Heaven Sent 3: Hell

by Jet Mykles

  The stretch car stopped beside an open loading dock. From the dock to the open loading doors was a line of people busy at ... various tasks. Brent had been doing this for five years now, and he still hadn’t figured out what all of the people backstage at one of these things did. But they always seemed to be really busy.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Gretchen said, reaching over to grab Brent’s hand and squeeze.

  He glanced at her and saw her encouraging smile.

  He grimaced. She knew he hated these things.

  Her smile said that yes, she knew it, but no, he couldn’t be excused.

  Luc unfolded his long legs out of the car and got out, the tails of his overlarge green velvet shirt trailing behind him. He turned to lend Gretchen a hand in getting out.

  Hands on Brent’s knees startled him, and he looked up to see Hell leaning forward, face just about a foot away from his. “Are you well?” the cherub asked.

  Brent’s heart leaped into his throat. Calm! He warned himself. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You’re pale.”

  He laughed. “More than usual?”

  Hell cocked his head to the side, birdlike. “Yes.” His eyes were frickin’ huge..

  Brent smiled but knew it was pathetic. His nerves were too jumbled for him to smile properly. “I’m really bad with the press and public stuff.”

  Hell’s cupid’s-bow mouth opened in a silent “ah.” Then he smiled wide, showing white, even teeth. The fingers of one of his hands curled over Brent’s. “I’ll hold your hand, if you like?”

  Brent snorted and snatched his hand back. “Get out of here, Hellion,” he growled, using the band’s favorite pet name for their newest member

  Hell laughed gaily as he took himself and the long skirt of his suede jacket with him out the door of the car.

  Brent sat there, flexing his fingers, wondering at the smoothness of the man’s touch.

  Gretchen poked her head back in. “Yes, Brent, you do have to come. Now.”

  He grimaced and leaned forward. “I’m coming.” He reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket as he went, fingers fishing for the box and lighter he knew were there. “But I am having a cigarette.”

  He stood on the pavement in the small circle of quiet the bodyguards and entourage afforded him and lit up while they waited for Johnnie and Darien to emerge from the second car. Blessed smoke filled his lungs, and he tipped his chin and exhaled directly up into the weird scaffolding-like shit crawling over the cement ceiling, to avoid offending anyone.

  Fingers tapped the back of his hand, and he held up the cigarette in his fingers without even looking, knowing it was Luc. When he brought his chin back down, Luc’s hand hovered before him, handing back the cigarette.

  Luc grinned at him, lifting his hands to smooth auburn hair back toward the tail at his nape. Didn’t work, of course. The curly tendrils of fiery red always wanted to come back to frame his face. “You’ll be fine.”

  Brent rolled his eyes and took another puff. They always said that. Luc. Johnnie. Gretchen. Even Darien on occasion. He never was, but they thought it was comforting.

  Johnnie and Darien strolled up. The first was dressed in a white cashmere sweater and deep green slacks. The second wore an ice-blue silk shirt and black slacks.

  Aren’t we all dressed up? Brent thought. But then, they had to be. Official announcement and all. What a fucking circus. Just let this be over. Why can’t I just play music?

  “Let’s go, gentlemen,” Gretchen called, leading the way. “Brent, put it out.”

  He pulled another lungful and handed the cigarette off to Luc, who filled his own lungs, then dropped the cigarette to the pavement and ground it out under his shiny green-banded boots. Then they followed Gretchen, Johnnie, Darien, and Hell into the mouth of -- he laughed at his thoughts -- Hell.

  They’d barely passed the pipe-and-tarp barriers masking backstage before the flashbulbs started going off. As usual, everyone started talking at once. Brent kept his eyes on Hell’s back -- not a difficult task -- and refused to look to the side even when the photographers started calling out to members of the band. He trailed Hell’s white coattails up a short flight of rickety stairs to a platform that put Heaven Sent up above everyone else. The artwork for the new album was projected on a screen behind them, and a sea of press crowded the floor before them.

