Chapter Text
They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes like some kind of silent movie on warp speed, flying by at a ridiculous pace. Some think that you go through a tunnel of light and end up on the other side, whatever that other side might be. Some say you arrive at pearly gates on a cloud while some saint or angel or something judges the choices you made in life. Some say there’s nothing after, that it’s just an expanse of nothingness and all your conscious thoughts cease.
None of that happened to me. I haven’t seen a tunnel or pearly gates, at least not yet. And my life didn’t flash before my eyes. Not the whole thing, anyways. It was more like the end of that Kevin Spacey movie. You know, the one with all the roses? American Beauty, yeah. He kept seeing his wife’s face over and over as life slipped away from him. That’s how it was for me, a nice highlight reel. A greatest hits kind of thing. I saw my parents, my brother, and a few old boyfriends. I saw nameless faces in huge crowds as I sang. I saw my band and my dancers and all the people I’ve come to consider family over these last few months. And I saw Tommy.
Beautiful, loving Tommy, who held my hand even though he must have been having the same kind of strange flashbacks. Tommy, who, I learned, I’d give anything for. Even my life.
We read a poem once in high school that began, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” I don’t remember any more than that line, and I don’t know who wrote it. Probably Browning. Seems like the answer is always Browning. But anyway, I remember thinking that there was no way I would ever just surrender to death, that I would never give up and I would live forever if I could. I imagined myself like a knight fighting a horrible dragon, valiantly forging on even when I was weak or wounded, fighting even when the battle was futile.
I did not go gently. I fought, and I fought hard. I fought for Tommy, too. I fought until I figured out just what I was fighting for. And when I figured that out… well, that’s when I decided that perhaps gently was the best way to go after all.
*
The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round…
There’s no better sleep than bus sleep. I discovered this about myself years ago in Germany. Up until that stint in Hair, I’d slept in cars, trains, planes, and even a cruise ship, but none of those could match the gentle rock and rumble of a tour bus. Maybe because the bus is lower to the ground and not on the smooth rails of a train, or maybe because the vibrations of the road are constant no matter what the speed, I don’t know. But from my first night on tour I knew: I was made to sleep in a bus.
Hell, I’m pretty much made for touring. Back on the Idol tour, I figured out just how much my voice could take, and it could take a hell of a lot more than everybody else’s. Sure, I’d spent years training it and building muscle in my throat like a wrestler builds up his arms, but I didn’t expect to be the only one who could manage to sing hungover, or with a cold, or after eating ice cream. And I really didn’t get why the others lost their voices after a week straight of concerts. I’d never be able to manage Glam Nation like that. Not with the songs I sing. They’re fucking hard, and high, and if I’m not wailing them out, what good is it? Nah, I get out there on stage every night and push my voice and push myself and the show is always good, and I haven’t lost my voice yet.
And yeah, I’m pretty smug about that.
So because I sleep like the dead on the bus, I usually sleep until way past the time when the rest of the occupants are awake and going through their morning routines. Usually there’s a lot of Twitter checking and some banter about how rough everyone looks first thing in the morning. On the good mornings, there’s coffee from an actual coffee-making establishment instead of the instant crap we keep on the bus. Eventually the buses come to a stop some time before noon and my band hops on my bus and Lane gives us the daily briefing, threatening our lives if we don’t abide by her impossible schedule. When she finally shuts up, we can eat, be it at Denny’s or a gas station convenience store.
Sometimes it’s Terrance who wakes me before Lane gets in. Sometimes, if he’s too fascinated by his at replies on Twitter, it’s Monte.
Twitter must be rather scandalous today because it’s Monte who shakes me out of dreamland and says with affection, “Get your ass up, Lambert. Fucking diva, sleeping until eleven…”
I chuckle at that because I know, and Monte knows, that it couldn’t be any further from the truth. I’d like to think so, anyway. I don’t have tantrums, at least I don’t that often, and I’m good to the crew and all of my employees. I know all their names and their kids’ birthdays, and I’m always the first to tell someone to take a day off if they’re looking sick. Well, unless Monte does it first.
Because yeah, there’s no Glam Nation without me, but there’s no me without Monte. He’s better than my mother, my doctor, my nutritionist, and my therapist combined.
“I’m a big rock star now,” I mumble and turn over on my stomach. I do this not for the insolent effect, but because it means I’ve exposed my bare ass to Monte, which hurries him the hell out of the room. “Not getting up.”
“Then you deal with Lane, rock star,” he says before shutting the door to my lair behind himself.
I’m grinning as I pull myself away from my warm bed and tug on a pair of sweatpants and my Queen t-shirt. When I open the door, most of my Glamily is already seated, waiting on Lane. Monte and Isaac are at the little table by the fridge, heads leaned together, probably discussing something business-like and musical. Sasha, Brooke, and Cam sit next to each other on what we’ve decided to call the couch, though it’s really just a padded bench built into the side of the bus. Taylor’s sprawled across them, laughing as they try to push him to the floor. Terrance is as far away from them as he can possibly be and he’s rolling his eyes while scrolling through Twitter on his phone.
Which means we’re missing Tommy.
I look to Monte in question and he knows what’s on my mind. He mouths, “Allison’s bus,” and it’s all the answer I need. He and Liz have been looking friendly lately and…why not, you know? Most of the other girls on tour aren’t exactly interested in persons of the male persuasion, and she’s cute. She might be a little too Christian for him, maybe a little too into horses, but whatever. If he goes for that outdoorsy, Republican type, power to him, I guess.
