Chapter 17
Luke
“Nina, why are you on my doorstep holding a twelve-pack of beer and two boxes of—” I flip the lid of the top box open. “—wings?”
“Because, Major Blackwell, Beautiful Deceit’s performance is being live streamed from Chicago tonight and I don’t have YouTube T.V.”
“And you thought coming here to watch it was your best option?”
She brushes past me into my condo, rolling her eyes. “Give me some credit here, Luke. Let’s skip the part where you try to convince me you weren’t going to watch it.”
Considering the screen with the countdown until the event is currently ticking away on my T.V., I just nod.
“At least I brought food,” she says, turning to reach for the plates. Ever since the night at IceMaker, Nina has made herself more present in my life. There are some days when I’m grateful for the intrusion and other days I just want to be left alone but she usually shows up regardless.
We make our plates and settle onto the couch. When there’s one minute remaining before the show starts, I set my plate of food on the coffee table, suddenly devoid of any appetite.
The countdown disappears and the band’s logo flashes on the screen. The lights in the arena go down and the crowd erupts into cheers. With the first strum of Sloan’s guitar chord, my dick is hard. It grows harder when the rest of the band joins and Noah starts singing.
I’m not going to survive this.
Halfway through the song, my dick damn near punches me in the throat.
I know that voice.
“What the hell? Is he singing?”
Nina looks at me with the most obvious duh expression on her face. “You haven’t heard? He started doing some of the vocals on tour.”
No. I hadn’t heard because I deleted all my social media accounts.
I don’t watch anything other than the news channels at the office and I’ve tried to avoid anywhere Beautiful Deceit may be mentioned — except my car where their CD is still in the player and their Spotify station is still pulled up on my phone. I acknowledge my weakness.
When Noah sings, he’s able to go from a breathy whisper to a sharp crack in his voice that leaves you breathless.
Sloan’s voice is more like being raked over hot coals.
It burns you from the inside out. Or perhaps that’s just me.
His deep timbre and the ruggedness of his voice leave no doubt that you’re being serenaded by a man.
A man who has seen some shit and feels every ounce of his emotions deeply.
It’s breathtaking.
HE is breathtaking.
However, immediately upon hearing his voice, I know something’s off.
“He sounds good,” Nina says, bobbing her head.
“It’s too raspy.”
“How do you know? You didn’t even know he was singing.”
“I fell asleep to him singing for two and a half years. I’d know it anywhere. His voice is tired. How long has he been singing?”
She shrugs. “Not that long I don’t think. Four weeks?”
I jump to my feet. “Four weeks? Those assholes are going to cause permanent damage! That has to be trained. You wouldn’t pluck a kid from basic training and make him ruck a marathon. You have to build up to that shit!” My outrage causes me to start moving.
I’ve inched closer to the T.V., my chest pinching with every note he sings. Where his voice should crack sharply, it sounds gritty, where it should be breathy, it gives out completely. Why can they not hear this?
“I’m sure they have a whole team of professionals monitoring him.
Their fan base has exploded since he started singing.
People love that deep, sultry scream.” Nina wags her eyebrows at me playfully, but I don’t feel playful.
Even if I never sort out my feelings toward Sloan, I’ve always had his back.
His physical health was the one thing I could tangibly keep tabs on.
A way for me to repay him for keeping my mental health in check.
If his managers and record label aren’t going to make sure he’s healthy, by God, I will. He can hate me all he wants, but I’m about to cause a scene.
I pull my phone out, send a message to my boss letting her know I need to be out of the office on emergency leave for two days starting tomorrow, and then I open the airline app.
“You have a crazy look in your eyes, Luke. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to New York.”
The entire hour and a half flight from Dulles to LaGuardia, I ask myself what I’m doing no less than ten thousand times. Sloan made it clear he was willing to give “us” a try if I was. He also made it clear he never wanted to see me again when I couldn’t meet him halfway.
I have no idea how this is going to go — my guess is it’s going to end up with me having another broken nose — but I have to do something.
I brought every credential I have, hoping it’s enough to get me backstage but to my surprise, one of the security guards waves me back as soon as I give my name. I don’t ask questions and just let him lead me to the dressing room.
Sweating like crazy, I knock and push the door open but the room is empty. I take a minute to breathe deeply and slow my heart rate down before I go into cardiac arrest and try to plan my next move. Do I go look for him? Do I wait?
