by Kim Fielding
“Cabbage and dumplings?”
“Something like that.”
Jaxon pushed his plate away. “I’m just not very hungry right now.” Even after all these years, flying unsettled his stomach. “I’m not a picky eater.”
Reid raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“Really,” Jaxon insisted. “I grew up in Peril, Nebraska. Population two thousand. We ate beef from my uncle’s ranch and vegetables from cans. I’m pretty sure the only spices in the cupboard were salt and pepper. I never even saw a bagel until I left home at seventeen. And then for a few years, I was dirt poor. I ate whatever I could get my hands on.” More than once, he’d scrounged trash bins outside grocery stores and restaurants. He wasn’t proud of that history, but he wasn’t ashamed either. He’d done what he needed to survive, and he hadn’t hurt anyone along the way. That was good enough.
“You’re not starving now,” Reid pointed out.
“Not for years. But I remember what it was like.”
Reid set down the fork and drained his glass of water. Like Jaxon, he’d given up on the booze. “That hotel suite you had in San Francisco? With what you paid for a single night, a dozen families in India could live comfortably for a year.”
Jaxon set his jaw. “I’ve done benefit concerts. I donate to a lot of charities.”
“Right.”
Having had enough of this conversation, Jaxon stood abruptly, nearly bumping into the flight attendant, who’d come to collect their dishes. “Coffee?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Two beds had been set up near the back of the plane. Actual real beds, not the torture chambers commercial airlines expected you to sleep on. The farther one was separated from the main cabin by a partial wall. Jaxon had found that the best way to deal with the eastbound time change was to remain awake on overnight flights. Then he’d be good and ready to snooze when it was bedtime in Europe. Since he had no plans to sleep now, he took his acoustic guitar out of the closet where the attendant had stowed it, kicked off his shoes, and sat on the rearmost bed.
When he got in a mood like this, he didn’t consciously choose what to play; his fingers made the decision for him. He often wasn’t even aware what the song was. The music seemed to flow, perhaps directed by some muse who temporarily possessed his body. His mind sailed along with the notes, as insentient as a leaf floating on a stream. When Jaxon played like this, it was for himself alone. A meditation, a prayer.
So it was with a start that he realized Reid was leaning in the doorway, watching him. Jaxon had no idea how long he’d been there. He stopped playing, and for a long moment they stared at each other.
“Sorry. Am I keeping you awake?” He noted that Reid was still fully dressed.
“That’s not your usual style,” Reid said quietly.
Jaxon had to think about what he’d been playing. “It’s an old Janis Ian tune.” Definitely not his usual style, which he usually described as postpunk alternative rock with a strong lean toward pop. That sounded impressive and official. He’d read articles in which genre pundits argued over which category his work belonged in. As Buzz liked to remind him, it didn’t matter what anybody called it as long as they paid to listen to it.
“It’s sad,” Reid said, referring to the song. “Or no. Wistful?”
A rush of warmth flooded Jaxon. Instead of demanding Jaxon play one of his big hits, Reid was attempting to understand him. Reid was going for communication, not entertainment. Hardly anyone did that with Jaxon.
“My grandma used to listen to folk music and country-western. When I was a little kid, I’d go to her house after school—she lived just a few doors down—and she’d put on her records. Scratchy old things. I used to tease her about them, but really, I loved them. We’d sing together.” Jaxon smiled at a memory he hadn’t relived in ages. “She had a good voice.”
“Is she still alive?”
“No. She died of lung cancer during my junior year of high school. She never got to see me become famous.”
Reid didn’t offer any tired condolences, but his small nod suggested he knew what that type of loss felt like. He’d said his parents were dead, hadn’t he? He ran his palm across the top of his hair. “Do you ever go back to Peril?”
“Nope. My parents and I didn’t part on the best terms.” Understatement. They expected college, heterosexuality, and eventual marriage; he wanted a music career and varied sleeping partners. There had been a lot of yelling. The day after he graduated high school, he’d packed up some clothes, his guitar, and all the money he possessed, and he’d hitched a ride to Ogallala, where he got on a Greyhound heading west. Stupid-ass move, but it had saved his life. Peril would have smothered him.