Monte gives me a pitying little smile and I raise an eyebrow at him because, what the fuck is he giving me that face for, and the bus door opens again. Tommy climbs in, grinning that lopsided grin that always makes him look like he’s asking for a spanking, and plops down next to Terrance. He’s wearing a shirt that I’d bought for him when I was in London, a dark gray vintage-looking thing with the map of the Underground on it. He winks at me, and an electric jolt shoots straight down my spine and on to other far more inappropriate places before I wink back.
Okay, so maybe I know why Monte gave me that smile. But it’s Tommy, right? Who doesn’t want Tommy? He’s one of the prettiest boys I’ve ever seen, and I’m kind of a pretty boy aficionado, so that’s saying something. And fuck it, I should be allowed to look if I’m never going to be allowed to touch. At least offstage.
Before I can think of anything witty to say to him, Lane marches onto the bus and begins the briefing without even saying hello. Brunch now, another two hours of travel after, arrival at the venue at four, sound check, dinner at six, makeup at seven, call at eight. Allison, Adam, encore, boom, done. Only a half hour allowed for signing because we’ve got to get back to the hotel to check in before we all pass out or go out, whichever we prefer.
It’s a hotel night before a day off. There’s no chance in hell I’m going to pass out. I catch Tommy’s eye and we exchange a knowing look and oh yeah, we’re going out tonight. There’s got to be something around…wherever we are…to do.
“So there’s an IHOP over there and a McDonalds, if you want to go even unhealthier than a stack of pancakes…” Lane motions in the general direction of the restaurants and then starts on her usual instructions to behave, keep our heads down, and get in and out as quickly as possible.
I roll my eyes, grab a pair of sunglasses and baseball cap, and reach for Tommy’s hand. “Pancakes?”
“Fuck yeah,” he says, taking my hand and my offer for help up. He’s light as can be when I pull him from the seat, and a momentary daydream of how it would feel to have that tiny body underneath me passes before I can stop it. I feel heat rising in my cheeks, so I turn to Monte.
“Coming, old man?” Tommy asks him before I get the chance.
Monte pats the bulge of his stomach and smiles. “Of course. Gotta keep this girlish figure somehow. Isaac, you in?”
“Wherever there’s coffee, man,” Isaac responds. I eye him. He hasn’t quite gotten used to the inner workings of the tour yet, not that I can blame him for that. After traveling together for so long, there aren’t many secrets between any of us, and there’s absolutely no room for modesty or bullshit or anything. We’ve all seen each other at our best, but we’ve seen each other at our worst, too, and sometimes that just entitles you to flat out telling someone their breath stinks or picking spinach out of their teeth if they can’t get it themselves. It’s a little weird, sure, and I’m sure it’s a bit intimidating to an newcomer as well.
I give him a smile and follow Tommy outside. The day isn’t as sunny as I’d hoped, but after about a week in Florida it’s hard to judge impartially. It looks like it might rain, really, which means that tonight’s outdoor venue is going to suck.
Tommy loops his arm through mine and my heart gives a dangerously loud beat at the touch. I hear Monte talking to Isaac behind us and I know that he’s explaining our IHOP ritual to the newbie. I look up at the sky at the storm clouds gathering in the distance.
“So, where are we?”
“Canada, I think,” Tommy mumbles and then yawns. He’s probably kidding, but I make a mental note to ask Monte for real later.
I resist the urge to ask Tommy about his night. I focus on tonight instead. “So… clubbing tonight? We can get all glammed up and prettified and split a bottle of Makers. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll land ourselves on Perez tomorrow morning.”
Tommy giggles and, well, Tommy’s voice isn’t exactly melodic when he talks. It’s kind of tinny and sharp, with no resonance whatsoever. The few times I’ve caught him singing I’ve been thankful that Cam does backup vocals for me. But when he’s laughing, I swear on all things holy, that boy makes music.
“Actually, Liz had a great idea…”
Liz. Right. I should have known. I try to widen my smile. “Yeah?”
“Well, it’s the last night of tour and all, so—”
“It’s not the last night!” the entire group chants around us in unison.
We’ve sort of all made a pact that the last concert in the continental United States will be a happy one, a celebration of all the things we’ve done these past few months, not a sad goodbye. It’s also kind of true that it’s not our last, since we’ll be doing the same fucking thing overseas in a few days. But still, the possibility that tonight could turn into a complete sobfest is a real one, so we all took an oath that we weren’t going to cry tonight. At least not before the concert, and definitely not onstage.
“Whatever,” Tommy grumbles, “it’s Ally’s last. No denying that. And since she can’t drink, we thought maybe we’d have our own party. Liz has a good friend that lives up here and they’ve got a cabin a little ways outside of Seattle, so…”
I sniff. “So you’re suggesting we give up our Jacuzzi suites at the hotel and rough it in the wilderness so that we can get Allison boozed up one last time.”
“Excellent plan,” Terrance chimes in and I wonder who asked for his opinion. I’d like to see him find north on a compass, or fight off grizzlies or whatever the hell spending time in the woods involves. I glare at him and he gives me one of his sexy yet infuriating grins back. “What? Come on, it is the last night with her.”
