Date: Thu, 27 May 2010 23:38:27 -0400 From: jayse@mindless.com Subject: Up Close and Personal - Chapter 12 Chapter 12: Don't Know What You Got Till It's Gone... He didn't care for the flowers; for all he knows, Leo does this to every woman he's ever screwed. The handwritten notes, however, were quite touching. Tucked in every bouquet of orange roses were postcards featuring landmarks in every city that Leo's tour was stopping. There were 48 bouquets for the 48-city tour. His favorites were for Boston, his hometown and St Louis, which was Leo's. Who knew Leo was from Midwest! He must have missed that somewhere in his interview research. The Boston postcard featured Fenway Stadium and note is Leo's scrawly print proclaiming, "Me, you and a game at the ball PAHK?" The St. Louis postcard is a black and white landscape photograph depicting a rustic looking farm scene. Leo had written down, "Would love to show you around my old neighborhood." He's pretty sure that Leo's from the city, but the quaint photograph brings a smile to his face. It's a hard to reconcile the hard partying rock star with the guy who sends flowers and handwritten notes. It's cute and it gets to him, just like Leo knew it would. Shane's instinct for self-preservation is especially strong. He's very much grounded in his likes, dislikes, as well as his fears and insecurities. There is a box around him. It's not small or narrow by any means, but it's still there. He's rarely been tempted to step out of it, until now. The notes sort of tipped him over the edge. He's pissed at himself that he wants to give in. Leo thinks he's easy, but he's not. He's not that easy, at all. Right now, he doesn't want to think about Leo, or orange roses. Who the fuck sends orange roses, anyway? Red, sure. Orange? What the fuck? Right now, he's itching for a fuck. A rough, hard, dirty, fuck. He isn't going to do anything stupid. A night on the town doesn't necessarily mean he's going home with anyone. He just needs to take the edge off. The bartender pushes a gin and tonic his way, "From the gentleman in blue," he nods over in the direction of a guy sitting at the far end of the bar. Shane dips a finger in the offered cocktail and swirls it around. He drags the pad of his wet finger over his bottom lip, then he inserts it into his mouth, and sucks. He looks up with eyes narrowed at the guy in blue, and smiles coyly. It's an open invitation. He's playing a silly game. He hasn't been in touch with Leo since he got the flowers, two weeks ago. He's been ignoring his calls and texts. It's silly but he can't help it. Sure, he's been a little cautious, but really, who can blame him? He's horny. Itching to fuck Leo, but he's here flirting, with a stranger in blue. Later, he figures, this might make sense to him but right now, he doesn't care. The guy in blue approaches. He's tall; Shane likes that, and dressed in a fitted blue t-shirt which clings to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair is a deep brown with sandy blond highlights, and overall, he's got this wide-eyed, wholesome look about him. He's not the type Shane goes for usually. He's too well groomed, too well put together. Ah well, he supposes, tonight may as well be the time to break some rules. Guy in blue approaches slowly, and takes the stool next to Shane with some hesitation, as though unsure whether or not he should be there. He stretches out a hand, "I'm ..." Shane ignores his name. He's the guy in blue and that's all that matters tonight. He smiles brightly and offers, "Shane..." "Roderick," the guy in blue finishes for him helpfully. Shane glances at his watch, it's almost midnight and he's got an early call the following day. Got to make this quick. He throws back the gin and tonic and glances at guy in blue who eagerly motions to the bartender to get him another one. Shane is faintly amused at his enthusiasm. "What do you do?" He asks when he is handed another cocktail. "I'm an actor. Right now, I'm doing an off-Broadway production of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Shane sighs inwardly. Even in his attempt to rebel, he ends up with an artsy type. "Let me guess, Stanley Kowalski?" "Yeah," the guy says. He's nervous and keeps rubbing his palms on his jeans. He can barely meet Shane's eyes and stares instead at his lips which wet with moisture from the drink. Shane decides to turn it up a notch. He reaches out and runs a finger down the guy's muscled arm. "How did you get this," He asks. It's a long thin scar that runs down the tanned flesh of guy in blue's bicep. "Oh that? A biking accident..." While he's aware that guy in blue is still speaking, Shane is no longer paying attention. It's odd, but the scar is by far the most attractive thing about guy in blue. In Shane's opinion, his hotness meter just went up by at least five notches. He likes the fact that guy in blue is damaged; that the tanned, muscled, cuteness isn't all that there is to him. His imperfection is what Shane is attracted to. He wants this. He wants him. He curls his fingers around the curve of defined muscle and squeezes softly. Guy in blue stops talking, finally, and looks at him. Shane stares back intently. His eyes, blue and wide in open invitation. Instinctively, guy in blue moves in closer. Shane leans into him and whispers in his ear, "Not here -- bathroom." He