The show starts in an hour so I pace around the dressing room, determined to stay put, hoping they’ll return here before going on stage.
Milling around the dressing room, I see the setlist for tonight taped to a mirror.
The guys keep their stuff in piles and some of it gives away which piles belong to who.
A picture of the redhead who greeted me that day I first met the guys is propped up next to a suitcase on another small table — Noah’s.
A sleek black carrying case is unzipped and contains extra drumsticks. Next to it is a half-drunk cup of coffee in a travel mug that says world’s best dad. — Brett’s.
Next, I find the pile I was really hoping for.
Without thinking, I pull a black t-shirt to my face and inhale, the scent instantly calming me.
Olfactory memories are some of our strongest and despite our long history with thousands of small moments, inhaling Sloan’s scent now, I remember the way he leaned into me outside that club and asked me to prove to him that he was right.
That I’d been such a jealous asshole because I was in love with him.
Because I wanted him for myself. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way his eyes pleaded with me, the way his lips felt against mine, the way his hands felt on me.
The material is soft and I’m suddenly ripe with jealousy over a t-shirt because it gets to spend its days clinging to his skin.
I’m still trying to process what I’ve known for a while, but have only begun to accept in the past few weeks, mostly thanks to the hole that was left behind in Sloan’s absence, when I hear voices.
Wringing Sloan’s shirt in my hands, hoping to derive some strength from it, I pray my knees don’t buckle as the door opens and the guys of Beautiful Deceit file in.
No one notices me for a second as several conversations swirl around me. Noah’s the first to look up and see me standing in the middle of the room, still clutching Sloan’s shirt.
“Luke?”
At the sound of my name, Sloan’s head pops up. “Oh, for the love of God.” It’s a whisper. He’s hoarse. I’m too late. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he tries to say again. It’s his wince of pain as he tries to talk that has my anger billowing out of me.
Ignoring Sloan, I turn to Noah. “Who forced him to sing practically every night for four weeks straight? I expected you and your asinine record label to know that singing like that takes years to build a tolerance to and you all have just thrown Sloan to the wolves! You’ve risked permanent damage to his vocal cords, quite possibly making it painful for him to speak for the rest of his life!
This level of foolishness has put him in danger and as a medical professional, I’m advising that he needs to keep his mouth shut for the rest of this tour. ”
“Luke,” Sloan starts to argue in a raspy, heated whisper but I hold up my hand to silence him. He doesn’t like that at all. “Put that hand in my fucking face one more ti—”
He needs to stop talking right the fuck now and, in this moment, I can only think of one way to shut him up. I’m on him in two strides, clasping his face in my hands and bringing my mouth down on his. Even his groan is hoarse.
The kiss lasts all of three seconds before he pulls away from me full of fire and trying to yell. “Can you make up your fucking mind?”
Christ he’s going to rupture his vocal cords.
Finally, I hear Noah snap, “Sloan! Vocal rest, now.” Sloan’s eyes whip to his lead singer and he throws his hands up gesturing to me angrily, but at least he’s stopped talking.
Noah turns back to face me. “Look, Luke. We’ve all watched whatever this is go on for a couple months now.
That night outside the club fucking gutted him.
” At this admission, Sloan scoffs and rolls his eyes …
but stays quiet. I’ve never known someone to have power like that over Sloan.
A part of me wants to fight Noah for it.
“You showing back up in his life has distracted him, broken his heart, and quite frankly, has made him a moody sonofabitch to be around most of the time. You need to figure your shit out on your own. Sloan can’t keep getting yanked around like this. ”
Brett and Ryan come to flank Noah’s sides, creating a wall between Sloan and I.
They think they need to protect Sloan…from me. But don’t they know? I’ll always protect Sloan. Even if this time it’s from myself.
Behind them, Sloan’s eyes find mine and he nods.
They’re right.
Every time I show up, I hurt him more. I bite my lip hard to focus on the physical pain while my brows pinch together like every muscle in my face is putting up a fight to not display my emotional pain.
“I’ll go, just…please take better care of him.
” I loosen my grip on the t-shirt in my hands and lay it on the back of the chair next to me.
With my eyes closed and my head bowed, I address Sloan.
“For what it’s worth, it’s me I haven’t been able to figure out how to love, but I’ve been in love with you for ten years. ”
No one stops me as I walk out of the dressing room.