I hum, thinking about it. It would be alright, I guess, to be completely on our own for a night, undisturbed by fans or paps, making the Un-Last Night go on for just a little while longer. “Okay,” I agree, and the whole group lets out a collective sigh of relief. It’s only then that I realize they’ve all been waiting on me for permission, which sucks. Sometimes I hate being the boss.
Everyone’s chosen the IHOP for their brunching needs, and the restaurant is packed, so we have to break up in small groups for seating. I wave to Ally, who’s sitting with Dave and Liz and looks to be halfway through an omelet, probably because her manager doesn’t flap her trap as much as Lane. Liz waves too, and I almost wave back before it dawns on me that she’s waving to Tommy.
I look over at him and he’s gone all red in the face and is shaking his head at her.
“Sit with her if you want,” I say, because perhaps he needs my permission for that too or some shit, but his eyes flick up to me before quickly looking to the floor. It hits me then how hard this must be, that the two of them are finally hooking up and then he’ll be off for months to Asia and the UK and god knows where else. “Seriously,” I prod.
“I want to sit with you,” he says to me and he still can’t bring himself to look at me for some reason, so I roll my eyes and lead him like a child to an empty table.
I order the Harvest Grain pancakes so that Lane thinks I’m being a good boy, but she doesn’t know about our routine. Tommy gets the blueberry ones and Monte the chocolate chip ones, and it falls on Isaac to order the strawberry banana stack like LP used to do. I momentarily feel bad for him because, really, what if he hates pancakes? But it’s too much of a habit to stop now. Monte must have explained well because he gives me a sly look as he orders and requests extra butter. When the food comes, everyone cuts their stack into equal quarters and we trade around until we all have each of the flavors. It’s all doused appropriately in butter and syrup, and I turn my Harvest Grain portion towards Lane, perfectly blocking the chocolate chip ones.
Christ I love my band, and I love our routines, and I love that our routines mean that they love me too.
After a few gallons of coffee, and a few more to go, we’re back on the bus. The mood has shifted, though, because the caffeine’s kicked in and Tommy’s there. He shows up on my bus quite a bit, really. It’s not that he and Monte don’t get along because they’re practically best friends, but I think Tommy is secretly fascinated by the dancers. That’s just my hunch, and I can’t say I blame him. They’re an eccentric bunch and completely entertaining, and they never fail to make Tommy produce that musical laugh of his.
Today, though, he curls his little body against mine on the couch and leans his head on my shoulder as I do the day’s emailing on my laptop. He makes a small sound of disapproval when I Google myself, and I narrow my eyes at his blond head.
“What? I’m just making sure Brad hasn’t sold those nude pics to the Enquirer yet.”
Tommy is not amused. “Ha. A) Brad would never do that, and B) you wouldn’t let anyone take nude photos of you. You’re too fucking self-conscious.”
I don’t know why, but that stings me a little, and I just might hate that he knows me well enough to speak those truths out loud like that. I stay silent and bring up Twitter on my laptop. My at replies are ridiculous as usual, and I feel Tommy reading over my shoulder and giggling every now and then.
“Why do you bother checking those?” he asks, even though he knows why. I check for the same reason he checks, cause it’s fucking hilarious. Scary too, but mostly hilarious.
I point at one with atrocious spelling and far too many exclamation points than the 140 character limit should allow, and we both groan. Yet another fan, asking if Tommy and I are really a couple.
“I don’t know how I can make ‘Tommy’s straight’ any clearer to them…”
Tommy pulls away, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Tell them we’re fucking. Just do it, and we can sit back and watch the meltdown.” I snort at that, because I think he might be a little serious. And he rolls his eyes. “Come on, it’s the last concert. Have a little fun.”
“It’s not—”
“It is, Adam. You know it is.”
It is. It feels like the last. And it would be great to go out with a bang, so to speak. But I can’t tell the fans that, even as a joke, because telling that lie reminds me just how untrue it is.
Tommy looks at me, his eyes all soft and big, and I have just enough willpower left in me to say, “Let’s keep it about the music tonight,” and that’s that.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s asleep on my shoulder and I’m trying to figure out why typing out that lie would have been such a big deal.
*
My brother is probably the best roadie I’ve ever seen. I don’t even know if he’s aware of his natural-born talent for this, but it’s truly a gift. After only a few days of watching the other guys, he jumped in and started to work. He sort of gives the orders now and keeps everything organized and picks up slack whenever someone can’t pull their own weight.
I watch him go through the procedure for setup with a little pride and no small amount of awe. I know he wants to write for a living, and I have no doubt that one day he’ll be reviewing my concerts instead of lifting amplifiers for them, but still. I don’t think he’s exactly wasting his talent doing this. He’ll have a great resume when this thing is all over, which will land him that writing job.
He catches my eye as I watch from a seat in the fourth row and nods, and my chest feels a bit warm. My advice to anyone going on tour? Well, besides sleeping a lot on buses, I’d say bring along a family member. When you start to think you actually are a rock god, they’ll be there to remind you that you once wore Tweety Bird footed pajamas with a butt flap for six weeks straight or that you had the world’s biggest zit on prom night.
Also, it’s great to have someone around who loves you no matter what. Yeah. That’s really great to have.