  Gretchen stepped up to the podium to introduce the band and instruct the members of the press how they’d handle the questioning. The band would stand up here first and answer what was thrown at them; then they’d come down and conduct two hours’ worth of various interviews that had been scheduled with key members of the media. When she was done with her spiel, she stepped back and Johnnie stepped up. The remaining four of them spread out behind him. Obediently, Brent stood so he could be seen. He didn’t like doing this stuff, but in five years, Gretchen and the others had forced him into proper habits for posing for the cameras.

  “Greetings, everyone.” There was a reason Johnnie was the lead singer. The man had a voice like chocolate mousse, rich and decadent. He leaned against the podium, perfectly comfortable with a dozen microphones perched before him and countless cameras snapping. He looked damn good with his ridiculously long brown hair loose and flowing over his shoulders to his waist. “Thank you all for coming. As you all know, we’re in town for a performance to mark the grand opening of the White Tiger nightclub in the Weiss Strande East Hotel. The venue and the hotel are rather close to both Luc’s and my hearts since I’m a part owner in the hotel and he’s a part owner of the nightclub.” Brent snorted at the pride in Johnnie’s voice. Some reporters started shouting Johnnie’s name, blurting out questions, but the singer ignored them and continued. “Both the performance tonight as well as the one tomorrow night will be filmed to be part of the video for the first single off our new album, The Charm.” More flashbulbs went off, and the reporters again pelted him with questions. Johnnie smiled for the cameras, but still didn’t acknowledge the questions. “But what you might not know or what you might have heard through the grapevine is that Heaven Sent is proud to announce that our quartet has expanded to a quintet.”

  Excited murmurs. Huh, so some of them hadn’t heard. Gretchen will like that.

  “While we were recording The Charm, our producer, Paul Thrombone, introduced us to an amazing keyboardist. We invited him in, and much to our delight, he not only helped us with the few songs we’d originally proposed to him, but the entire album. We’ve even done some remixes of our older songs, which will be released as extended singles later in the year. In the end, we just couldn’t see not keeping him.” Johnnie grinned. “Luckily, he agreed to be kept. So please allow me to introduce you to Heller Witting, otherwise known as Hell.”

  More murmurs and flashes as Hell stepped up beside Johnnie. Quite pointedly, he dropped down a half-foot-tall block beside the podium and stepped up onto it. The audience chuckled to see that it put the top of his head about on eye level with the tall lead singer.

  Johnnie put his arm around Heller’s shoulders and squeezed. “And he’s cute, too.”

  Minor roar and blinding flashes as the picturesque moment was captured on film.

  Hell leaned into the podium, his lavender hair shining in the bright lights. “Thank you. I cannot tell you how excited I am to have this opportunity. I have been a fan of Heaven Sent for years, so this, for me, is a dream come true.”

  “Heller! You’re a fan of the band?”

  Hell’s long fingers curled calmly around the edges of the podium as he shifted most of his weight onto one foot. “Yes, I have been since I first heard them on the internet.”

  “How long have you been playing keyboards?”

  “Most of my life.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Johnnie leaned in, some of his wealth of brown hair caressing Hell’s back. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Laughter.

  Reporters pelted
more questions at Hell, and Brent was proud of the little guy for taking it so well. Brent himself kept his hands shoved in the deep pockets of his jacket to disguise the trembling. And he wasn’t even in the spotlight.

  “Do you really prefer to be called Hell?”

  “Yes. It’s quite dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “What’s your real hair color?”

  Brent couldn’t see him from behind, but saw him jerk back dramatically. He reached up to finger one of the curls that brushed his chin. “This is my real hair color.” The smile could be heard in his voice.

  “Hell, are you gay?”

  Ah, the question we’ve all be waiting for.

  Hell cocked his head to the side, his purple braid slipping off his shoulder and around his back. “Does it matter?”

