Page 7 of Dedicated

So I wasn’t sure what I was going to find when I stuck my key card in the door. It could’ve been a menagerie of zoo animals for all I knew. I’d thought he was alone last night when he called me, but I could’ve easily be wrong, considering the guy I’d seen him with on the elevator.

The door clicked open and cool air poured into the hallway. The smell of booze hit me immediately. The blinds were pulled tight, the room dark as Halloween. I left the door open when I stepped deeper inside, and from that angle spotted his bare foot hanging off the bed.

The sight stoked another fear I had revolving around Les—maybe irrationally, but not without some merit—that one day I would walk in and find him dead, having overdosed on something. Because Les was reckless with everything. He might have laid off the hard drugs, but he was unpredictable that way. I broke out in a cold sweat as I stepped around the corner.

But he was just passed out. I took stock of the nightstand—the empty beer cans, a half bottle of Jack—and inwardly rolled my eyes at the cliché. That there was no one else with him in the bed was a little surprising. He was stretched out, the covers bunched up in one corner of the mattress. I exhaled relief I didn’t know I was waiting for. Naked, he was all olive-toned curves and dips: ankles, calves, the backs of his thighs, the deep valley where his lower back gave rise to the tight, round cheeks of his ass. His face was buried deep in the pillow, dark, unruly hair spread out over the pillowcase. It was a view I’d seen on many occasions. His exploits were legion, splashed all over the internet in online groupie forums, and he loved nothing more than to share the tales that accompanied photos of him snapped in various states of undress and/or wakefulness by his hookups. He’d been deemed one of the more “generous” celebrity fucks, and when I’d asked what the hell that even meant, he’d given me a wicked grin as he said,“It means I make sure everyone’s satisfied.”

I bent over the bed, placing my hand on Les’s warm shoulder and giving him a rough shake. He groaned and rolled onto his back, cracking a bleary eye at me. One hand flew reflexively to his hard dick, stroking up its length as I tried to ignore the salute. “Fuck.”

“Five minutes, asshole, or you’ll be taking a cab to Cleveland.” I tossed one of the pillows at his dick, and he curled up with anoofas it landed.

“Jerk,” he muttered and rolled over.

I turned and walked out. At the elevator bank, I stabbed at the button repeatedly the same way I wished I could push the sight of his dick out of my mind. That loose stroke of his hand upward, those long, strong fingers wrapped around his shaft.

The trouble was, my mind still recalled the feeling of them on me.

Back at the tour bus,I handed the key over to Mars, who eyed me speculatively, then said, “Cold shower?”

I nodded, glancing at the time on my phone display. “Give him five more minutes, then douse him and drag his ass out.”

Mars returned fifteen minutes later, laughing as Les pounded on his back with his fists. Les wasn’t small; he was six feet and wiry, not weak, but Mars was the size of a Titan. Les was soaked, naked from the waist up, goose pimples spread all over his back and dimpling the ink of his tattoos. His dark hair dripped on the pavement, and his jeans were pulled only halfway up his ass. I was sure the hotel staff loved having that paraded across their lobby for all the guests taking advantage of their free continental breakfast to see.

Mars dragged Les’s suitcase behind him, and Les shot a bird to the roadies who were hanging out beside the bus and cracking up. We both got along with our roadies. They were our family away from home, and they loved fucking with Les because he’d fuck with them back.

Not this morning, though. He snarled as Jimmy, our driver, catcalled at him. I watched it all unfold from the silence of our tour bus while I drank coffee. That there was no pap around to catch the drama was either lucky or a bad sign. Lately, I thought it was more the latter.

The door swung open and Mars deposited Les on the steps in a heap. Les wobbled to a stand and yanked his pants the rest of the way up. “I’ll fire you one day,” he threatened, sticking his finger in Mars’s face.

“You wouldn’t dare. I’m your goddamn fairy godmother.” Mars nipped at the end of Les’s finger, then smiled sweetly back at him before slamming the door so hard Les had to leap backward to avoid a crack to the nose.

Les kicked his suitcase up the stairs and finally registered me sitting there on the couch. “What’s up, Mr. Goody Two-shoes?”

I pointed at the table across the aisle impassively, used to his alcohol-fueled declarations. “Made you some coffee.”

I caught it, just barely: surprise darted through his eyes a second before they darkened with suspicion. “Aren’t you a sweetheart.” His voice was a tool like a Swiss Army knife, and he’d long ago figured out how to twist it just so into my side for maximum effect.

“Anything for you, darling.” I kept my tone light as I set my coffee down and strummed a few chords on my guitar, looking for an appropriate song to capture the moment. I settled on The Replacements’ drunkard’s lament, “Here Comes A Regular.”

He snorted as I played, kicked his suitcase again, then stumbled past it to reach for the coffee I’d made him. As I watched, he brought the mug almost gingerly to his lips, giving me a big fake smile and taking the tiniest of sips before he turned and dumped the rest into the sink, then dropped the mug in after, letting it clatter noisily as Jimmy started up the bus. He lurched backward and disappeared behind the curtains to the bunks as the roadies piled through the door.

To say Les could be a real asshole when he was drunk was putting it mildly.

I set my guitar aside and sighed as I got up to clear his suitcase out of the aisle.

No one would bethe wiser tonight, though. The house lights would go down, and we’d come out onstage together. Les would give me that wild grin, the one that could suck a person in like a vortex, that pulled at everything you were and made you want to give anything to him. And that was just his warm-up, because when he turned to the crowd, they’d get the full wattage like a switch flicked on, and they’d eat it up. They’d surge forward for it. The girls would take their shirts off for it, and the guys would line up backstage for it after the show. For just a second more of its warmth directed personally at them, people would do a fucking lot. I’d seen it countless times, and I’d fallen for it once.

And that was where our label was wrong, no matter what they tried to tell me when he wasn’t listening. Les was the secret ingredient, the X factor, and I needed him because I wasn’t ever going back to slinging suds in dive bars, scraping together tips for rent, and busking on street corners.

So I had to fucking make this work.

After spending so much time together on tour, do you guys hang out during downtime back in Nashville?

Evan:I had to file a restraining order last week just to stop Les from hanging out in the tree next to my house, peering through my windows.

Les:I was looking for evidence that you’re not actually an android. Still haven’t found any.

Evan:We don’t really get much downtime, honestly.