His Ex-Boyfriend Read online

  "This isn't what you expected it to be, is it?" the singer asks.

  Rafe doesn't answer.

  Alexis bows his head. "I'm sorry."

  The singer takes Rafe's hand and holds it for a moment. "Pretty fucking lame apology, isn't it? Let's just say, Alexis Mellor can be an idiot at times. But I swear he can be a better man than you've seen."

  A tiny, surprised noise comes from the boy. Alexis waits politely, but Rafe adds nothing more.

  The singer lifts the rest of the sheet away from Rafe's face. Strangely, this gesture reminds him of something else--the lifting of a bridal veil. "Hey. How would you like some breakfast?"

  Two years after that morning, Alexis halts the painful rush of memories. "I almost made the same mistake you did," the singer told Jason. "But there are benefits to being older. I'm not so self-deceptive, and I never expected an eighteen-year-old boy to be an adult. I think you did, and that was hard on Rafe. Now you have a wife and daughter. Be a good husband to them, Jason. They don't have anyone else."

  "All right," said Jason slowly. He was furious, but he'd already made a vow to himself back in that helicopter with Carl. Alexis's lecture had nothing to do with it.

  "Thank you," said the singer humbly.

  Jason was amazed.

  In the hospital room, they discovered Amanda breast-feeding Leila. Rafe was bent over the pair of them, watching with great interest.

  "So far I'm just producing this yellowish gunk," Amanda said, pinching her nipple to demonstrate. "They say it's my colostrum, and it's supposed to be healthy for her, but it looks like old milk that's been sitting inside my glands for months. I wouldn't want to drink it myself." She attached Leila again, and the breast dented inwards from the force of the baby's eager sucking.

  "Good God," Rafe exclaimed. "Look at her go. It's like she's snogging a balloon!"

  Without exchanging a word, Alexis and Jason reached out, seized Rafe by the arms, and yanked him backwards.

  "Sorry! Heh. Just a little latent heterosexuality acting up."

  "We need to go," said Alexis firmly as he hauled his boyfriend away. "We're very happy to see the three of you doing so well."

  Jason escorted them to the door and found himself shutting it directly on Rafe's surprised face.

  "Why did they leave so soon?" Amanda asked.

  "They had an appointment," came the muted reply. The guitarist was resting his forehead against the door frame.

  Chapter 9

  A young man was carrying his lover's forgotten lunch sack through the empty halls of Boxkite Studios. It was noon, and everyone seemed to have gone out to eat, or were downstairs in the lunchroom. In front of the young man was a door labeled 'Studio 2.' Involuntarily, his walk slowed. Recording light? Off. Door? Ajar. Rafe peered inside and found the room temptingly empty. Recording studios had always fascinated him, and he'd been kicked out of them often enough by his brother. Nonetheless, he had a hungry boyfriend waiting, so he shouldn't linger.

  Then the reservation slot by the door caught his eye. 'Booked--Mullerin session.' He balanced the sack of fish tacos on one hand and pushed the door open with the other. He knew Jason North was fine. Unscathed by the riot, happily settled down with his wife and baby. He knew that. He stepped inside anyway, and did not notice that the console lights were still on. Microphones were live, and his cautious footfalls made little jumps across a computer screen in the sound booth behind him, dancing lines that scrolled off as they were processed into digital audio. Nor did he notice the pulsing light of a master being lasered, converting his footsteps into permanent sound.

  He found no one, just a wall of stacked amplifiers, trip-cords of cables, electronic keyboards, a drum kit, a large, disk-shaped antique microphone that looked like something Elvis would have used, and one other item. It was resting on a stand. He recognized the candy apple lacquer and the mother-of-pearl inlay along the frets. Jason's guitar was a beautiful instrument.

  Rafe set the tacos down on a table and approached the guitar. At the last second, he shied away. He felt like a boy trying to work up his nerve to ask a girl out.

  "I thought you'd hate me. I was amazed that you were civil. Okay, I thought. Rafe's not going to end up pounded into the floorboards. Of course, I wouldn't let you do that to me, since hey, I know ken-jutsu, and you probably never guessed that I waved the sword around in case you turned all funny and tried to--but that's beside the--just in case you were really fucking mad and still held a grudge--aw fuck! I can't even explain myself to an inanimate object.

