Chapter 7
Joel & Quentin
Joel and his team stayed at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston.
He liked that part of touring, always exploring new hotels and new cities, though he was, at his core, a homebody.
The production crew had gotten to Boston the day before him to set up the stage, lights, and screens in the stadium where he’d be performing.
In the days leading up to the first Boston concert, Joel felt a nervous buzzing beneath his skin.
It was different than the normal pre-concert nerves.
These nerves had to do with the fact that he’d see Quentin again soon.
His annoyance with the hockey player had mellowed since he’d last seen him, but he wasn’t looking forward to having to make nice with Quentin after the concert, posing for photos and pretending to be friends, and the thought of performing with Quentin in the audience made him irrationally nervous.
Joel’s costumes for the tour had been designed by famous Japanese-Italian designer Mei Yamamoto, who had dressed many celebrities over the years, and whose work was often featured in Vogue, Garde Magazine, and other similar fashion publications.
She had a flamboyant, avant-garde style and favored fitted jumpsuits for Joel, often with bright colors, jewels, and sequins, which often left his chest bare or partially bare.
Some of his costumes were completely shirtless.
He had a good body, was something of a sex symbol, and had modeled for various famous brands, including underwear brands, and he knew that many of his fans lusted after him and his body, and harbored fantasies of him.
Some of his choreography was implicitly sexual, to go along with his songs about love, sex, and romance, and the thought of performing that when Quentin was watching was awkward, to say the least.
He didn’t know why he cared so much. Thousands, millions of people had seen him shirtless or almost nude, and that didn’t bother him.
He knew that his body was part of his brand, but it felt different, somehow, knowing that Quentin would be watching him.
He knew Quentin already had opinions about him, and they weren’t favorable opinions, and he didn’t want to know what Quentin would think of seeing Joel gyrating on stage in nothing but sparkly bellbottoms—or, even worse, the bedazzled briefs that Mei had convinced him to wear for one of his sets.
Only bedazzled briefs. He said he felt like a stripper when he saw that costume, and Mei had looked sternly at him and said that there was nothing wrong with stripping.
Sex work was an ancient and honorable profession, and she wouldn’t hear anything against it. That had shut him up real quick.
Joel was performing at the InTech Stadium in Boston, one of the biggest venues he’d played so far.
He’d perform there for three nights, and every night was sold out.
Shivonne had contacted Quentin’s agent to give him tickets to the show.
Joel subtly asked Shivonne who, if anyone, Quentin was bringing.
Not that Joel cared if Quentin brought a date. Of course, Quentin could bring a date!
“All I know is that he’s using all three tickets,” Shivonne said when he was getting his makeup done in his hotel room. “I don’t know who he’s bringing. But I have an idea.”
“Oh, no,” Joel said.
“Don’t ‘oh, no’ me. It’s a good idea.”
“Like having him come to one of my concerts?”
“Don’t be rude, or I’ll quit.”
“You’ll never quit,” Joel said. “You love me.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. Well, I think you should have him join you on stage.”
“I was right, this is definitely an ‘oh, no’ situation.”
Shivonne rolled her eyes. “That’s it, let me look for my pre-printed resignation letter.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“About bringing Hartley on stage, or about resigning?”
“Both?” The makeup artist finished with his eyeliner, and he turned in his seat to look balefully at Shivonne.
“I’m kidding about one, but not the other.”
“Hm.”
“You should have him onstage. It’ll cement that you’re friends. You’re in his hometown.”
“He’s from Colorado,” Joel interjected.
Shivonne raised her perfect eyebrows. “Someone read the file I sent him.”
“I may have skimmed it,” Joel muttered. “What’ll I even have him do onstage? I doubt he can sing or dance.”
Shivonne whipped her iPad out of her purse. “I have everything planned out here. He can come out during the interlude to ‘No One Like You.’”
Joel sighed. “No One Like You” was one of his most popular songs off the Northern Sun album. It was an ode to friendship and to all of the people who had had a positive impact on his life. It had largely been inspired by his friendship with Ariadne Lake.
“It’s the perfect time for you to talk about how you bonded together as friends.
I even wrote out a little message you could say.
It’s perfect for Boston. He’s here, and I can almost guarantee you that there will be Boston Minutemen fans in the audience tonight.
Even if they’re not your fans, I’m sure a bunch of your fans are bringing their boyfriends, and they’ll eat it up. Give them a reason to enjoy the show.”
