by A. F. Henley
Table of Contents
Title Page
Book Details
Dedication
The Cat's in the Cradle
Send me an Angel
The Long and Winding Road
He's a Magic Man
Black Magic Woman
I Turn to You
Have You Ever Seen the Rain
Here I Am
Turn the Page
Running with the Devil
Who Will You Run To?
Behind Blue Eyes
With a Little Help From My Friends
The Grand Illusion
Promises, Promises
We are Family
For the Glory of Love
Dream On
About the Author
The Gift
A.F. Henley
Doren was born with a powerful gift—a gift he's managed to use to put him well on his way to becoming a star. But there is more to that gift than just musical talent, and as careful as Doren is to hide that fact, there are some who know of the power behind the sound, and all the ways they could abuse it.
August's goal in life is simple: make an impact in the music industry. An opportunity to work as the personal assistant to Doren seems to be exactly the kind of break he needs to accomplish that goal.
But all too often in life, simple becomes just another complication, especially when there are people whose goal is even simpler: destroy and dominate.
Book Details
The Gift
By A.F. Henley
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Ian Sentelik
Cover designed by London Burden
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition December 2013
Copyright © 2013 by A.F. Henley
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 9781520042908
Dedicated to all of us who see
the Magic in the mundane,
the Path amidst the chaos,
and the Light within the dark.
And to Volker,
who has been, so very often, the light for my literary path.
Thank you.
<3 x ∞
The Cat's in the
Cradle
Diana
The breeze was perfect: soft and sweet and clean. It had been a long night though—a night full of twisting, turning dreams that had eaten away at her energy and infused her with sadness. She fingered the Gerbera daisies in the crystal vase on her desk … so bright, so beautiful, and yet so darkly reminiscent of the early times …
She hummed at the counter, picking through the daisies, arranging them one by one. They were by far her favorite flowers—the primary colors, the strong stem, the big, beautiful boldness of their design. They had an amazing aura that brightened any space, even the current one. Not that she was complaining. As dreary as it was, they were nice to the children and everyone got along fairly well.
She began to hum as she clipped the ends of the blooms and set them in the canning jar she was using as a vase. The sound of her voice pleased her: the way it bounced off the clapboard kitchen and the stone tile floor, the way it echoed in the air around her. She heard the bubbly laugh before she saw him and turned just in time to see him toddle into the kitchen, chubby baby legs barely keeping his weight, arms extended for balance.
He looked up with a wide smile and big, round eyes and laughed at her again, holding out his hand, fingers pumping in and out, in and out. "What," she asked him, "you want a cookie?"
He chuckled and shook his head; dark curls bouncing around chunky cheeks. "No cookie? What then?" Again his hand clutched the air while he watched her expectantly. "You want a flower?"
He laughed and both hands flew together, clapping with glee. She picked out a yellow one, vivid and sunny, like the boy himself, and he grabbed for it, staring intently at the bloom, full of the wonder and surprise that only a child can know. She smiled as he rocked on his heels and went down firmly, sitting with a flump on thick cotton diapers.
Blue eyes sparkled; his smile widened. "Dee-dee!"
She turned her attention back to the counter and continued to clip and sort, sort and arrange, arrange and re-arrange. The sun was bright, the kitchen was still cool with morning breeze and she lifted her voice to hum again. Soft notes seemed to shimmer off wood and bounce across tile ... and she almost missed the first one, lifting her head only when she reached for a pink bloom that she knew was there and was yet, somehow, not.
It hovered over the counter as if lifted by string, spinning playfully. She turned slowly, eyes falling on the pretty baby boy behind her. He sat innocently, arms raised, watching the flower dance for him. Then he caught her eye, grin sliding into mischievous, and in an instant the room was filled with flowers. They spun like tiny umbrellas, swirling slowly and artfully, dancing to the tune she had placed in his head.
Her heart seized with fear, her throat closed with a sudden clutch. God, no, not Doren; not this little baby with so much beauty and so much promise—he couldn't be.
She rushed for the tiny body, dropping to her knees in front of him. Far rougher than intended she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Stop it, Doren. Stop that right now!"
His mouth dipped at the corners, eyes teeming with sudden confusion. In a single rush, the flowers dropped to the floor: lifeless, dead. Her soul seemed to weep in time to the tremble that started in his lips as baby blue began to well with tears. She lifted him, holding him to her chest, and he wrapped himself around her, clinging to her for comfort. She closed her eyes, rocking, shushing, praying.
"Never again, baby. Don't ever let anyone ever, ever see you do that." She hugged him, swaying gently, knowing he was too young to understand, but hoping that the words would find him anyway. "Never, Doren. Never ever."
Send Me An
Angel
August
August fidgeted in the hard plastic chair and checked the clock for what had to be the hundredth time. They'd all been there for more than an hour and not a single one of them had moved yet. As if they had all the time in the world to just hang around and wait.