Neil stands beside me and hands me a cup of tea. I’m not sure who told him because it wasn’t me, but he picked up in about the second week of the tour that I don’t drink anything but hot herbal tea after 3pm on concert days. Maybe he just figured it out on his own. He’s intuitive like that. Yet another reason why he’s the best roadie ever.
I take a sip and smile. Chamomile with tons of honey.
“So Mom’s birthday’s coming up.”
I nod. “We’ll be in London that week. We could celebrate the day before we leave, or even better, when we get back.”
“Or…” Neil begins in that tone that tells me he disapproves of my offering. “We could fly back for a day and surprise her.”
“From London?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s like, an eight hour flight, Neil.”
“It’s Mom, Adam.”
He’s right. It is Mom, and every year since Dad moved out we’ve made it a point to take her to a really fancy restaurant, eat dessert first, and split a few bottles of champagne. Dad always did that for her, and if Eber didn’t have that insufferable pride, he’d still be doing it. It means the world to her; I haven’t let myself think about how not being there on the actual day will make her feel. What I’m suggesting is a good compromise, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’ll be alone on her birthday.
“I am aware that we are talking about our mother,” I say, huffing. “But these dates aren’t really something I can change. You know I haven’t quite caught on in the UK like I need to. This could be really big, Neil.”
Neil calls out to a roadie and tells him not to bother with a certain cord or something, I don’t entirely understand all the words. Then he turns back to me, eyes dull. “Okay. But we have to remember to call her, Adam. At a decent hour. I’ll talk to her about plans later.”
He leaves me and hops up onstage, delivering efficient instructions to the crew. Since there’s nothing for me to do here, I take the stairs under the stage and make my way into the labyrinth of corridors below. The venue’s so big that we could all have our own dressing rooms if we wanted, but of course the dancers plus Cam have decided to cram themselves into one room, and Monte and Isaac have settled into another, which leaves me to my own devices.
Well, almost. I open my door to find Tommy in the center of the room, bobbing his head to the synthesized beat of Brandon Flowers and holding a giant stack of green bills. I watch him count in time with “Only the Young” for a few seconds before slamming the door loudly behind myself. He looks up and grins at me, his head still keeping perfect time.
“You have some sort of shady side job that I should know about?”
“Huh?” he says, confused.
“The cash. What’s with all the cash?”
Tommy looks down at his hands like he’s forgotten what he was doing. “Oh, yeah. Just collecting for the booze. Monte and I are gonna head to the liquor store before show time. Maybe do a little pre-gaming.”
The slow, naughty smile on his face is practically lethal. I ignore the twitch in my pants. “Good plan. Only, give that money back. It’s on me tonight.”
“Dude, it’s always on you. Let us do this for Allison, okay?”
I don’t know what to make of that. It’s not like I don’t let them buy their own shit if they want it. It’s not like I want them to worship at my feet in return or anything.
I shrug and pull a twenty from my makeup bag on the counter. “Whatever. I’m still chipping in.”
Tommy folds the bill into the stack like some sort of expert dealer in Vegas. “Any requests? Never mind.”
We look at each other and say in unison, “Makers.”
“Predictable son of a bitch,” Tommy mumbles, but there’s only fondness in his voice. He holds out the wad of bills in front of my face and I cross my eyes to look at the green. He touches it to my nose. “Smell good?”
“One of the best smells in the world, Glitterbaby. Ranks up there with rain and fresh baked cookies.” As I say it, other favorite smells pop into my head. Smells like Tommy’s hair gel or his deodorant, or the salty musk of his skin after a show. I keep those favorites to myself.
“Or gasoline. Love the smell of gasoline…” Tommy turns and grabs his hoodie off the back of my makeup chair. “Wanna come?”
He’s just asking to be polite. He knows I have to shower, warm up, and do my makeup, which will take approximately three hours. “Nah. Just save a few swigs of whiskey for me, okay?”
“Not a problem.” Tommy smiles at me, a smile that fades a little as we lock gazes for a moment. I hear him suck in a breath and my own breath seems to catch in my lungs. There’s a trace of something I can’t quite name in his eyes; maybe sadness, maybe even a touch of fear. I’m about to ask what he’s thinking when he rips his gaze away and heads towards the door with his head down. “See ya.”
The words are so quiet I barely hear them, and when the door shuts and I’m alone in the dressing room, all I can do is stare at my reflection in the mirror and wonder what the fuck that was all about.
*
I’ve got a nice buzz going. Enough that I feel warm and loose and I find everything hilarious, but not enough that I can’t properly apply my eyeliner. So when Tommy takes a long pull from the bottle of whiskey we’ve been sharing and hands it back to me, I only take a sip before setting it on the counter next to my moisturizer.
“So Liz says the cabin has a hot tub,” Tommy says. He leans forward into the mirror and applies his own eyeliner, then we both smudge at the same time like we’re doing some sort of synchronized makeup application routine for the Gay Olympics. “And there’s a lake, even though it’ll be too cold to swim. But they’ve got a boat we could take out.”
“Sounds like the setting of a horror movie.”
Tommy snorts and throws his eyeliner in my bag. “Or a porno.”
“Either way, you’ll love it.”
“Fuck off, Lambert.” He gives me a playful shove before digging through a wire basket and pulling out a tube of lipstick. “You gonna kiss me tonight?”