downs his drink, though he has no need for the liquid courage, and proceeds to the restroom. He doesn't look back at guy in blue; he's confident, he knows he's got this. The walk to the restroom is short. A couple of stalls are occupied, but thankfully, the handicapped one is available. A few moments later, guy in blue walks in. Shane nods encouragingly and he approaches. Guy in blue's face is flushed with barely concealed excitement and he's half-hard already, he's cock tenting his dark jeans. When he steps in the stall, Shane crowds him up against the wall and murmurs, "Can't believe your luck, huh?" Guy in blue's back hits the wall and his jaw falls slack. Shane doesn't stop moving until he is pressed chest to chest into the guy and then he tilts his face down to his until their mouths are so close and says, "Well today's your lucky day." Guy in blue's breath is coming hard and fast. He leans in closer, as if to catch Shane's mouth in a kiss but quickly and instinctively, Shane takes a step back. He chuckles and asks unkindly, "What do you think this is, a date?" Guy in blue groans, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Shane is amused at how easy this is. Smirking, he lifts up guy in blue's shirt to get his hands on the skin hidden underneath. He flicks his nipples and brushes his fingers down his abs. Guy in blue's eyes are open wide and Shane is almost tempted to whisper, "Blink." He slides down to his knees and reaches for the growing bulge in guy in blue's jeans. He unzips him and then uses his fingers to part his boxers. He strokes the hard length. Guy in blue is think, but not too long. Without preamble, he presses a light kiss to the tip of guy in blue's cock before opening his mouth wide enough for the head to slide in past his lips. "Uhhh, fuck," Guy in blue moans. Shane smiles and flicks his tongue across his slit before taking in the length deeper. Guy in blue leans over and places both hands on the sides of Shane's face. His hands are unexpectedly cold as he pulls Shane into his crotch. A tiny, rational part of Shane's brain suddenly flickers back alive. What the fuck is he doing? He leans back abruptly and guy in blue's cock pulls free from his mouth with a loud pop. Guy in blue grips his cock and strokes, "Hey! What are you doing? You're not gonna leave me here like this, huh?" Lucidity hits hard. He is on his knees. In a bathroom. With a stranger. He gets up quickly and takes a step towards the door but before he is able to reach for the latch, guy in blue grabs his arm roughly. Shane tries to shrug free of his hold, but guy in blue's grip is firm and tight. He is pulled and slammed roughly against the wall. He tries to push back, but he is shoved back again. His head hits the wall painfully, with a loud crack. In the harsh fluorescent lighting, Shane realizes for the first time how blown and glassy guy in blue's pupils look. He's obviously strung out on something; how the fuck did he miss that earlier? Guy in blue is grinning now. His cock swings, leaking cum, as he steps forward and shoves an elbow across Shane's throat. When he pushes hard on his windpipe, Shane gasps for air. His hands come up, flailing wildly, as he tries to pull free of the aching pressure on his throat. Guy in blue laughs. Still pushing down on Shane's throat with his right arm, he presses his entire body on Shane and rubs hard, up and down, in a quick, frantic motion. Shane tries to suppress the shudder that goes through him. He leans in and sniffs Shane's hair. His breath is hot against his ear as he growls, "You're so pretty and blond, like my very own Barbie doll." He chuckles, wrapping his free hand around his slick cock and tugging, "You're gonna finish what you started, you got that?" Shane nods, still gasping for air. Guy in blue lifts his elbow off Shane's throat, and grasps it roughly with his fingers. He cocks his head questioningly as Shane takes a deep breath for air. It hurts just to swallow the saliva that has accumulated in his mouth. He slowly releases Shane's throat from his tight grip and steps back confidently. Shane hopes that someday, he'll get the opportunity to thank Jenny for dragging him to those self-defense classes long ago... He pulls back, and aims as hard as he can, with his open palm, just under Guy in blue's nose. He is gratified to feel his palm come in contact with bone. Guy in blue doubles over in pain and groans loudly. Shane pauses for a moment, and watches him in horror. Drops of blood are starting to appear on the floor as he clutches his nose and moans, "You little shit!" Shane walks around him. His hand shakes terribly as he pulls back the latch and pushes past the door. As he hurries past the sinks, a club patron grins at him lewdly and remarks, "Wow, you boys were really going at it, huh?" Shane tries to hold down the bile in his throat. He is suddenly aware of the pounding music vibrating through the walls and the door swings open as more patrons come pouring into the restroom. Sweat is dripping down his forehead and he doesn't want to bring unnecessary attention to himself. He fakes a smile and nods his affirmation then heads out the door as fast as he can. ******************* The silence is deafening as he steps into his dark apartment, but for the first time, Shane is grateful that he's coming home to a dark, empty