Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (26 page)

waved in the air to dispel the bad vibes. His therapist Dr. Dawm

Tolliver, weird spelling, told him not to dwell on the past. Yeah, right,

great advice for someone lugging around too much of a past.

But imagine, his invite for Dom’s yearly party had finally arrived.

A small part of him feared the record company mogul had decided to

banish Sebastian from his glittering social realm. After all, this year’s

Warchylde Extravaganza Tour had turned into a dreadful financial

mess. Why did Sebastian let Brunner talk him into hauling along a full

orchestra to every date? What worked in New York, Philadelphia,

Chicago, Los Angeles and Miami did not work in other smaller

venues.

Dom Atkins had never directly blamed Sebastian but the singer

sensed Atkins’s disgust with the entire plan. Greg had told Sebastian

he was on Atkins’s major shit list. Being on Atkins’s shit list

generally resulted in disaster.

Greg. Sebastian frowned. His cute albeit tight-assed manager

should have prevented Sebastian from dancing into supreme disaster.

SquareCubed was supposed to stop Sebastian from diving into the

expensive mud. Wait, yeah, Sebastian vaguely remembered

conducting a drunken argument over the orchestra. Ouch, Sebastian

had supported Brunner in screaming drama. Poor, patient Greg had

tried explaining the financial problem before he gave up and told

Sebastian to sign a contract absolving Greg from the final decision.

Well fuck it, grand and dandy, now Brunner looked for another

gig. Problem was over the past week Greg refused to return

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Sebastian’s calls. Super Duper Marla, office manager who protected

the partners, claimed Greg was, “tied up.” Fuck, why did Sebastian

occupy everyone’s shit list?

A polite knock sounded at the penthouse door. Sebastian rose and

fell over into the leather couch. His gasping mouth sucked in supple

leather. Shit. Wait. He was naked, nude, sans clothing. Not cool.

“Hold on!” Where were last night’s leather pants? Ah, there, right

where he left them on the floor.

“Yes!”

The black-clad messenger stepped back from the tall, disheveled

singer. The smell of stale sweat and fresh booze almost made him gag.

“Mr. Warchylde, this is compliments of Mr. Atkins.”

Sebastian accepted the long gift box. “Cool. Erm, shit, wait.”

“No tip necessary, sir.” The dapper man bowed and returned to the

private elevator.

Great, now Sebastian felt cheap. But why was the invite almost

his height?

He staggered back into his suite and opened the box.

July 13, 1:05 New York City

A low chime sounded by Greg’s elbow. “Mr. Myers, a package

just arrived for you. Shall I bring it in?”

All right, did Greg not ask for complete silence while he reviewed

the potential assault civil suit looming against Hunchback Monday?

He still refused to believe Raunch Lee managed to destroy that much

of a hotel suite plus knock out a maid. Raunch knew how to create

prime havoc but this case slid into the ridiculous zone. The lawyers

hinted Raunch might want to start behaving himself; in fact, he might

want to ascribe to sainthood.

“Mr. Myers, are you there?”

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Fingers raked through tidy, bi-weekly trimmed red-blonde hair.

“Tell me, Gail, is the package ticking?”

One of Gail’s custom sand on glass giggles shredded Greg’s

hearing. “No, sir, of course not or I’d call the police.”

“Glad to hear the news. Now I need to work.”

“But what about the package?”

“What is so important about this particular package?”

Gail’s next squeaky giggle tied Greg’s short and curlies into

painful bows. “The package is from Mr. Atkins, sir.”

Why didn’t Gail mention the crucial detail in the first place? Greg

lightly banged the receiver against his forehead in four light taps.

“Thank you, Gail, bring the package in.” Pop quiz: why did his

personal assistants lack common sense? Simple answer: because

junior partner Greg lacked full clout. Office manager Marla always

assigned him the assistant the six senior partners had already rejected.

Granted Greg didn’t deal with the dinosaurs making the millions

while they sat on their ass and collected royalties. No, Greg worked

with the still breathing egos. Daily he hoped a few of them would do

him a favor and OD. Once the record companies started trotting out

the “best of” and memorial packages, the dead artists sold in grand

volume and provided him far less anxiety.

One tall, sexy, still-breathing singer plagued Greg into frothing

fits for many different reasons. Not the time to dwell on that particular

problem, not unless Greg could dwell on him while naked.

Dour Greg feared he’d never reach such a realm of bliss.

When Gail entered his office, Greg managed a strained smile for

the perky, blonde-haired pixie. Someday he would tell her acid green

did not suit her ruddy complexion. “Please set the box on the chair.”

“It’s extremely heavy, Mr. Myers.”

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Considering the chair was capable of holding a human’s weight,

Greg doubted if the furniture planned to collapse in the immediate

future. “Is it really? I hope you didn’t stress yourself.”

“Not at all, Mr. Myers.” Gail made a fist to display her impressive

upper arm muscle. “See, I work out five times a week.”

Good to know that Gail looked capable of decking him. “Glorious.

Glad to hear you like to keep fit. Now scoot and let me return to my

toil and trouble.” Greg smiled and performed cliché shooing hand

gestures. Of course Gail giggled as she shut the door.

What a nightmare. Maybe Greg needed to tell Gail she was not

destined for his bed.

Still, why did Atkins’s important invite arrive in a large box? Greg

hefted the weight. Silly Gail had exaggerated but something far larger

than a mere printed invite hid inside the confines.

