Chapter 7 #2
Cort eyed him. “You could just wear that, honestly. I don’t think anyone would mind.”
Quentin looked down at his gray boxer briefs, which rode low on his hips and hugged his impressive bulge in the front. “I don’t want to get arrested,” he said.
“Have you seen Joel’s outfits for the tour?” Henri asked, poking his head out of Quentin’s closet. “Half the time, he’s shirtless. One of his outfits is literally just black briefs with rhinestones on them.”
“That’s half the reason I’m going,” Cort said gravely.
Quentin hated the fact that the thought of Joel Beckett in rhinestone-studded underwear made him blush…and made his dick ache to get hard. Nope. Absolutely not.
“I’ll wear whatever you give me,” he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, and wondering if there was a subtle way he could hide his slight erection. God, it would be mortifying if the others, especially Billy, saw it.
Henri tossed a pair of camouflage pants in Quentin’s direction. “Let me be absolutely clear,” Henri said. “You are wearing these ironically. Got it?”
Joel FaceTimed Ariadne Lake. She was back in Los Angeles, and he normally wouldn’t bother her randomly like this, but…
“Hey,” she said when she answered. It looked like she was in the recording studio. “Everything okay? Damn, your eyeliner looks good.”
“I’m sorry for calling without warning.”
“Everything okay?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. I’m just…nervous.”
“For the show?”
He frowned. “I guess.” But that wasn’t it, and he knew it.
“You were magnificent in New York, and you’ll be just as good, if not better, now that you have three shows under your belt. Is there something else that’s bothering you?”
“Well, there’s Quentin.”
“Ah.”
“They’re having him come to my hotel room.”
Ariadne raised her eyebrows. “Those villains,” she said flatly.
“It’s throwing off my pre-show routine,” he insisted. “It’s like he’s trying to get in my head.”
“Did he have anything to do with planning this meet and greet?”
“No.”
“Then don’t blame him. Why does he bother you so much?”
“He’s just so…ugh, I don’t know.”
Ariadne smirked. “You’re one of the most talented songwriters of our generation, Joel.
I’m sure you can find the words. Just think about it.
Okay, I gotta go. Troy calls.” She paused and then leaned closer to her phone.
“Hey, give me a call later this week when you have more time to talk. There’s something I want your advice on. ”
Her tone worried him. “Okay. I’ll call you later. Love you.”
He flopped back onto his bed and jumped up when Tina, his stylist, screamed at him. “Your hair!” she shrieked.
A hired car picked Quentin, Henri, and Cort up from Quentin’s apartment and took them to the Ritz-Carlton.
“Fancy,” Cort said. “God, I love hotels.”
“Girl, same,” Henri said.
The Ritz-Carlton had a large, elegant lobby, all golds and browns and beiges, with comfortable modern furniture and sensual amber lighting.
Shivonne Sharpe, Joel’s beautiful, sharklike PR manager, met them in the lobby. She wore a wine-red blazer over a white blouse, and her blonde hair was twisted up in a simple chignon.
“Hartley,” she said with a curt nod when she saw him. “And these are?”
“Henri Bellancourt and Cort Styleton. Henri is one of my teammates, and Cort is his boyfriend. They’re joining me for the concert.”
Shivonne surprised him by smiling at Henri and Cort when she shook their hands. So, she was capable of smiling. “Fans of Joel’s?” she asked pleasantly.
“Absolutely,” Cort said.
“Would you like to meet him?” she offered.
“I might piss myself,” Cort whispered to Henri, loud enough for Quentin to hear. If Shivonne heard, she politely ignored it.
“We’d love to,” Henri said, hiding a smile.
Quentin hadn’t had the heart to warn Cort that Joel was kind of a dick, and he hoped Joel would make nice for a bit.
“Come on up,” Shivonne said. She talked quickly as she led them to the elevator. “Just a quick meet and greet, and we’re going to get a photo of you and Joel, like you’re friends.” She fixed Henri and Cort with a steely gaze. “Do I need to make the two of you sign NDAs?”
Cort held one hand to his heart and the other in the air. “Absolutely not. I’m very good at keeping secrets. For twenty-one years, I hid the secret of my bisexuality from everyone in the world, even myself.”
That managed to get a small smile out of Shivonne. “Understood.”
Harlan entered Joel’s room. “Are you decent?”
“I think you’re supposed to ask that before you enter someone’s room,” Joel observed. “I don’t know if I’d call this decent. How do I look?”
He was wearing his first costume of the night: a sparkling silver jumpsuit that left his arms bare and was open all down the front to show his lean chest and rippled abs.
The jumpsuit was skintight, except for the lowest parts of the pants, which flared slightly.
It left almost nothing to the imagination, especially around his crotch and ass.
