by Kim Fielding
“So,” he said loudly, interrupting a discussion of the weather, “what’s the gig?” If there was a gig. None of these people looked like promoters. To his surprise, Stanfill almost cracked a smile. He apparently approved of a direct approach. Bully for him.
It was Chiu who answered. “Mr. Powers, we’re—”
“Jaxon.”
She nodded. “Jaxon, then. I work for the State Department. I have the opportunity to invite you—”
Jaxon set his cup down hard enough to splash coffee onto the desk. “Nope. No way am I going to let anyone trot me out to perform for the president like a trained monkey.” He crossed his arms for good measure.
“That’s not what we’re asking. The State Department has responsibility over foreign affairs.” She might have been trying to avoid condescension, but she didn’t quite manage it.
“Oh,” said Jaxon. Maybe he should have known that, but he’d spent most of his high school government class either stoned or composing songs in his head. Actually, that was how he’d spent pretty much all of his high school classes. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
She leaned forward in her seat. “Do you know much about Vasnytsia?”
“Um, it’s a country, right? Somewhere in the middle of all the -stan countries maybe?”
“A little west of there, but you’re close. It’s in Eastern Europe.”
“Okay.” Jaxon had performed many European concerts, but not there. At least he didn’t think so. On some of the tours, the countries had blended together, especially back when he spent a good chunk of his offstage time partying.
She turned to her smaller colleague. “Clark, could you give him a briefing?”
Clark must have been one of those grade-school kids who loved getting called on. Now he lifted his shoulders and straightened his tie. “During the time of the Soviet Union, Vasnytsia operated as an independent country. It wasn’t part of the USSR, but it was communist. It had a population of less than four million and, completely landlocked, its economy relied primarily on agriculture and some industry. It was run by a dictator who did an excellent job of playing off both the West and Moscow. He got arms and goods from both sides. Then the Iron Curtain fell, and—”
“Is there going to be a test?” Jaxon interrupted. “Should I be taking notes? Ooh! Can I earn extra credit?” Then he felt bad for his outburst because Durant looked so disappointed. Chiu remained expressionless—she was probably a great poker player—and Buzz rolled his eyes. Stanfill, though, lowered his brows and allowed his lip to curl slightly.
“May I continue?” Durant asked after a short pause.
“Yeah. Sorry. Go ahead.”
More tie straightening. “After the Iron Curtain fell, Vasnytsia’s ruler was worried that a similar democratic revolution would reach his country. He built up the military police and sealed off the borders, all while strictly controlling citizens’ access to the media. And he cracked down on dissent. We… can’t divulge the details”—he glanced at Chiu as if for permission—“but I can tell you that anyone who spoke out against the regime was dealt with harshly.”
Jaxon pushed his cup away. “That sounds lovely.”
“The dictator died a few years ago and was succeeded by his son, a man named Bogdan Talmirov. He styles himself a prime minister and claims to hold elections, but last time he won 98 percent of the vote.”
“Sounds like a popular guy.”
“Unlikely,” Durant said. “He continues to forbid access to the internet and to anything but state-run or state-approved media. He almost never allows citizens to leave, and very few foreigners are allowed in. The ones he does let in are shadowed constantly by government-supplied guides. He’s still punitive against any opposition. And he’s probably still stockpiling weapons, only now it’s Russia he’s playing off against the West.”
Durant stopped speaking, as if he were waiting for Jaxon’s questions. Jaxon looked at Stanfill and was gratified to discover the big man looked as impatient as Jaxon felt. God, the man was hot. He probably spent a lot of time in the gym. And despite his broad shoulders and slim waist, his suit fit perfectly. Custom tailored. Not designer threads like Jaxon wore, and certainly not flashy like Buzz’s outfits, but good quality. Too bad he was wearing a suit jacket, because those trousers probably caressed a solid ass like—
“Jaxon?” That was Chiu, her tone crisp.
“Look, I appreciate the lesson in history or geography or whatever, but what does any of this have to do with me?”