apartment. The first thing he did on arrival was shower then brush. Twice. He still doesn't feel clean. His first thought is to call Jenny as he lies in bed, huddled in the thick blankets. He starts dialing, and then remembers that he isn't talking to her. His pride doesn't let him complete the call. He thinks to call Dominic next, but stops. It's 2:00 a.m. and Dom and Rowan probably wouldn't appreciate a disturbance this late at night. Besides, it's fault so he's got no business trying to unload this on someone else. He was trying to be something he wasn't. He'd come on to the bastard in blue, led him on like he was going to follow through. He knows now that he can't do the random hook ups with strangers that Jen so easily talks about. He is one of those guys for whom everything is personal, and unable to separate his heart from his mind. That's why he's fucked only two guys over the course of three years, Drew and Shane. He isn't promiscuous, he's a fucking monk. Hell, he's probably the most celibate gay man in the tri-state area. Jenny has told him time and again that he's maybe a little neurotic in his taste in men. The walls he's built around himself are like fort and just when he'd thought he'd let them down, throw away the key for just one night, this happens. He ends up with a psycho. He's really screwed this one up, he thinks, and he's got no one to blame but himself. His throat still hurts like a bitch. *************** He wakes up the next morning to buzzing. It's 4:30 a.m. In the bathroom, he glances at the mirror briefly as he reaches for his toothbrush. He does a double take when he sees his reflection. Around his throat is a bruise, blooming dark red and purple. He flinches when his finger brushes lightly over the tender patch of skin. He can't go in to film like this, fuck! What'll he tell them? Debra, his makeup artist, would be horrified. It's a hot summer day, so a turtleneck is out of the question. He winces at the thought of hiding his bruises. He's not some domestic abuse victim, damn it. He's got to call out, for a week at least, until this fades. He hurries to his cell phone and dials quickly. "Shane?" whispers the sleepy voice of his producer, Bill. "Is everything okay?" "No," He croaks in response. Shit. His voice is gone too. "You sound ill? Are you okay?" Bill asks anxiously. "I'm not sure," Shane croaks. "Throat infection, I think I'm gonna need a couple of days off." "Sure, that's okay. Are you contagious? I don't want you on set if you are- we'll have Kelly cover you today and tomorrow. You go see a doctor okay? Let me know how it goes." Shane is relieved that Bill took it well and didn't ask too many questions. He hangs up and settles back in bed. In the darkness, Shane can't help but think back to the bright lights of the bathroom stall, last night. He shudders as he is suddenly overcome by tears he's tried so hard to hold back. He finally gives in and breaks down. ************************ His view of Las Vegas is fantastic. He loves the bright, flashy, tacky lights. He peers through the window and tries to snap a photo on his phone. It comes out too dark and a little blurry. The helicopter lands too soon and he steps out into the stifling desert heat. "Mr. Malone, Welcome to Caesar's Palace," declares a man, he assumes is the hotel manager. He approaches with an outstretched arm, dressed in an immaculate navy blue three-piece suit. This confounds Leo; what sort of moron wears a three-piece suit in this weather? Leo has no time to schmooze right now. He shakes his hand and asks to be directed to his room. No, he doesn't care for a tour of the facilities. No, he doesn't need a masseuse. Or a six-meal. No he doesn't require any other "services"... what is this guy, a pimp? Oh yeah, he's in Vegas... It's kind of pathetic, but right now, he just wants to be shown to his suite, where in privacy, he can call and/or text Shane. It's been over six hours since his last text, so he's not overdoing it or anything. Leo thinks he's been patient. Hell, he's been a gentleman but right now though, Shane's really trying his patience. A response to the flowers and postcards would've been nice. Was that too much to ask? It really hadn't been easy finding post cards featuring every city he'd be touring. It'd been even harder to write notes in every one. Shit, try thinking of something to do in Hartford, Connecticut or Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. "Dude, where you been?" a loud voice cuts through his thoughts. He glances at the looming doorway to find Paul watching him with disapproval. They are on the rooftop landing pad, and as the helicopter roars back to life again, it's propellers blow wind gusts so loud and strong that Paul's voice gets drowned out. Leo reaches him in time to hear, "... you've got to shoot your acceptance speech video for the awards show." "Which one?" Leo asks. "Some European thing," Paul says dismissively. "You won four, by the way. Oh, and it's in Helsinki, so be sure to say, "Hello, Helsinki" or something like that." As they approach the elevators, he notices that Jake is already there, holding a door open with his extremely large bulk. He nods at him, and notices that Paul's mouth twitches with disapproval. He and Jake have a thing. No one gets it, but Jake is loyal to him, only to him. It's the one thing