Three

THREE

U nlike our last band, which was not destined for greatness, Dawson West and the Dregs had been, and still were, huge.

Dawson had left the club with his band, with my complete support, to pursue his dreams of success. Wild West , as his fans called him, had gone on the road, touring, playing any venue that would have him, working nonstop, and had made his way to Nashville, where he hit it big. He was signed to a label almost immediately and then went right back out on the road, opening for some of the biggest names in country music. In between the touring, he returned to Nashville and recorded his first album, titled simply The Road , which ended up, no surprise to me, skewing a bit more rock than country.

All during that time, a year in all, and despite making peace with his leaving, with him going off to seek fame and fortune, I’d missed him far more than I ever thought possible. He stayed in constant communication with me, but the ache only got worse. Even with the visits, a night here, a day there, it left me feeling more miserable than loved. When I’d called and put a stop to them, he had not been happy.

“You need to concentrate on what you’re doing,” I told him over the phone at two in the morning my time, me in New Orleans, him in Los Angeles. It was the only time I could get him, right after a show, so I’d stayed up to talk.

“I know what I need to do,” he replied irritably. “You don’t need to tell me.”

Shit. No one liked other people thinking for them, and that was my default with everyone. It was a terrible quality, but it had served me well in business and relationships over the years. I always knew when to cut my losses. “Yeah, I know, but?—”

“I’m working as hard as I can, all the time. You get that, don’t you?”

“Of course, but?—”

“I need you at the end of the tunnel, yeah?” There was an unmistakable strain in his voice. “Please don’t try and do what you think I want. Listen to what I’m telling you instead.”

But that was so hard. “I’m not, I’m really not, I swear, but, Dawson, you don’t have time to try and?—”

“We talked about this, remember? Before I left, we went through everything.”

And we had, he was right, and it wasn’t fair of me to want more just because I’d thought I was made of stronger stuff. But the fact of the matter was, our connection was suffering no matter what either of us wanted.

“You can’t be on the road with me,” he said, reiterating our conversation from a year prior. “You have a business to run, you have people to take care of, and I get all that, I do, but I need you too. Do you understand?”

I did, because the longing in me was just as desperate. I’d never had anyone in my life who just looked at me and knew, without a word passing between us, how I was, how I felt, what I needed.

“And just because we started fast,” he went on, “doesn’t mean this isn’t real, so don’t try and end us over the goddamn phone just because this is harder than you thought it was gonna be!” He got loud, probably more so than he meant to, but it made sense. If my heart was breaking over the thought of letting him go, his heart had to be doing the same. I didn’t doubt either his love or commitment, but the distance was doing damage I hadn’t thought it would.

“No,” I husked, brushing away the tears he couldn’t see. “I don’t want to end anything. It’s just the visits, me flying there, you flying here… It’s not working. It’s not helping anything.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Am I wrong?”

Quick clearing of his throat. “No, you’re—it’s hard when I have to go, but what then? I won’t see you until God knows when?”

“There has to be a break in your schedule. There must be.”

His breath was halting, choppy. “So we’ll wait for then.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Because I want to stay with you when I’m there, and you want to visit. It’s not a question of desire, it’s just a question of timing.”

“But you understand, don’t you? That this is my shot?”

“Of course I do.”

“And that being away has nothing to do with?—”

“Yes,” I promised him. “And you know that not joining you on the road has nothing to do with not loving you. That’s not even a?—”

“I know,” he rushed out. “So never call me again with parting in your head or on your lips. That won’t work.”

“Parting on your lips,” I repeated. “What’re you, a songwriter or something?”

He scoffed. “I’m just a man who will not be broken up with, and especially not over the goddamn phone. You get that, don’t you? If you want to be done, you’ll have to fly out to wherever I am and tell me to my face.”

I chuckled. “Yessir, I understand.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Dawson?”

“I am alone in the world but for you and my band. I’m not losing anyone.”

“No,” I agreed.

Deep breath then. “Okay. So what’re you wearing?”

“Oh dear God.”

“What?” he grumbled. “Maybe FaceTime me and show me the goods.”

By then I was laughing.

“No?” he whined playfully. “What if I beg?”

He didn’t have to beg.

Six months later, still promoting the first album, the crowds huge, filling arenas…through no fault of his, or mine, it became harder and harder to connect. Because not only were we apart, but we were also two very different people. We had clicked seamlessly when we occupied the same space, but now it took work. Being on opposite ends of the country, we couldn’t put in the time needed.

The creative process was hard, especially when, as I’d seen reported on TMZ as well as by his band mates, he was drinking and high.

I tried to talk to him, calling all the time, making a fool of myself, texting pictures of me, of places I thought were special to him, sending videos and reels to make him laugh. Nothing worked, I was good and ghosted, and finally I got on a plane to Los Angeles, where he was supposed to be recording his second album.

I was surprised I was given such easy access until I realized that there was a whole entourage of people there just living off Dawson because he didn’t want to be alone. And I understood that, I did. He’d been abandoned by his parents, given up as a child, so those issues of being discarded and unwanted were some of his greatest driving factors.

