by Z. Allora
“What do you mean, can’t be repaired tonight?” Not exactly what you wanted to hear after the last show of the tour, especially when you were hungover from last night’s party and just wanted to get on the bus and crash.
Drake went on high alert and stepped over to Frank. Artano and Dixon joined him.
Amanda twirled her drumsticks between her fingers. “What’s up?”
Jessie finished putting her bass away and joined the semicircle.
“The goddamned bus broke down.” Frank’s anger had coiled in on itself and appeared ready to be unleashed. Drake had learned to steer clear of him when he got into this kind of a mood.
Everyone groaned at the dismal news.
A couple of minutes later, Summer gathered them into a band huddle with interlocking arms and all. “I’m going to miss my babies,” she purred, sounding like she really meant the words.
Artano and Amanda awwed.
“I’m not going to miss any of you, since I’m going to sleep for the entire two and a half months in a king-sized bed,” Jessie snarked.
Drake bumped her with his hip.
“Remember, due to the remote places I’ll be traveling to, I won’t have internet or cell service during parts of the break, so if I don’t respond to a message, I will as soon as I can,” Summer added.
Frank broke into the circle right between Artano and his sister, something no one else would dare do. “Make sure you practice during the break. Usually you don’t get a break during concert season, but I want you all ready to start laying down some tracks the first day we’re all back.”
“Killjoy,” Amanda called out.
Frank shook his head. “Hey, recording time is expensive. We’re lucky to have found a studio so close to our first show.”
Their family atmosphere shattered yet again by Frank, Summer started clicking on her phone. “I’m heading to the nearest airport via Lyft if anyone’s going my way.”
A chorus of no morphed into another round of byes.
“Might as well go back to the dressing room and wait there.” Dixon headed in that direction, probably hoping for more alcohol.
Brenda trailed after the group, moving to the dressing room.
Drake did need to talk to Brenda. Where did groupies go during the hiatus? Why had he gotten himself into this entanglement? He followed and plopped onto the sofa.
She nabbed the space next to him after giving a predatory glare to Jessie, then started watching a sitcom on her phone.
Jessie, not one to get into unnecessary tussles, rolled her eyes and slid down a wall to the floor. She strummed her bass.
After waving to everyone, Amanda grabbed the hand of a guy who’d been hanging around since they hit the East Coast. “Artie and I are going to catch a ride with Joe. Have fun.”
Artano fist-bumped Drake on the way out the door.
That left Dixon, Frank, Brenda, and Jessie, along with a few hangers-on milling around. Velvet Touch rocked a roaring crowd above them.
Drake put in his earbuds and watched a few YouTube videos. The clips that were recommended looked good, but first he watched Blaze Parker skate to Midnight Shadow’s song in the men’s free skate.
Damn, it was crazy hearing his lyrics echoing off Olympic ice. He must have watched the video every day since the Olympics, and yet he somehow scrolled past the most recent post-Olympic interview with Blaze Parker.
Drake had a full battery, so he hit Play.
An attractive brunette waved to the YouTube watchers. “Hi, I’m Lauren Bewell, and I’m here with Blaze Parker. Tell us about what it’s like to be an openly gay skater.”
The only indication Blaze gave that suggested he didn’t appreciate the question was the muscle near his eye jumped, but he gave the interviewer a sinful smile. “Well, being gay doesn’t mean I trip over the rainbows my blades reflect on the ice.”
“I’ll say, you sure didn’t trip over anything at the Olympics.” Pictures of Blaze doing a quad and then on the podium kissing his gold medal flashed on the screen.
“Thank you. It was an honor to represent my country.” Blaze gave a full smile to Lauren and her viewers, but it felt like he was speaking directly to Drake.
“Back to my question, I mean, have you ever been harassed or given a lower score because of your orientation? You know that before you, there’s only been one other openly gay skater who made the Olympic team.”
