Page 21 of Dedicated
“The good ol’ days before all these bullshit publicity stunts.” I slid the record from the sleeve, holding it between my fingers. I loved old records. There was something so austere about them—the pressed plastic, this physical emblem of music. Hell, I even missed the CDs I grew up on. What we did now? It was like shaping air, trying to mold sound into an invisible cage, and a lot of days it felt that ephemeral. A record had a timelessness and permanency unparalleled by digital downloads. I’d tried to convince our label to do a pressing of our first album, but they wouldn’t go for it, so I had someone else do it at my expense. It’d been a nostalgic act, I guess.
“Please,” Les said, taking the record from my hands after I dumped it from the sleeve. “Rex Richards and Emily Day were a total fabrication. And that was 1958.”
“No shit? Really?”
“Mm.” He nodded and set the record on the turntable, lowering the needle. “Immigrant Song” raced out from the speakers and filled the air with its throbbing, manic tempo. “That’s the song you wanted, wasn’t it? I knew it,” he said when I nodded. “And then there’s the White Sound. Everyone thought they were married. Tori Lee breaks up with someone every time she’s about to drop a new album. It’s not that uncommon, and the White Sound and Tori Lee have fans who would rip their own arms off to get a foot closer to the stage. It’s all narrative like anything else.”
I grumbled a nonresponse, because I still thought it was a bad idea. Abandoning the records, I returned to the couch and picked up my guitar again, funneling my agitation through the Zeppelin classic I knew by heart as Les trailed after me.
“I know you think you’re more invested in all of this than me, and you hate some of the bullshit that I don’t really mind. Some of it I even like. But I am invested. Deeply. As much if not more than you, though you’ll never believe it.” Les propped his chin on his hand, watching me from one of the armchairs he’d sprawled in. He was shirtless and barefooted, wearing loose cotton pants. Dark circles still ringed his eyes, but some of the color had returned to his skin and he at least looked alive.
I cocked my head at him.Do tell, said the lift of my eyebrows. He gave me a corkscrew smile, straightening to examine the records he’d carried to the chair with him while I tried to ignore a very different, much more undressed image of him trying to insert itself in the present.
“My reasons are different, and maybe they’re not as noble. I’ll freely admit that a lot of it’s shallow as hell. I crave the acknowledgment, and I crave the appreciation and adoration. And the money is pretty nice, too.” His fingers riffled through cardboard sleeves absently. “And part of all of this is playing the game. The rules change fast, but if we play along well enough, eventually we put ourselves in the position to make the rules.”
It was easy for me to sometimes forget that beneath the partying and sex, Les was fucking smart. Better educated, more knowledgeable about music history and probably any other topic than I’d ever be. He’d gone to some swanky private school growing up, and he’d had a full ride to Vandy that he let go to join up with me. I think that was part of what drove me so crazy. Sometimes it seemed like he was completely careless with his future.
“We should already be in that position.”
“I think we will be soon, if we do this fake couple thing and fulfill our contract. Then, we make the rules.”
“It’s such a fucking sham, though.” A shadow of hurt flitted through Les’s eyes, and I wasn’t sure what it meant, if he thought I was talking about him or his music.
“I think we should let it ride,” he countered. “We can put an expiration date on it. We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Go through with it, then couple of weeks before we drop the album, just a quiet press release suggesting we’re not a couple anymore. Come on, man, think about it? It’s not that big of a deal. No one’s dying here. It’s just a gimmick, and everyone fucking uses gimmicks. Audiences are used to that, but ours will be none the wiser anyway because we’ll sell the hell out of it, both ways. We’re good at putting on a show. Don’t forget that.”
“I don’t want to put on a show. I just want to make music and get paid for it.” I was being petulant. I knew what I’d signed up for, otherwise I’d still be busking on street corners like I used to, writing songs on my own, and playing to whoever would listen, hoping just one person would hear me, reallyhearme the way Les had. The way our fans did.