that pisses Paul off. He's fired Jake, at least a dozen times, but Leo just goes back and re-hires him. It's a very personal thing, having a bodyguard. To be effective, you've got to let them in so they know you, inside out, no holds barred and they learn to anticipate your needs. It's like that with Jake. They don't talk much, but they communicate enough to understand each other. Jake is the only person, other than Paul, who knows that he's seeing Shane. He doesn't get the paparazzi and tabloid thing. Once in a while, he is curious enough to pick up trashy magazines and read up on the lives of his mates. It's puzzling to him that their lives are splashed all over the pages; every screw up, every mistake is captured there for the world to read. He knows better. He invests quite heavily in his security; Jake must be the best paid bodyguard around. He doesn't keep an entourage and when he parties, he's smart enough to do so in places that guard celebrity secrets closely. Paul also knows, of course, that he keeps Jake around for the drugs. He doesn't know how Jake does it, but he's capable of getting Leo anything he's ever requested in two hours solid. Leo doesn't do the hard stuff anymore. That was in the past. His poison of choice, nowadays are prescription pills. He's trying to be good though. The last overdose was quite embarrassing. He wasn't going to kill himself but he wasn't sure what he was thinking when he took twenty seven roofies, or however many they found in him. Once they step out the elevator, he follows Paul past gawking patrons on the casino floor. He's tempted, sorely tempted, to head to one of the tables but there's no time. He cannot, however, resist the slots. He whispers to Jake, "Got cash?" "Sure," Jake shrugs, "How much?" Paul is still striding on ahead, head down and typing furiously on his Blackberry. He doesn't notice that Leo and Jake have taken a detour. Taking a seat at the machine, he gets two fives and a twenty from Jake. He inserts the two fives in rapid succession, losing both. He moves on to the next machine, which he hopes is hot, and inserts the twenty. He hits the wrong button and bets the max on the entire twenty. Shit, he pulls the handle dollar and surprise, it ends up winning. He hands the winning ticket to Jake and declares, "Must be my lucky day." Paul returns just in time to stop Jake from giving him any more money, "No more. We can't keep the other guys and the video crew waiting." He meets up with the rest of the band in the vast Colosseum arena. The crew is still working around the clock set things up for their show tomorrow night. The band gathers together in front of camera and feign surprise at winning four awards. They give a shout to Helsinki, they thank God, Paul, the fans without whom this would be possible, blah, blah, blah. It's over quickly. The stage hands are running behind schedule; there've been some issues with the lighting and pyrotechnics. The stage is still a mess of technicians and equipment so rehearsal has been delayed until tomorrow. Leo is relieved. Maybe now, he'll get some peace and quiet to call Shane, again... He finds himself being herded out of the arena by Paul, "We're heading out." Sigh. He doesn't even ask where to. The elevators take them down to a parking lot where a black SUV awaits. Jake heads to the front while he and Paul sit at the back. The car is silent but for the soft purring of the engine, and Paul finally puts down his phone long enough to look at Leo. "Get any sleep last night? Feeling alert? Need a coffee?" he asks. Leo hesitates, "I'm good. I got three, maybe four hours." Paul nods but Leo has no idea if he believes him. His concern about Leo's sleeping habits touches a nerve but truth be told, they both know he gets more like two hours of sleep most nights. His insomnia is what kicked off the prescription pill problem. Most nights are spent playing videogames, drinking and eventually getting a couple hours of sleep on the couch. It's all part of life on the road. Not that he minds per se. In his opinion, touring is the best part of his job. Sure making the music is great, but actually playing live and in person to the fan -- it's priceless. On the flipside is the publicity that every tour requires. He'd rather pull out his nails with pliers than sit for another interview, TV appearance, or photo shoots. He starts drumming a random beat with his fingers on the glossy wood paneled door of the vehicle and murmurs to Paul, "So, I never heard back from him." A few moments pass and there's no response from Paul. He glances sideways and sees that Paul is attempting to feign ignorance. Eventually, he reaches for his phone, taps on a few buttons and asks with his gaze fixed on his phone, "To whom are you referring? Leo rolled his eyes at Paul's obvious pretense. "You know to whom I am referring," He shot back mockingly. Paul snapped his Blackberry case shut and scratched at his beard thoughtfully, "You sent the man just about every red rose in the city of New York..." "Orange. The roses were orange." Leo interjected. "I don't know if he's ignoring me or ..." "Orange, really? Paul asked with disdain. "Well anyways, you sent him over ten thousand dollars' worth of flowers. Trust me; if he's ignoring you, it's intentional." When Leo says nothing, Paul continues, "I assume this was a mea