He took a second to let his attentions wander over the rest of the room. Also for the hundredth time. Also in duress of what he found there. So many beautiful people, so many cool ones, while he sat there looking like an overdressed high school kid waiting for his prom date.
But whoever heard of going to a job interview in jeans, for heaven's sake? It would be laughable if the truth wasn't so obvious—he was the one who looked out of place. Not Ms. Snake-skin-tights or Mr. Jeans-so-snug-you-must-have-painted-them-on. Not even Mr. Green-hair. Amidst the funky clothing and extra-cool t-shirts that probably cost more than his last week's pay altogether, it was the conservative navy-blue pinstripe suit that looked foolish.
He sighed and let his head fall back on the wall behind him. What was he even doing there? He wasn't in these people's league. He wasn't even done his program yet at college. And if he didn't have serious doubts in his ability to obtain a high enough grade to keep him there, he wouldn't have even bothered applying for the job in the first place.
August knew the value of a buck. And the job promised to offer a good one. Not that it would take much to outshine the nine bucks an hour he got at the record store. Nor was the concept of merely asking for money from his parents that big of an issue—to them. To him it was a mortification of unfathomable proportions, an admission that he
couldn't make it on his own. Perhaps even a suggestion that getting into the music industry was as much of a joke as they'd told him it was when he'd said that was what he wanted to do. After all, if one couldn't make it through college while pursuing the dream, perhaps that was an indication of how hard it would be to find a job once one was done? August could hear the words as if his father was speaking them right into his ear.
He'd been surprised, but not floored, when he'd seen the posting on the billboard. A lot of companies posted their part-time and low-man-on-the-totem jobs at the school. The students were perfect pansies. They would work like dogs trying to make a good impression, they weren't good enough to expect a lot in return, and they were more about "making contacts" then making money. So they got the jobs nobody else wanted and they were paid like sweatshop kids.
The posting had seemed a little different though: a bit more put together, a touch more promising. A real job.
Wanted — Personal Assistant
P.A. needed to provide trustworthy, efficient assistance for serious musical professional. Must be flexible with hours, willing to travel, and have the ability to assume a variety of responsibilities. Make some contacts, learn the ropes, and share a valuable experience working right in the heart of the industry.
It was simple, to the point, and the number was local. He'd stolen the card right off the board, a huge protocol no-no what with it not being fair to everybody else and blah, blah, blah. The school even provided wee pencils and scrap paper for one to write information on just for that very purpose. But he did it anyway. And all the way back to the apartment on the bus he'd read it over and over again.
The woman August had spoken to on the phone had been polite, intelligent, and the most cryptic person August had ever held a conversation with in his life. Diana, August repeated mentally as she gave him the details of the interview process and reiterated the information that had been in the posting. And with his eyes closed, processing the word so as not to forget it, she'd changed her tone and lowered her voice. "Just follow the signs when you get here. You can do that, right, August?"
He hadn't answered immediately—just listened to the extended pause after the question. In all truth August hadn't really been sure what the woman was asking. "You can follow the signs, right?"
August had done what he'd been told. He'd followed the signs through the tall, well-decorated building. He'd gazed through plate glass windows at shiny desks and album-bedecked walls, nervous but hoping. Hoping and wishing. Wishing and praying. Yet for the last hour all August had been asking himself was why he'd bothered. He should be out looking for a real job—one that he actually had a chance of landing. He should be finishing his paper that, even if aced, would still not be enough to pull his grade up to passing. He should be trying to find a way to tell his parents he'd be coming back in December instead of May.
He almost said to hell with it. He even put down the magazine he'd been pretending to read and lowered the foot he'd had resting on his knee. He'd settled both shoes flat on polished hardwood, took a breath, lifted his head … and there he was. August hadn't even seen him come in; it didn't appear that anyone in the room had. But as the newcomer stood there, stopped, looking up at the ceiling, people began to notice.
With fingers that suddenly seemed too shaky to be functional, August located the magazine he'd just dropped and picked it back up, flipping quickly through the pages to confirm. Then he nodded to himself. Damn and hell and God and the Virgin, there the man was. Right there—in big, bright glossy Hollywood style and shine, on page thirty-eight. Doren. And damn but if he wasn't just as beautiful in person as he was on paper.
Dark, thick hair cut wild and styled even more so, blue eyes that seemed bright enough to be reaching supersonic, and the casual disinterest that should have an "I'm sexy and I know it" song playing as background. He was that perfect combination of old-school white knight and dangerous bad-boy, with a body that was tight and lean and long—as if he'd been born for the sole purpose of fanning the hormones of schoolgirl and matron alike.
As one eye after another turned towards him, as the lights of recognition began to flare in the gathered assembly, Doren took a deep breath and turned his head in August's direction. They locked gazes and Doren smiled—a light, feathery smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth. Then he walked right past everyone and disappeared behind the smoked glass door that kept their pathetic little world tidily away from his.