  "Anyway, it was like the very first time we met. Yeah, sort of awkward, me giving you crap and whatnot. And when you left, all I could think of was how much I wanted that kiss instead of Mr. Bunny. Then we met at the amusement park, and you sat with me in that restaurant, talked to me, bought me a drink. God, that was nice. Then you got fanged or something--hell, I still don't know what happened there, and I hope it wasn't Alexis making a pass at you which is a really upsetting and disgusting thought unless I'm invited--and then Lexi came onto me like a crazy man, and you conned me onto that rollercoaster and made me kiss you, and that was the craziest thing of all.

  "I never imagined you still loved me. Actually, that riot was the craziest thing of all, but the kiss was a damned close second. Anyway, I thought you were just being a vengeful creep until I felt between your legs and realized you weren't kidding. I could have hammered a nail into a wall with what I felt there. If you'd been smart and spilled a drink down my shirt, we could have done it differently. Sex in a public bathroom can be pretty cool if you're in the right mood. Shit!" Rafe yelled at the ceiling. "Why am I telling this to a guitar?"

  He stopped flailing and faced the instrument squarely. There it sat, Jason's substitute. He reached out and felt the neck of the guitar. The wood was still warm from the heat of a human body. Rafe looked around, but saw nothing. He knelt and placed his nose next to the strings. There it was, the faint scent of metal, a burned something like the sear of an electric wire, and the whiff of a man's hands. He could picture those hands at maximum tension, cording a wide span of steel strings, the tendons bulging. The smell of Jason's body came more strongly from the limp leather guitar strap, still damp with the morning's sweat. Rafe shut his eyes and tasted it. This was as close as he would ever get to his ex-boyfriend, smelling, mouthing along the row of characters he'd drawn himself with black marker two years ago. The leather strap was beginning to split in spots, and the letters spelling out 'Mullerin' were fading. Despite this, he noticed that Jason had never replaced the strap. He found himself sniffing copiously.

  "Cultivating a leather fetish?" a sardonic voice asked.

  Rafe spun like a top. Without a break, he seized the microphone stand and launched into song, shaking his hips in his best Elvis coochie while blurting out a string of nonsense syllables.

  Sam was standing there with crossed arms. "Oh, lord," said the drummer, rolling his eyes. He watched Rafe's pantomime a moment longer, then crossed over and picked up Jason's guitar.

  Still dancing, Rafe eyed him curiously. Sam propped the guitar up on a bent knee and began to slap out the cords of a surf tune. The noisy lashings squawked with feedback, but the rhythm was sound, and the cords were roughly where they ought to be. Rafe grinned. He couldn't really sing, though his roughened smoker's voice had the necessary projection.

  A shadow crept along the floor of the hall outside, followed by Alexis's head peeking around the corner of the doorway. For a second, the singer seemed perturbed by the awful noise, then he smiled and bounded into the room. Snatching up the sticks, he flopped onto the drum stool and began to slam out a furious, driving beat. Sam and Rafe exchanged amazed looks, for neither of them had known that Mellor could play the drums. Alexis was certainly better at it than Sam was on guitar.

  "WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS HAPPENING IN HERE?" a voice shouted. Malcolm stood in the doorway. When he was able to comprehend the scene, the label owner gasped with relief. "Thank Heaven. I thought it was
something I'd signed." Gingerly, he entered the room with the grimacing distaste of a man pushing his way through a cobweb-filled attic.

  "Hey, we're not bad for a pickup group," Sam objected.

  Rafe wiggled his eyebrows and mimed more Elvis. Malcolm shook his head. "Surf music?" he asked. He switched on the keyboard and began to add some cheesy organ. After another of Rafe's barking verses, Malcolm called over to Alexis, "I can't believe this. We have three professional musicians playing here, and we absolutely suck. What'll we call ourselves?"

  "How about Boxkite Airthud?" Sam offered, still lashing away at Jason's strings.

  "Mullet-head,” Alexis called from the drum kit. "Or how about Without Umlaut? Denny says it was Mullerin's original name."