Greg cut open the tape and looked inside the box.

July 20, 6:17 Sagaponack, New York

Sebastian smiled at his favorite driver. The man understood how

to rescue Seb from an adoring crowd without running over any rabid

fans. What an accomplishment. “Roland, I might stay here for two or

three days. I’ll call you on the cell, yeah?”

“No problem, Sebastian. Anything for my main man.”

An unusual nerve attack bit into Sebastian’s battered confidence.

He hated how Nonce’s betrayal compromised his ego. His fingers

tapped his chest. “Seriously, Roland, how do I look? Do I look like a

complete corporate asshole?”

“You look dazzling. The suit is killer. Granted it’s mighty

different from your usual look but the suit is damned sharp.”

“Yeah, right, that’s me, the classic sharp-dressed man of the

month. Keep put of trouble, dude.” Sebastian slid two hundred dollar

bills under Roland’s collar.

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“Same to you, dude.” Roland grinned and tucked his tip into his

pocket. He fetched Sebastian’s bag from the trunk and handed the

black leather case to the smiling man who had appeared like a magic

genie. “Fine service around here.”

A slight bow followed. “We do try. Follow me, Mr. Warchylde.”

“Fuck, come on, Lenny, don’t start the Mr. Warchylde nonsense.

Mr. Warchylde is my father.” Yeah, in some fine fantasy world.

“Ah, I see, sir.”

“Sir is worse. What’s the skinny shimmy, Lenny? You know me.

Stop the stand-offish shit.”

Lenny shot Sebastian a tight smile. “This year Mr. Atkins asks us

to present a professional face to the guests. A few well-funded

gentlemen from Saudi Arabia attend the party. I believe Mr. Atkins

wishes to impress them.”

Fuck a duck, Atkins tried to seduce investors. The rumors were

true; Mantis Records needed fresh cash flow. No wonder Atkins felt

pissed at Sebastian. Nothing like draining money from an already

hurting company to infuriate the owner. Fucking Brunner! No, more

like blame fucking Sebastian Warchylde for accepting Brunner’s

expensive scheme.

A chill lapped at Sebastian’s spine. He needed counsel. The singer

hoped Greg had been invited. They needed to talk. Enough of the

playing hard to get nonsense.

“I shall take your bag to your room, sir.”

“Hey, if you don’t stop calling me sir, dude, I might take my bag

back to my car and skip out.”

This time Lenny’s smile captured pure darkness. “Mr. Warchylde,

I sincerely doubt you will leave the party. Mr. Atkins will feel most

upset at hearing one of his prized guests does not want to accept his

fabled hospitality.”

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Great, even Atkins’s butler understood the wicked score.

Uneasiness mixed with chill and waltzed up Sebastian’s spine. “What

are you trying to say to me, dude?”

“Merely stating the obvious, Mr. Warchylde.” Lenny gestured to

the left. “Please attend to Mr. Atkins in the main game room. He

wishes to greet you in person before the less important guests arrive

tonight.”

Fucking weird. Each step forward dragged Sebastian to a meeting

he didn’t relish. Yeah, maybe this invite didn’t seem as sweet as the

previous year’s invites. Low voices and laughter sounded from the

game room. Memories charged free. Last year’s party had found

Sebastian rolling across the one pool table with Nonce, rolling,

sucking, fucking, and basically wearing holes in the green felt. Pool

cues made great dildos.

He needed to stop thinking back. Thinking forward also worried

him. Sebastian hated admitting the problem, but Atkins frightened

him. The powerful dude emitted a spooky secretion like spoiled meat

rotting at the back of an old fridge. He smelled fine but radiated

wickedness.

Time for a centering breath before the plunge. Sebastian paused

and ran his hands over his suit-clad body. Did joining the Army

supply a man similar strange vibes? Wearing an expensive Italian suit

felt ridiculous. The suit transported him back to suffering through

Catholic mass in a small Yorkshire church. Being a Silverman in a

Catholic church always made no sense, but Sebastian’s stubborn

Yorkshire mother had raised her lone child in the Catholic faith.

Professor Silverman had succumbed to Grace’s power. The Israeli

botanist cared more about surviving in the cool, British atmosphere

than fighting with his constantly irate wife.

After experiencing their warped relationship, no wonder Sebastian

fucked up at every turn.

His feet stepped across the red marble tiles, hauling him closer to

his fate. Sebastian missed his leather pants and leather vest. This suit,

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no matter how sharp and tailored, continued closing in against his skin

like a stylish straitjacket. Yeah, the pin-stripes pressed the midnight

blue material down in thin, lethal lines. Pin-stripes as prison bars.

The sun’s dying rays filled the spacious game room. An

assortment of expensive treats and libations spread over two long

tables. Sebastian reckoned the lavish spread could feed his old

Yorkshire village for a week. Man, how did he climb so high? Better

yet, how did he manage to not fall? Or fall yet? Ouch.

The sea breeze flowed in from the outer deck. Sebastian sniffed

the salty air. The air offered freedom. The urge to run through the

crowded room, pound across the deck and flee to the ocean

whispering beyond the sand nearly derailed Sebastian’s mind. Yeah,

run and rip off his clothing in mad glee. Plunge into the sea and keep

swimming until oblivion sucked him down.

No, dying didn’t appeal to Sebastian plus he wanted to keep his

current recording contract. Granted Atkins frightened Sebastian but

the perceptive mogul had propelled the singer into megastardom.