“Maybe you should return sometime,” said Reid.
“Maybe.”
Another long silence contained a whole lot of unspoken words. Then Reid twitched a shoulder. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He turned as if to go.
“Reid?”
“Yeah?” Pausing, Reid looked back over his shoulder.
“You can stay if you want. I don’t mind an audience.”
That mystery emotion flared in Reid’s eyes again. Then he nodded and removed his shoes, carefully lining them up near the wall. With a small grin, he stretched out on the bed beside Jaxon, propping his back against the padded headboard. For the first time since they’d met, Reid looked almost relaxed. Except for the damned tie.
“When did you change the spelling of your name?” Reid asked.
Jaxon blinked. “You know about that?”
“I told you. I was briefed on your background. Plus any idiot could deduce that in 1981, no parents in Peril, Nebraska, were going to name their kid Jaxon-with-an-x.”
To his surprise, Jaxon laughed. “You got me there. I switched the cks to x as soon as I left. I thought it looked cooler that way. I had it legally changed after I got my first gold record. Were you always Reid?”
Reid’s expression had been almost open—for Reid—but now it closed up again. “Yes.”
All right. Apparently Jaxon’s history was an open book while Reid’s past was a no-man’s-land. Jaxon began to strum again, idly picking out chords until a tune coalesced. Ah. Roy Orbison. Jaxon’s subconscious was in an oldies mood. He crooned along, keeping his voice just loud enough to carry over the engine noise, feeling the familiar thrill as his throat magically roller-coastered through the highs and lows. Reid watched him closely, his body only inches away. After Roy Orbison, Jaxon followed a natural segue into Carl Perkins and then a slide into Elvis, and then he found himself in the blues, channeling a bit of Bessie Smith and Muddy Waters. It was all very fine. But after that he somehow found himself purring a torch song—in French, no less.
When he finished, his hands fell still and he set the guitar aside.
“‘Ne me quitte pas’? Don’t leave me?” asked Reid after a moment.
“Jacques Brel. Another of Gram’s favorites.”
Reid’s eyes were like lasers. “Who left you?”
“Nobody. I just— Oh. You speak French too, huh?”
“It’s not my best language, but I can manage.” Reid wasn’t fooled by Jaxon’s attempt to sidestep the question. Jaxon could almost see the gears turning in Reid’s head as he tried to decide how best to draw out more confessions.
And what happened next, well, Jaxon blamed the altitude. Pressurized passenger compartment his ass—when a guy was hurtling through the air six miles above the Earth, his mind didn’t operate right. That was why Jaxon grabbed Reid’s tie, tugged him close, and smooshed their faces together.
A kiss. God, Reid felt as good as he looked, all soft lips and solid body. And he tasted good too. Whiskey. Chocolate. Heaven. Jaxon’s appetite returned in full force, but it wasn’t airplane steak he was ravenous for.
Jaxon let go of the tie, but only so he could grasp Reid’s shoulders instead, and Reid responded in kind. For a glorious few seconds, they made out like horny teenagers.
But before Jaxon could work out the logistics of joining the mile-high club—well, rejoining, since he was already a repeat member—Reid pulled away. He got off the bed and stood in the narrow space next to it, adjusting his tie. “We can’t do that,” he said evenly.
“Don’t tell me you’re not into guys, ’cause you were pretty into it.” For a moment anyway.
Reid shook his head. “This is a critical mission, and I’m your assistant. I need to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“It’s just a couple of concerts,” Jaxon said, aware he was contradicting his earlier insistence that everything run perfectly.
“No, it’s more than that.”
Reid walked back into the main cabin, leaving Jaxon alone.
Chapter Four
JAXON didn’t play anything else during the flight. He didn’t sleep either, although he stayed on the bed, morosely watching videos on his phone. He couldn’t see Reid, yet he was aware of his presence on the other side of the partial wall. Right there. Big as life.
When Reid appeared silently in the doorway, Jaxon gave a guilty start even though he hadn’t been doing anything wrong. “We’ll be landing soon,” Reid said.