When I saw him, sitting in the booth, in front of the microphone, smoking a joint, sunglasses on, I was horrified. He was thin, his face gaunt, his coloring off, not his normal tan but grayish, and everything he had on looked dirty.

Moving to the glass, looking in at him, I turned to the producer sitting next to the engineer, both talking, one with his arms crossed, the other shaking his head, and asked if I could go in and talk to him.

“Sure, man,” his producer, Miles something, whom I only knew from the dust jacket of his last CD, told me, giving me permission. “Nothing’s gettin’ done anyway.”

Moving quickly, I entered the booth.

He lifted his sunglasses, pushed them back into hair that was no longer a mane, now more of a straggly mop, and smiled at me. It hurt to see how red and puffy his eyes were. His lips were chapped, and all I could think was, he needs food and water.

“Holy shit, look who it is,” he murmured, nearly falling off the stool.

Rushing over, I got a hold of him, making sure he was balanced before I stepped into him and wrapped him in my arms.

The smell of cigarettes and old sweat was nearly overwhelming, but I held on anyway. He felt so fragile pressed to my chest.

“Oh God,” he said, trembling, melting against me. “Are you really here? I missed you so much, but I just… Everything’s been so bad, and just thinking about… There are days I can’t even answer a text, you know?”

He seemed lifeless. There had been times when he’d get depressed and fold in on himself, but normally he rallied quickly and could pull himself out. But now, I understood, that between the drugs and the drinking, the constant working and the lack of rest and comfort, his demons had returned and ravaged him.

“Please come home with me,” I begged him, whispering in his ear as he clung to me.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, pressing against me, his hands now slipping under the cardigan I was wearing to my T-shirt and then to my skin. “Oh God, I missed you and your smell and your body and, and…maybe I could take a shower and you’d lie down with me?”

“Of course I will, come on,” I soothed, easing back, putting my arm around his shoulders.

Once we were out of the booth, standing in front of the engineer who sat at the digital audio workstation, he reminded Dawson that the album was overdue and owed to the record company. He’d gotten an advance and was liable for that, as well as for the final product.

“I’ll get it,” he promised. “Everything’s done, I just have to lay down the vocals.”

When I got him outside, I had no idea what to do next, but the door opened behind me and his oldest friend, and drummer, Ben Jackson, was there passing me car keys for his rental and directions to their friend’s house in Topanga Canyon where they were all staying.

“If I take your car, how will you get to the house?” I asked him, concerned with how bad he looked as well. Apparently, Dawson was not the only one coming apart at the seams.

“Luther has one,” he explained. “He’s out right now scoring us some party favors but none of us will be there before later tonight.”

“Why don’t you come with me,” I offered, reaching for him.

He took several steps back. “Don’t—I have to stay focused right now, Chris. You can’t comfort me, all right?” It was strange how adamant he was, almost angry. “Lookin’ at you, I think about Angie, and I can’t think about her right now.”

I had to wonder why thinking about his wife would be bad, but at home, Angela Jackson and I had stopped talking. Seeing me reminded her of her absent husband, and that had been too much for her. Something that should have been unifying, like us both yearning for our partners, missing them, instead drove us apart.

Once I had Dawson in the large SUV, buckled in, I told him I was going to stop and get him something to eat.

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry, Chris, and there’s so much stuff at the house, wait ’til you see. It’s crazy.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?”

“I’m just not hungry.”

“The cocaine does that, huh?”

He sighed deeply. “You saw that on the news, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got that under control now. Don’t worry about it.”

But I would, and there were more questions to ask. “Are you using anything else? Anything worse?”

“Like?”

“Anything you’re shooting into a vein?”

He scoffed. “You know that’s not me. I don’t even get a flu shot because needles are scary.”

I exhaled sharply. I hadn’t thought so, but I had to know. “Good.”

“You know better.”

“But I haven’t seen you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agreed after a moment, his voice breaking.

“Just relax now.”

Once I had the GPS programmed, we were off.

I had so much I wanted to say to him, but I waited until I was on the I-10 West and more comfortable with where I was going. When I turned to look at him, though, he was passed out. Since I figured he needed his sleep, I let him catch up on it while I drove.

It took a bit to get there, but once I went from Highway 1 to another freeway and finally reached Topanga Road, I found the property nestled in the hills and started down the private drive of what turned out to be several cabins scattered across a small area.

I woke up Dawson, who said his was the farthest out, and that he didn’t want us to use Ben’s, which I had the code for.

“I know the code for mine,” he assured me, taking my hand and only then seeing my duffel. “Oh, you brought clothes.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling awkward suddenly. “I didn’t want to assume you’d have time to spend with?—”

“I have time,” he husked, tugging on my hand. “Come on.”

