Agnes

The estate agent was called Agnes. She was thirty-two and lived with her boyfriend in a flat in Stanwell Moor.

How I’d found that out was by chatting like a stupid person as she showed me around houses I would never in a million years want to live in. We moved on to flats the next day. More places I honestly didn’t like. A penthouse…I’d almost had a panic attack looking over the balcony railing somewhere in Canada Water. Too high. Too much glass. No thank you.

I still liked the family house in Marylebone. The one with the nanny flat. Perhaps my parents would venture down for a visit if they had a place like that where they could stay.

My dad would turn his nose up. He liked his garden. The peace and quiet. Bleating sheep in the background. The sound of a tractor.

Agnes let me view the family house again. I even got my driver to come in and give me his opinion. He agreed on the barbecue being a great asset.

Agnes reminded me again that the actual barbecue was not included in the purchase but maybe she could ask the vendors if they were willing to sell. I didn’t care one way or the other.

I liked the cosy rooms. The light from the back coming into the kitchen. The movement of the trees against the walls.

I could live here. It was warm. Not too big. No dark, imposing spaces, no magnolia walls or cold marble. No security guards and railings and, best of all, no bars on the windows. The ones in my old house had been installed after the last break-in—another small detail to add to the feel of living in a prison. All I needed was a boiler suit and a straitjacket and my incarceration would’ve been complete.

I was packed and moved out anyway. One of our runners had collected my bags, and they were now neatly deposited in Reuben’s kitchen. Like I’d moved in when I honestly hadn’t.

But then everything was up in the air. Mostly with work. The studio was a hive of weirdness, we hadn’t seen Lee in days, and nobody told us anything. Musa kept walking off talking on his phone, Bash seemed to have left the planet, and Josh had gone down and visited Cork wherever he was instead of turning up when he’d been scheduled to lay down more vocals.

Lauren just shook her head whenever I tried to talk to her, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

Things were falling apart, and we all knew it.

“I’ve seen something,” Musa said quietly when we were finally left alone, the remaining four of us bunched in a corner outside the back doors of the studio, trying to eat the grainy shite they provided for our lunches.

“You mean the vocal schedule?” Josh whispered. “Yeah. Saw that.”

“What do you mean?” I was still chewing. I hoped this stuff was actually good for me, because my jaws were starting to ache. I didn’t mind salads. I liked vegetables. But this? What even was this?

“There are a lot of the same names, all on the days where they don’t want us here. I have a feeling the plan is for us to…like…not be part of anything this time around. They’ve discarded all our songs, our vocals are minimal. Nothing we do is good enough, and there are these other five guys laying down vocals all next week.”

“Five,” I said. “And then they have me coming in.”

“I saw that.” Musa sighed. “Which means they’ll be the ones in breach of contract.”

“I’m so sick and tired of this.”

Josh agreed. We were all sick. Tired. Everything.

“I wish they could just be honest. This is like…psychological warfare. Keeping us all bewildered in the dark, and then they’ll come in and shove contracts under our noses and refuse to pay us again and pretend we’re the ones in the wrong. But we’re not stupid. None of us are.”

Musa definitely wasn’t. The guy had his own lawyers and was constantly up in management’s faces with terms and conditions. No wonder they wanted rid of us all. Only one problem apparently.

Me.

Because The Dieter was and would always be irreplaceable. My voice was distinct. And if they tried to do Blitz without my signature rasp, the hair, the bare chest and leather trousers…

I wasn’t that important. No. I was definitely replaceable.

“I think I’m buying a house. A smaller one. With a veranda.”

“What are you? Thirty-five?” Josh laughed. “Next you’ll have kids and all sorts. What the fuck, Gray?”

“Says the guy who owns a farmhouse in bloody…where? The Cotswolds?”

He grinned.

“We’re all too old for this,” Musa said. “If they make us tour again, I might just fake a heart attack or something.” He shook his head. “Buy the house, Gray. Better than shoving the cash up your nose.”

“Cork is doing okay, actually,” Josh put in. “They’re trying to get him in for a photoshoot. He’s shitting himself, because he’s absolutely not ready for that. He’s really thin, and still looks so unwell. Super skinny, and if anyone tries to drag him into a studio, I will kick off. Big time.”

I agreed. Being here was no good. The constant back and forth. We had no set plan. No end game. No stability, and the mind games? They’d always been there. Subtle threats held against our throats. Threats. Bribes. Goals that would just be pushed further and further away. A few more dates added to our tours with no consultation. This was my life. My whole life. And for what?

“I want out.” I’d said it before.

“I know you do,” Musa said softly. “I’ve got my people working on something. And if needed? We’ll pull the ripcord.”

