken him by surprise, too. I imagined that people did not snap at him too frequently.
"I'm sorry," I said. I meant it. Anger upset my stomach. I didn't like it at all, and I certainly did not like directing it at other people. Jamie was facing me again and looking scolded. I wanted to make it up to him. I had not meant to share my discomfort.
"I want you to stay," I said again. "Please." I touched his face and traced his jaw with my finger. He moved out of my reach. Fuck. I had even gotten my apology wrong.
"Sorry," I said. I sat on the bed's edge with my back to him, my hands between my knees.
"It's all right," he said, which was nice of him, but untrue. Otherwise, he wouldn't have moved, and I would have felt like I had done something right.
I was having trouble remembering what that was like.
"I don't understand why you're here, Jamie. You've got a whole crew and your band, not to mention the guys in Icon. You know all of them better than you know me. It doesn't make sense for you to come to my room." The bed shifted under me, and then Jamie's arm was around my shoulders. I wanted to lean against him, but I kept still. The anger was gone from him, too. We sat beside each othe
r, one broken man and one foolish one. I wasn't sure which was which.
Jamie swallowed before he spoke. I listened to his tongue clearing the saliva from his mouth. "I thought we had a connection. The songs you write for me—I feel like you know me," he said.
I did know him. If he felt so connected to my songs, then I knew him as well as I knew myself. They were about me.
"I bet each of the girls down in the lobby would tell you the same thing," I said. I was trying to lighten the mood, but I insulted myself instead. I had equated myself with a squealing teenaged fan. Perhaps this was not so far off the mark.
"Yeah, I bet they would." Jamie's voice was thick with sleepiness, and I couldn't tell if his tone held agreement, resignation, or irony. He lay down again. I was cold where his arm left me. I lay beside him, but separate. I tucked my hands under my pillow so I would not be tempted to trace the soft curvature of his arms.
If Kate had left me the day before the Grammy Awards instead of the day after, and if Jamie had not collapsed after he kissed me, would he and I have carried on as friends or lovers? Would I have been a one-night stand? Would he pretend not to know me after? These were old questions. I was no closer to an answer now than I was two years ago.
I was assuming too much. He was here by process of elimination. But the fact that he had stayed even though I offended him in asking about his drug use had to speak volumes. If only I knew how to read them.
Jamie said that my songs made him feel like I knew him. I remembered the first time I heard Jamie singing "Forgetful," the first song we wrote for him. It was on a tape his manager sent us in the mail. I had listened and believed—absolutely—that he and I were the same person on different paths. Maybe it was just hearing my words in his voice. I hoped it wasn't so trivial. As he slept beside me, I realized what I should have always known.
I still believed in that connection. Somewhere, deep inside myself, I had been expecting him. When he rolled over and laid his head on my chest, I put my arm across his back and held him. I stayed awake as long as I could, keeping him close to me and trying to ignore the stiffness of his cock that pressed against my thigh each time he shifted in his sleep.
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