The cabin, two bedrooms, one bathroom, was small, about 1100 square feet, but it was cozy inside with wooden floors and a small fireplace, a lovely living room with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, a kitchen with Talavera tile, and a small reading nook overlooking the backyard. The main bedroom also opened out to the back, with a view of the canyon. It felt like a retreat.

“This is really nice.”

“It’s good now,” he whispered, and rushed me.

After I hugged him tight, I told him he needed a shower and new clothes.

“My skin sort of hurt when I tried the other day,” he confessed.

“Well, let’s try again,” I persisted gently.

Once he was under the water, he sighed deeply.

“Better now?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I think it’s because you’re here.”

I grinned. “Is there food in your kitchen or somewhere else?”

“In mine.”

“Okay, then, I’m gonna see what’s there, all right?”

“You’ll come back and check on me?”

“I will,” I promised him.

In the small but well-laid-out kitchen, I found cheese and fruit, eggs, vegetables, assorted meat, even some shrimp. I decided that something easy on his stomach would be best. Ham and cheese melts with tomato, a fruit salad, and lots of water.

I returned to the bathroom, slid open the shower door, and asked if he was all right.

“I am,” he said, grinning like a goofball, though he couldn’t see me, as he was covered in soapy lather.

“I’m gonna make us sandwiches and slice up some fruit, nothing fancy because I don’t want to mess up your stomach.”

“Okay,” he agreed, then leaned into the water to wash his face. “I want a kiss before you go.”

He didn’t open his eyes, just followed the sound of my voice and waited.

I brushed my mouth over his, gently but firmly.

“I would like another when I’m done with my shower.”

My stomach rolled just imagining him with someone else, but we hadn’t seen each other in six months. “Have you slept with anyone?”

His breath caught, and he opened his eyes to look at me. “No, Chris. I can’t—I couldn’t.”

“Good. Me neither. I seem to be quite attached.”

“I’ve thought about it,” he confessed, closing the door and getting back under the spray.

“Have you?” I asked, keeping my voice level despite being terrified. It made sense that he’d considered sleeping with someone else. He was a star, and he was breathtaking. He could have anyone he wanted. I could only imagine how many times he’d been propositioned. Back when he was headlining at my club, people always stayed after closing to try and go home with him. It was the way he was all over me that had discouraged them.

“Yeah.” His gaze raked over me, moving down and then back up to my face. “But something is always off.”

“Like?” I asked, swallowing down my heart, hoping he couldn’t hear it trying to pound itself out of my chest.

“Like the guy has thick dirty-blond hair, but his eyes aren’t big and brown and beautiful.”

The tightness in my chest unclenched all at once, my shoulders fell, and the coldness in the pit of my stomach dissipated. “Oh?” I managed to get out.

“Or he’s big and built, has all this hard, heavy muscle on him, but he doesn’t move easily, smoothly, and his voice isn’t gentle and soft and just a bit husky.”

I nodded.

“And most of all, I don’t trust them, and I can’t get in bed with anyone like that. I can’t take a chance on someone being inside me who might hurt me.”

“No, you can’t,” I murmured.

“And even more importantly, what if they don’t know what they’re doing?” His voice was gravelly, hitching a bit. “I’m used to being held down and fucked deep and slow.”

“Not every time,” I reminded him. “You like hard and fast too.”

His whimper was low. “Chris, honey, I’m clean now, and I hopped out and brushed my teeth and gargled?—”

“You did taste minty fresh a moment ago,” I teased him.

“I—could I please have my sex before my food?”

“I don’t want you to pass out,” I told him, feeling my cock thickening in my jeans just looking at him naked under the water. Because yes, he was smaller, thinner, but there was still the tight, lean muscle, the broad shoulders I loved, the wide chest and his long, beautiful legs. The fact that his penis was rock hard had not escaped my attention either. “I want to take care of you. I didn’t come here just to fuck you.”

“Oh, I know,” he acknowledged, his breath catching when I slid the door open. “But right now, the only thing my brain is processing is that you’re in the same room as me, and I will give you whatever you want if you would please just fuckin’ have me.”

Reaching in, I turned off the water, noted his shiver, and checked his eyes.

“Not cold,” he rushed out, “just hopeful.”

He eased out of the shower and stepped onto the bathmat, dripping, and I went to my knees.

“No,” he nearly cried, hands on my shoulders. “Chris, love, I’m not even kidding when I say I?—”

“Where’s your lube?”

“My…oh no,” he gasped. “I don’t have any.”

I stood and wrapped him in my arms, even though he was very wet and I was very dry, and hugged him tight. “Don’t worry, baby, I brought lube for you.”

He choked on a sob, and I let him go, darting out the door to his bedroom, where I’d dropped my bag. Rifling through it, I came up with the bottle I needed, and was back to find him standing exactly where I’d left him.

Charging up to him, I took his face in my hands and kissed him. It was hard and mauling, and he sucked on my lips in return, chasing my tongue with his, his teeth on my bottom lip making sure I couldn’t break away.

When he had to pull back to breathe, I saw how pleased he was with himself. “Happy?”

