Page 5 of Finding Grey

The music on stage swelled, signalling the start of the finale, and the audience beyond roared in approval. “It’s show time,” Roger shouted over the din. “Go be a rock star.”

“Yes, sir.” Standing tall, I took a few deep breaths as I prepared to launch myself into the performance. The thunderous applause of the audience reverberated through my body, jump-starting my heart. I never tired of the rush that came from being on stage, and after making out with Grey, I had energy to burn.

Grey.I’d pinned the name on him without even realising it. Somehow, it seemed to fit. I glanced into the back corner, hoping for a glimpse of the boy who’d made my world spin off its axis. But it was too late. He was already gone.

In that moment, I knew I’d been played. The declaration of love, the offers of time and attention, Roger had used them to distract me from Grey until it was time to go on stage. My father, who had taught me how to manipulate people the same way he taught me my first chord on the guitar, had played me like a stupid, naive child. Worst of all, I’d fallen for it.

He did spend time with me that night. We ate cake and talked about stuff other than album sales and tour dates. But there was a hollowness to it I couldn’t shake, knowing those few hours of attention had cost me the opportunity to keep in touch with someone who had shown me a part of myself I’d never imagined existed.

A few weeks later, I received my birthday present in the mail. The envelope contained a slick, glossy photo. Perfectly composed and oozing with sex appeal. Looking at it made me feel like the rock star Roger always wanted me to be. It also gave me a massive hard-on, because I knew who I’d been looking at when the image was captured. No return address had been included, no name, just a few words scrawled on the back of the photo.

My (other) gift for the boy who has the world at his feet.

That night, I wrote him a love song. The melody was all forbidden romance, but the bass pulsed with the frustration of interrupted lust. I insisted it be released as a single for my next album, with my birthday photo on the cover. Roger refused. When temper tantrums failed to sway him, I went on a creative strike. Determined to have my way, I refused to sing a note or write a lyric until I got it. I’d never used his encouragement of bad behaviour against him before. It worked, but my victory came with a belting that almost put me in the hospital. It was worth it.

I did it because I wanted to say thank you for my present. Because I wanted to give him a present too and, for all my wealth and fame, music was the only thing of value I had to offer. Last of all, I did it so I could put his name in the photo credit of the copyright page for the single. The same name I’d muttered a hundred times since the night we met, as I lay in bed fisting my own erection and remembering the feel of his tongue inside my mouth.

Grey.