She smiled. “It turns out that Prime Minister Talmirov is a fan of yours.”
“I thought outside stuff wasn’t allowed in his country.”
“Not for ordinary people. Talmirov can access whatever he likes.”
“Of course he can. Fine. I’ll send him an autograph.” Although Jaxon was being flippant, he was somewhat disturbed to learn a tyrant loved his music. Not that Jaxon had any control over that. Hell, he had millions of fans; some of them were undoubtedly scumbags. Jaxon’s songs didn’t encourage scumbaggery, though. They were almost all about the usual things—love and sex. Mostly sex.
Chiu set her empty cup and saucer on the little table nearby. “Talmirov has requested you to perform two special concerts in the capital, Starograd. It’s a unique opportunity—the first time he’s invited anyone from outside the country.”
“Right.” Jaxon tipped his head back to stare at the library’s domed ceiling, which featured a mural of constellations. That was a pretty cool idea. Next time he bought a place, he’d have a ceiling mural put in the bedroom. Maybe with little twinkly lights for the stars. After a moment, he turned back to Chiu. “You’re gonna have to send my regrets. I’m not touring right now.”
“The compensation will be substantial.”
“Do I look like I need more money? Go talk to your pals at the IRS. They’ll tell you my income is comfy as is.”
For the first time, her composure slipped. Only for a moment, though. “Then do it for your country. You have the opportunity to make a real contribution.”
“By singing a couple of songs?”
Apparently it was time for Durant—Mr. Exposition himself—to chime in. “Our relationship with Vasnytsia is strained at best. And that’s problematic, because while the country is small, it enjoys a strategic location. If they turn away from us entirely, they’ll give Russia a better chance to, well, disrupt things. As in Crimea. But if we can strengthen our ties with Vasnytsia, our position vis-à-vis Russia will be improved.”
The guy used vis-à-vis in a sentence. Wow.
Jaxon tried to formulate a way to refuse without sounding like an asswipe. But then Stanfill took a step nearer and spoke for the first time since they’d been introduced. “Four million people live in Vasnytsia. If this goes well, you’ll be helping to improve their lives.”
“And making the world safer for Truth, Justice, and the American Way?”
Stanfill didn’t crack a smile. “Something like that.”
“Just by singing a few tunes? C’mon. Even I’m not bigheaded enough to think my music’s that special.”
“It’s not the music itself. It’s you acting as our country’s representative. If we reach out to Talmirov like this—if you reach out—he may come to see us all in a better light. He might turn to us more than he does to Moscow.”
“That sounds pretty lame.”
Stanfill shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s a small step. Sometimes big changes have to start small.”
Jaxon’s chair scraped on the tile as he pushed back. He turned away from his visitors and faced a library shelf, running his fingers over the spines of the books. The volumes varied in topic and looked as if they were well read. He wondered who chose them. Diggs maybe? Or did a hotel functionary just scoop them up at random from used-book stores and library sales?
Nobody interrupted him. Maybe he should have felt powerful, making all these people wait. But all he felt was exhausted. He suddenly yearned for a tiny cabin with a big bed an
d no cell service. He’d sit on the balcony and play acoustic music for the birds and the deer.
“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.
When he turned around and saw the relief on Stanfill’s face, he was at least a little glad for his decision.
A flurry of conversation followed between Buzz, Chiu, and Durant. Stanfill remained silent, staring at Jaxon, and Jaxon stared back. He didn’t pay attention to what anyone was saying; Buzz could fill him in on the important details later. He thought instead what it would be like to peel off Stanfill’s clothing, to feel those big hands running over his skin. Would that short haircut feel soft or bristly? Would Stanfill smell like cologne?
Jaxon had the impression Stanfill knew exactly what was running through his head. But the handsome face remained expressionless, and the heat in those eyes could have been from annoyance or anger.
Finally Jaxon had enough. “Look,” he said, interrupting Buzz in midspeech, “you can work it out without me. You know what I like. Cabrera and his band did a good job backing me up last time I was on tour, so see if they’re available. And I don’t need a whole entourage if it’s only gonna be two shows, so—”
“You don’t understand,” Chiu interrupted.