“I will be,” he said, and then moaned, low and filthy, as I took him in hand and stroked him from balls to head. “Oh, Chris, please.”

Working his length, I used my other hand to press one slick finger gently inside him.

Turning, he bent over the sink as I added another finger.

“You don’t have to go slow.”

“Yes, I do,” I told him, my voice low, dangerous, letting him know who was in charge. “I would never hurt you. Not ever.”

“You could hurt me a little,” he begged me. “I might?—”

I turned his head and kissed him, over his shoulder, as I pushed my fingers in and out, deep, then dragged them shallow, circling, scissoring, before adding a third. When he pushed back onto my fingers, I eased them free, notching the head of my cock there.

“Christopher Gardner, I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

“I feel the same about you, Dawson West,” I whispered and pressed in slowly, without stopping, filling him, feeling his muscles stretch around me, resist briefly, which brought a groan of pleasure deep from his chest, before the opening and the pull, his body wanting me in deeper. “And fuck…could you be any hotter or tighter?”

“Just fuck me, hurry, hurry, hurry, do it now. Now. Now!”

“I won’t last. You need to grab your?—”

“No, I want it long, Chris. I need you to let me know I belong to you.”

“You’re mine,” I husked in his ear, and he bucked back against me as I began a slow thrusting that felt incredible.

“Chris,” he howled, bracing on the sink with both hands, not touching his dick, head down between his shoulders, just taking the hammering and pleading for more.

I had to grab hold of him, one hand tight around his throat, bowing his back, the other like a vise on his hip, holding him still, immobile, making him take the pounding he craved and that I was dying to deliver.

It only worked like this with Dawson, mind, body, and heart intertwined, all longing for the same thing, to be the sole owner of all that he was, while at the same time wanting to see all his dreams come true.

When I took hold of his cock, the mewling cry was loud before his muscles clenched around me tight, all at once, as he came on the side of the sink, pulsing out a stream of cum that was dripping off the porcelain.

I pistoned into him, not stopping, feeling his orgasm twist around my cock as I finally spilled into him, shoving deep, unable to stop, needing to make sure he would feel me even after I was gone.

Wrapping both arms around him, I held him so tight, I wasn’t sure he could breathe, until I heard his warm chuckle and felt him shake with it.

“I’m holding too tight,” I whispered, relaxing my hold in small increments, unable to simply release him.

“No,” he choked out. “No. Don’t let go.”

I held on.

“And you can’t go when I close my eyes later. You have to be here when I open them.”

“I promise,” I said, nuzzling my face into his wet hair, kissing his nape.

More shivering before he turned his head. “I love you so much. I have from the start.”

The start…

He’d been there a week, and I kept dropping things, and walking into tables and chairs and the bar. People were snapping at me, tired of being bumped into because I was watching the guy onstage. His smiles, his glittering blue eyes, the way he touched his hat when he saw me, and most of all, how hot his stare was, had me utterly flustered.

I had been behind the bar that night, filling beer glasses, water, and soft drinks, and a guy was there, leaning, talking to me. I thought nothing of it, and then the music stopped.

“Hey, you, guy in the green shirt and the khaki shorts at the bar.”

It took a second because there had been loud, pounding, deep-in-your-chest music one second and utter silence the next.

“Hello. Up here.”

Both of us, me and the guy, turned to Dawson, who was holding his guitar, scowling. Everyone else was staring at us, all the people there on that Friday night in my packed club.

“That’s my guy right there you’re chattin’ up,” Dawson told the crowd and me and the guy standing there looking horrified. “So if you want any more music, you need to step away from him, because I can’t concentrate when you’re hittin’ on what’s mine.”

I glared. The guy moved away from the bar. Dawson grinned, his eyes like jewels under the lights.

“Thank you kindly,” he drawled, and then the music was back in a wall of sound that made the patrons scream in appreciation.

Later, between sets, I was stacking boxes in the storeroom when Dawson rushed in, slammed the door behind him, and was on me, driving me back into the wall, hands on my hips, lifting for a kiss.

“I should beat you,” I warned him as he pressed up against me.

“Yeah, good, fine, after,” he husked as I took his face gently in my hands. “Kiss me now, Chris. Kiss me and fuck me and have me and keep me, all right? And c’mon, I couldn’t have that guy sniffing around you when clearly, you wanna belong to me.”

“Is that right?” I asked, and kissed each of his eyes that had fluttered shut.

“Yes,” he whispered, his breath ragged. “I’m sure. You want me.”

And I did. No question.

“Chris?”

“I’ve loved you from the start too,” I confessed as I held the only man I would ever love. I couldn’t help it. There was no changing it. I’d given him my heart that night in the storeroom, the first time I took him home. There was no going back after that. He was the one.

I stripped down and got under the water with him, kissed him and washed him, and when he was thick again in my hand, I went to my knees as I was originally going to, and he came again, this time in my mouth as I swallowed around him.