culpa of some sort?" "What? No! Why do you always assume that I did something wrong. It was just a, you know, a gesture... what's it called? Like those greeting cards that say "Just because"? Yeah, that's what it was. It didn't mean anything." "If it didn't mean anything, then why did you do it?" "Well obviously it meant something. I mean, it's a gesture saying I care or something." "Or something?" "What the fuck are you doing?" "I don't know, Leo. You're the one who's expecting me to engage in some sort of dialogue about your love life. That's what I'm doing -- I'm engaging." "Fuck you. You're not engaging. You're being an annoying son of a bitch." Paul is quiet for a few moments than remarks, "Look, I'm not your Love Guru." "Love Guru?" Leo asks with a smirk. "Love Guru," Paul continues firmly. "I have no opinion on your love life. Seriously, if the thought ever occurs to you to ask me a question, huh, maybe Paul's got something to say about this, ask yourself two questions -- is this about work? If the answer's yes, then go ahead... if it's about your flavor of the month, keep it to yourself. Got it?" "Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?" Leo snaps back. Paul doesn't rise to the bait and stays silent. All that can be heard is the low hum of the air conditioner. Paul's got an opinion on everything so it's odd that he isn't jumping at the opportunity to say something. A short while later they pull into the driveway of a sprawling ranch-style mansion. Paul lays his hand gently on his and says, "Don't freak out okay? But we're here to meet with Perry." Leo jerks back roughly, "I thought you took care of everything?" "Not everything -- he still wants to meet with you... flew down here especially for this. He's not the bad guy, okay? It's just... it's a lot of money we're talking about. You signed an $80 million dollar contract with Atlantis for four albums. Four, Leo... that's four fucking albums. By my count, you've only produced two. Right now, your insurance premium for the rest of the tour is through the roof. The insurance guys, they don't think you're going make it." Leo's flinches, "What do you mean, not going to make it?" "It means," Paul speaks slowly, "they don't think you're going to live long enough to complete the tour. They think you're a liability. Your last overdose really screwed things up. You've got them thinking there's a fifty-fifty chance that you'll live to the end of the year. Fifty-fifty's good at the tables in Vegas, not so good in insurance policies. Atlantis is paying an arm and a leg to keep you insured and your contract is hanging in the balance. Perry needs to see you looking good and acting healthy. He's gotta trust that they're doing the financially savvy thing by keeping you signed to Atlantis. You got it? If he gets even one hint that you're not doing okay, not handling the addiction and insomnia like you're supposed to, he's gonna pull the plug. He'll terminate the contract and drop you off the label." "Okay," Leo says. It's a lot to process and he's not sure he understands everything Paul's just said. "And listen to this," Paul adds. "Just in case you don't think it's the worst thing that could happen, getting dropped from your label? Well, actually, it is -- because you were paid up front. That means you'll owe Atlantis, at least $40 million dollars, payable immediately, plus expenses and lost revenue from the canceled tour. I talked to your accountant, Leo -- you're not very solvent right now - some of your investments have taken a hit with the economy. There's a $10 million dollar bonus upon completion of the four albums. You see this through, you get your money, and then you get to do whatever the fuck you want to do, okay." Leo nods in understanding. "Now, we're going to walk in there, have lunch with Perry and you're gonna make him believe that you're the best fucking artist the Atlantis' roster, okay? That the last thing he's wants to do is terminate the contract." "Sure, sure, I got it," Leo assures him. Paul watches him questioningly with narrowed eyes, "You sure you're good?" Leo takes a deep breath and cocks his head left and right before declaring, "Yeah, I'm good." Paul gives a tight smile, "Let's do this." As they approach the house, the front door opens, and Perry Ford, a short, balding, red-faced man appears. "Leo, Paul, so glad you could make it!" He yells jovially. Paul mutters to Leo out the side of his mouth, "Like we had a fucking choice!" A butler in a black tailcoat, a fucking black tailcoat, steps out from behind Perry with a silver tray laden with cocktails. Paul glances briefly at Leo but before he can say anything, Leo interjects with exasperation, "I know, I know. No drinking." Paul nods with approval. They're making their way quickly, but the walkway is like a mile long. Paul clears his throat and says softly, "Uh... one more thing... about Shane - I like the guy. He seems like a really good guy and I think you're playing a dangerous game. I don't know what you think you've got to offer him, but if you're just going to do to him, what you did to Joni and the others... well, you shouldn't." "He isn't like the others," Leo says defensively, "He's different." Paul shakes his head, "I know you..." "Give me a fucking break, okay? Just for once, give me a break." "Okay, fine. Here's my advice. You