9. Nine

I put my guitar aside and flopped onto the bed with a heavy sigh. My head throbbed and my palms itched. I needed a shower, but I didn't want to take one. All I wanted was for this damn song to write itself, for there not to be thirty-two beams in the ceiling like I'd already counted a hundred times, and for that stupid bird to shut the fuck up.

Less than twenty-four hours without my phone and I was already losing my mind.

This sucks. I ought to go down there and give Mr. Perfect a piece of my mind. He can't just take my only lifeline away without consequences.

Except he could, and he was well within his rights to do it. I knew I shouldn't post on social media, and yet I'd done it anyway. It was my fault, just like everything else.

With a groan, I rolled over in bed and yanked my notebook and a pen out of the drawer. I flipped it open, looking for a blank page, but paused when an old photograph of my family fell out of it and landed on the quilt. I picked it up and ran my fingers over the glossy surface. It'd been taken the day we finished recording Electric Love Song . I'd taken my whole family out to celebrate. I was wearing the biggest smile, my arm thrown around David, two fingers up like rabbit ears behind Darwin's head. God, he looked so young with his giant glasses and that dorky bow tie. He had two kids now, and I'd never even met them.

I closed my eyes, and I was right back in Tito's Spaghetti House with them that night, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce heavy in the air. Damien was laughing like an idiot and Mom kept squeezing my hand in the booth, telling me how proud she was.

None of us knew then how big the album would get. We weren't thinking about world tours, and signings, and putting out the next big thing. We were just living life, getting through one day at a time with help from each other. I missed those days, but things would never be like that again. That version of Dante was gone, and with him, any hope of ever having a family.

My fingers curled around the edge of the photograph. It was stupid, all this wallowing in my own pity. There were people out there who would kill to have half the success I did, so why was I lying there feeling sorry for myself?

Poor little rich boy Dante Deluca who has everything he ever wanted, who drinks away his fortune because he can't cope with being alone in a crowded arena of screaming fans. Everybody sees him, everybody knows him, but he's still fucking invisible. I could be replaced by a singing cardboard cutout, and nobody would notice for at least a week.

I tucked the photograph back into the notebook and tossed it on the floor. It wasn't helping. Lying around doing nothing sure as hell wasn't going to help either. I needed to find a way to work past this creative block. Then I'd feel better.

C'mon, Dante. Think . I rolled over onto my back to stare at the rafters again. Whenever you got stuck before, what did you do to get the creative juices flowing again ?

I winced and answered my own question. Vodka, coke, and a blowjob, but I'm not getting those anytime soon. Well, maybe the last one once Church pulled that stick out of his ass so I could get in there. The mere thought of him on his knees for me was enough to send all the blood rushing to my dick.

Since we'd arrived in the cabin, I'd imagined him in dozens of scenarios—gagged and bound to a chair, tied spread eagle to the bed, bent over the chair and tied to the wall—but somehow I always wound up back at the same place: him kneeling on the floor with his arms bound behind his back. He'd look up at me like I was his personal idol. Not Dante the musician, or Dante the rock star, but Dante the man. I'd let him see who I was stripped of all those things, and he would still love me for it.

But that was the thing about fantasies, wasn't it? They weren't real.

Church was still avoiding me most of the day. The guy might've been built like a bulldog, but when it came to anything resembling flirting, he was as shy as a mouse. A church mouse. I winced at my own bad pun. Ladies, gents, and enby pals, Dante the professional lyricist.

The back door slammed, and I rolled over to look at the clock. It was time for Church's ten a.m. perimeter walk, and he was on schedule, as always.

Maybe I should just get some sleep , I thought, rolling over the other way. I tucked my hands under my head with a sigh and closed my eyes.

Not two seconds later, the sound of a vacuum roared through the house. I sat up, heart racing. If Church was outside, then who was cleaning downstairs? Had they brought in a housekeeper? I trotted to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing, half-expecting to find Luci, my housekeeper from L.A. downstairs. Instead, there was a young man in blue coveralls vacuuming the rug. He had a bright yellow feather duster in his back pocket, and there was a plastic cart nearby full of sprays and bottles.

I crept closer and stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching him work. "Hello," I said as soon as he shut off the vacuum.

The man flinched so hard, his oversized round glasses nearly fell off his face. "Oh shit! You scared the hell out of me! Oh! It's you! I mean…" He flushed and slid the vacuum behind his back like he was trying to hide it before sticking out his hand. "I'm Oscar. Oscar Hayes."

