Page 6 of The Long Refrain (Sweet Southern #4)

6

NOLAN

AUGUST 2027

T he only part of fame that I like is making music. Tours? Hell. Photoshoots? Awful. Fans thinking that they own some part of me? Degrading. But I’ve made a deal with the devil, so there’s no out for me. Six months in Los Angeles was all I got to record the next album. In four days, I leave for the world tour.

And I am rapidly deteriorating under the pressure.

At this point, there’s an entire team to make decisions for me. All I’ve got to do is show up for a sound check, perform, do the meet and greets with fans, and collect a check for the record label and promoters. All of this was so much easier when I was lit all the fuck up.

“Are you ready?” Chris asks as he walks into my house as if he owns it.

“Do I have a choice?”

Gently closing the front door behind himself, Chris checks me out from head to toe. I try not to squirm under his gaze, but it’s difficult. Chris is probably one of the rare people in my life who cares about me. Like actually cares about me, not the rockstar the label has so carefully curated. When I was drunk off my ass constantly, it was Chris who was there to clean me up, give me coffee to sober me up even when I didn’t want to be sober. Yeah, the label forced me into rehab when I’d been fucking my life up for years, but it was Chris who held my hand through the entire process. It’s always been Chris.

“Do we need to cancel the tour?” Chris asks, voice carefully neutral.

“Nope,” I say, popping the P like the asshole I am. “Oh my God, can you imagine? The label would have a conniption.”

“Not if you relapsed,” Chris points out shrewdly.

I freeze with my hand halfway up to my hair. “I haven’t relapsed.”

Chris shrugs, uncaring. “They don’t have to know that.”

“We’re not faking a relapse.”

“I’m just saying if we have to, the option is there.”

“Noted.”

Chris follows along behind me as we make our way through the house, heading toward the kitchen. I hop up onto the island to perch in wait for Chris to share whatever news he has for me. As if he lives in my home, Chris picks through the contents of my fridge, only pulling away satisfied once he finds a soda which I only keep in stock for him.

Taking a large gulp of the soda, he makes an annoying smacking sound before leaning heavily against the counter opposite of me. The vibes in my kitchen could kill a small Victorian child with how rank they are.

“Spill it,” I tell him.

Chris spins the soda carefully in his hands with a twitch in his eye. “I’m worried about the tour.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Nolan,” Chris says gravely. “We cannot have a repeat of the last tour.”

“What happened on the last tour?” I ask innocently.

“Don’t be a little shit.”

We stare at each other for a moment, daring each other to speak. Unable to take the attention, I look away towards the backyard. The pool sparkles under the midday sun. I can almost picture Benji leaning against the edge with that crooked grin on his lips if I try hard enough.

“I have the stupidest idea,” I say slowly.

“Oh boy.”

I’ve actually been thinking about it a lot lately. What it would be like if Benji joined us on the tour, if Benji was there as the crutch I will need to survive. Sometimes my brain is so terrifying, the thoughts so loud, that having someone like Benji there to keep those thoughts at bay is probably exactly what I need.

“What if we bring Benji with us?” I ask quietly, dancing my fingers along the cold granite of the island.

Chris stares blankly at me for a moment before taking a small, pained-looking sip of his soda. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes.”

Chris sets the now half-empty can down behind him. “That raises the risk of you being outed.”

I snort, as if I care about that. “The entire world can know I’m gay. I don’t give a shit. It’s just… if he goes on tour, I want him to be only mine. Just mine.”

“He’s not a toy, Nolan.”

Chris isn’t getting it. I jump off the island to pace around the kitchen. To his credit, Chris stays cool as a cucumber, leaning casually against the counter beside the fridge. His eyes follow me as I pace, but he doesn’t look worried, probably because I’m radiating anxious cat energy instead of I’m about to do something that’ll get us on the front of a tabloid energy.

“We both know the tour could kill me,” I say simply, hands buried at my scalp.

“Nolan—”

“Don’t!” I yank at my hair in a brief show of vulnerability before straightening back up. “I want Benji on the tour with me. The entire tour. You’ll do what you can to protect us from being found out. The band already has an NDA, so they won’t say shit, so does the stage crew. Just… fucking make it happen, Chris.”

“Alright,” Chris whispers quickly before I can say anything else.

Relief like I’ve never felt before in my life sweeps through me. Breathing slowly, I stand straighter, and stare out the back windows toward the hills illuminated by the sun. Maybe this will solve all my problems. Maybe this will cure me. Maybe, maybe, maybe .