Page 63 of Finding Grey

THIRTY-ONE

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SEAN

The wholekeeping our relationship quietthing lasted right up until my dad caught us making out in the control room of the recording studio. That was all of a week.

We’d managed to keep the secret from Roger, at least, despite his continued presence at the house. He’d originally planned to return to Melbourne the day after Dante’s birthday. Then, at breakfast that morning, Dante had mentioned his intention to stay on at the retreat while finishing the album. Within minutes, Roger had spontaneously decided to change his plans, claiming Dante would need guidance in order to stay focused on the end goal. The tension between the two men had grown palpable and I’d been sure an argument would erupt. But instead, Dante had gritted his teeth and said nothing.

Dante stopped recording with my dad after that, in order to rewrite some of the songs he’d already recorded. I had no idea why. He never talked to me about the album, and I had yet to hear any of the music, with the exception of the one song I’d heard him record in the studio. That didn’t bother me. I knew his work was deeply personal and I never would have asked him to share it before he was ready. But some of the other ways he’d changed had me worried.

In the weeks before Roger’s arrival, there had been a lightness to Dante after each writing session, a lifting of weight off his shoulders. Now, he locked himself away in the recording studio every day, only to emerge in the late afternoon, broody and irritable. Whatever Roger was forcing him to do to his music, it wasn’t good for him.

Meanwhile, our own relationship survived on stolen moments and the cover of darkness. Each night, Dante would sneak out of the big house and into my flat, where we came together in a desperate passion, attempting to satisfy our need for each other before the threat of dawn forced him back out the door. If Roger had any idea what was going on—and from the way he glared at me any time I appeared it wouldn’t have surprised me if he did—he said nothing.

It was ridiculous in a way, sneaking around at our age, although I couldn’t deny certain elements of the situation came with a thrill all their own. So, when Dante pulled me into the recording studio late that morning, I went willingly.

I barely had time to notice the multitude of scrunched paper littering the floor before he shoved me back against a wall and plastered his body to mine. “I missed you,” he muttered into my open mouth.

My hands found his arse and I ground myself against his already rock-hard erection, revelling in the low sound of his moan. “It’s only been six hours,” I teased, swiping my tongue along his bottom lip.

“Far too long.” His hands slipped under my shirt and he tilted his head to one side as his tongue stroked mine.

The jangle of keys sounded on the far side of the nearby door and then the knob turned. We had barely enough time to flinch away from each other before the door opened.

Phil’s mouth dropped open as he caught sight of us standing there in the room, for no apparent reason. His gaze lowered for a split second before snapping back up to our faces, his eyes wide. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, stifling a laugh. “I left some paperwork here last week, just needed to pick it up. But I’ll umm,” he backed out of the room, waving his hands in our general direction, “I’ll come back another time.” The door was still closing when we heard him cackle with laughter. “It’s about bloody time.”

Cheeks warming, I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “Is there ever a time when wewon’tget caught by our parents?”

Dante’s laughter surprised me, and I looked up. His face was just as flushed with embarrassment as mine. “Apparently, not.”

Two hours later, I received a text message from my mother. We’d been summoned to dinner the following night.

“I can say no,” I said to Dante when I told him about the invitation. “I know you didn’t want anyone to find out about us.”

“They’re your parents,” he assured me. “I never expected you to hide us from them. It’s the outside world we have to worry about. Besides, I’m looking forward to meeting your mum.”

The next evening, Dante drove the guest car to my parents’ house, while I took my own. We left a few minutes apart, so Roger wouldn’t get suspicious, and then I waited for him on the front porch, so we could go in together. He took my hand when I knocked on the door and, as our fingers entwined, I couldn’t help the enormous grin on my face.

My mum welcomed Dante with smiles and a warm hug. “We have so much to talk about,” she told him. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Definitely,” he said with a nod as we followed her and my dad into the dining room where the elaborately set table waited.

Within minutes we were tucking into an antipasto platter and the bottle of red wine I’d brought with me.

“Dante is a very exotic name,” my mum commented. “Fitting for a rock star. Is that a coincidence?”

“Yes and no,” Dante conceded. “I have Italian ancestors on my mother’s side. She named me after my great-grandfather. But I have no doubt my father agreed because he thought the name would look good on an album cover,” he added with good humour.

“Your mum was from Adelaide, wasn’t she?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “She grew up there, met my dad. It’s where I was born.” A shadow passed over his face, but he curved his lips into a smile as he spoke. “We were already planning the move to Melbourne when we found out Mum was sick. We stayed in Adelaide until she passed, so she could be near her parents. They died in an accident a few years after her.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The stricken expression on my mother’s face made me worry she’d launch herself across the table to wrap Dante in a maternal hug. “It must have been terribly hard on you and your dad. How old were you?”

“I was ten when she died, and we moved to Melbourne a few months later,” Dante told her. “It was a difficult adjustment, but my father and I had each other, and we had music. He was already planning my career as the world’s next big rock star,” he said with a grin. “He helped us both stay focused on the future, got us through those tough times.”

The conversation moved on as Mum asked more about the early years of his career, steering away from the heavier topics. We all knew the broad strokes of his story, of course. Most people did. But hearing him talk about his life in his own words, the way he’d experienced it, put a new spin on so many things—including his relationship with his dad.

I wanted to kick myself for every time I’d ever wondered why Roger had such a strong hold over the son he’d mistreated. It was only natural Dante would have depended heavily on the only parent he had left, especially after they moved away from the rest of his family. Their shared dreams for his future had created a strong bond between them, helping them through their grief. As Dante grew older and achieved the heights of success they’d once dreamed of, Roger had failed to protect his son from his own temper and from the warped ideas that saw him putting Dante’s career ahead of his developing sense of self. Even so, I knew from the stories Dante had told during our time together, Roger had also done much to ensure his safety in an industry famous for chewing up young artists and spitting them out damaged beyond repair. He’d kept Dante grounded, and taught him the importance of respect and discipline.

For all his bad boy reputation and exaggerated arrogance, at heart Dante was a humble, hard-working man who appreciated those who appreciated him. I loved all those varied parts of him, because I loved him.

The knowledge slid into place, as if it had always been there. I suppose it always had, in a way. But it didn’t make me smile. Falling in love with a rock star was a foolish thing for an ordinary nobody like me to do. It was the ultimate fantasy. A dream come true. And like any dream, eventually I would have to wake up.