I shook his hand. "Dante."

"I know. I mean…I'm a fan. Big fan."

The guy looked like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, but he was also still holding my hand tight in his sweaty palm.

I chuckled. "Well, Oscar, can I have my hand back? He and I are kinda attached."

"Oh, my bad." He let me go. "Sorry, I'm not usually like this but like… I'm your biggest fan. No joke. I have all your albums and I saw you live in Chicago last year. You're amazing!"

"Um. Thanks." I rubbed the back of my head and glanced toward the stairs. I'd only come down to say hi and be friendly, but now things were getting awkward. "So you're like…the cleaning guy?"

He laughed. "Oh, no. I'm the fill-in. I mean, I am…but the lady who was supposed to be here…I guess she's in the hospital."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm not."

I pressed my lips together to keep from frowning. That was bad for my complexion.

Oscar gasped. "Oh my god. I didn't mean it like that. I only meant that if she hadn't gotten sick, I wouldn't be here. With you. At this job." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "Great, now I sound like an asshole. I promise I'm not. I just get real talkative when I'm nervous and you're…" He rose on the balls of his feet and plopped back down, grinning. "Well, you're amazing. Hey, do you think you could sign my—"

"No," Church barked behind me. Christ, I was so distracted by how weird Oscar was being that I hadn't even heard him come through the back door. He marched up and slid between me and Oscar, arms crossed. "No autographs. And you need to step back. Now."

Oscar arched an eyebrow. "We were only talking."

"You're not here to talk," Church growled in a low voice that made butterflies flutter low in my stomach. "You're here to clean. I expect you to show up on time, do your job, and leave. The employment contract you signed clearly outlined that you're to stay six feet away from Mr. Deluca at all times. Back. Up."

"Okay, okay!" Oscar raised his hands and stepped back. "I'll finish cleaning and get out of your hair. It was nice to finally meet you, Dante!" He leaned around church and waved at me.

"Likewise." I hurried around the corner into the kitchen, where I yanked open the freezer and shoved my head in. Why did it suddenly feel like it was a thousand degrees in there? Did someone turn up the heat? I yanked open the fridge. Why isn't there anything to drink in this house? Fuck, I'd kill for a shot of vodka about now, just to take the edge off of whatever this weird feeling is.

"Dante?" I flinched as Church's hand came down on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

I swallowed and shut the freezer. "Yeah. Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

He scrunched up his face and gave me a look up and down. "Oscar makes you uncomfortable."

"What him? Pfft. Nah." I waved Church off .

"I'll call the cleaning company and have them send someone else." He got out his phone.

"No, wait!" I surged forward, my hands closing around his.

Church frowned and looked down at me, forehead wrinkled and lips pressed together in an overly concerned expression. All I wanted to do was put a hand behind his head, pull him down into a kiss, and tell him everything was going to be all right.

Instead, I sighed. "Look, the guy didn't do anything wrong. He's just acting like every fan does when they meet me. I just wasn't expecting it, is all. I'm kind of…off right now."

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Sick?" He started checking me over, taking my chin between his fingers and turning my face one way and then the other.

"I'm sober," I said, pulling away. "That's not usually the case when I meet people for the first time. It's kind of a novelty for me." I wiped my hand over my face and went back to digging in the fridge. "I'll be fine."

"I thought you liked people."

"I do. I'm an extrovert. I love people." I pulled out a Tupperware container labeled MASH and popped the lid open. Apparently, MASH was shorthand for mashed potatoes. I grabbed a spoon from the drawer and shoved a scoop of cold mashed potatoes into my mouth.

Church jerked the container away. "If you love people, why do you need to drink to talk to them?" He shoved the container in the microwave and pushed a few buttons.

I stared at the Tupperware going around and around in the microwave, trying to formulate an answer, but there wasn't one. No one had ever asked me that before. Hell, I'd never even thought there was a correlation between my drinking and talking to people, but maybe there was.

I shot a glance back into the living room where Oscar was working, worried he might overhear what I was about to say, but he'd put on a pair of headphones and moved to the other side of the room.

"The first time I played in a sold-out arena, we almost had to cancel the show," I said eventually. "I was nervous during the rehearsals, but everyone said that'd get better. That I'd be able to ignore all the screaming, the flashing lights, all the pyrotechnics and shit. But when I looked out there and saw all those people…" I shook my head and looked down at my hands. My palms had gone all splotchy, and the rest of me was alternating between burning and freezing. "I couldn't do it. I looked out there and I fucking froze."