Doren
He watched the man through the two-way mirror—so freakishly awkward, so painfully cute, in that hideous suit and scuffed shoes. With deer-like, wide eyes the man had watched the door that Doren had went through for a long time. Many of them did. But the navy-bedecked-fashion-disaster hadn't broken into nervous chatter or started patting his hair or rearranging his clothing in the mirror like the rest of them had. He'd just taken another long look at the magazine in his hand, did a quick take around the room, and slipped it into his jacket—a gesture that had Doren chuckling silently.
"Did you say something?"
Doren didn't flinch. Nor did he turn his eyes from the glass. When Diana touched his arm to ensure his attention, Doren rested his palm over top of her hand. "There sure are a lot of people out there."
There was a smile in her voice, excitement, even. "There sure is. We got a great turn out. You should be able to get a good feel for what kind of support is out there."
A laugh broke into their conversation from the back of the room and Doren turned towards it. "Anton."
"Doren," Anton nodded. Anton didn't need a nametag to identify him as the label's CEO, Doren had thought more than once. Somehow he managed to carry a look that identified him as both important and expensive all on his own. His hair was very short, very neat, very dark, and very shiny. So was his suit. And for some reason that comparison made Doren smirk and turn away again.
"You know what they say, don't you?" Anton continued, stepping beside the two of them. "A good assistant is worth their weight in gold. A best friend, even. Better than a wife. They're more devoted, more concerned, and at the end of the day," he looked over at Doren and winked, "they can't take you for half of everything you own."
Doren ignored the attempt at humor and nodded towards the glass. "I only want to see one of them."
Diana frowned. "One? Doren, there's almost a hundred people out there!"
"Yes. One," Doren repeated. "That one. There in the suit."
Anton joined him at the mirror, eyebrow perfectly raised, a frown creasing his otherwise flawless forehead. "Surely you aren't referring to that horrid little thing in the navy pinstripes?" He said the last word with so much inflection it could have been poison on his tongue.
Doren nodded, holding back his grin. "Yes, that's the one. Diana, would you bring him in, please?"
She rose, but was instantly waved back to her seat.
"Be reasonable, Doren. As Diana said, there are many candidates out there. There's no point in jumping at any one person before you've even starting interviewing. I'm more than certain you can find someone more ... appealing to follow you around, no? Someone a little more in tune with the … shall we say, industry?"
"I get to choose," Doren said simply. "That's what it says in my contract. My assistant, my choice. Besides, what do you care? He'll be working for me, not your label. You should have no concerns whatsoever as to who he is, where he comes from, or what he looks like." He flicked his eyes to the left and held Anton's reflected gaze. "Or is it your intention to start reneging on our negotiations already?"
A flush began to creep over Anton's face, but Doren didn't turn away until Anton finally broke the stare himself, flipping his frown into a practiced smile. "Of course not, Doren. Don't be testy. I have no intentions of getting in the way of your decision. It is, after all, just an assistant." He lifted an arm towards the door, directing Diana to follow him. "Diana, please. Go ahead."
Doren chuckled dryly and shook his head. "Anton?" He paused l
ong enough for his boss to turn back. "I thought you just said that an assistant is a man's best friend. Better than a wife, I believe was the comparison."
Anton snorted. "Oh, I did. But at the end of the day, how important is a wife anyway? Nothing you can't buy on the street corner, right?" Diana followed Anton out the door, and as she turned to close it behind her, she caught Doren's reflection in the mirror, once again settled back to the slim man in the blue suit. He held her eye, she held his, and they both smiled.
August
He had no idea if the interview had gone strikingly well or horribly bad. He knew that the first thing he was doing once he got back to the apartment was tossing the damn magazine into the deepest, slimiest, filthiest part of their trash bin. If he never saw the offensive collection of journalism again, August would be a happy man indeed.
It was the first thing Doren had said when August sat down for the interview. He'd looked at August with those striking blue eyes flashing, that trademark grin playing on his face, and said, "Are you planning on taking that?"
August had feigned confusion, "What? Take what?" even as he'd cursed himself over the reply. Could he have made himself looked any more stupid? Or any less competent?
"The magazine you have tucked in your jacket," Doren had grinned. "The one you pilfered from the lobby."
August had blushed from head to toe. Had he really been that obvious? Great. It was probably the only reason he was sitting in front of Doren at all. Bring in the ridiculous bugger that thought he could filch company property from right in front of us—it'll be some comedy relief, at least.
There had been no words, no phrases, no clever comebacks that could have made the situation any more bearable. And Doren certainly hadn't offered August any outs. He just sat there grinning like the cat from Wonderland and let August stew in it. Thankfully the lady from the phone, Diana, had stepped in and taken over the rest of the interview. She'd gone over his experience, or rather lack of it, and stepped around the whole school topic without getting too personal over the why's and how's of him "probably" not going back. And through it all Doren had sat on the office chair, turning left and then right, left and then right on the swivel, hands locked behind his head, gaze on the ceiling tiles. He hadn't said another word until August got up to leave. Then Doren had dropped his hands and spun to the door where Diana had been seeing August out. "So, can I call you Auggie?"