“Because I’m not enough?” Joel snapped.
Shivonne threw up her hands. “You’re sending me to an early grave, Joel Beckett.”
“Ugh. Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.”
She almost ruffled his hair, but his makeup artist, Tina, made a noise like a strangled frog, and Shivonne snatched her hand back. “Right, sorry. Anyway, we sent a car to get him from his apartment, and he’s coming here first. He’s going to get a pic with you first.”
“Why the hell do you think I want to go to his hotel room and see him before the show?” Quentin said, staring at his agent, utterly mystified.
“Because,” Billy Rasmussen said, looking pained, “we’ve mostly handled the PR crisis, but the Beckettes have a long memory and hold grudges.”
They were in Quentin’s apartment, and Billy had just informed Quentin of the plan he’d cooked up with Shivonne Sharpe to shuttle Quentin to Joel’s apartment before the concert.
“I’m feeling a little betrayed, you know,” Quentin said severely.
Billy went to Quentin’s fridge and got two beers. “Don’t be a diva. That’s Joel’s job.”
“Since when do you call his fans the ‘Beckettes,’ by the way? I think you’re spending too much time texting Shivonne.” Quentin took the offered beer.
“I am not,” Billy said defensively. Billy was in his early thirties and had thick blonde hair and broad shoulders.
He’d been a hockey player in college, but hadn’t gone pro.
He’d become an agent instead, and he was one of the best agents in the business.
Quentin also considered him a good friend, though Billy’s insistence on this scheme made him doubt Billy’s sincerity in their friendship.
Billy sighed. “She’s good at her job, and she’s trying to help us, too. Like I said, the Beckettes hold grudges.”
“Can you stop saying Beckettes, please?”
The intercom beeped, letting Quentin know that someone was at his door downstairs.
“Henri and Cort are here,” he said. He pressed a button on his intercom, letting them in. “They know about the PR scheme, so we don’t have to pretend I’m actually friends with them.”
A minute later, Henri and Cort entered the apartment.
Henri wore a black crop top T-shirt and loose black jeans with Doc Martens, and Cort wore a white tank top beneath an unbuttoned pink shirt and light blue jeans that had a floral pattern stitched onto them.
Henri’s light brown curls were messy, and Cort’s blonde hair was styled in a way that evoked James Dean.
He had rose-colored glitter on his cheeks.
Cort, like Henri, was bisexual and had only come out when he started dating Henri about two years ago.
He had told Quentin once that before he had come out, he had always dressed very masculinely, but he had recently enjoyed exploring more feminine styles.
He had described it as freeing. Tonight, his nails were painted a pearlescent tone.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” Henri said when he saw Quentin. He nodded at Billy. “Sup, Rasmussen. You’ve met my boyfriend, Cort, right?”
“Briefly.” Billy and Cort shook hands. “Good to see you again.”
“Yes, this is what I’m wearing,” Quentin said defensively. He was wearing a plain gray T-shirt and khakis. It was simple and functional.
“You look like you work in IT and you’re having some guys over for a weekend barbecue,” Cort said in a mystified tone.
“Thank you, Cort, that’s exactly what I was going for.”
“Come, come,” Henri said. “To the closet we go.” He beckoned Quentin after him.
“Never thought we’d want to go back there, eh?” Cort said with a shit-eating grin, elbowing his boyfriend.
“You’re obnoxious, and I adore you,” Henri said. “Seriously, Quentin. You’re not wearing that to a Joel Beckett concert. You look like an Old Navy mannequin that an employee dressed while she was having a really bad day.”
“Do they have Old Navy in Québec?” Cort said, hurrying after his boyfriend into Quentin’s bedroom.
Quentin sighed and shook his head.
“I’m curious what they pick,” Billy said. He grabbed two more beers from the fridge and followed the boyfriends into Quentin’s bedroom.
Surrendering, Quentin joined them.
He sheepishly admitted to himself that it was fun, picking out an outfit and trying different things on with his friends.
Billy had no fashion sense, said he actually did base his outfits on what mannequins at Old Navy wore, and was content to sit on Quentin’s bed, drinking beer and occasionally shouting out commentary and bad opinions.
“I’ll admit, there’s not much to work with here,” Henri said, looking into Quentin’s closet and drawers after three other failed outfits, “but I’m sure we can find something.”
Quentin stood in his underwear in the middle of the room, arms crossed. “Good, because I’m getting cold.”