“What’s that then?” Josh asked, throwing the rest of his lunch in the bin. I followed suit.

“We do something. Something childish and stupid, but we do it.”

I shook my head. “Is that your big plan?”

“Nah.” Musa laughed. “But. You know.” He tapped his nose.

I snorted.

Then I rang Agnes and told her I wanted the house. Texted my solicitor to buy it right away. I wanted it. I wanted something stable. Somewhere I could live and breathe. And be…

Happy.

I even texted Stewart. He reminded me I needed to get surveys done, ran through a bunch of things to ask about. So I could be in control.

I wanted control. I wanted happy. I didn’t just want to sing about it. Write meaningless lyrics about happy endings and love and hysteria. I wanted to live it. For real.

Which made me cackle, because I was no different than anyone else.

I’d actually pulled off something clever with that little stunt in McDonalds, which, by the way, I had not planned on, because it made Reuben fear for my life, and now he didn’t let me out of his sight. I slept in his bed. Every night. He held me and stroked my hair, and his dad made me cups of tea and…and…

I loved it.

Being with him.

It had also landed me in all the tabloids, and social media was rife with blurry shots of Reuben dragging my daft arse out of a crowd of screaming fans, and into a car. The licence plate in full view. Yeah. Stewart was not happy about that, but it still hadn’t put a dampener on my high spirits because for the first time in…I don’t know, but it felt like forever…I was genuinely happy.

I hadn’t had sex in months, but it didn’t matter because I had a stunningly beautiful man that I came home to, and even though I didn’t even get a kiss goodnight, he made me smile. And I made him laugh. And it was just. Easy.

Reuben. He was stunning. His smile. His laughter. The way he just…looked after me.

So bloody easy.

When I got home that evening, he was in the kitchen, and I just swept him up. Hugged the shit out of him and pressed a small kiss into his neck.

Boundaries. I still struggled a bit with those.

“G,” he said sternly. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

“Talks like a boyfriend. Walks like a boyfriend.” I smacked a kiss on his cheek. “Boyfriend.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Dad’s out. Gone down the pub. Quiz night,” he said, then laughed. “And if you think that means you can try it on, let me tell you this.”

“What?” I laughed.

“No.”

He drained the pot he’d been stirring and poured two full portions of pasta onto plates. Knob of butter. My grain-abused stomach growled. Food. Proper food.

“Ketchup?” he asked.

I took the bottle out of his hand and grabbed some cutlery from the drawer.

Glasses. Water.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “This looks lovely.”

He grinned. “Still not a date.”

Yeah. He didn’t need to remind me.

“I think the house?” I shoved a forkful of pasta into my mouth. “They’re getting back to me tomorrow. If they accept my offer.”

“So you’re moving out?”

“Well, yeah.”

That hurt more than I would’ve admitted, but the look on his face?

Boyfriend. Told you.

“I can’t live here forever. Your dad will start to demand rent.”

“Like that would be a hardship.” He flicked a piece of pasta at me. I picked it up and threw it back at him.

“Move in with me,” I said. “Please.”

He stared at me with that rock-solid determination I’d started to recognise. Then he threw his fork down on the table and got up. Stomped across the room towards the hallway and turned around. Stared at me with his fists by his sides.

“You just can’t stop, can you? I’ve told you. No. Absolutely not. We’re mates, Gray. That’s it. Nope. No more. Just… For fuck’s sake.”

And off he went, storming down the hallway, slamming the door to his room.

I knew what I was doing. I was as bad as bloody management. The bigwig dickheads with their suits and ties who sat at the top of the building with their ideas and brandings, taking every penny we made… letting us have our measly royalties out of kindness.

I wasn’t rich. Never would be. Not like that.

But I had…me. And a house. And I was wearing him down with my ridiculous crush and stupid demands because…

I was in love with him. Yeah. I could even think it out loud. I loved Reuben. That ridiculous idiot who was no doubt face-planted in his bed throwing fists into the pillow.

I wanted him. But if I was very…very honest with myself?

I was perhaps being cruel, because I was just as pig-headed as Reuben was.

Perhaps he just needed a break. I mean. I’d been here for days on end, and tomorrow he had a day off and I had plans. I wanted to show him the house and wow him with that barbecue and let him see the future I wanted.

And I once again cringed at myself. I had no idea what he wanted.

Apart from that he didn’t want me.

But then he would smile at me and laugh and let me hug him and hold him, and at night, he’d lift his arm and let my head rest on his chest, my hand on his stomach.

Which told me in every single way that he probably loved me just as much as I loved him.

But what did I know? I came up with crappy lyrics and wiggled my hips on stage.