“What don’t I understand?”
Buzz patted Jaxon’s shoulder. “This prime minister dude, he’s not letting anyone into his country except you and one assistant. His people will provide your support on their end. But don’t worry, kiddo. It’s only for a few days. You’ll be in and out, everything smooth as butter.”
“Or lube,” Jaxon muttered. “Fine. As long as I don’t have to share a bedroom with you. You snore.”
“I’m not going, Jax. You need someone who speaks the local lingo, and that ain’t me.”
“But who…?”
Perfectly on cue, Stanfill stepped forward. “Me.”
Shit.
Chapter Three
BUZZ sent a courier with books about Vasnytsia, but Jaxon left them in the suite’s library, along with an envelope bearing Diggs’s name. The enclosed check would go a good way toward defraying college expenses for the younger Diggs. Jaxon packed up his guitar and some clothing and flew to a tech billionaire’s private estate in Hawaii, where he spent a week sitting on the sand and rolling in bed with an A-list actor. Jaxon and Chris had been having occasional flings for years, but they’d agreed they would never be anything but fuck buddies. Chris was deep in the closet and intended to stay there as long as he kept bringing in action-hero roles. Once upon a time, Jaxon hadn’t cared. Chris was fun, nothing more. Most recently, though, Jaxon left Hawaii unsatisfied, as if his days there had eaten away a bit of him.
He spent the following weeks in a fairly modest New York City apartment on the Upper East Side. He didn’t let Buzz hire any staff to take care of him, mostly because he wanted solitude amid the sea of humanity. He had most of his meals delivered and watched a lot of old movies, and for some reason, he found himself playing a lot of ancient Johnny Cash tunes. He went to a few parties, but other than that, he remained sober. It was nice to know he could.
He flew to Washington, DC, and climbed onto a large private jet. Stanfill was already on board, waiting for him. Apparently they were the only passengers.
“I hope my tax dollars aren’t paying for this,” said Jaxon as he belted himself into one of the plush seats.
Stanfill didn’t look up from his phone. “Vasnytsian tax dollars.”
A smiling young woman brought drinks—Scotch for Jaxon and ice water for Stanfill—and explained some of the airplane’s features. Then she gave them the required safety spiel before disappearing gracefully into the cockpit.
Stanfill remained silent and intent on his phone as the plane taxied and took off. Jaxon could have entertained himself with his own phone or with the movies and Wi-Fi available on the cabin’s big screen. But he found it more interesting to stare at Stanfill, who wore another nicely tailored suit. His hair looked freshly trimmed, his cheeks were free of stubble, and although his suit jacket likely hung in the plane’s cleverly disguised closet, he hadn’t taken off his tie.
“Who do you work for?” Jaxon asked loudly.
“Government.”
“Yeah, but what part of the government? What’s your actual job?”
Stanfill scowled. “I’m your assistant.” Okay, that meant Jaxon could start thinking of him as Reid.
“Since you’re my assistant, you can get me a refill.” Jaxon waggled his empty glass. “And some peanuts.”
“You can get your own. Or call the flight attendant.”
“But you’re my assistant. You’re supposed to assist me.”
After a moment of silent glaring, Reid unbuckled and stood. He grabbed Jaxon’s glass and stomped over to the drinks cabinet. He poured a healthy shot of whiskey into the glass and then stomped back. But when Jaxon reached for the glass, Reid emptied it in one long swallow, slammed it down on the table beside Jaxon, and collapsed into his own seat with a smirk.
“Just how is that assisting me?” Jaxon demanded.
“If I have a few drinks, I’m less likely to strangle you. I think that’s very helpful.”
Maybe Reid thought he was winning some kind of battle, but it had been a long time since anyone but Buzz had given Jaxon grief. This could be way more fun than being stuck with a kiss-ass. Jaxon smiled. “You drank from my glass. How do you know you won’t catch my nasty cooties?”