"Stage fright?" Church asked.

"Maybe. I don't know. I just knew that I was terrified of screwing this up. This was my one chance to make it, and everybody was going to be looking at me. It's one thing to record in a studio where you can back up and replay a few bars if you fuck it up, but in front of thousands of people? You sing one wrong note, trip over a cord, come in a bar too late…One screw up and it's over."

"That's a lot of pressure."

I closed my eyes and nodded slowly. "But what was I going to do? Back out? That'd piss people off. No, I had to go out there."

"So you took a few shots of liquid courage and faced the music."

"Literally," I agreed. "And then again for the after party. Then for meet and greets. Then there was something every day, and it was just easier to stay that way. Drunk Dante didn't have to worry about saying or doing the wrong thing because if he did, I could just wave my hand and say I'd had too much to drink. That wasn't me. I thought I'd found the ultimate escape. Instead, I built myself a prison with every drink."

"And now?" he asked.

I shrugged. "You spend long enough in a prison, you forget how to live outside it."

The microwave dinged, but neither of us moved to pull out the potatoes. I usually didn't like talking about that shit. It was one of the reasons AA and rehab didn't work for me. The shrinks they made me talk to didn't care about me. They were there for the paycheck, and to get material for their biographies once they retired.

But Church could get his paycheck whether he listened to me whine or not. He didn't have to pretend to care.

He grabbed a hot pad and pulled the potatoes from the microwave, stirring them with a new spoon before putting them on the table.

"Thanks." I pulled out a chair and sat.

When Church sat down across from me, I froze halfway through blowing the steam off the giant spoonful I'd scooped up. We'd been having dinner together regularly, but never lunch. Never anything else.

He folded his hands on the tabletop. "Before I worked for the Junkyard Dogs, I was in the SAS."

I lowered my spoon. "SAS?"

"Special Air Service. We carried out dangerous, highly classified missions overseas, generally counter-terrorism operations in the Middle East."

I blinked in surprise. I'd figured he was some kind of military badass, but the special forces? "Damn. I bet that was some hard work."

"It was difficult at times, but the work itself was rewarding. I thought it would be my whole life."

"What happened? "

He stared at his hands in silence for a beat before answering. "My unit was sent to apprehend a known terrorist leader at the Lebanon-Syrian border, but it was a trap. We were captured and held in a Syrian prison camp for five hundred eighty days before the crown negotiated our release."

"Holy shit." I'd heard some of what went on over there, and it wasn't pretty. Torture, beheadings, gassing…I didn't even want to think about all the shit he'd been through. I almost couldn't believe it. He seemed so…well adjusted.

"When I came back, nothing was the same. Everything felt too big. Crowds were overwhelming." He sighed and clenched his hands into fists. "When you see PTSD on the telly, it's always nightmares, flashbacks, sleepwalking. They don't show the fits of anger or the feeling that you're in a box that's too small and you need to get out. And coming out only made it worse. It only led to me further isolating myself."

"How did you cope with all that?" I asked, spooning potatoes into my mouth.

"That's the thing, isn't it? I didn't. Not well, at least. Not at first." He relaxed his fists. "I worked. A lot. All the time. Lots of security details and very little sleep. I saw other people working and thought if I just worked hard enough, I'd eventually feel better. It wasn't until I took a job working alongside Boone that I realized I couldn't keep going. He encouraged me to go see someone who specialized in helping people like me. Now, I talk to her once a week."

I pointed at him with the spoon. " You go to therapy?"

"Of course." He shrugged like it was no big deal.

"Wait, how do you do that here?"

"A phone app, if you can believe it." He held up his phone. "We talk via text if I can't see her. "

"Doesn't that feel weird?" I asked, spooning more potatoes into my mouth. "Like you're paying her to be your friend?"

He shrugged again. "I'm paying her to teach me a skill I don't have like I would any other professional. She's an expert in her field, just as I am in mine."

"I suppose when you put it that way, it makes sense." I offered him the potatoes. "So does it help? Are you cured?"

He reached for the container and grabbed another spoon. "Being cured isn't really the goal. You can't cure someone of the human condition. But it helps me. Maybe it would help you, too."

"Maybe," I agreed, but I wasn't thinking about therapy anymore. I was too distracted by watching him lick mashed potatoes from the back of his spoon. I leaned forward, letting my elbows rest on the table, and leaned against my palms. "So, are you gay? Bisexual? You mentioned coming out before."

