Chapter 8
(Draven)
Johnny’s eyelids were thin slits, barely cracked open, and I could tell he wasn’t tracking a single move I made when I stood from the bed and went to the bathroom, grabbing the ice bucket along the way. We could get another one tomorrow. Right now, I needed something to hold warm, soapy water, so I could clean the spit, cum and lube from his skin. I did a quick washup of myself in the bathroom, admiring the scratches he’d left down my arms and over my hips.
Hearing him call me Daddy had tripped a switch inside of me that had been off for years. Touring and constantly writing and recording music had made it impossible to maintain that kind of relationship with anyone, let alone some of the women I’d attempted to date over the years. Driven, creative, like me and Johnny, they’d known what they’d wanted, and they’d gone after it, barely making time for hasty get togethers whenever we were in the same place. It was the kind of relationship I’d both loved and loathed, because I’d wanted more than a short-term thing, but hadn’t been willing to give up anything to have it, nor had I expected them to, either.
Johnny and I, we were already on the same road, and if the plans I’d been making came to fruition, then I’d get to experience the thrill of having a long-term sub in my life the way I’d always craved. And he, holy shit, Johnny had said the word with such desperation that I could tell he’d been craving control, something I could have given him years ago if I’d figured my own shit out.
Never too late until both feet are in the grave and the ditchdiggers have started shoveling.
That had been one of my grandfather’s favorite sayings and damn did it hold true today. I had now and every moment moving forward, that’s what I needed to focus on, and that’s why I knew that bringing in Damage Control now needed to involve Johnny’s band, too. If he’d been alone he could have been hurt or trapped among a throng of people he’d have had no way to extract himself from. Several videos of that nature had circulated over the years, and each time I’d watched Johnny being swept along with a crowd of revelers and party goers, the night one of binging and debauchery that had earned him several nicknames in the dirt rags over the years .
Orgy King being one of them.
I’d never throw stones at him for that, I couldn’t, not when I’d taken two and even three women to my bed on more than one occasion. Only each time I’d seen Johnny swept up in one of those situations, there had been a little voice in the back of my head, jumping around and screaming about Johnny needing a keeper.
And now he had one.
Me.
And I’d be damned if anyone ever put him in jeopardy like that again.
He was still sprawled where I’d left him, his body splayed out in the middle of the bed like a sleepy angel, the blue fringes of his hair hanging in soft lines across his cheek. He’d always been beautiful and deep down it had always confused me when my eyes had sought him out in a room filled with scantily clad and willing females. There were times when afterparties had been hell because I’d been so focused on what he was doing, and other times when I’d tormented myself by taking a partner right next to where one was riding him. I’d envied him his ability to float between partners regardless of gender. He just loved getting down and dirty and having fun.
He'd never been a walk away right afterwards kind of guy, either. Whoever his chosen partner or partners were for the night, they got his full attention until the party came to an end. Somehow, in all the chaos, in all the offers we received night after night, in all the fanfare and the stardom and the way people loved to revere us like we were gods, he’d never lost his humility. Oh, he was as cocky as they came when it came to the way he carried himself, strutting and flaunting that amazing body like he was living in a cosmic spotlight, but he never treated people like they were beneath him. He genuinely cared about people’s feelings, when they gave him a chance to. The way I’d always seen it, the kind of ambush situation we’d been in tonight tripped everything into fight or flight mode, and Johnny just wasn’t a fighter.
He'd battle with that sassy, sarcastic mouth of his, his cutting whit and scathing ability to weave two and three languages together when he was pissed off. But he’d be the last person to throw a punch and the first to eat one, throwing himself in harm’s way to protect a friend.
Kneeling on the bed with my container of warm, soapy water and a washcloth, I took my time wiping him down, watching the way his eyelids fluttered at the feel, but he still wasn’t tracking me. The sounds he made, low and content, spurred me to hurry up a little, but I still did a thorough job of cleaning him. Only when I was certain I’d washed the last traces of our lovemaking from his skin did I set the container aside and crawl up onto the bed with him, gathering his arms and legs so I could lift him a little and slide him over on the bed. He just sighed and cuddled into my embrace, hummed a bar from a song I didn’t quite recognize, and pressed his head to my shoulder.
So soft.
So pliant.
“Daddy,” he murmured.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, wishing I could say any one of the dozen things that were running through my head. It didn’t take long for him to go limp, his breathing deep, rhythmic and completely at ease. Too bad every time I closed my eyes all I saw was the frightened look on Johnny’s face as the crowd pressed in around us. Giving up, I felt around for the remote, trying to remember where we shoved it last, but my fingertips encountered only soft cloth, rather than the hard plastic I was searching for.
Then I spotted it, on the end table on the other side of Johnny. It would have been laughable, only the last thing I wanted was to make any kind of movement that might disturb the sleeping man in my arms. Guess I was watching videos on my phone then.
Only a quick scan of the room, and most specifically, the end table I could barely make out over my shoulder, showed that it was farther away than the remote. Talk about a comedy of errors. When I’d pounced Johnny the last thing I’d been thinking about was where the electronics had wound up. Now, I’d have to be content with my thoughts and hope the boredom would eventually be enough to lull me to sleep.