“Alcohol kills cooties.”
“What if I have superstrength cooties? Alcohol-resistant ones?”
“Your cooties don’t scare me.”
Reid’s eyes definitely held a challenge, but Jaxon was uncertain about the nature of the contest. Was Reid attracted to him?
“You know I’m a depraved rock star, right?”
Reid answered with a snort.
“And not only that. I’m queer as a three-dollar bill. Well, I’ve slept with ladies now and then over the years, but I prefer men.”
“I’ve been briefed on your background.”
“Briefed.” It was Jaxon’s turn to snort. “And you don’t care?”
“Look.” Reid leaned forward slightly, narrowing the distance between them. “My job is to get you through this trip without incident. I don’t care who you’ve slept with. All I care about is that you show up, you sing your songs, and you get the hell out of Vasnytsia without causing an international crisis. You manage that and you can spend the rest of your life shacking up with a herd of sheep and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and I won’t lose any sleep over it.” He leaned back and picked up his phone again.
They remained silent for a few hundred miles, and then Jaxon got his own refill and grabbed some packets of peanuts. When he returned to his seat, he tossed one of them in Reid’s general direction. Reid caught it neatly in midair, seemingly without moving his gaze from his screen.
A few minutes later, Jaxon shifted in his seat. “Where are you from, Reid?”
“I’m stationed in DC right now.”
“Okay, but are you from there originally?”
Reid set his phone aside. “Grew up in Ohio. Spent four years in the Army. Went to college in California, got a degree in Slavic languages, signed on with the government.”
“Wow. I bet you could fit that entire biography in one tweet. It’s a good thing you’re not originally from Mississippi, though. That would put you over 140 characters.”
“I don’t tweet,” Reid said, as if it were something obscene.
“Of course not. You don’t strike me as the social-media type. Antisocial media more like.” Jaxon went full steam ahead. “What about family? Wife? Two-point-three kids? A German shepherd at least?”
“Parents are dead. I’m single. No pets.”
Jaxon wasn’t certain whether that last bit was an attempt at humor. It was hard to read Reid. He kept his tone flat and his face nearly expressionless most of the time, but those eyes… he couldn’t control whatever was sparking in those eyes. Trouble w
as, without any other cues, Jaxon couldn’t identify the emotion, which both frustrated and fascinated him. Usually Jaxon knew exactly what people wanted from him—money, sex, endorsements, or just the simple validation of having a celebrity pay them attention. But Jaxon had no idea what Reid wanted. Aside from a lack of international incidents.
“Okay. So nothing you just told me about yourself gives me any confidence that you know how to plan a concert. I guess you can talk to the locals, but even a small gig gets complicated. There’s the setup, the equipment, the crowd control…. Plus I have only a few days to practice with a band I’ve never met before.”
Reid surprised him with a wide, genuine smile. Of course he was even more handsome when he grinned, dammit. “Those were good points. Considerably more relevant than anything else you’ve brought up.”
“Well, you might think I’m just a grown-up kid who plays for a living, but I’m a professional. It’s important that my performances go well. Important to me—not just to the future of democracy in Europe.”
Reid nodded. And this time when he went to the drinks cabinet, he brought refills for them both. And pretzels. “I’ve had experience in logistics,” he said as he sat down. “First in the Army, then in my current job. Not concerts, but I’ve planned a lot of complex operations that included large numbers of personnel and a variety of equipment. Plus I’ve spent the last weeks interviewing your manager and several other music managers, agents, and promoters. I’m good.” He sounded supremely confident.
“Fine. I don’t want to suck, okay?”
“I’ll do my best to ensure the success of the mission.”
Not long after that, the flight attendant brought dinner. It was a decent enough meal—steak, pasta, and greens—but Jaxon only picked at his. After Reid cleaned his own plate and polished off a slice of chocolate raspberry cake, he pointed his fork at Jaxon. “I hope you’re not counting on kale, quinoa, and tofu in Starograd, because you’re not likely to find them. Food in Vasnytsia is basic Eastern European.”
