Chapter 7 #3
“I’d actually love that,” he said in as sincere a voice as he could muster. If it annoyed Joel, he’d be happy to do it. “That’s such an honor! Thank you, Joel.” He turned to Joel and did his best impression of puppy dog eyes. “That’s so thoughtful. I didn’t know you had that in you.”
Joel glowered at the hockey player. He knew exactly what Hartley was doing, and it infuriated him. He’d have to get him back, somehow.
Lines were already forming outside InTech stadium when Quentin, Henri, Cort, and Harlan arrived in their private car.
Harlan had been talking—and probably flirting—with Henri and Cort the entire time.
Quentin wasn’t blind and had noticed the way they were all looking at each other.
He knew that Henri and Cort had a comfortably open relationship.
They had explained it to Quentin before, and he admired them for their trust and how they had fun in their relationship.
They loved each other very deeply and had a mature understanding of sex and intimacy.
“You can either hang out in one of the private boxes,” Harlan said, “or you can join the team backstage. Up to you.” He nodded at Quentin. “Honestly, it’ll be easier if you’re backstage, what with you going onstage and all.”
“Right, that,” Quentin muttered. “Backstage it is.” What the hell was he getting himself into?
The energy in the stadium was electric. Joel’s opener for the Boston concerts was Grayson Shaw, an up-and-coming young singer whose music blended indie pop, rock, and hip-hop.
He was incredibly talented, and Joel was glad they’d met and become friends.
Grayson did a great job of warming the crowd up, and then it was Joel’s turn.
The concert started off much like the New York concerts, though the energy here was even more intense, which surprised him. He hadn’t expected Boston to be this intense.
He found it difficult to enter the flow state he was normally in when he performed, because he was acutely aware that Quentin Hartley was in the wings, no doubt judging him.
Joel had an idea. It wasn’t a nice idea, but he wasn’t feeling very nice towards the hockey player.
Something was clouding his judgment. Maybe it was the camouflage pants.
Quentin was trying not to enjoy himself backstage, but that was hard.
Henri and Cort were jumping and singing along to Joel’s music, which was very singable.
Quentin knew every word, too, but he wasn’t singing.
He didn’t want his friends to know that he’d been listening to Joel’s music nonstop for the past few days.
He was telling himself he was hate-listening to the music so that he could judge it… but he actually liked it.
Every few songs, Joel disappeared offstage, and there was an instrumental interval, and then he reappeared in a new, flashy costume. Usually, with more skin exposed.
The concert was very impressive, with pyrotechnics and intense special effects.
The dancers were incredibly talented—muscular and lithe people of all genders, who moved their bodies in perfect synchronization to the songs.
Joel danced just as hard as they did, all the while singing his heart out into his handheld microphone.
He really was a star.
Most of Joel’s music was high-energy, but he had several slower songs. One of those was “No One Like You,” the song Shivonne wanted Joel to dedicate to Quentin.
For that song, Joel stood center stage with a standing microphone and his guitar. His dancers left the stage for a break.
Joel wore one of his more revealing costumes: tight, sparkling black pants, black boots, no shirt. His skin glistened with sweat, and his hair was dripping. Each show was an intense workout.
He smiled at the crowd.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Y’all are a great crowd.”
His fans roared and cheered.
“You know,” Joel said, absently strumming chords on his guitar, “one of my favorite things about performing live is the chance to do it with all of you. Seeing all of you come out tonight and sing along, here with your friends, your family, or your lovers—it means so much to me. It’s such an honor to write and perform these songs, and to see how you connect with them.
Of course, each song means something to me, but I think it’s so special that once they’re out in the world, they mean something to each of you, too. ”
He was speaking from the heart. It was true, everything he said.
He strummed another chord. “This next song is one that really is deeply personal.”
Now, he switched to the statement Shivonne had given him, which he had quickly memorized in the car on the way here.
“People often ask me if my music is inspired by my real life. The answer to that is complicated. Yes, in some ways, my songs are inspired by me and my life, but I don’t always have a specific situation or a specific person in mind when I write a song.
This song is about the power of connection.
I wrote it about the power of friendship, but I know that, for some of you, it speaks to romantic love. I think that’s beautiful.”
A cheer spread through the crowd as many began to realize what song he was about to play. “No One Like You” was popular with his fans, already one of the most-streamed songs from the album.
When the crowd had quieted, Joel continued speaking into the microphone. “Recently, I made a new friend. You might know him, because he lives right here in your city!”
The crowd went wild.
“I know, I know,” Joel said, and gave a fake laugh that sounded remarkably real. “We had quite the first public encounter. I promise his nose is fine! Do y’all know who I’m talking about?”
The crowd erupted.
HART-LEY! HART-LEY! HART-LEY! they chanted.
“I was thinking,” Joel said, “maybe I should bring him out onstage?”
He grinned while the crowd screamed and lost its mind.
Quentin felt like he was going to shit himself. Multiple times a week, he was in front of hundreds, or thousands, of people in arenas, but he’d never been in front of this many people at once, and never in this environment.
“I might be sick,” he whispered to Henri and Cort, who each gripped one of his arms.
“You’re going to be fine,” Henri said.
“Just smile and look pretty,” Cort said.
Onstage, Joel was working the crowd. His speech was nice—Quentin suspected it had been prepared by Shivonne.
“I think you’re right, I think I should bring him out here!” Joel shouted. He turned to look backstage, and his eyes locked on Quentin’s. “Hey, Hartley, how ’bout some water?”