“Yeah, okay.”
Reid sighed loudly. “Look, I know you’ve been briefed already, but I need to stress a few things. Remember, Vasnytsia’s not like the USA. People get locked up there for all kinds of things we have the right to do at home. People disappear. You’re safe—too high profile for them to fuck with—but don’t push any boundaries. Please.”
“I’ll be a good boy.”
Although he didn’t look convinced, Reid nodded. “Good. And you know homosexuality’s illegal, right? People who get caught are sentenced to years of hard labor.”
Jaxon had already been informed of that, and the knowledge had nearly caused him to withdraw from the whole thing. Buzz had persuaded him that quitting wouldn’t do Vasnytsia’s gay community any good, and if Jaxon actually did the concerts, the prime minister’s hard-line stance might eventually soften. Small steps, Buzz had said.
“I’m not going to fuck any Vasnytsians. I can control myself.” He winced a bit as the memory of their recent kiss loomed large. “I can,” he insisted.
“I hope so. And don’t wander off on your own. We’re not allowed anywhere without guides. Also, assume everyplace is bugged and someone’s listening.”
“Wow. It’s like spy stuff, huh?” Jaxon hummed a few bars of the James Bond theme song. “Shaken, not stirred.”
“This isn’t a movie.”
“Too bad. I always kinda wanted to act.”
But since Reid looked stern and maybe slightly concerned, Jaxon relented. “I’ll follow all the rules, I promise. And I’ll watch what I say. No spilling state secrets—not that I know any of those to begin with.”
That probably wasn’t enough to satisfy Reid, but it would have to do. Soon afterward, they buckled into their seats and endured a bumpy landing.
Jaxon hadn’t seen much of Starograd from the air due to heavy cloud cover, so his first real view of the city was its airport as they taxied toward the terminal. It wasn’t a cheery sight. The nearly windowless building was small and drab, its white paint missing in spots and revealing the concrete walls beneath. The few other airplanes parked on the tarmac looked like military or cargo vehicles. It made sense—with travel to and from Vasnytsia severely restricted, United and Lufthansa wouldn’t exactly be lining up daily flights.
Off in the distance, he spied a smudge of small high-rises, and beyond them rose a steep hill covered in trees with dark green foliage. All the colors were drab, but maybe the steel-gray sky was partly to blame.
While the plane slowed to a halt, Jaxon and Reid gathered their belongings. Reid put on his suit jacket and squared his shoulders; Jaxon gave the phone in his pocket a final pat. He’d been warned ahead of time—no cell service or Wi-Fi in this place.
The first thing he saw as he descended the stairs was a line of soldiers. Or maybe they were policemen; he couldn’t tell and wasn’t sure if there was a difference. They had uniforms and stern expressions, and they carried big guns. They accompanied two stout middle-aged men in dark suits and three attractive younger women. The women’s suits were light blue and had skirts.
What happened next seemed to be some kind of ceremony. The soldiers saluted and then the men in suits gave speeches—in Vasnytsian, so Jaxon didn’t understand a word. Reid leaned in close and translated, but that wasn’t very helpful because his proximity and scent distracted Jaxon too much to pay attention. Jaxon got the gist of it anyway: Welcome to our wonderful country. We’re honored to have you here. We consider this a huge step in the friendship of our great nations. Blah blah blah.
Jaxon gave a short speech in return, just a three-sentence lie about how honored and excited he was to be there. Reid translated that too.
The women stepped forward and introduced themselves as Jaxon’s guides. They spoke excellent English, which calmed his fears a little. He didn’t catch their last names, which involved more syllables and consonants than he was used to, so he hoped he wouldn’t break protocol by using first names. The youngest one, a blonde, was Albina. Halyna was the one with the brunette bob. And the last one, Mariya, had long brown hair and looked like a supermodel. She batted her eyelashes at Jaxon, who might have flirted back if Reid hadn’t been standing close by, thwarting any potential attractions.