“Of course, anything less than a perfect score and there must be a nefarious reason.” His bubbly laugh chased away some of the harsh tone his words held. “Seriously, I’d like to believe the skating world is beyond judging people for who they are attracted to.”
Ha, right. Drake was surprised Blaze could make that carefully crafted claim with a straight face. Drake had watched a number of competitions where points and medals were robbed from Blaze for something other than his near-perfect performance. And unless you looked for the homophobia, you could easily miss it.
Lauren Bewell’s mouth dropped open, but she got back to the questions. “Blaze, there’s been a dramatic shift in your attitude since World’s. Has something changed?”
She made a good point. Blaze might still be the “bad boy,” at least in Iceskatinglandia, but his skating held more happiness and less defiance. Maybe finally leaving Trent Richards in the dust brightened his spirits.
“I’ve been working hard, and all my focus has been on the Olympics.”
“Your evolution is nothing short of stunning—what caused it?” Lauren asked.
Blaze shrugged. “I realized this is my life, and I’m the only one who can live it. I need to do what fulfills me.”
Lauren leaned closer to him. “How do you feel about being a role model for the gay community?”
He batted his eyelashes and fluffed his hair. “Am I? I know I’m pretty, but model… no.”
Drake cracked up right along with Lauren. She giggled. “You’re very silly.”
Blaze licked his lush mouth. Why was Drake hyperaware of Blaze’s mouth? Blaze had such nice full lips, good shape and a pretty color—
“Tell us about your exhibition skate. That’s coming up,” Lauren asked.
Blaze raked his fingers through his hair. “Everyone at my home rink wants to celebrate the Olympics, so we decided on an exhibition skate. It’ll have some very talented young—”
Brenda snatched his earbuds out. “What are you watching?”
“Just some stuff.” Drake turned his phone over.
“What stuff?”
“Stuff.” He didn’t want to share this with her, and that spoke volumes. They didn’t know each other, and as sad as it was, he had to admit he didn’t really want to get to know her better.
Brenda sighed and rolled her eyes. “I bet you’re watching that guy again.”
“What guy?” His lame attempt at diversion failed as he turned his silver thumb ring.
Pointing to his phone, she sniped, “That guy. Geez, it’s the same shit just a different day.”
“Huh?” Why the bitchiness?
Folding her arms over her ample chest, Brenda stared him down. “You are way more into that skater guy than you are me.”
“Blaze Parker? I don’t even know—” Following someone on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook really didn’t count. Ignoring the quiver of pleasure he got when Blaze recently commented directly to him couldn’t be considered either.
She exhaled hard. “This reminds me of how you were a couple nights ago.”
“What?” What was she talking about?
“The guy after the last concert in New Orleans, he looked like the skater. Same light brown hair and twinkie look—you wanted him more than me.”
He had thought they’d had a good time back at the hotel room.
“I’ll be backstage if anyone needs me.” Jessie grabbed her bass case and rushed out the door to avoid the scene Brenda geared up to make.
Drake almost wished he could flee with her, but he needed to deal with Brenda. “We usu
ally go with who you want, and they’re usually girls. I thought we could mix it up. Your issue is, for once you weren’t the center of the attention.”
“You two were making out nonstop.”
The guy liked to kiss; why did she see that as a crime? Drake got off on making out. He could brush lips for decades, but Brenda couldn’t be bothered. Why hadn’t he seen how selfish she acted in and out of bed?
His exhaustion let fury take control of his mouth. “How many times have I been on the sidelines while you and another woman went at it?”
She stood and put her hands on her hips. “You’ve never complained before. I thought you liked to watch.”
Dixon and Frank chuckled, reminding Drake he and Brenda weren’t alone; though, fuck it. He was done with Brenda and everyone else telling him what he should and shouldn’t do. “No. You’re the one who wants threesomes.”
Brenda shook her head, causing the riot of auburn curls to shimmer in the light. “We’re polyamorous.”