After rinsing him, I shut off the water and wrapped him in towels, one for his hair, another for his body, and carried him out. Drying him off, I then found a soft, fluffy robe, wrapped him in it, and put him in bed. He was asleep in seconds.

I made sure the doors to the backyard were locked, closed the blinds, and turned off the lights, shutting him in.

When his bandmates came by later that day—Ben, Carlos, Enoch, and Luther—I sat them all down in the kitchen and cooked. They ate and drank a ton of water, I had them drink some Gatorade I found in the refrigerator, and Luther gave me for safekeeping the Molly and cocaine he’d scored earlier. I flushed both, fed them more carbs, until yawning became curling up on the sectional in the living room. Four grown men passed out cold just like Dawson.

People came by, wanting to talk to Lex Luthor, or Benny, or Knock-Knock, Los, and especially Daw. The nicknames were terrible, and I told the first wave of folks that I had no idea who those people were. Later, there were more inquiries at the door, lots of gorgeous men and stunning women, all wanting to know where the superstar was. I squinted, said no one was there but me, and perhaps they had the wrong house. When a woman tried to push by me, I simply stood there and waited.

“Wow, you’re kind of big, aren’t you?” she said, her hand flat on my chest, and then suddenly smiled. “Do you wanna play?”

“I’m very flattered, but no,” I said kindly. “You should perhaps go home and drink some water. You look a bit flushed and dehydrated.”

“Really?” She sounded surprised, and turned to another woman there with her. “Do I look dehydrated to you?”

Her friend nodded. “Yeah, and I can feel how tight my skin is. I think we should both go and have facials and maybe a saline drip at the clinic.”

“Or maybe just some water,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” they both agreed.

It was quiet after that.

I found a panini press, which was even better than frying the ham and cheese melts, and when Dawson came stumbling out around midnight, I asked if he was ready for his sandwich.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He walked over and wrapped his arms around me. “I don’t want to waste any time you’re here sleeping.”

“Sleeping is a good thing,” I soothed him, pushing his hair out of his face and kissing his forehead. “But now you need to eat.”

Looking around the room, seeing his comatose bandmates, he sighed deeply. “What’d you do to the guys?”

“Just food, and I took away the party favors.”

He nodded, clunking his head against my chest.

“Come sit down.”

“I’ll buy you a car if you feed me,” he whimpered.

“No car needed, just sit down and keep me company.”

It was funny how he sat there watching me make his sandwich.

“You’re supposed to be talking to me,” I informed him. “Tell me everything that’s happening in your life.”

“It’s the same,” he replied, mesmerized by the preparation.

“Why did you stop calling and texting?”

His gaze lifted to mine. “I just…get depressed, and what am I supposed to do? Make you miserable too?”

“Just a two-minute, five-minute check-in to let me know you’re okay,” I told him. “That’s all I need.”

He nodded. “Okay, okay. I’ll really try. But you have to know, you must know, that it has zero to do with how I feel. Never wonder how I feel.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “But I need communication from you, rock star.”

“Not a rock star,” he grumbled, glaring at me. “Just don’t wonder about stupid crap like, is Dawson West in love with me , because yes, I am. When I walked into your crappy club?—”

“I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“Great club, fantastic club, don’t stop making the food,” he groused at me.

I shook my head but continued, using the press and frying an egg in a small pan.

“When I first walked in there, I was like, who the fuck is that?”

Carefully, I moved the ham and three-cheese sandwich off the press, then plated it, flipping the egg once before placing it on top.

“What is that?”

“You need the protein, and this is my take on a Croque Madame. I’m getting really good at making them at home, though I don’t have this groovy machine, just a cast-iron skillet.”

He was gesturing at me to hand over the plate.

“Wait. I need to get out the fruit salad and?—”

“Just give it to me,” he threatened, using a weird voice.

I went still, staring at him. “The hell was that?”

“That’s my demon-from-the-pit voice,” he quipped, like his response was completely normal.

“You just sound like you need to cough.”

“Give me the plate, Christopher.”

Chuckling as I handed it over, I was very glad I’d taken a quick nap between the guys falling asleep and him waking up. I’d be dead otherwise. I was on a two-hour time difference, which meant it was two in the morning my time back in NOLA.

Going to the refrigerator, I got out the fruit I’d cut hours ago and brought it over, just as he was starting on the second half of the sandwich I’d made on large thick slices of sourdough bread. I was stunned.

“That was hot.”

He leered at me. “No, you’re hot. But this sandwich is great. Easily the best thing I’ve had in months.”

“All that cheese was like molten lava.”

“Was it?”

“Ohmygod, you probably have third-degree burns in your throat,” I said, watching him wolf it down.

“Can you make me another one?” he asked as he started forking the bite-sized pieces of fruit I’d cut up in the enormous bowl.

“Yes, sir,” I said, starting on it.

“And so you know,” he explained between bites, “when I walked into La Belle Vie for the first time, I thought, it’s nice, it’s very clean, and the vibe was low-key, which you know I like.”

I nodded because I knew that about him.