“Why? You want me to?” I ask and eye him in the mirror, a smirk planted on my mouth that’s equal parts arrogance and insolence. He stares back at me and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or shocked. I’m not sure I’ve ever shocked Tommy Joe Ratliff. I’ve actually wondered more than once if it’s even possible, so I guess he’s just annoyed. I kick it up a notch. “And are we even talking about Fever? You did mention a hot tub…”
Tommy groans in irritation, but I also notice a dark flush working its way up his neck. “I just wanted to know whether the dark lipstick would be a good idea.”
I laugh, and my voice echoes back at me off the walls of the room. Damn, I’m in perfect voice tonight. The good people of Puyallup, Washington are going to get one hell of a show. “Wear it,” I tell him.
“So…no kiss, then?”
“Did I say that?”
Tommy’s still blushing but his mouth has gone all soft, even if his eyes are still a bit sharp. “Usually the lipstick means no kiss, since you don’t like to ruin your perfect makeup and all.”
He sticks his tongue out at me for good measure and I laugh even though the sight of that wet sliver of pink makes my stomach flip. “You almost sound disappointed.”
“I am!” he says, and okay, my jaw drops a little in surprise at that. He gives me his own version of my arrogant smirk right back. “You should definitely kiss me tonight. Last show. In the US, I mean, of course. Slip me some tongue or bite me or something.”
“How about I kneel in front of you and lick up and down your bass?”
He doesn’t respond, just stares at me while all the color drains completely from his face. It’s not too much, what I’ve said. I’ve said much worse, much dirtier things to him before. Hell, we’ve all but done as much on stage. Maybe I’ve somehow managed to finally shock him, although I have to admit I’m a bit disappointed at the timing and content that did him in. “Tommy?”
Tommy blinks and then shakes his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and it hits me that he’s probably just had a little too much alcohol all at once. I stand and move the bottle of Makers out of his reach before settling my hands on his shoulders. I duck my head so that we’re looking directly into each other’s eyes, and there it is again, that odd mix of fear and sadness buried in the golden brown of his irises.
“Wear it, Glitterbaby. It’s a great color, so it’s okay if I end up wearing it too.”
Tommy nods slowly, dazed and unsmiling. The alcohol must be hitting him even harder than I thought.
“Adam, I um…” he takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I think maybe I should—”
A knock at the door cuts him off and Neil pokes his head in. “Hey guys. Tommy, we need you to tune up and check. And Adam, we’ll need you in about five.”
Neil disappears and I turn back to Tommy, giving him my full attention. “What were you saying?”
He shrugs and his smile is a bit lopsided. “I don’t remember. Probably something dumb, anyways. Gotta go tune.”
Then he leaves me alone and bewildered for the second time that day, this time staring at a tube of dark lipstick that he didn’t use.
*
Sound check went awesomely. Monte and I played around with some Madonna and then some Guns n’ Roses, and now he’s gone. I look out into the open, darkening skies above the seats and will it not to rain. I walk through the choreography of the show for the fun of it, all by my lonesome; the adrenaline starts to seep into my veins. The energy is so high I can almost hear an electrical buzz ringing in the air, and the audience isn’t even here yet. I can hear the hum of a gathering of fans near the parking lot, and the rest of the band is signing autographs. Sometimes I join them, but not tonight. After the show, yeah, but right now I just want to sit in the quiet, open space of the amphitheater and take it in.
Almost two years ago on a night like this, I would have been preparing to sing at the Cabaret, maybe getting ready to go on for Wicked. Brad would have been there, fussing over his outfit and mine and making plans for meeting up afterward. And I’d be calmly applying makeup as he flitted around me like a hummingbird, or a male version of Tinkerbell, laughing at his antics and wondering for perhaps the millionth time why we ever broke up.
Sometimes I really miss those days. Don’t get me wrong. I’m living my dream right now. This is what I’ve been working toward since the first time I stepped into a spotlight. But I do miss the quiet, and the privacy, and the company. And in this incredibly insane way, I miss being poor.
I’m calling Brad’s cell phone before I even realize I’m doing it. He answers on the first ring.
“Wondered when you’d call, babe. You crying yet?”
I scowl at his sweet voice. “Why on earth would I be crying?”
“Cause it’s the last show and that’s what you do. The last show in the US, I mean.”
I laugh miserably because A) he’s so fucking right, crying is what I do, and B) he would have fit in so well with Glam Nation, and I wish he’d just accepted my offer to come with me. But he’s proud, and he likes making his own way, and he’s doing pretty damn well at making his own way.
And sure, perhaps the reason he refused to come might have been more out of fear that we’d hurt each other again than pride, but that’s our story and we’re sticking to it.
“I’m not crying. Not yet. We promised that we wouldn’t cry until after the show.”
I almost hear him smile lovingly at me as his voice softens. “I’ll never forget that last night of Wicked. You passed out drunk while sobbing hysterically all over my shirt, which I’ve never managed to get the makeup stains out of, by the way.”
I close my eyes and remember it too. I left Wicked knowing that there was a chance I wouldn’t make it past the Hollywood round of Idol; knowing that if I didn’t, I only had about two grand in my bank account, I’d exhausted most of my options, and I was getting too fucking old for Hollywood.
“I still can’t believe this is happening,” I murmur into the phone.