  "Hey, a pickup session!" a voice yelled. Denny entered the room. "Looks like fun. What else do you guys need?"

  "Earplugs," Sam shot back.

  "I know!" Denny snatched up a tambourine and began to shimmy like a befringed go-go dancer, decoratively slapping the tambourine on his hip from time to time.

  Seconds later, someone cut the power. All noise stopped. In the center of the room stood Carl with his fingers in his ears. "Begone, foul band!" he roared.

  Sam startled and dropped the guitar. "I'm gone! I'm gone!" Rafe called. The student bolted from the room, remembered the lunch sack, raced back to get it, ran for the hallway again, remembered Alexis, and returned once more for his boyfriend. Alexis waved goodbye to the others and let himself be run out of the room by Rafe.

  "I suppose you want the studio back," said Malcolm with dignity. "I need to leave at four o'clock today, so give today's tracks to my secretary when you're done. I'd like to review them before tomorrow. Good afternoon."

  Hyde left, and Denny whistled. "Boy, I wish I'd returned earlier. Where's Jason? I didn't see him in the lunchroom."

  Carl gave the studio a sharp, suspicious look and began to scout the room. Behind the wall of amplifiers, he stopped, and his exclamation drew the others. In a chair behind the amps sat a sagging Jason North, his chin resting on his chest. Everyone crept forwards. A rubbery nod from the guitarist made them startle.

  "He slept through all that?" said Sam in wonder. Carl picked up the drumsticks and dropped them. They clonked to the floor with a rattle like wind chimes.

  Jason jerked in his chair. "Bwa! I'll heat up the bottle, Amanda." But the guitarist only dozed off again.

  Sam shook his head. "Pitiful. Remind me never to marry."

  "Jason's been saying he hasn't been getting much sleep because of the baby," said Denny. Though his tone was noncommittal, the singer did not appear happy.

  Carl sighed. "I'll take him home. Time to go, sleepyhead." The manager hooked an arm around Jason's chest and pulled him to his feet. Jason swayed, but Carl was able to guide him through the maze of cables. But when Jason almost stepped on his own guitar, a gasp came from the others, and Carl stopped to assess the situation.

  Jason was never careless with his beloved axe, not even half-dead at the end of a long tour. Always, after every concert and practice session, North wiped his guitar off, loosened its strings, and packed it carefully away in his guitar case. He even sat on a tour bus with his arm wrapped protectively around his guitar like it was his girlfriend.

  Half-distracted, Carl noticed the workstation had been recording a master the entire time. Bob, the producer, must have forgotten to shut it off before lunch. The manager made a mental note to delete the session from the board and destroy the disc before some idiot stole it and auctioned it off as a Boxkite rarity. He gave Jason another look, said to the rest of the band, “You didn't see this,” and hoisted the exhausted musician into his arms. Carrying his burden out of the room, he heard a confused mumble by his ear.

  "What was that?"

  Zombie-like, Jason murmured, “Rafe, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”

  “Goddamn,” whispered Carl.

  When they reached the manager's car, Kilburn eased his burden into the back seat. Blindly, Jason felt around and clutched a discarded jacket, snuggling into it like a pillow.

  "Jason? I know you're feeling guilty, but when someone hands you all the crap Rafe did, guilt's cancelled out, okay? You don't need to make amends. He's happy, and you're dwelling on shit you don't have to.”

  The other made a garbled reply. Frustrated, Carl ran his fingers through his blond hair.

  "She wants me to quit."

  "What?" The manager leaned closer.

  "She wants me to quit Mullerin and take up session work. It's less dangerous, and I'd never need to tour. She found out about the riot from the newspapers." Jason's eyes cracked open. The guitarist had turned the color of ash, and his eyes were leaden and exhausted. Nothing more came from the musician.

  “Hang on, I'll be back in a moment.” Carl shut the car door. "Fuck," he said. "Fuckity-fuck."

  He returned to the studio. Inside, Sam and Denny were having an argument with Lang. "How are we supposed to work without our lead guitarist, Dinkel?" Lang was saying.

  "We dub him in later," the singer replied briskly.