“But then you came out from the back in those damn jeans with the holes in them, the ones that stick to your legs like a second skin, and I thought, damn, look at the thighs on that man.”

“Okay.” I placated him.

“I did,” he imparted with a grin. “Then you turned, and I saw how great your ass was, and those shoulders that go on for days…”

“We can be done with this now,” I told him.

“All the pretty colors in that hair of yours, and of course, let’s not forget your big, beautiful brown eyes. I mean, I saw you and thought, yeah, I want that.”

“That?”

He snickered.

“That’s right out of a fairy tale, isn’t it? That ,” I repeated, pausing for effect, “sounds very once upon a time.”

Putting his head down, he laughed huskily.

“Yeah, you’re a riot.”

Lifting his head, he leaned across the island, puckered for a kiss.

“Absolutely not.”

“Now,” he demanded. “I want my lovin’ now.”

It was hard to say no to someone I loved that much.

By the time he finished the first half of the second sandwich, he started to slow down. More fruit went in his body, Gatorade, water, orange juice, and I had a sandwich as well, some fruit, and water. And it was good and nourishing, but really, for me, the best thing was just soaking up his attention.

Later, back in bed, just cuddling, spooning him, he took a deep, trembling breath.

“You’re scared about something,” I whispered in the dark. “Just tell me.”

“I need you to stay just for a week, all right? Just seven days. Let me finish my album, and then I can go home with you before I have to start promoting the new record.”

I took my own breath then. “I can do that.”

His sigh was long once he had my answer.

The frightening part was, when would it be enough? At what point would he have made it, or not, in his mind? I wished he could say when that would be, and I wished I had the balls to ask the question.

In the morning, I made everyone breakfast, and then the rest of the band left to return to their cabins to get ready for the day, and I joined Dawson in the shower. We were the last ones to the SUV, and I drove us all back to the studio.

When five sober, clear-headed, heavily caffeinated but non-illegally-drugged men walked into the studio, as they all got situated, ready to work, Miles Barnum, the producer, had me sit beside him.

“What is your name again?”

“Oh no, I’m not with the band.”

“You may not be with the band, but this has been a mess and?—”

“We’re about to do a soundcheck,” the engineer chimed in, looking utterly amazed. “Who the fuck are you, man?”

I smiled at both of them. “I’m Chris Gardner, Dawson’s boyfriend.”

Miles nodded. “Okay, boyfriend. Well, if you want anything, you let me know, because we just need you to hang out for a bit.”

“Well, I promised Dawson I would be here a week, and hopefully they can get the record completed in that time. Apparently, it’s all done but the vocal tracks. That’s my understanding.”

“I’ve never heard of a record being done in a week,” the engineer remarked.

“Never ever?” I asked with a grin. “Not one?”

After a moment of us staring at one another, he threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine, we’ll see what happens.” He sounded quite skeptical.

It didn’t take seven days; it only took five.

Amazing how seamlessly the band played together when everyone was on a food-and-sleep schedule, the only drugs in their systems caffeine and nicotine, and without any outside distractions at all.

The gates that had been open the first night, I had the property manager close them, and they sent out some security people to keep the grounds trespasser-free. Simple changes that were easy to implement.

The issue was, originally it was just the five of them, no road manager, no one to make certain everything went smoothly. But now, with the second album completed, there would be a tour bus and a plane and a whole team of people traveling with them, and that announcement led me to understand that no, Dawson would not be coming home with me as he’d planned.

The last night I was there, Dawson and the guys played the Hollywood Bowl, and when they came off the stage, he was so excited, telling me they were going to be in Las Vegas the following night to play a concert at the House of Blues.

“So you won’t go radio silent on me,” I said as I walked with him toward the bus. “You’ll call me.”

“I already promised I would,” he replied, smiling, the euphoric high of having played a brilliant show still rolling through him. “I was stupid, but it won’t happen again, baby, I swear.”

I wasn’t sure he understood that he was getting on the bus and I wasn’t, so swept up he was in talking to everyone around him. When I stopped moving and grabbed him, yanking him into my arms and hugging him tight, he clutched me back and gave me a quick kiss, but then eased free.

Standing there, watching him walk away, I had a sinking feeling that we were done. It was surreal. I knew he loved me, and I knew I was important to him, but the fact of the matter was, what he wanted more than anything was to be a star. There was nothing as critical as that, and I could not compare.

It was strange going to the airport alone. I felt disconnected, like the tether that had been holding us together had snapped. I went through the motions of checking in, boarding the plane, but it didn’t seem real. Only when I got home, with the familiarity of everything, did I begin to feel like me again.

“It’s weird,” I told Simone that night, “but the whole visit felt like a goodbye.”

“No,” she assured me. “You’re just sad because you’re missing him already.”