“This is what they call karma, honey. All that good you do, all that work you’ve done, just coming back at ya.” Brad hums happily, the tune of If I Had You, only a few steps higher than my version. “The Universe loves you. Now all you need is a mansion in the Hills, a pretty little husband around to keep you entertained, and a muscular pool boy for when hubby’s not doing his job.”
I giggle at that. “And where do you fit in?”
“I’m the mooching ex that lounges by the pool all day sipping Mai Tais and ogling said pool boy.”
I laugh again and it bounces off the rafters and back down to my ears. I sound so happy.
“Brad?”
He sighs. “I know. You love me. And you miss me. Right back at you, babe.”
“Thanks,” I say and clear my throat, which for some reason seems to have a lump lodged in it. I hear another voice in the background for the first time, and I recognize Cassidy’s tenor. They keep each other company sometimes. I don’t know if they’ve ever slept together. I don’t ask, and they certainly don’t offer that information. Since they haven’t told me as much, all I can assume is that either it happened and it wasn’t a big deal, or it happened and it was a big deal.
And either way I don’t really want to know.
“Cass is there?”
“Yeah. He’s cooking us dinner then we’re going to hit the clubs. Or maybe see a movie. We can’t decide. That one with Ben Affleck looks pretty awful, but…”
“It’s Ben Affleck,” I finish for him.
“Exactly. So I don’t know. Depends. You guys have big plans for after?”
I look out into the empty seats and shrug. “I guess. Tommy says Liz’s friends have this cabin somewhere in the woods, so we’re going to get Allison fucked up to celebrate her last concert and crash there.”
“You are such a bad influence,” Brad says, and I hum in agreement. “Tommy and Liz, huh?”
I catch a note of pity in Brad’s voice. Damn. Brad knows me too well too. Figures. He and Tommy both have that crazy, almost psychic ability to read people that all Libras have.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Let the breeders have their fun, right?”
“Adam…”
“Brad…” I parrot back. “Save the lecture. You know I have rules about straight boys.”
“I remember your rules. But I also know that rules can be broken. Especially for hot little blonds that enjoy making out with you on stage.” I say nothing back, and I hear him murmur something to Cass. “Hey, I’m gonna go help Cass baste chicken or something. I don’t really understand what he just said to me. Anyways, was there a reason why you called, other than to gloat about your enormous success?”
I laugh. “No, consider me gloated out.”
“Good, cause I was getting sick of all that egotistical bullshit about how it’s just so fucking hard these days to be a celebrity. What with all the paparazzi bashing and hanging out with Katy Perry and shit.” He laughs too. “You deserve this, babe. If the universe hadn’t given it to you, I would have lost all faith in the stars and become a Mormon or something.”
“You deserve it too.”
“Oh, I know I do. And someday, I’m going to have a bigger mansion than yours and I’m going to have a whole harem of muscular pool boys.”
“And where do I fit in?”
“You?” Brad laughs. “You’re the poor sap who picks up my dry cleaning that used to be somebody. Adam…Adam Lamb something…”
I laugh again. “Alright, Brad. Goodbye. Go baste Cassidy. Or is that what you were doing when I called?”
“Go to hell. And hey, maybe you should try to actually hide your boner when Pretty Bassist Boy rubs against you tonight. What do they call it? The Glam Bulge?”
“Fuck you.”
“Bye, babe.”
I end the call chuckling and slip the phone back into my pocket. Somewhere off stage left, a door opens and the sound of Allison’s raspy alto fills the amphitheater.
“Come on, Tommy. Do it tonight. Please? For me?”
I straighten my back and turn my ear in the direction of Allison’s voice, and I hear Tommy say in answer, “Ally…I need more time. That’s what I told Liz. I just…I can’t. Not yet.”
“But it’s the last night!”
There’s some silence, followed by shuffling. I glance around for them, finding them behind one of the many pieces of scaffolding holding the lights up. Tommy’s arms are wrapped around Allison. She has her face buried in his chest, and her hair looks almost burgundy in the dim light of the cloudy day. I watch him kiss the top of her head and squeeze.
“There’s time, Ally. We’ve got time still.”
“Whatever. Don’t blow it, Tommy.”
Tommy murmurs something and laughs and she shoves him off, laughing too. “Gotta get dressed. See you after?”
“You bet.”
I stand up as Allison runs back out the door. Tommy heads toward the stage, oblivious to me until he’s practically halfway across it. When he sees me he halts and stares.
“Oh. Hey.”
I raise a brow at him. “So I thought you stayed on Allison’s bus last night because of Liz. But if you stayed because of Allison, I’m sorry Tommy Joe, but I’m going to have to kick your ass.”
He freezes, for a moment thinking I’m serious, and that’s just a little bit adorable, I have to admit.
He laughs. “You don’t have to defend her honor, Lambert. I have only the purest intentions with Ally. You know. Besides getting her drunk off her ass tonight.”
“Good,” I say, nodding. “Didn’t want to have to embarrass you in front of all your friends.”
Tommy laughs again and I let my eyes fall shut as the beautiful sound reverberates around the room. When I open them again, Tommy’s studying me. His mouth tightens and he clears his throat.
“Adam, about Liz…”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I didn’t expect you guys to hook up while we’re on tour. You don’t have to worry about your job or,” I chuckle, “our immaculate reputation or something.”