Harlan pressed a water bottle into Quentin’s hands. “Go!” he hissed and shoved Quentin gently from behind.
Quentin stumbled onto the stage and was almost deafened by the roar of the crowd. They were cheering his name.
His legs moved automatically, carrying him down the long stage to where Joel was standing in a single spotlight, with his guitar and a microphone on a stand.
The light made Joel look like he was almost glowing, and Quentin swallowed.
He tried to ignore how good Joel looked, shirtless and sweaty and in those tight black pants.
“I tried to convince him to wear his hockey uniform,” Joel said sardonically, “but he wouldn’t do it.” He shook his head, as if disappointed.
Quentin had to step into the spotlight to hand Joel his water. Even with the noise in the stadium, he could hear Joel breathing. They were very close to each other, their shoulders almost touching. Joel looked so natural up here, and Quentin felt incredibly awkward.
Joel was shocked at how poised Quentin seemed. He’d had an easy swagger walking out onto the stage and seemed perfectly at ease standing next to Joel. Joel could see their image on the Jumbotrons, the light illuminating them. They made a good pair, he thought briefly.
He grinned at Quentin and lied through his teeth. “Quentin, my man, I’m so glad we met on FCL. I know that punching someone in the face isn’t how you usually tell them you’re thankful for their friendship, so I’m sorry about that.”
He laughed and threw his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. It served two purposes: one, it looked great on the Jumbotron, and two, it meant that it would be harder for Quentin to escape.
“But,” Joel said, dropping his voice a little bit, “I’m glad that we’re friends, now. I thought that maybe, as my friend, you’d sing this song with me?”
This little shit, Quentin thought.
I’m the worst, Joel thought. He saw a flash of panic go through Quentin’s eyes, and he briefly regretted putting Quentin in this spot. It was cruel, he realized, and bullying, and he immediately tried to backpedal without making it obvious.
“Only if you want to,” he said into the mic.
Quentin swallowed and stared at Joel. Joel’s expression had been unreadable, but now he looked genuinely concerned. Was that some humanity that Quentin was seeing?
He made a decision.
A smile spread across Quentin’s face, showing his chipped incisor. Joel’s heartbeat quickened.
Quentin leaned closer to the microphone, and his shoulder pressed against Joel’s.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Joel?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Joel’s.
Joel’s pulse was beating like a bongo in his neck. “I absolutely am,” he said.
I’m absolutely not, he thought.
“I wouldn’t want to upstage you,” Quentin said. The crowd cheered.
Joel swallowed. He’d made this bed. It was time for them to lie in it. He reached into the tight back pocket of his pants and pulled out a Bluetooth earpiece, which he handed to Quentin.
Leaning away from the microphone, he whispered, “Put this in. It’ll help you keep time for the song.”
Quentin nodded. His hands were shaking as he took the earpiece.
Joel covered the microphone with one hand and hid his mouth from the cameras with the other.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he whispered. “You do not have to do this.”
Quentin whispered back without moving his lips. “What makes you think I can’t sing? What song are we even singing?”
“‘No One Like You,’” Joel said, panicking. What if Quentin didn’t know his new album?
“I know it,” Quentin said, surprising Joel.
“Okay,” Joel said. “Let’s do this. I’ll start, and you come in on the second verse.”
Quentin breathed deeply through his nose, the way he did before a hockey game.
Joel strummed a chord on his guitar. In his ears, Quentin heard the beat of a metronome.
Hockey wasn’t Quentin’s only talent. He wasn’t exactly classically trained, but he had a decent voice, and he could carry a tune. He might not be able to hold a candle to Joel’s voice, but he was about to give it his all.
He would not let Joel win.
Joel closed his eyes and began to sing.
“No One Like You” was Quentin’s favorite song from Joel’s newest album, not that he’d ever tell Joel that.
He’d listened to it many times. Something about it resonated with him.
It spoke to the ache, the desire, to have real relationships in one’s life, and how hard it was, sometimes, to let other people in.
His entire body was cold with nerves as Joel stepped back a bit, letting Quentin take his spot at the microphone.
It was now or never.
Quentin gripped the microphone in both hands and began to sing.
The second verse spoke of soulmates, how Joel didn’t believe they were found, but made, and how he was convinced that he’d made a soulmate out of the subject of the song.
Joel knew the lyrics to his songs like he knew his own body. They were written in his blood and in the neurons that fired in his brain, but hearing Quentin sing the words that had come from the deepest part of his soul was like hearing them for the first time.
Quentin had a good voice—though Joel didn’t have time to dwell on the shock of that.
His singing voice was like whiskey, smoky and dark, adding a quality to Joel’s lyrics he didn’t hear when he sang them.
Only now, when Quentin sang the words, did Joel really hear how people interpreted the song as romantic.
It was time for the pre-chorus, and he found himself laughing in genuine delight. He repeated a few chords and said, “You take the melody!” And he joined in on the harmony.
Quentin gripped the microphone in one hand and found that he was grinning. Joel grinned back at him, genuine joy and shock in his eyes. They sang together, eyes locked on each other, and it was like the greatest karaoke night Quentin had ever experienced.
When they finished, Joel motioned for Quentin to pop out the Bluetooth earpieces. He did, and then he could hear the roar of the crowd. They seemed ecstatic.
Joel, grinning, sweaty, shirtless, spun his guitar around so that it lay against his back and held his arms wide open. Quentin didn’t hesitate before giving him a hug.
Something, he knew, had just changed.