“Can you see every detail of my penis?” he asked, “I think each individual pube is outlined.”
“I think I’d need to get an inch or two closer to tell if you have a foreskin, or not,” Harlan said breezily. Nothing fazed Joel’s beleaguered assistant. “So, if that’s what you want your fans to know, I’d suggest you make it a little tighter.”
“Grab a vacuum sealer, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Harlan laughed. “Well, I didn’t come here to comment on the outline of your penis. I came to tell you that Quentin Hartley is here with two hockey player friends. Well, at least one of them’s a hockey player. I don’t know about the other.”
“Jesus, cover me up,” Joel said.
“Just through here,” Shivonne said, leading the way into a large suite.
Quentin tried not to stare. He’d stayed in some nice rooms in his life, but Joel’s hotel suite looked like something that belonged in Architectural Digest. There were signs of his pop star lifestyle: racks of costumes, recording equipment, as well as little things that gave Quentin a glimpse of who Joel was as a person: a journal on the bedside table, a well-thumbed copy of Jane Austen’s Emma, a Nintendo Switch discarded on the bed, a pack of nicotine pouches.
It was strange, and strangely intimate, getting this glance “behind the curtain” of Joel’s life. Quentin felt like he was intruding.
There was a thump from behind a closed door, followed by a pained “fuck!” and then the door flew open.
“Hi,” said a young man with dark hair and glasses. “I’m Harlan, Joel’s assistant. Quentin, hi, and you must be the hockey player friends?”
Cort pointed at Henri. “He’s the hockey player. I’m friends. Well, boyfriend. His boyfriend, not Quentin’s boyfriend.”
Harlan’s gaze lingered on Cort and Henri for a moment. Quentin squinted. Was he blushing?
“What was that thump?” Shivonne asked.
“Joel fell.”
“Jesus. Is he okay?”
“I’m fine!” came Joel’s shout from the other room.
“Don’t shout!” Harlan called. “You’re supposed to be resting your voice.”
Joel emerged from behind the semi-closed door. “Sorry,” he said in a stage whisper. “I’m fine.” He wore a soft-looking bathrobe over a sparkling jumpsuit. The robe was tied tightly around him, but through the gap near the chest, Quentin could see bare, smooth skin.
Just seeing Joel made Quentin’s heart beat a little faster. It amazed him how Joel could get under his skin like that, how even the sight of him made Quentin more irritable and anxious. How was it possible to dislike someone that much?
“Let’s pose for the photo,” Joel said. He sounded grumpy.
“Please make it look natural,” Shivonne said.
“Promise not to hit me in the face again?” Quentin teased. If Joel got under his skin like that, the least he could do was return the favor.
It worked. Joel glared at him. “It will be on purpose the next time if you keep this up.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Quentin said.
“Wait,” Joel said. He turned to Henri and Cort, and it was like he became a different person. He smiled warmly. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. I’m Joel. I didn’t catch your names.”
“Um,” Cort said.
Henri stepped forward and said smoothly, “Henri Bellancourt, and this is my boyfriend, Cort Styleton. I play for Boston with Quentin.”
Joel shook both their hands. “It’s nice to meet you.” He grinned. “I’m sorry you have to put up with this guy.” He jerked a thumb at Quentin.
“He’s not that bad,” Henri said. “Once you get to know him.” He leaned in close. “Just ignore the smell.”
“Hey!” Quentin said, and then surreptitiously sniffed his armpit. “That was rude.”
Joel laughed. “At least you’ve got good taste in friends, Hartley.”
“Got it!” Harlan shouted, and everyone jumped. “Sorry. I just got a candid photo of you two. It’ll work for socials.”
Joel glanced at Hartley. The hockey player had managed to pick out a stylish outfit, something that would’ve looked perfectly acceptable among fashionable New Yorkers walking down the street.
It was a different side of Quentin, and Joel hated to admit that it wasn’t that bad.
The hockey player cleaned up well, which Joel had noticed before, but tried to ignore.
His friends were cute, too, and they had seemed initially starstruck, but now they only had eyes for Harlan, who kept eyeing them, too.
Joel would not be surprised if Harlan informed Joel that he’d be sleeping elsewhere tonight.
“We’d better be going soon,” Shivonne said. She nodded at Quentin and his friends. “Harlan can chaperone you guys to the stadium. By the way, Quentin, Joel is going to invite you onstage before one of the songs. You don’t have to do anything, just smile and look pretty.”
Joel gaped at his PR manager, just as Quentin’s eyes bulged so big they looked like they might pop out of his head.
“What?” Quentin said.
“I never said yes,” Joel said, trying to contain his frustration, and failing.
Quentin saw how frustrated Joel was by what his PR manager had just said, and tried not to smile.