sent him flowers -- big fucking deal. You've got to do something decisive to show him that you're in this for real. With chicks..." "He's not a chick." "The principle applies. With chicks, flowers can only take you so far. You've got to go the extra mile. If you're committed to this, you've gotta do something special." "Like what?" Leo asks. "Hey, you're the one dating a dude." "Fuck you," Leo responds. Paul chuckles then plasters a wide smile on his face as they approach, "Perry, it's great to see you, too!" *************** Shane is dismayed to find that the pint of Ben and Jerry's is almost gone. Ice cream is the only thing he's been able to swallow down his hurting throat. He can't risk venturing out of his apartment for fear of running into an acquaintance or worse, getting photographed by an errant paparazzo. Maybe he could order groceries online; lots of places deliver... but the thought of booting up the computer and actually selecting groceries is too much, right now. Maybe later. He drops the almost empty pint back in the freezer. He'll save that for dinner. He heads back to the bedroom and crawls beneath the blankets. The weight on top of him is warm and soothing. He's gripping his phone tightly. It's been over twenty hours since he heard anything from Leo. He'd gotten so used to the flirty texts and voicemail messages. All of a sudden, nothing. He can't help the pang of pain that goes through him. How very much alone he feels in the moment. He doesn't want to respond to any of the other messages. What if Leo's changed his mind about him? How weird would it be to call or text now that Leo's moved on? But if he calls now, Shane promises himself. He'll give in. He watches the phone steadily. It's gleaming on the stark white sheets, but stubbornly remains silent. After a while, his eyes feel heavy. He'll be asleep soon. He smiles, because at least then, he wouldn't have to think or remember... ************** Leo is stumped at the fact that Shane could go this long without getting in touch. It's annoying, but more than anything, Leo is very amused. He loves this. It's been a long time since he's really had to pursue anything. It's all been at his fingertips since he became rich and famous. Supermodels are real easy -- he doesn't get what the big deal is. Seriously, you could approach anyone of them with a hard-on in one hand and a guitar in the other, and they're yours. It's that simple. The last time he'd chased anyone this hard was in the 3rd grade. Her name was Annemarie Bartowsky. Men, she'd been a looker, or so he thinks. It's hard really, to remember her face save for the long, blonde braids she always had. He'd worn her down, eventually, with a pink heart shaped Valentine and a song he'd written especially for her. He'd gotten bored two weeks later and dumped her, of course. Somehow, he has a feeling that Valentine and Shane won't be that easy. He likes that Shane is hard to please -- it makes him work harder. It's odd how Shane wears his heart on his sleeve, yet he's got a poker face that could make grown men cry. Leo wonders for a brief moment, if he over did it... he isn't sure... maybe? But come on, he wasn't going to let Shane get away so easy. His commitment to the tour is inflexible. He cannot get out of it... Shane on the other hand, could meet up with him, anywhere. Is that too much to ask? Alright, so maybe it kind of is, but if Shane wants this, just as much as he does... he'll compromise. Leo smiles to himself... that word kind of makes him feel grown up. He's always heard of people talk about compromises in relationships. Now, he's in one where they're going to have to do that. Compromise, he makes a note to himself to use that word when he gets to speak with Shane. A roadie hands him a chilled bottle of water. He takes a large gulp and pours the rest over the top of his head. Someone takes the empty bottle from him, replacing it with a towel. He's just done playing his second show. The crowd tonight was awesome -- the Vegas crowd is pumped. He grins cheerfully as the fans approach. There are six of them, all teenagers -- three girls and three guys - winners of some radio contest to win backstage passes to the show. Shaking hands with each one, he asks, "So who did you have to kill to get back here?" They giggle nervously, each one blushing harder than the next. It's over soon. He signs shirts, hats, CDs, and even the hard rubber covers of a couple of IPhones and IPods. He answers questions easily, lying his way through most of them. He's glad he only has to spend ten minutes with them. Next stop is out in the lobby with the rest of the fans. He prefers to meet them this way -- it's less intimate. They don't get to ask personal questions and there's a whole barrier of cops and security between him and them. All he needs to do is lean over and grab hands or sign autographs. He does this for the next forty five minutes and is absolutely exhausted when it's over. On his way back to the dressing room, Jake comes over and hands him his phone. His grateful to have it back. He hasn't had a chance to call Shane until now. He isn't sure how late it is, doesn't bother checking the time so he won't have a reason to delay any longer. The phone rings long enough that thoughts of regret start to phone when he suddenly hears silence and then -- "Hello." He's