“No, that’s not—”
He’s cut off by Monte and Isaac, who burst through the side door laughing so robustly that I feel myself join in. Looks like Tommy and I weren’t the only ones pre-gaming.
Monte looks at us, and through his laughter manages to say, “Neil says doors open in five. Get your asses off stage.” He turns back to Isaac and bursts into another fit of laughter. “Dude just face planted into the door.”
“I didn’t know you were opening it!” Isaac exclaims.
“What was I gonna do? Stare at it?”
I turn to Tommy and we crack a smile at each other before I issue a boss-like order. “I think maybe it’s time to stop drinking, boys.”
Monte and Isaac mock salute me and answer with a resounding, “Yes sir!” and they’re on their way again. When the theater is silent once more, Tommy brushes his bangs out of his eyes and shrugs.
“Well, guess I’d better put on the Christmas elf jacket.”
“Yeah,” I say, and he turns to go, but I catch his shoulder in my hand and turn him back to me. “Wear the lipstick.”
I want to tell him that I think he looks gorgeous in lipstick, and that I want nothing more than to see him in it for this Un-Last Concert. But if I tell him that I might not be able to stop, and I’ll end up blurting out that I’d like to see that lipstick smeared all over my skin in crimson paths, proof of where his mouth has been.
His smile is instant, bright, and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “If that’s what you want. See you down the rabbit hole.”
The next time I see him, it turns out, is actually when I step out of the darkness and into the spotlight for the opening strains of Voodoo and he looks up at me and licks those ruby lips and I know this kiss is going to be one for the record books.
*
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The encore’s been over for fifteen minutes, I’ve had four incredibly large gulps of Makers, I’ve squeegeed the pancake makeup from my cheeks and I’m still hard.
Christ.
Tommy Joe really did a number on me tonight. I expected a kiss. A long, sloppy kiss so that all of that pretty red would be on my face when we were done. What he gave me was not a kiss, it was a simulated blow job. On my finger. He parted his lips, curled that pretty little tongue, hollowed his cheeks and dear god that should have been my cock.
I kissed him later. Just a small thing barely noticeable to the naked eye, because I couldn’t bear the thought of not kissing him tonight, especially after that. But I kept it short because really, all I could think about was grabbing him by his blond hair and dragging his face to my crotch.
I palm my dick through my jeans and catch sight of a faint lipstick ring around my index finger. I groan.
There’s a knock on my dressing room door and I practically run to answer it, even though I know it’s not Tommy. I know this because he’s already been here to gather his things and give me directions to the cabin. He’s probably halfway to it by now. Not that it would matter if it was Tommy. Not like he’s going to suddenly renounce his straightness and get on his knees for me like the perfect submissive boy I daydream he is.
I also know it’s not him because I asked a particularly gorgeous boy from the audience to come backstage after the show. I open the door and he’s standing there, accompanied by a burly man that runs security for the venue.
He’s nearly perfect. Five foot six, maybe. Maybe smaller. So thin there’s a jut of hipbones visible under his jeans, his eyes are big and expectant and brown, and his hair is platinum gold.
Like I said, nearly perfect.
I don’t have much self-control left, but what I do have kicks in and I usher him inside the room politely. I ask his name and promptly forget it. I allude to the fact that if anything that goes on in this room ends up in a tabloid, he can kiss everything his family owns goodbye. Then I get down to the real business.
I grab him by the shirt and pull him to me and work his mouth open with my tongue. And thank fuck, he’s good at this. For such a little thing, he’s surprisingly strong and wonderfully enthusiastic. He’s also rock hard already. He grinds into me nice and rough and I’m so on edge because of Tommy and his stupid finger fellatio that I almost come then and there.
Then the door swings open and Tommy’s standing there with a look on his face that might be shock or disappointment, but somehow either way is completely anger.
“Forgot my hoodie,” he mumbles and pushes past me and…whatever the boy’s name was, who is still attached to my neck by his lips. Tommy grabs his hoodie from off the suede chair in the room just as the boy decides it’s time to work his way south, and I have to grab his arm and pull him back up.
“Jesus, slow down. Trust me, no matter what you read on the internet, Tommy doesn’t actually like to watch.”
I mean it as a joke, something to deflect the ‘fuck you’ vibes I’m getting from Tommy, but he doesn’t laugh. He glares.
“It’s Ally’s last night, Adam.”
His voice isn’t just without resonance when he says it, it’s flat. “I know.”
Tommy flicks his eyes to the boy wrapped around me, then back up to meet my gaze and I swear, I’ve never seen him look that angry. Or that deflated. “You’d better be there.”
“Lane got me a car.” I look at the boy and then back to Tommy, forcing a chuckle. “This will only take a minute, trust me.”
“Whatever,” Tommy mumbles, and this time his voice isn’t flat, it’s broken. He leaves, slamming the door behind himself. The whole thing leaves me so enraged that I momentarily envision myself running after him, shoving him, asking him where the hell he gets off judging me when the whole reason I have some stupid groupie in my dressing room is because he started something he won’t fucking finish. It’s a total Ally McBeal moment and I get into it. I’m calling Tommy the biggest cock tease in history in my head, and imaginary Tommy is weeping with regret and begging me for another chance when Blondie asks me if I’m okay.
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out a little shaky. I flash my teeth at him when I smile. “Where were we?”
“I think I was about to suck your cock.”