“No, you are.” Drake felt childish, but he needed to stop letting other people label him. “I’m bisexual.”
“What? You’ve been pretending?” Her horrified expression spoke volumes.
“I didn’t say that.” Was he? Not really, but he wanted a relationship with someone, one someone, and that someone wasn’t Brenda.
“Yeah, well, I think you were all over that guy because he looks like the skater.”
“Brenda, you were the one who insisted on opening our—whatever this is between us.” Exasperation didn’t even begin to cover the frustration threatening to swallow him. How could she be so clueless?
She glanced over at their audience. Drake could have sworn there was a calculated glint in her eyes before the waterworks turned on. “I didn’t want to lose you. We’re bi, we don’t have to choose, so we shouldn’t limit ourselves.”
However fake her tears might be, they still made him feel like shit. “Being bi doesn’t mean you can’t be monogamous. Poly works for a lot of people, just not for me.”
“It worked for you with that guy. Hell, it worked for you twice!”
Tired of arguing, he certainly wasn’t going to justify what he’d done in bed. “Brenda, I’m sorry, but we’re done.”
Drake hurried to the cooler and pulled out a beer. The craft brew felt good going down as he tried to ignore her dramatic slamming-the-door-swearing exit.
Relief that they were finally over swamped him.
“Dude?” Dixon studied him with wide eyes.
“Not your business.” Why did he have to point that out?
Dixon tightened his hands into fists. “The band is my business as much as it is yours. Bisexuality is easier to sell than gay. I told you that years ago.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me anything?”
Frank squinted and struck like a cobra. “Well, I’m the manager, and I’m telling you you’re out.”
Drake must have misunderstood. “What?”
“You’re done with Midnight Shadow. I told you when I first found out—bi was fine, just keep your dick to women.”
Did he not understand what bi meant? Wait… Frank kicked him out of the band?
Dixon shook his head and grimaced. “I told you, man. I told you.”
“You’re kicking me out of the band?” His level of disbelief elevated past the roof.
“I warned you. You can label yourself whatever the fuck you want, but fans need to see you with women. Sure, there’s some gays floating about the music business, but they’ve established themselves first, or they have enough of a fanbase who eats that rainbow shit with a spoon.”
Drake focused on the words, but only bullshit came out of Frank’s mouth.
Frank shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “You’ll be paid for your songs if the band still uses them for the album. But we now have an irate scorned groupie, who is probably dragging the band’s good name through the mud as we speak. Thanks to you.”
“I’m on it.” Dixon rushed out of the dressing room.
Drake stood there. He should move, but he couldn’t. “So I’m out?”
“Yes. You’re a no-name guitar player. Who’s going to miss you?”
And that was it. He’d been with the goddamned band for years, since the original band, Shadows in the Night, first got together.
“Remember, Drake, per your contract, we’ll announce your departure, not you.” Frank had his hands on his hips, smirking.
Storming out of the room, Drake clicked for an Uber, because if he stayed, he would hurt his strumming hand on Frank’s face.
Thankfully the roadies hadn’t packed his favorite guitar. Grabbing his guitar and messenger bag out of Midnight Shadow’s pile, he saw Dixon and Brenda.
Her leg was tucked around Dixon’s waist, her head thrown back as she took his cock with noisy grunts, but she paid enough attention to give Drake the middle finger as he stumbled past.
The car idled in place when he got outside. He and his guitar got in.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve no clue.” Drake’s Twitter account notified him that Blaze Parker liked the pictures Drake posted of tonight’s show. “Take me to a rental car company.”
Chapter 3
THE LIGHTS dimmed.
Blaze stood on a platform perched high above the arena. Fuck, that’s a long way down. He took a deep breath and stepped off. Clutching two red strips of fabric, he swung over the ice in head-to-toe crimson with sparkly fingerless gloves and matching skates.