  That stumped one reporter but not the next. “The gay thing is quite an issue, after all, given that Johnnie and Luc are now in committed relationships with men. Couldn’t you tell us whether you prefer men or women?”

  Hell spread his hands, palms up. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m hoping to catch some, how do you say, pointers from my band mates.” He was playing up the accent. He spoke better English than anyone else in the band.

  “So you’re into both men and women.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  Hell shrugged. “Doesn’t it?”

  The questions continued, but Hell and Johnnie managed to never quite confirm that Hell was gay. The most that the reporters could get was bisexual references without the word actually being said. It was a game the band played with the press, a game Hell had willingly -- eagerly -- consented to play when he’d agreed to join. No member of the band would declare outright that he preferred men or women. Each of them would hug the middle, giving ample clues in either direction. True, Johnnie and Luc had rather tipped their hands when they’d hooked up with Tyler and Reese, but Tyler let Johnnie continue to escort lovely ladies to various functions he was unable to attend, fueling rumors of an open relationship between the two men. Reese had agreed to let Luc do the same, but their relationship was so new that they’d barely been apart yet.

  Before the questioning got too out of hand, Gretchen stepped up and suggested that the line of inquiry be changed. Everything after that was pretty standard.

  After most of the questions had died down, the podium was taken away, and the five members of the band had to stand in a tableau to allow a million pictures to be taken. Brent thumbed the engraving on his lighter and endured, mustering what he hoped were natural-looking smiles.

  The pictures were bad enough. Once Gretchen pronounced those were done, then he had to follow Darien off the platform. He hit the floor, and Gretchen’s assistants pounced. Each band member had their own babysitter. That’s not what Gretchen called them, but that’s what they were Brent was thrilled to see Theo Foster, the same guy who’d been his babysitter during the last tour. Theo had short blond hair, laughing green eyes, and a wicked smile. Brent and he got along great, and he already knew all of Brent’s quirks.

  “Hey, man,” he greeted as Theo led him toward the back. “Long time no see.”

  Theo grinned. He was a few years younger than Brent, and although he was enthusiastic, he managed not to be bubbly. “Hey. How you been?”

  “Okay. Gretchen didn’t tell me if you’d be back.”

  Theo kept hold of his arm as he led Brent through the crowd toward cordoned-off areas. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You’ll be around for the gigs?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awesome.”

  They reached a seating area, and Brent tried not to balk at the sight of the little stool that was obviously his destination. It sat before a soft green-and-purple backdrop with bright lights aimed just so. A camera was set up, and a reporter was talking with the cameraman. They both smiled at his approach.

  Brent took a deep breath and mustered a smile. At least Gretchen knew him well and had assigned him the reporters from the music magazines. No Entertainment Weekly or People magazine for him. No teen mags, either. He got reporters from Creem and Guitarist. So, even thought he was scared to death and probably sounded nervous, he got to talk about playing guitar and making music. These, at least, were subjects he could be semi-intelligent about.

  Chapter Four

  Brent stood in the parking garage with Theo, waiting. His few interviews were long over, but he wasn’t allowed to leave until Gretchen gave the go-ahead. Brent didn’t mind this so much. The worse part of the day was over. Ahead was a sound check just before the irritating but bearable process of hurry-up-and-wait that was getting ready for the performance at the White Tiger.

  Theo had just offered to go get him a Coke when Gretchen slid through the crowd into the covered parking garage.

  With Hell in tow.

  Brent frowned as the pair approached. Gretchen was scowling, but Hell didn’t seem upset.

  Gretchen saw Brent near the first car and headed for him. “I knew you’d be here.” She turned to Hell. “You two should go back to the hotel.”

  Brent’s heart skipped. Alone? “What gives? Something wrong?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Gretchen assured him, glaring back toward the doorway. “I just don’t like how they’re hounding Hell.”