shocked. Did he call the right number? "Shane?" he questions. "Yeah," the voice croaks. "Leo, it's Shane." "Are you okay? What's wrong with your voice?" "Throat infection," Shane croaks back. His voice is low and scratchy. It even sounds painful to hear him speak. "Have you seen a doctor? Are you on anything? You don't sound good." "It's okay. It's okay. Sorry, I missed your calls." "No, no, you're sick," Leo soothes. "I shouldn't be making you talk right now. Shouldn't you be resting up?" There's a harsh intake of breath on Shane's end, and a low desperate protest, "No! Don't go." "It's odd," Leo thinks, "How debilitating illness makes one. Shane sounds so... broken." "It's okay," He says, "I'm right here." "No," Shane's voice comes in, breathy and aching, "You're not. You're not here and I want you." Now, it's Leo's turn to take a sharp intake of breath. His heart is suddenly racing faster, "Right now? You want me there?" he asks. He wants to be sure that Shane intends this to come across the way he understands it. This is the most honest Shane has been and it's exhilarating. There's a long pause and then he hears a choked cry and a sniff. "Are you still there?" He asks. After a long pause, Shane speaks. It's so soft that he almost thinks he imagined it, "I want you." ********************** Paul walks into the room to find Leo throwing things into a suitcase. "You called?" he asks. "I was just heading down to the bar with some of the guys. Care to join us?" "I need the jet," Leo says. "What -- right now? It's 1:00 a.m.," Paul responds. Leo pauses in his packing and stares at him coolly, "Paul, that wasn't a request. I need the jet." "Where are you going? Oh, don't tell me -- New York?" "Just, get me the fucking jet, Paul or I'll find myself someone who can do your job." Paul shakes his head, "You don't get it. There are protocols for these things -- they've got to file flight plans... shit like that." Leo ignores him and heads to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, Paul gets off his phone and informs him, "I've got a car waiting downstairs for you. Jake's there already. You'll head to the airport. Plane should be ready in 45 minutes." "Thank you," Leo says tersely. He drags his suitcase along and leaves Paul in the empty room. ***************** Leo's grateful for the small things. In moments like this, he's especially grateful for the big things too. In the luxurious jet, he's able to take a shower and even catch an hour or so of sleep. He's that exhausted. His eyes flutter open as he feels the pressure in the pit of his stomach as the jet descends. A short time later, he is walking into Shane's apartment building. The elevator ride is one of the longest he's ever experienced, even though it's only going up eight floors. Even the walk from the elevator to the apartment door seems long, too. He doesn't know what to expect when he rings the bell. Bites down on his lip and hopes for the best. The door opens slowly and Shane stands there. He takes away Leo's breath, just like the first time, months ago when the elevator doors opened to reveal him. He's clutching a thick blanket which probably weighs more than him. He pulls him more firmly around his neck and croaks, "Hi." Leo smiles tentatively and the door is opened a little further to let him in. He takes a few steps inside and then lets go of his suitcase. He turns around just as Shane locks the door. He moves closer, crowding Shane into the door presses a light kiss to his lips. Shane sighs softly, enjoying the soft whisper of kisses that Leo. "Thanks for comi..." He begins to say but is silenced by the press of Leo's lips to his. "How're you feeling?" Leo asks. He strokes Shane's hair softly and peers into his eyes. Shane shakes his head. He doesn't think he is willing or able to answer that question just yet. "Come on, let's go to bed," Leo says. "You look exhausted." Shane allows Leo lead him. His hand feels warm and safe wrapped around him. Still wrapped in the blanket, Shane settles down on the bed and watches Leo strip. Leo's movements are quick are graceful. His dark hair falls loosely around his face, and he looks young in the early dawn light filtering through the curtains. As he tugs down his jeans, he smiles mischievously at Shane who smirks and asks, "What are you waiting for? Applause?" Leo laughs, "Your undivided attention will do." Shane tries to laugh but it comes out more like a choking sound, "Trust me, you've always got my undivided attention." As Leo approaches the bed, Shane watches him intently. He reaches forward and guides Leo soundlessly to lay down on top of him. Shane likes having Leo draped all over him like this He settles in between Leo's thighs which are pressed tightly against his. He writhes wantonly and feels Leo's cock, already hard and turgid, pressing down against him. He rises up to capture Leo's lips in a kiss. It's the open-mouthed kind of kiss. The kind that's wet, messy and really just kind of slutty. He closes his eyes and hums soft and throaty as Leo's tongue pushes rhythmically against his. Leo pulls back and Shane's eyes flutter open. He marvels at Shane's flushed, swollen mouth. He presses his finger against it and Shane sucks it in, watching him intently. Leo smiles, remembering the last time they did this. He leans back down and inserts his tongue