Though he executed only some very basic somersaults and turn poses, he flew through the air over the rink. The crowd went wild. A soft spotlight guided his air ballet. He eased down until his blades touched the ice.
The lights went out, and he unhooked the safety harness his brother and coach had demanded, then pressed a button hidden in his sleeve. He turned on a light that hit tiny bits of silk at the bottom of his skates, making it appear like fire sparked off his blades when he strutted more than glided across the ice.
The applause was deafening as the lights came up.
When Blaze had turned twelve he tried this stunt with actual flares and spent the next two days chipping out the blackened ash that speckled the ice.
Damn, Blaze loved the song he skated to. Summer Simpson’s voice wrapped around him, and the words burrowed into his soul. He’d gotten gold with this Midnight Shadow song in the free skate. Using it for this exhibition had been a no-brainer.
When folks found out Blaze was going to use “Nobody but You” for his Olympic free skate program, the band secured a record deal.
Other than the aerial work and some silliness he’d ad lib later for the exhibition, Blaze had done this program hundreds of times, each move etched into his muscles. A lush spin flowed into a jump combination. It didn’t matter that the rink was packed to celebrate his victory at the Olympics. He simply let the song ease him into that gorgeous place where ice, music, and movement merged into something special.
Competition was about fury, and it exhausted him, but exhibitions were about sharing his passion and joy for the sport. He got to reclaim his love of skating.
Aching and needing but always left wanting…
My heart longs with desire….
The lyrics highlighted a hunger within him that he barely understood and chose not to analyze. As the lights brightened, he shifted his body into position for his second salchow.
The meaning of the song was unquestionably sexual. Simpson’s sinful voice sang about cravings and lust, and the words echoed Blaze’s emptiness, emphasizing that physical satisfaction was incomplete.
Perfect landing. Why couldn’t he have owned the ice with ease and confidence at the Olympics? The difference between competition and exhibition was that one was play and the other was a death match. The Olympics were over, he got the gold, but it was best left in the past—with everything else he’d gotten closure on this past year.
But where was his place? What did he do no
w? Why did he feel so lost? The lyrics plucked his pain, mocking him.
Then I looked into your eyes
You knew my dreams, you read my thoughts
Apart from his brother somewhat—and Anna to a lesser extent—no one really knew his innermost self. They did well at guessing some things based on his actions and by making logical deductions, but had he ever shared his feelings? No, best not to reveal a weakness to anyone.
Taunting me with things I cannot have
You say you want to love me
And you light my soul on fire….
Here came the first triple axel of the program. Blaze threw his hands up, making the jump more difficult simply because he could. Showing off and performance was separated by a fine line that too often became blurred.
Anna’s voice sounded in Blaze’s head as he skated into his quad. “Don’t overthink. Jump. Let muscle memory allow you to fly.”
Yes! Another flawless landing on his quad. He let the musical notes invade his body so the words bled out in every subtle move.
Trusting you makes life worthwhile
You’re my everything
You make me smile
Right! Yeah, seeing someone made everything better. What a load of—
He’d never have that. But fuck, he couldn’t crush the longing for that kind of connection. Yes, he could. Only an idiot leaves himself open to such nonsense.
The screaming guitar fed him the energy he required for the quad combo with a triple, and he nailed it, the stop timed to the music.
Being someone’s everything—what would that feel like? Probably incredible. Ha! He didn’t fancy giving anyone the ability to hurt him ever again. Trust, right! Blocking out the lyrics that kept revealing his deep scars on his psyche, he concentrated on the sensuality of the melody.
Give me more than just one night
Let me love you and hold you tight….
He executed a slow hip roll, then footwork, and he’d lock this competition down. Wait, no, this is an exhibition. Playfully he rushed to the kickboard and did a handstand, mimicking a skateboarder. Then he ski-skated to the center, twitching his ass in the way judges had always hated, and then spun. He grabbed a blade, pulled out of the spin, and unwound down to two skates.