But I wasn’t wrong, and I wasn’t at all surprised that he didn’t call. The few times I tried, all I got was his voicemail. It made sense in a way, because even though I’d helped him, I was still a distraction. His focus needed to be singular, and I finally grasped the fact that there was no place for me in his world where he was on the road, making music, chasing his dream.

months later, when the second album was released—the one he’d completed while I was with him, Gasoline Under a Desert Sky —and then later was certified platinum, I was healed enough to be happy for him and even called to give him my congratulations. I only got as far as his manager’s assistant, but that was all right. I’d put forth the effort, and that was enough. What I always loved about him was that he stayed true to who he was. He never hid that he was bisexual, but because his manager, his agent, all his people surrounded him with beautiful women, and no one ever saw him with a man, it didn’t seem to be much of an issue. What had turned out to be a huge problem over the next year, amid endless tour dates, the creation of a third studio album, and the promotion that went into that, was the continual drinking and the drugs.

I suspected that when you were constantly out on the road, touring with no end in sight, that perhaps the vices were inevitable. But I couldn’t say; my calling was so much smaller than his. I had a little life in comparison, which I found myself liking more and more with each passing year. The stability of my present situation grounded me, and I, in turn, made life possible for everyone who worked for me. I loved that La Belle Vie could be a sanctuary for many. A lot of servers came and went, but I could honestly say that they always left for something better. And if they weren’t ready to fly, they stayed safe in the nest. When they went, they moved on stronger, with a direction and a purpose. I wanted more than anything to continue to be that port-in-the-storm for our staff, which was why we needed patrons to spend money, and for that we needed live music. And there had never been anyone better than Dawson.

At present, I was having trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that he was, again, back in my club in New Orleans. And while I thought I would see him again someday; I had always thought it would be in concert somewhere. I never imagined that he’d be close enough to speak to.

“Hey,” he greeted me as he crossed the floor to us, the warm, mellifluous, whiskey-smooth sound of his voice the same as always.

That walk of his, the swagger, the rolling movement liquid and deliberate, made me draw my breath in deep. He knew what he looked like with his broad shoulders, wide chest, and the long, roping muscles under his tan skin. His T-shirt was straining around his biceps, and I had a flash of memory of having those strong arms wrapped around me tight. I breathed in through my nose, girding myself for whatever it was he was going to say.

“Mr. West,” Evie blurted out, rushing by me to reach him, hand out in offering.

He turned to Xola, who was closest to him, and held out his guitar case to her. Demure like she never was, she took the handle reverently so he could shake Evie’s hand.

“I understand that when your last tour ended, you split with your management company,” she said quickly, looking like she was holding on for dear life as she flushed a very becoming pale rose.

“I did.” His midnight-blue eyes glinted as he gave her a trace of a smile that deepened his utterly beguiling laugh lines. He had lines on the sides of his mouth as well, all of them giving him a weathered appeal, like he lived well in his skin.

The way his lush lips curled up in one corner, the square cut of his jaw, the stubble lining it, and his impossible nose that had been broken more than once—he’d played in some sketchy places before mine—all the perfect imperfections added to his allure. He had a way of looking down for a moment and then lifting only his eyes to you, laser-focused on your face. I saw Evelyn Ewing’s eyes flutter, heard her catch her breath, and was guessing by this point, she was holding on to his hand for actual balance. It happened all the time. Even when I’d seen the pictures of him before he went to rehab, even at his lowest, thinnest, face gaunt, missing the thirty pounds of muscle—that he’d now regained, given his powerful, athletic frame—he had always, always , remained luminous. The man was breathtaking, and nothing could diminish that.

I had been as enthralled as everyone else from the very beginning. The sultry sound of him, the mane of thick chestnut hair he was forever tucking behind his ears, carding his fingers through to brush back from his face, and simply the heat and raw sexuality of the man were overwhelming. Never had I wanted so desperately to keep someone.

He and his band, the Dregs, used to play from nine or ten—depending on how good or bad the arthouse musicians we used to have on earlier were—until closing every night. They would mix Dawson’s original music with covers, mostly ’60s and ’70s rock. I would freely admit, it had been perfect. This was the Quarter, so to end every night with an extended, raucous version of “On the Bayou” had been inspired. I understood as I looked at him now that I needed to find someone like him, the difference being that they would stay. And not for me. I was not looking to ever fall in love with another musician—that way lay madness. I was looking for someone with his charisma and versatility and talent.

“So what on earth are you doing here in the Quarter?” Evie asked him, still sounding shaky, no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.

It made sense. It was hard to stand in front of a superstar and remain unaffected.

“I’m not touring anymore. Everything I own is in the back of my SUV.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her with a flirty, throaty rumble. “I have downsized my life.”

“Why?”

“Because eventually, you figure out what’s truly important.”

“Is that right?” Simone baited him.

“It is.”

She made a noise in the back of her throat that was all judgment.

“I’m working on a new album and I was just signed to Stig Malloy’s label, Salvage Records.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Evie gushed. “When will the album be out?”

“Not until next year.” His eyes flicked to mine, then back to her. “I’m still writing. That’s why I came back here where it all began. No better place to find my inspiration again.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “May I ask who your agent is now?”

“Sawyer Cox.”