Gods, he felt good in my arms. Like he was made for me. It was enough to make me want to kick myself for waiting and watching for so long without acting. I’d convinced myself that my attraction to him was about the music, the comradery and how much I admired his fierce, devil may care attitude. He never put on a front, he never tried to be anyone but who he was, and he rarely apologized for it, though a few times over the years, when he’d crossed lines he hadn’t meant to cross, he’d appeared contrite and repentant in front of fans and reporters to personally own up to it.
Which was how I knew he wasn’t responsible for the accident they were trying to pin on him. He’d have owned it if it had been his mistake and he’d have done everything in his power to help the family, despite knowing he’d never be able to make it right. He’d never needed to tell me that he was innocent, I’d known it because I knew him, and he’d always owned a little piece of my soul.
A piece that had grown so much over the years that I wasn’t sure there was a part of myself yet that he hadn’t invaded.
I mapped the contours of his arm with my fingertips, imprinting the image of him sleeping in my mind. I was so enchanted by him that I forgot there was a world outside of our hotel room, until my phone blew up with the screaming of an electric guitar, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Johnny twitched, groaning and burrowing in tighter, until the thing screamed again, and again, and again, the series of text bombs prompting Johnny to seek shelter beneath the blankets and one of the pillows.
As much as I hated that he’d freed my arm when he rolled away from me, at least I could grab the phone and figure out what the fuck was going on, and mute the damned thing, too, so it wouldn’t keep disturbing him. On the way back to the bed, I killed the lights and retrieved the remote, returned the water to the bathroom, too, so I wouldn’t accidentally knock it over floundering around for something on the bedside table in the middle of the night. After dealing with the mess on the street tonight, I was in no mood to deal with another.
Joy.
There was a text message from Jagger that just said WTF dude are you guys okay ? accompanied by a video clip of the events that had taken place earlier.
Holy shit what’s wrong with people , was the message I’d received from Rebel, with texts from Robbie, Keegan, Ozzy and Dash all saying similar things. It was good that Johnny’s bandmates were as concerned as I was. I just hoped that would make it easier for them to get on board with hiring Damage Control to be their band’s security like I’d done earlier in the week for Damaged Saints.
And speaking of Damage Control…there was a text from Sully, too.
I’m on my way to your hotel with three guys, we’ll all be on bikes. You’ll have an escort for your reunion with the band. Don’t leave the building until we get there.
We won’t. I typed back.
I didn’t have to tell him what room we were in, I’d already given him that information, along with our checkout date when I’d hired them. He’d asked then if I wanted him to send guards out to me, now I was kicking myself for turning the offer down. I should have known we’d run out of luck. You could only fly under the radar for so long before someone noticed you.
Hey Oz, would you and the guys be willing to give some thought to hiring Damaged Control on as your security force?
I fired off that same text to Rebel and Dash, with plans to have the same conversation with Johnny once he was awake and had gotten something in his stomach. The last thing I expected was rapid fire return messages, all of the affirmative.
Consider them hired . That was from Rebel, while the usually verbose Ozius simply replied with Fuck yeah .
Dash’s answer was the longest, but then he’d always been the spokesperson for the band and the main one I’d been speaking to regarding their need for management and the possibility of having me manage them.
After what I just saw, I wish we’d hired them yesterday. The band and I have been talking for the last few hours. We’d like to bring you on as our manager and let you do whatever it takes to make sure shit like that never happens again. We’re hoping it’s not too late to have you work out that tour you were talking to us about. We’re good with alternating headlines and playing different venues on the same night, whatever you think would be best to keep us out on the road and the momentum going. Just keep our boy safe until you can get him back here to us.
That’s just what I’d needed to hear and exactly the outcome I’d hoped for. I’d already done the legwork for the tour, and in the morning, I’d send out the packets I’d prepared to set the wheels in motion.
You got it, I texted back. We’ll see you guys tomorrow and iron out the rest of the details then. Damage Control already has guys on the way out here to escort me and Johnny to Portland to meet up with you guys. You don’t have to worry about Johnny, I’ve got him and I’m not gonna let shit happen to MY boy.
The dots danced at the bottom of the screen as I waited for the reply text, which was a big, grinning emoji and the words heard and understood.
Good, I needed them to know I’d fully staked my claim before we hooked back up with them. They all tended to feed off one another the same way the Saints and I always had. Bands were a family and like most families, there was a leader and followers who often egged them on to bigger and more outlandish misadventures. I needed them to keep Johnny out of the bullshit long-term, the same way they’d been doing ever since he’d picked up his charge. I knew I’d been a hell of a lot more careful about the shit I did since moving from talent to management, because in the end, the only legacy I wanted to leave behind was one pertaining to the music, not the antics I got up to when I wasn’t on the stage. With a career cut short the way mine was, I didn’t want to be remembered for what had happened to me and why the event had taken place. I wanted to be known for what I’d contributed, the words I’d written, the hearts I’d touched, and maybe, if I was lucky and worked my fingers to the bone, the bands I’d managed to heights I’d never been able to attain before my singing career came to an end.