  "No, we don't," Carl interrupted. "Session's cancelled for the day. I'm afraid we have a crisis." The manager pawed his hair again, making a splayed mess. "Amanda wants Jason to quit the band. She knows about the riot, and she doesn't want to be left alone with the baby while we tour. She thinks he could earn a living doing session work. I can't believe this shit."

  "Oh crap," said Sam. "All I did before Mullerin was session work, and it sucked. Give me credit for my work, dammit. Obscurity is not cool. If we have to deal with an impossible spouse, Mullerin is going to fall apart. Shit! We're facing the end of the band here."

  "I have to agree," Denny said slowly. "I've never been keen on Amanda, but she's my best friend's wife, so--I've kept my mouth shut." The singer's eyes were hollow.

  "There is a solution, you know."

  Everyone stared at Sam. The drummer wore a tough, set expression. "We tell Amanda about Jason's affair with Rafe."

  Denny jerked as if stung by a bee. "Oh, boy."

  Lang's eyes narrowed.

  "Hey. She hurts me, hurts my band, hurts my career--I fix the problem." Sam's face was hard. He shook a power cable like a whip.

  "Hang onto that notion, Oskins," said the manager. "It's not necessary yet."

  Denny's peculiar silence made it obvious the singer agreed with Sam. Lang's face was half-calculating, half-worried. Under normal circumstances, Leeland would not have hesitated to take the ruthless course, but this did involve his brother.

  “What are you thinking?” the manager asked Lang suddenly.

  After a long moment, Lang replied, “Rafe's settled in with that moron Alexis, so I suppose telling Amanda won't hurt him.”

  Almost inaudibly, Denny added, "I never dreamed she might cost me my best friend as well as my band." The singer picked up Jason's guitar and placed the instrument back on its stand, rearranging the strap. His face was taut.

  "Get out of here," Carl ordered. "Take the afternoon off, guys. I need to drive Jason home." The manager waited until the musicians left the room. He didn't want his clients watching him fret in an un-Kilburn like manner. Mentally, he went through his options.

  If Jason quits, Denny may retire from the music business. The little squawkbox relies a lot on Jason's moral support. All right, Kilburn. Rule Number 1 of Band Management: When an outsider has the inclination to wreck your band, eliminate the outsider. This is the Yoko Ono rule.

  Rule Number 2: Always make sure that none of the band members have their fingerprints on the evidence. Do the dirty work yourself and deny everything.

  Carl drummed his fingers furiously against the glass of the recording booth, perturbed. He wasn't used to the feeling. Perturbed was a state that only affected other people. He didn't know Amanda well enough to dislike her, and he had no urge to wreck her life. He'd kept his relationship to Jason strictly professional, partially because he was a disciplined pro in every sense,
and because he didn't think he had the right to tinker with North's happiness. But with North's career and marriage both in trouble, the guitarist was heading for a crash that was going to involve Rafe, Alexis, Mullerin, and ultimately the entire Boxkite organization.

  Rule Number 3 of Band Management: Scruples only get in the way.

  The Carl Kilburn Corollary to Rule 3: The ripest fruit does not fall into one's hands, ready for eating. One must climb into the tree and steal it.

  The faint reflection in the glass resembled a scowling lion. Impatiently, Carl turned away. It was time to take North home.

  As he rode the elevator down and stepped into the parking lot, he remembered the recording master and hurried back up into the soundbooth. The computer screen was blank. After a search, he discovered the last hour of the recording session was missing from the computer's memory. That was fine with him, but who had slipped inside the studio to delete it? Someone must have been in here just a moment ago. And where was the master disc? He opened the disc drive and found it empty.

  This was not so good.

  He checked the trash. It too, was empty.

  This was definitely not good.

  That disc held all their conspiratorial talk about breaking up Jason's marriage. Carl's forehead met the console, hard, half a dozen times.

  Rule Number 4 of Band Management: Be smarter than your opposition.

  "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he snarled.

  After Carl drove off, Alexis, who had been lounging in a nearby doorway, sauntered over to Jason's motorcycle. He paused as if to admire it and glanced around. Seeing no one, he clipped a tracker onto the cycle in an inconspicuous spot underneath the seat and walked off.

  Mellor thought he might need to know more about Jason's whereabouts in the coming days.