Page 14 of Finding Grey

EIGHT

______

DANTE

The facade slipped on as I got out of the private car that had met me at the airport. Like a second skin, it covered all the parts I wanted to hide in sin and swagger. Nobody ever bothered to look beyond arrogance, especially back in the days when my face was sure to be on the cover of at least one gossip mag on the coffee table of every home. Granted, it had been a while since I’d been on a magazine cover, but the facade still served its purpose. As long as no one looked too closely, no one would know my entire fucking life was a house of cards on the verge of collapse.

Floodlights illuminated the front of the house and part of the driveway. A necessity for night arrivals, but after a late flight and a half-hour drive to the darker south-eastern suburbs of Brisbane, their brightness made my eyes hurt.

“Good evening, Mr Sinclair.” An older man approached, his hand extended. “Welcome toThe Bard’s Retreat. I’m Phil Kelland, the owner.”

I gave him a short nod as we shook. “Thanks for taking me on such short notice, Phil.”

“It’s a pleasure.” The man’s smile was friendly without being ingratiating. “I look forward to working with you.” He turned to indicate another man, closer to my own age, who stood close by. “This is my son, Sean Kelland. He’ll be your host for the duration of your stay.”

Sean stepped forward to offer his hand. “Good evening, Mr Sinclair.” He didn’t smile, barely even managed to meet my gaze as we shook. I released his hand and he immediately backed away. “I’ll get the bags.” With that, he hightailed it to the boot of the car, where the driver was already unloading my luggage. My gaze followed him as I frowned at his skittish behaviour.

“This is the main house, where you’ll be staying,” Phil said, drawing my attention back to him. “The recording studio is in the next building over. We can get to work there whenever you’re ready.”

I took a step towards the house, but then the car pulled away to reveal Sean arranging both suitcases, my duffel bag and my guitar case around his body—all at the same time. I might have been impressed with his dedication to hauling everything into the house in one go, if the sight of my guitar case bumping hard against one of his thighs hadn’t pissed me off.

“Whoa, hold up.” Covering the distance between us in a few long strides, I gestured to the guitar case. “I’ll take that.”

Pausing, Sean glanced up at me. “I can manage.”

“Not with my Fender, you won’t.” I slid my fingers under the handle and pulled the case from his grip. “This is my favourite guitar. He needs to be handled with care.” There was a beat of silence, and then a smirk tugged at the corners of Sean’s mouth. I raised my eyebrows at him. “Problem?”

“No.” He shook his head and a few strands of straight, light-brown hair swung forward to frame his face, the ends brushing against his jawline. “I’ve never heard anyone refer to a guitar as ahimbefore. It’s usually eithersheorit.”

I stiffened and turned away, heading for the house where Phil waited for us to join him. People rarely noticed the pronoun I used for this particular guitar. It had started as one of the many, tiny rebellions I’d launched against my father. After buying the acoustic guitar for myself on my twenty-first birthday, I’d dubbed it ahethe moment I plucked the first string. It was the one male I could stroke to my heart’s content, without invoking my father’s managerial wrath. A lot of sexual frustration had been poured into that guitar, andhehad taken it like a man.

I followed Phil into the house, leaving his overly perceptive offspring to tag along behind. “I’m planning to spend the next month working on new material,” I told Phil when we reached the kitchen. Enormous and immaculate, it seemed to function as the hub of the house, with a number of hallways branching out in different directions. “I won’t need you to come in until at least my second month here. I will still need access to the studio though, for my daily practice.”

A shuffling sound made me turn just as Sean came past. His arms were weighed down by my suitcases and, now we were inside the brightly lit house, my gaze snagged on the roundness of his biceps and the way the strap of my duffel bag pulled tight across his firm chest. I should have offered to help carry the bags, really I should have. But the sight of him playing pack-mule for all my crap was too delicious by half.

“Anything you need, that’s what we’re here for.” The sound of Phil’s voice had my head snapping back to the left. He held out a set of keys, thankfully oblivious to the fact I’d been checking out his son. “These will get you everywhere you need to go, they’re all labelled.”

“Right, thanks.” Accepting the keyring, I slid it into my pocket.

“When you decide you do want to start recording, all you need to do is give me a call. I can be here anytime, day or night.”

I nodded, hoping I would have a reason to make that call before I left this place. It had been well over two years since I’d written anything remotely worth recording. My last studio album, released almost three years ago, hadn’t performed as well as expected either. Roger was losing patience with me. Hell, I’d lost patience with myself long ago. If I didn’t get out of the creative rut I’d stumbled into, my career would become fodder forWhere are they now?segments on late-night television.

Hence, my sudden relocation. I’d thought perhaps a change of scenery might help spark some new ideas. A phone call to my assistant, Bri, had set the plan in motion and two days later I’d boarded a plane bound for Brisbane. The name itself made my stomach dip. My father had conveniently left this city off the Australian leg of my last tour, so I hadn’t been back here in nearly five years. It felt like a lifetime.

“Would you like to tour the facilities tonight?” Phil asked. “Or, if you’d prefer, Sean can show you around in the morning.”

As if on cue, Sean reappeared at the entrance to the hallway, sans luggage. He didn’t look at me, preferring to keep his gaze trained on the far wall. I couldn’t get a handle on him. He didn’t seem twitchy or nervous, like some people were when they met me. But he definitely wasn’t as welcoming as his role dictated he should be. Maybe he’d decided he didn’t like me before I even came up the driveway. Whatever. Being disliked by total strangers was a consequence of living in the spotlight. I was used to it, and it was a step up from being fawned over.

“The tour will have to wait,” I said, turning back to Phil. “All I want right now is a hot shower and a soft bed, in that order.”

“Done.” Phil gave me an understanding nod. “Sean will take care of you from here. I’ll drop by later in the week to see how you’re settling in.” After a quick goodbye, Phil headed for the front door.

After he left, I turned on my heel to face Sean, curious to know which way the wind would blow now we were alone.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr Sinclair,” he began, gesturing to the hallway behind him, “I’ll show you to your room.”

“Hold on a sec,” I said, halting him. His cheeks hollowed as he turned back to me and I got the impression he was biting his tongue. I sauntered closer, wrapping an extra-thick layer of rock star around me as I went. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next couple of months, so I’d prefer it if you call me Dante. How does that sound to you, Sean?” I said his name slowly, letting my gaze roam over his face as I spoke. I’d perfected the blatantly sexual move in my late teens and used it liberally ever since. Most people responded to the suggestion by repeating my name, often with the same slow drawl I’d used on them. It was like a game. Harmless, but flirtatious, it was designed to make people feel like we’d shared a profound, if fleeting, connection.