“Oh.” She sounded unsure what to do with that.

“He’s Nick Madison’s manager, and Nick’s the one who introduced us once he was out of rehab the last time. Sawyer is good with me concentrating on only my album, nothing else, which is exactly where my head’s at so… it’s all smooth sailing now.” He gave her that sexy, brain-melting grin as he released her hand.

“Yes,” she barely got out.

“And I heard,” he said, moving toward Simone, who was trying to glare a hole through him, “that you needed a band.”

Her arms were crossed tight, her nostrils flared, and I could tell she was going to open her mouth and flames were going to shoot out. He would be incinerated on the spot.

Taking gentle hold of her biceps, he met her narrowed gaze with his own. “I can promise to fill the place starting tomorrow night, Sy,” he said, using the shortened version of her name that she had only ever tolerated from him. “The guys all came back with me. We all needed to come home.”

She stood there like a stone. I understood. I had sugarcoated our end, Dawson’s and mine, with everybody else. The rest of them only knew what I thought was fair and right. But Simone had sat at the bar with me after closing and seen how broken I was, and she’d made sure I didn’t drink all the tequila we had. She was the one who sat with me, in silence, watching old movies and eating too much pie. And she was the one who, after a time, didn’t let me sit at home anymore, but instead dragged me to brunch with friends, terrible art exhibitions at galleries Michael thought we all needed to update our immunizations for before we went in, and to bowling—so much bowling—and, of course, dancing to ’80s music every Thursday night. When she and Michael had bumped into me getting coffee with friends one night while they were out, you would have thought I’d given her a million dollars. She was so happy and relieved, glad to see me returned to the land of the living.

I rediscovered how much I liked walking the Quarter late at night and had several people I enjoyed visiting, from fortune tellers to other bar owners. I went on the occasional date, and there were times when a man would stop me as I was walking around the club and ask if I wanted to go home with him when we closed. It was nice to be noticed and asked, but no one sparked my interest enough to want to sleep with them. I could wait to be struck by lightning…or not. If my love life was over, that was okay too. Maybe I only had the one great shot at forever, and though my friends all wanted me to stay hopeful, it really wasn’t something I worried about. Now, of course, having my larger-than-life ex around was not going to help anything at all. So honestly, I was all right having Simone stare at him with murderous intent.

“We were all gone too long,” Dawson continued, filling the uncomfortable silence.

Still nothing from her.

“Ben’s been home a couple of weeks now. He’s the one who told me I should come talk to you, see what you’d think of us bein’ your old slash new house band.”

Her ability to remain stone-cold silent and utterly still was both impressive and unnerving.

“Was there really a metal band here?”

To me, the growl in the back of her throat was not a surprise. It didn’t scare or concern Dawson either. The yell that followed that, though, that made me jolt, and it scared him just as bad. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” she thundered at him.

Evie gasped, so did Xola, but Darcy just said, “Okay!” really loud, and when we all looked at her, she pointed to the back. There would be no yelling in the middle of the floor, where customers could both see and hear us.

Simone moved then, grabbing hold of Dawson’s arm and pulling him after her. It was funny, because even though he wasn’t as big as me—his muscles ran to sleek and toned, mine being harder and heavier—neither was he small. If he’d planted his feet, they wouldn’t have gone anywhere. But she was tugging him after her as though she could have actually made him walk if he didn’t want to. When he glanced over his shoulder at me, I only shrugged. Anything to do with him was her decision—she could be logical and impersonal about the business, I could not. He’d walked into the lions’ den; he was going to have to deal with the lioness himself.

I thought about following after all so he didn’t get eaten, but then I saw Xola and Darcy go after them. On their way toward the back, to my office, Simone leaned into the kitchen, and moments later Georgine joined them. It wasn’t the place for me, so I decided to go for a walk instead.

Before leaving, I apologized to Evie for wasting her time. “Hopefully we can get together later in the week and continue our discussion.”

“Are you kidding?” she said, like I was insane. “If Dawson West wants to play your venue, let him. Holy crap, Chris—may I call you Chris?”

“Certainly.”

“I mean really, even if he’s only here through Christmas and New Year’s, you’ll make enough money to audition a new band to take over in January. You don’t need me at all.”

“We might not?—”

“You’d be a fool not to let Dawson West and the Dregs play here for as long as they want. It’s been over a year since West put out any new music at all, but still, it’s all sitting in the middle of charts in rock, country, and lately, the ballads, in folk.”

None of this was surprising. He had a way with his lyrics, and even more importantly, the sound of his music. You only needed to hear a few chords to know the song was his.

“I have no earthly idea why the man doesn’t want to tour anymore. He could sell out arenas tomorrow and any smaller venues without a problem. I know there were substance-abuse issues, but he looks amazing right now. I’m betting he beat whatever demons he was wrestling with and is good to go.”

I hoped so. For him and no other reason.

“But again, I would take him for whatever time he wants to give you.”

And it was good advice, as long as it had nothing at all to do with my heart.