I hum and brush my lips against his. “Pick up where we left off?”
He sinks to his knees in answer and flicks my jeans open and Christ he’s got a talented mouth. It’s almost as good as Tommy’s lips wrapped around my finger.
And with that thought I come, hot, white, and blinding. I bite my wrist and scream Tommy’s name around it, blocking it so that maybe it sounds like whatever this boy’s name is, but probably not.
He pulls off of me, licks his lips, and gives me a grin that says he’s proud of himself. “Are we done?” he asks with a bit of a challenge in his tone.
“If we were done after that, do you think I’d have this stellar reputation?” I pull him to his feet as he laughs. The sound is wrong. It’s not musical in the slightest. But I don’t think about that. “I want to see you naked. Then I want to taste you. Then I’m going to fuck you against the mirror so you can see what you look like when you scream my name.”
It takes almost exactly twenty-five minutes for him to scream my name and then slink out of my dressing room with a promise that if I’m ever in Puyallup, WA again, I may just call him.
And that’s when Lane opens my door and stands there with her hands covering her mouth and her eyes red and crying and says:
“Adam, there’s been an accident.”
*
Everyone talks about the hospital smell; everyone’s got their hospital smell stories, even though no one knows what exactly that smell is. Maybe rubbing alcohol or blood or plastic. Starched sheets or Dial hand soap or urine. But everyone knows that smell. We all complain about it. We all feel tense when we smell it. And it always triggers memories that would be better left in the subconscious.
As Lane and I push through the doors of Puyallup’s only hospital, it’s that smell that finally convinces me that this is real. That one of the rental cars carrying people from my Glamily collided with another vehicle on a twisting country road.
We already know that the driver of that other car was drunk, and now he’s dead.
What’s unknown is how my Glamily is doing.
As soon as we round a corner, Sasha’s in my arms, and Terrance and Taylor wrap themselves around us. Brooke and Cam are hugging, hanging back but watching me with wet, tired eyes. A slightly less familiar voice speaks to Lane so lowly I can barely hear it over Sasha’s sniffling.
“They’re stitching Allison up now. Monte’s really banged up, I think his arm was broken. Maybe more, I don’t know,” Isaac says.
“What happened?” Lane asks. Her voice is shaking.
Isaac sniffs, and I realize that he’s crying too. I turn my head to look at him, and it’s clear he was in the car with the rest of them. There’s a big white patch over most of his forehead, and it’s spotted with blood.
“I don’t know. We went around this curve and a car was spinning toward us. Monte tried to steer out of the way, but they were coming too fast. It was all just too fast. They were so out of control…”
He stops talking and I feel Taylor let go of me so that he can hold Isaac instead. He’s stopped talking, but Isaac’s answer wasn’t good enough for me. No one’s mentioned Tommy. No one’s mentioned Tommy and they’re all crying.
“Where’s Tommy?”
They look at each other and then look away, and no one’s meeting my gaze.
“Guys, where’s Tommy?” I repeat. My voice is commanding, and doesn’t reveal the sickening panic welling up inside me.
Sasha pulls back a little so that she can see my face. “Adam, when the other car hit them, it flipped them over. The car rolled down a hill. Tommy… Tommy wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.”
All the blood in my body sinks down to my fingers and toes. My stomach pulls tight like I might vomit. It’s like my whole being wants to bury itself in the earth and become part of it so that I don’t have to hear this, so that I don’t have to know.
“What are you saying, Sasha?”
Terrance’s grip on me tightens and I feel his body shake against mine. Or maybe it’s mine that’s shaking.
“Tommy was thrown from the car, Adam. Tommy…Tommy didn’t make it.”
*
I know that Terrance carries me to the car. I’m vaguely aware of someone tucking me into a hotel bed. At some point, someone crawls in with me and hugs me from behind and just from their strong grip I know it’s Monte. He whispers that he’s sorry, so sorry, but I don’t respond.
I’m numb but I’m in so much pain. I’m crying but my tears are dry. This is real but this isn’t happening. I am awake but it’s all a dream. I am alive and Tommy is dead.
I’m not sure when I fall asleep, but eventually my body is too exhausted to carry on, and I drift into another world.
*
I feel like I’m falling. I fall and fall, but there is no end. There’s no ground, there’s no bottom. And after a while, it doesn’t feel like falling at all. I’m drifting instead. Floating. Suspended. Held up and yet held down.
I’ve only felt like this once. When I was twelve, Dad took me and Neil to the beach and we were body surfing in the waves. I went out beyond the breakers because I wanted to be daring and brave, but then it seemed as if the ocean itself swelled up, and I couldn’t touch bottom. The current took me under and held me in its grasp; the water below me pushed me toward the surface, and the water above me pushed me to the depths. It moved all around me, so that I moved with it and yet I felt so still. I hung there, at the mercy of the current, for what felt like ages. I knew there was a chance I may not ever get to the surface again, but before I panicked there was this moment of peace. This moment of fascination. This moment of relief as I gave up control and surrendered myself to the will of the sea.
I let myself feel that surrender as I sleep, hovering in the in between, but always, deep in the dark corners of my mind, aware that I must choose. I must either surface or drown. I know which one I want it to be. I know because even as I hover, I call out his name. I want to swim toward him. But it’s out of my hands. I surrender control. I am relieved. I sleep.