with his finger still in Shane's swollen mouth. Shane's tongue alternates licking and sucking on his tongue and finger. Leo presses down harder, rocking against Shane's hard cock. He pulls his finger out of Shane's mouth and sucks it into his mouth, tasting Shane's saliva. With a groan, Shane writhes harder and runs both hands down Leo's naked spine to grab meat of his ass and haul him closer. They go at it for a long time, kissing like horny teenagers, alternately humping and grinding down on each other. "I don't want to cum like this," Leo whispers eventually with a kiss to the side of Shane's face. He works his hips lazily and continues as he thrusts, "I want to cum inside you." Shane's blue eyes widen in surprise and Leo watches him, confused. "Is that okay, I thought..." Shane tries to pull out from under him and Leo leans half off him immediately. This allows Shane to tighten the blanket around himself, and tuck it in closer to his neck. Leo can't help the laugh that slips out, "Why do you still have that thing around you? You look like an Eskimo... and you've gotta be burning up." Shane croaks something which Leo doesn't understand. He reaches out to pull the blanket and is surprised when Shane leans out of reach. "Are you hiding something?" Leo asks. Shane looks away and makes to get out of the bed but Leo grasps the edge of the blanket. "It can't be that bad... it's a throat infection... I'm sure the swelling's just normal. Let me see," He pleads. Shane shakes his head, still unable to look at Leo and it is then, it occurs to Leo suddenly, that something may be very wrong. He moves closer and with increased effort, he is able to tug the blanket out of Shane's clutching hands. At first, he doesn't know what to make of it. Shane's throat is dark and purple and bruised. "Did you have a doctor look at this?" He asks worriedly. "I'm not sure that's just an infection... it looks like..." and that's all he manages to get out before he peers more closely and realizes that he is staring at bruises. "What the fuck, Shane?" he asks. He keeps his voice, low and controlled. Determinedly, Shane turns his face away and tries to grab the blanket from Leo's hands. Leo pushes it to the floor behind him and takes hold of Shane's wrist instead. "Look at me, Shane," he says softly, "And tell me who did this to you." Shane opens his mouth to say something and Leo holds up a finger, "Don't lie to me. You promised you wouldn't lie to me." Shane nods and whispers, "It's my fault, okay... I went out three nights ago..." Ten minutes later, Leo has the entire story. Shane is leaning against him. Tears streaming down his face as he cries in silent sobs. Leo's rubs his back soothingly and presses kisses to his temple, "It's okay," he whispers. "It's not your fault." They sit like that for a long time until Shane falls asleep, and he shifts his weight gently off him, unto the bed. He heads out into the living room, where he wishes for a moment that he was in his own apartment so he could punch the fucking wall. He's fucking pissed. He closes his eyes for a second and inhales deeply to calm himself. Several breaths later, he is able to think straight. He picks up his phone and calls Paul. Paul's voice is groggy, "Leo, what the fuck?! Some of us are still..." "I need a doctor," Leo interjects. "What now? What happened?" Paul asks in alarm. "Not for me. It's... it's someone who's got a throat thing... maybe a crushed larynx? I'm not sure. Just make sure he's discreet, okay?" "Yeah, sure. I'll get on it immediately." Paul's voice has gone quiet and serious. He knows not to ask any more questions. He gives Shane's apartment address and is about to end the call when he remembers one more thing. "I need another favor," he adds. "Sure, anything," Paul responds. "I need a name." He says. "Go on." Paul interjects. "An actor. He's doing an off-Broadway show right now, A Street Car Named Desire. I think he's the lead... I'm not sure, though." "Leo, at any given time, there are at least a dozen productions of A Street Car Named Desire off-Broadway," Paul says in exasperation. "What the hell do you need this actor for anyway?" He ignores the question and responds coolly, "I need two things. One, get me a doctor. Two, get me the cast list of every off-Broadway production of the show." Paul sighs, "Sure, will do." "And photos," Leo adds thoughtfully, "I need photos too." To be continued. Author's note: Thanks for reading! I loved and appreciated all the feedback from the last chapter. I would like to address my long absence -- I really have no excuse -- life, really, just got in the way. I'm in a much better place right now, and decided to pick up the series again. That's it, really! Now, regarding the thematic changes in the tone and style of my writing over the course of the series, well... I must make this confession. I began writing UCAP at the age of nineteen, yes, nineteen. Several years later, I'm now... well you do the math... I'm older (and a little wiser!). I've completed college (and a little grad school now) and I would like to think my writing improved for the better?! Maybe? Maybe not? Regardless, I do hope you keep reading. The chronicles of Shane and Leo will be coming to a close soon. If you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, I'd love to hear from you -- jayse@mindless.com