He at least had a proper job.

I didn’t even know what I was supposed to write down as my job description. I wanted to tell him about the meeting with my acting agent and about the audition they wanted me for, and I was honestly crapping myself over that whole idea.

And the film was coming out.

The one where everyone would laugh at my pathetic attempts at the acting thing.

It made me wring my hands and fling my chair aside, and before I knew it, I was stomping down that corridor after him. I kicked open his door and threw myself down on that bed next to him, on my stomach, my head turned so I was facing him.

His eyes were closed. I nudged his nose with mine. Blew in his face.

A smile. Good.

“Sorry,” I said. “I know I say that a lot.”

“You do,” he grumped. His bottom lip stuck out like he was sulking. He wasn’t sulking, but he was trying very hard not to smile. The surge in my stomach was stupid. Because I wanted to kiss him. Just snog that smile off his face.

“Tomorrow?” I tried in my softest voice. “I want to take you somewhere. Just you and me. Hear me out, yeah?”

“Where?”

Reuben. My Reuben. I didn’t care about anything, where he’d come from or who’d he’d once been. What I cared about was that he was right here, right now, and I trusted him. I did. He’d proved I could, over and over again. He was just…who he was, and I was me, with everything that came with being The Dieter. There were no secrets between us.

“I want to take you to see this house.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he grunted and rolled away from me. Nice try, Reubs, but I caught him before he fell off the bed. I may not have been any kind of gym bunny, but I was strong and agile. Fast too, and I had tricks up my sleeve. So here he was, underneath me and I was on top of him with my nose against his.

He was panting a little, trying not to look at me when there was nowhere else for him to look.

“Reubs,” I said quietly.

“Get off me,” he whispered.

“I will. But first you’ll listen. Because you always let me speak, but you don’t take it in. It just rolls off you and then you either turn it into a joke or get angry with me. But that has to stop, because I’m serious about us. About you and me. We like each other. I know we do.”

I shouldn’t have said that, because he tackled me onto the floor, and I was glad his dad wasn’t home or he would have been marching down the hallway shouting for us to stop destroying his carpets or whatever we were up to.

“Reubs!” He was strong, but I was stronger, and now I had him properly held down. Nose to nose, his wrists pinned to the floor and my legs straddling him. “You’re not going anywhere, and neither am I. So you need to listen. Because you and me? We’re good. We’re really good. When I’m with you, it feels like we’re in this little bubble, where nothing on the outside is important and all that matters is you and me. We lie here in this…that very bed up there, and we hold each other and talk about things. Silly things. But it doesn’t matter because it’s just who we are and what we do. We make each other happy. If we didn’t, I wouldn’t even be here and you wouldn’t let me stay.”

“You sold your house and just moved in,” he pointed out. “And if I hadn’t let you stay, you would have pulled some other idiotic stunt and guilt-tripped me into looking after you anyway. Because that’s what you do, G. You…manipulate me. All the time. Say things that make me think that this is okay. It’s not. For the record. None of this is okay.”

“Okay,” I said softly. Because this? This we could work with. “Sit up,” I said. Quite sternly. Tugging at him. Manipulating…yes. Posing him like a ragdoll until he was sitting on the floor with his back to the bed, a scowl on his handsome face.

Kneeling beside him, I combed my fingers through my hair. Shook it out.

Bit my bottom lip.

Me? Manipulative?

He was so bloody cute when he was angry, and he knew it.

“Tell me to leave.”

God, he was stubborn. Fighting with himself from every angle.

I climbed onto his lap, very slowly put my hands on his shoulders.

“Go on, Reubs. Tell me you want me out. That you never want to see me again.”

This was…God. I couldn’t deny it. He was stunning. So conflicted. Wanting to tell me to get out so badly but then, I knew. I think I always had. From that very first time when he sat next to my bed and held my BAFTA-drunk-arse hand.

He’d stroked the hair out of my face and called me an idiot, but he’d held on to that hand.

His fingers stroked my face.

“You think you’re irresistible, don’t you,” he whispered.

“You know I am.” I didn’t mean that, but it was too tempting not to actually say it.

“I’ve never been into blokes.”

“It doesn’t matter. Honestly, Reubs. It’s just…you know. Human beings. Skin. Feelings.”

“Trust,” he said. I nodded.

“Trust.”

“I’m not ready.”

I got that, so I nodded again. Combed my fingers through his hair. Settled my nose against his. Forehead against forehead.

“That’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he said.

This? This right here? Was good. Really good.

I leant in further, hoping he’d let me just stay here. My head on his shoulder. His arms around me.

Instead, he angled his head and kissed me.