“Do this with me and I promise I’ll let you make the decision what happens next. Whatever you say, I’ll back you up one hundred percent. You want to go indie, that’s fine. I’m there with you.” Les fixed me with a stare that burned with sincerity, with promise, and maybe even a bit of a plea, and I knew right then I was going to do it, even as I tried to hedge.
None of this felt good, but maybe he was right. If we stuck with the plan, the whole thing would be done by the time we got the next album out. I was determined to make it a success, and if it was good enough, what the hell we’d been doing in our personal lives wouldn’t matter. Hopefully.
I sighed. “Fuck. Okay.”
We spentthe rest of the day getting set up, organizing Les’s disastrous notebook scribbles into a semblance of coherency and playing through old songs to get into the feel of things so we’d be ready to crack hard on some new stuff the next day. It went surprisingly well, considering the shitshow that morning. Maybe Les was as eager to dive into a distraction as I was. Then Levi called Les back late that afternoon with a schedule so ridiculous I almost went back on my agreement to play along.
He’d effectively mapped out our “relationship” for the next few weeks while we were in Gatlinburg and had set up locations, times, and dates where we were to show up and act all cozy so a photographer could get some of the action. We were buffered enough from the cities that random paparazzi shouldn’t be a problem. It still felt like a covert operation with drop points, except the shit we were unloading was bogus. I had to leave the room and let Les finish the conversation because I’d started to get angry over the whole scenario again.
That was only part of the problem, though. The major key, if you will, because there was still the minor to contend with, and it might actually have been the more important thing.
That night, lying in my bed, unable to sleep, memories of our time with Ella splashed across the backs of my eyelids. I’d kept the box closed so tight for months that the minute I cracked the seal, it came pouring out like a technicolor tsunami and dragged me under.
Chapter 17
Six months ago
The three of us ended up in the bedroom. I couldn’t remember how, I just remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, increasingly aroused as I watched Les with Ella. They stood in front of me, Les behind her, his hands tracing over her body slowly, reverently. She made these kittenish little sounds and writhed under his touch, but Les stole my attention, kept me riveted on his mouth when he bent low to her ear and started speaking softly. It wasn’t anything special, but it was insanely hot, these whispered encouragements and compliments as he kissed and sucked the side of her neck, and she reacted like his voice was just as palpable as his touch. His hands seemed perfectly calibrated to her body, anticipating every twist and arch as he caressed her. It was the same dedication he gave on stage, this sort of transcendent awareness of what the audience craved commingled with his intuitive ability to satisfy them.
There was no doubt in my mind that Les was an exhibitionist, and the more he touched her, the more I got the crazy idea that he was putting on a show for me, playing tome, and Ella’s body was the instrument he was serenading me with. I was completely transfixed.
I stood, fumbling my pants open in front of Ella, absorbing the two of them and saturating myself in their pleasure. Voyeurism gave way to intense desire. It was the same thing that happened to me with music. I could listen up to a certain point, and then the itch to be the one creating it overwhelmed me. This was just a different kind of song. One made of bodies and soft moans and hot, heavy breaths. Or so I told myself. We’d been busting our asses for weeks, and maybe Les was right—I needed to cut loose and go with the flow.
Without warning, he reached out and fisted my cock, making me gasp. It was part shock, part relief, partwhat-the-fuck. Tightening my hand on Ella’s shoulder, I swayed a step backward, gaze darting to Les’s in bewilderment. He stilled his hand, then loosened his grip reactively, but the look in his eyes didn’t match up to the retreat, because when they fixed on me, they were dark and hungry with challenge. He dipped his head to lick the join of Ella’s shoulder and neck, then released me and slid his hand back between her legs. I could feel the faintest brush of his knuckles against me as he explored her. My own neck warmed as if it were mine he was kissing, and my dick throbbed, pulsing at the absence of touch and aching in ways I’d never felt before.
Ella moaned and bucked at the air.
“You all right, Porter?” His gaze hadn’t wavered from me, but a quicksilver flash of concern passed through the depths of green.
“Yeah.” Maybe I was drunker than I thought, because I was way too into this and a little disturbed by how much Les was turning me on.