The soldiers and men in suits dispersed, heading back into the terminal, but the guides came along with Jaxon and Reid. Aside from his guitar, Jaxon was traveling light; Reid even more so. As they dragged their suitcases toward a waiting SUV, the door of the plane closed and the stairway was rolled away. The jet engines were humming already. Apparently the flight crew was in a hurry to get the hell out of Vasnytsia. That was not reassuring.
The big black SUV resembled a Hummer, but Jaxon didn’t recognize the brand name, which was in Cyrillic. The driver wordlessly stored the luggage in the back and then drove them out of the airport through a gate guarded by more armed soldiers. Halyna pointed out the sights. Her spiel sounded well rehearsed, but there was very little to see. Large fields of wheat surrounded the airport, and then the apartment blocks began.
Jaxon had traveled to several former communist bloc countries where he’d seen similar housing. Uniform, prefab concrete buildings seven or eight floors high, with rows of small windows set among the white or gray walls. Someone Jaxon met in Prague had referred to them as rabbit hutches. The ones in Starograd seemed to be in particularly bad repair. Many of the facades were badly cracked, and broken windows were patched with cardboard or plywood. Sad little parks ran in front of some of the buildings, with scabby-looking grass, broken benches, and pieces of scuttering litter.
The road—full of giant potholes—held very few vehicles. Most of them were military or construction trucks, although Jaxon saw a few private cars and several grungy buses. Tram tracks separated the two lanes. Although it was midmorning on a weekday, he saw very few people. Those he spied wore colorless clothing and trudged along the road or waited for trams with their heads down, plastic sacks clutched in their hands.
Large posters on walls and billboards provided some visual interest. Propaganda, Jaxon guessed. Many of them included images of a dour-looking man about Jaxon’s age, wearing a fancy military uniform that dripped with medals and ribbons. Prime Minister Talmirov, no doubt. Sometimes he stared at gleaming factory machinery, sometimes he stood in a field of vegetables, and sometimes he loomed over classrooms full of schoolchildren. He never looked happy.
Halyna called attention to a depressing school and a couple of factories spewing God knew what through their chimneys into the atmosphere. The SUV rumbled past several public squares, each containing birdshit-stained statues of war heroes and edged by tram tracks. Old people and men in coveralls sat in the squares, smoking cigarettes.
The scenery improved when they reached the older part of the city. Although the buildings were in
disrepair, most still possessed the ghost of past beauty. According to Halyna, some of them dated from the nineteenth century, when Vasnytsia was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but many were even older, remnants of Ottoman rule.
Jaxon listened to Halyna’s narration and occasionally interjected carefully polite comments. Reid remained silent, but his sharp gaze seemed to capture everything. Jaxon would have bet that Reid could give an accurate description of every block they passed. Maybe it was a holdover from his military days.
They finally arrived at what Halyna pronounced Starograd’s finest hotel. Given the lack of tourism, Jaxon guessed it might be the city’s only hotel. Halyna rattled off the names of famous people who’d stayed there. Jaxon recognized only a few, all of whom had died long before his parents were born.
The driver offered to help with luggage—the first time he’d spoken—but Reid told him they could manage. Halyna led them into a small lobby where two men sat in squishy chairs, staring and smoking. They wore street clothes, but something about their scrutiny convinced Jaxon they were cops or government agents. The registration desk was extravagantly carved but battered. The older woman behind it, unsmiling, handed Jaxon and Reid each a key on a tarnished metal fob.
Their adjoining rooms had a connecting door and were one floor up from the lobby. Reid’s was furnished with a narrow bed, a desk and chair, a wardrobe, and a simple bathroom. Jaxon had been placed in grander quarters, a large L-shaped room containing a fair amount of furniture, including two double beds and a couch. His bathroom boasted a bidet and one of those weird European showers with a zillion sprayers and incomprehensible controls. The color scheme throughout the rooms was… interesting. Bloodred carpeting, white leather upholstery, and gold brocade curtains that looked as if they’d been stolen from impoverished minor royalty.
“Home sweet home,” said Jaxon, setting his guitar on one of the beds. It wasn’t a twenty-grand-per-night suite in San Francisco, but he’d slept in far worse, back in the day.