  Hell smiled, laying a hand on her arm. “It’s understandable, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but ...” She shook her head and reached out to smooth a hand over his smiling cheek. The two of them were of the same height. “You’re a living doll to put up with that crap, Hell, but we have months ahead of us to deal with this. I think you’ve done enough for today. You and Brent go on back to the hotel. We’ll give you guys a call when we’re back.”

  The cherub looked at him and smiled.

  Crap! Brent was still trying to process the fact that he was going to be alone with Hell. After last night, he wasn’t sure it was such a good idea, and he wasn’t ready to talk about Hell being a fan again. His reactions to the man’s looks were just too potent. He wants you. Luc’s voice rang in his head, but he still couldn’t bring himself to really believe his friend or what he was seeing in Hell’s own actions. Maybe Theo --

  “Theo, I’ll need you to stick around here.” Just like that, Gretchen dashed his hopes. “I’m sure Brent can get up to his room okay. Tyler’s got the hotel security all set, so there shouldn’t be a problem.” Gretchen turned and smiled up at Brent. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his arm.

  He mustered a smile. She always made a point of thanking him for doing any kind of publicity, because she knew he hated it. She really did look out for them. It was one of the things that endeared her to the band.

  Brent couldn’t think of a valid reason not to get into the car with Hell. He watched the cherub’s white-clad back disappear into the limousine and noted that the view of his butt was sadly obstructed by the tails of his coat.

  Quit it! he admonished himself. He took a deep breath and got in.

  Hell was rummaging in the little refrigerator as Brent settled. “Would you like something?”

  Brent adjusted his glasses and sat leaning against the far door, hoping he wasn’t being too obvious in trying to put as much space between them as possible. “Is there beer?”

  Hell produced two Heinekens. “No, but there’s Heineken,” he declared, sitting back with a grin as the car took off.

  Brent chuckled. “That’s beer.”

  “No, this is not beer. This is slightly flavored water.” With a slight grimace of distaste, Hell popped both caps, then handed one bottle to Brent. “There is no such thing as beer outside of Germany.”

  Brent laughed and sat back, facing front rather than watching the mouth of the bottle hit those sweet little lips. “You’re prejudiced.”

  “Have you tried German beer?”

  Brent thought about it. “Can’t say that I have.”

 
“When you do, you will know what I mean and agree with me.”

  Brent chuckled again and settled in with his beer.

  “Are you all right?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brent could see the cherub twisted to face him. “Huh?”

  Hell gestured with his bottle behind them as the limousine started to leave the parking garage. “The press. You said you’re not good with it. Are you all right?”

  Brent glanced over to see huge violet eyes focused on him in what looked like true concern. It touched his heart. Not to mention lower portions of his anatomy. He sipped his beer. “Yeah. It’s over. I’m okay.”

  He stared out the window as the long car reached the screaming fans. Eager hands slammed on the sturdy glass; faces pressed in. Instinctively, he flinched back. “Shit!” He jumped when Hell put a hand on his shoulder.

  Big eyes blinked as the hand fell away. “This really bothers you.”

  Brent laughed, facing front and nursing his beer as they passed by the last of the fans and finally got onto the street. “Yeah.”

  “Have you always been this way?”

  “With the crowds? Pretty much.”

  “How have you managed?”

  Brent smiled. “Are you kidding? With Johnnie and Luc as front men for the band, I rarely have to do this stuff. They want Johnnie or Luc or Darien because they’re interesting.” He tried a joking smile, feeling better now that they were in normal traffic. “They’ll love you.”

  Hell snorted. “There are plenty of fans who look at you.”

  Brent stared at the empty leather seat across from them and the backs of the heads of the two men who sat in the front seat, before the glass partition. “Maybe a few.”

  “More than a few. The musicians know that you are the truly talented one. I think you’re terrific.”

  Brent’s hand froze bringing the Heineken back up to his lips.

  Hell chuckled. “And I’ve embarrassed you again.”

  Brent scowled, keeping his focus on the mouth of the green bottle. “No.”