Page 29 of Finding Grey
FIFTEEN
______
SEAN
I never should have accepted that third drink. The whisky sliding through my veins, having failed to understand the concept of friction, had already mellowed out the sharp edges of my restraint. One more swallow could have me committing a whole host of delectable sins.
“Where’d you go?” Dante’s voice reached out to me from somewhere over near the door to the house. Sticking one hand up in the air, I heard his snort of laughter. “What the hell are you doing over there?”
“’s comfy,” I called without bothering to open my eyes. The enormous circular daybed had been a major splurge when Dad first decorated this place, but it had proved worth every cent. Guests loved lounging out here in their spare time, enjoying the sun in the winter and drawing the canopy up into a half-dome in the summer to ward off the heat. I’d never sat on it until now, but it had seemed so inviting as I slumped in my chair waiting for Dante to return with another round of post-dinner drinks. This had seemed the perfect opportunity to find out what all the fuss was about. I totally got it now.
“Here, take these.” I opened my eyes to see Dante holding out two tumblers. Reaching out, I grabbed the glassware and balanced them on my chest while he climbed onto the enormous daybed beside me. He settled himself back against the multitude of cushions, wriggling until he’d attained the perfect position. Then, he relieved me of his drink with a quick thank you. “This is comfy,” he said with a nod. “I should have been setting myself up here all this time.”
“Maybe,” I murmured, gazing up at the few stars that were visible between the roof line and the top of the hedge. “But I’m not sure it’s possible to concentrate on work in a place like this.” I swirled one hand about in the air. “It’s more of a zen-zone.”
“True.” He slid down a little further and wrapped an arm around a blue and white striped cushion he’d plopped on his stomach.
Holding my glass in one hand, I turned on my side and rested my head on the other bent arm so I could enjoy this rare opportunity to watch him without worrying about getting caught. We were hanging out. It was only natural for me to look at him while we hung out. “Tell me something no one else knows about you.” The words were out before I could consider how he would react to them. Geez, Ireallyshouldn’t have accepted that third drink.
Dante responded with a low chuckle. “Why would I do that?”
“I have no idea.” I shook my head at my uninhibited behaviour. “Ignore me. I’m being stupid.”
He watched me for a while, taking sips from his drink and stroking his thumb across the cushion. “If I tell you, will you promise to believe me?”
“Of course, I’ll believe you,” I said with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because no one else would. Not if I tried to say it to the world.”
Lifting my chin, I stared him dead in the eye. “Try me.”
He sat up straight and crossed his legs in front of him. “I’ve never taken illicit drugs,” he said. “Not even once.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth dropped open. Of all the things he could have confessed to me, I didn’t see that one on the horizon. “Seriously?”
His gaze dropped to his lap and his throat moved as he swallowed. “You promised to believe me.”
“No, I do.” Sitting up, I moved around until I sat at his side, facing him. “I’m surprised, is all.” There had been so many stories in the media over the years. It was hard to believe none of them were true. “What about your trips to rehab?”
A harsh laugh broke free and he shook his head. “The first time I went to ‘rehab’,” he used his fingers to make air quotes around the offending word, “I actually tore my Achilles tendon. Apparently, I’d been jumping around too much during performances and it decided to spaz out on me. I had to wear this great hulking boot for six weeks while it healed, and then I had physio for months afterward.”
“Youwerein rehab then,” I pointed out, “just not the kind people thought. It was a misunderstanding.”
“Not exactly.” His head turned towards me, but his eyes failed to meet mine. “My father decided a tendon injury wasn’trock starenough. He was the one who leaked stories of my drug addiction to the media. That’s the way he works, feeding people lies for breakfast and half-truths for lunch. And any time I actually did fuck up,” he barked out another laugh, “that was a feast they could really bank on, because it made the rest more believable.”
I bit down into my bottom lip before admitting, “I believed it.” He lifted his gaze and there was sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “There’s no need to be. You didn’t know me, only the facade I show to the world, and somebody else crafted that.”
“You were never tempted?” I asked. “You must have had the opportunity.”
“Hell yes, I was tempted,” he said with an emphatic nod. “But if I’d ever dared to experiment with drugs as a teenager, Roger would have lost his shit all over me.”
A memory flashed. His hand reaching for mine as I traced a finger around the bruises on his ribs. How often had Roger’s protective streak shown itself through violence?
“By the time I was too old for supervision,” Dante continued, “I’d already seen enough lives destroyed by addiction to know the high wasn’t worth the risk.”
We fell silent for a few minutes. My head whirled as I processed this new information. “I guess I really don’t have to worry about you going on a drunken rampage through the house then. Since I’m figuring most of the other shit people have written about you is false too.”