"I'm a Virgo," he answered with his trademark British tone of uncaring.

"Oh, the virgin, huh? Is that why you're so shy?"

"That's not…I'm not…" His face flushed, and he looked away. "You're impossible."

"I'm a Leo. I'm supposed to be."

His eyes cut to me. "If you're the cat sign, then shouldn't you be the kitten?"

"You can call me that if you want, but I'm also good with Daddy."

Church's cheeks turned even more pink, but he snorted like an irritated bull. "If anyone's ever called you that, then I'm the Queen's wiper."

"Nah, I'm not really into that. Which is surprising, considering I definitely have daddy issues." I stole the potatoes back for another bite. "Daddy dearest walked out when I was two, though I had older brothers, so maybe they got the brunt of that. I'm definitely not asking them, though. You?"

"I'm not asking your brothers about their sex lives, either." He grabbed the container of potatoes back.

I almost choked on my last bite, trying not to laugh. "Oh god. I'd pay to see their faces. Darwin especially. He's like you. I think his face would break if he smiled. Nah, I meant daddy issues."

"My parents are still together."

"But you said they hated each other. And it's not like you can't have daddy issues just because your dad was around." I reached for another scoop of potatoes, but was disappointed to find it empty.

Church sighed and stood, taking the empty container. "I'll make some more mashed potatoes for you."

I frowned as he went to the sink to wash it. He hadn't even tried to answer the question. That was the second time our conversation ended abruptly when I brought up his family. Church could talk about his time in a Syrian prison camp, but he couldn't talk about his dad? What the fuck was up with that? Even if he hated the guy, he couldn't hate them more than he'd hated someone who tortured him for almost two years. What was worse than that?

I pushed out my chair and walked over to the sink. "Church?"

He didn't turn away from the dishes.

I reached for him, but stopped just short of touching his shoulder. If he had PTSD, surprising him was a bad idea, and I didn't want to accidentally trigger him. Just because I'd spoken didn't mean he'd heard me. It was clear that he was somewhere else, deep inside his own head.

Instead, I reached past him to shut off the faucet. His shoulders stiffened, but he turned his head to look at me, and I was relieved to see recognition in his eyes .

"Be honest with me," I said. "Do you want me to stop?"

His frown deepened. "Stop what?"

"Flirting with you."

He huffed. "You don't mean it."

"Why do you think that?" I crossed my arms and leaned against the sink.

"Because I've seen your bank statements. You spend more on escorts and porn every month than I'll make on this whole job."

"I'd rather watch you than porn."

"That isn't…" He shook his head, blushing again. "Why would you say that?"

"Come on. How can you not know you're the sexiest thing since sliced bread?"

"I didn't realize bread was sexy."

I smirked when he took the bait. "It is when you're the one being bred."

Church sighed. "I walked into that one."

"Yeah, you did. As for if I mean it or not…" I put a hand on his shoulder and stood up on my tiptoes to lean in. "Want to know what I was thinking about last night when you caught me jerking off?"

He swallowed loudly and turned his face toward me. "What?"

"How perfect you'd look on your knees for me."

Church shuddered and bit his lip as I ran my thumb down the back of his neck.

"I thought about it this morning, too," I whispered, moving my thumb in small circles. "Twice. And I bet you're thinking about it right now, aren't you? So why are we dancing around this, kitten?"

He shook his head and pulled out of my grip. "Because it would create a conflict of interests. I can't protect you as effectively if I don't stay objective. "

"I'm still not hearing a no."

Church said nothing, turning back to the dishes.

I sighed. This dance was getting old fast. He was interested. I knew he was. The giant erection tenting in his pants attested to that. What was it going to take to get him to relax a little and enjoy himself with me? We could have our fun and move on at the end of the month, no strings attached. Nobody even had to know.

But maybe he wasn't that type of guy. Maybe Church was the type who liked roses and dinner dates, a romantic at heart. Of course he would.

I sighed and tucked my hands into my pockets, trudging toward the door. Maybe it was time to admit defeat and just resign to jerking off three times a day for the next thirty days. If that was the case, I was going to need a lot more lube, and my phone back.

"Dante?"

I turned around in the doorway. "Yeah?"

He looked up from the sink, his face flushed. "Don't stop if you mean it."

"I'm a lot of things, Church, but a liar isn't one of them," I said and walked away.