The Gift (8 page)

Doren's words went unacknowledged as August turned his eyes towards the open door. "And that? How'd you manage that, superstar? Did you pay someone to open that?" He didn't even give Doren a chance to reply before he snapped, "Fucking answer me!"

"It was open."

"It was not open. I locked it myself. I checked it before I went to bed." The spots on August's cheek were growing. His hands shook in their tight balls. "I can't believe you. I can't believe you did this."

Doren sighed. Whoops. He really needed to learn how to get a handle on himself. Twenty-five years of chasing sound and one would think he'd have learned to control his reactions. Dreams and realities, strengths and weaknesses, people didn't always want to know what went on in their own heads. They didn't necessarily want to hear the songs of their souls.

The concept annoyed him to no end.

"I don't get you, August. You can't tell me for one goddamn second that you don't want this. And I don't care what the fuck you say, you can't tell me that you weren't dreaming about me before I came in. So what's your problem?"

August slumped against the wall, gripping the blankets to his guts as though they alone were responsible for his ability to stay upright. "You can't do this, Doren. You can't come in here and do this. Don't you understand that? Don't you see how fucked up that is?"

Doren slumped back on the bed, defeat all but overwhelming him. This was so ridiculous. Did he really know August's mind that much more than August did? Or was he just losing his own? Had all the attention he'd been getting lately turned him into some kind of crazy self-obsessed idiot? Had he imagined the sound of August's voice? Could it have just been a dream? He'd never been wrong before but … Doren turned and looked at August, holding eye contact until August looked away ... No. He hadn't. Even now the urge to be touched burned on August's face. And that made Doren want to hurt something—August, himself, cute furry things that might get in his way.

He swung his legs and sat on the edge of the bed. Fine then. He had no intentions of playing this game forever.

"Wait," August stepped forward and grabbed Doren's shoulder in a grip that surprised him. Though August's voice trembled, there was no questioning the ferocity of August's words. "If you ever do something like this again I will quit. No—fuck quitting, this is your issue, not mine. If you ever do something like this again I will have you taken out of this hotel in cuffs. You do not get to pull that shit on me because you're some kind of star. Do you understand what I'm saying? You keep your hands and your body out of my room and away from mine."

Doren stood. He walked to the door. Then he stopped to stare at August while August did his best to appear stoic and hostile. Even still, the only thing Doren could hear was humiliation and pain. But for the fear. That was definitely fear. Not for him, Doren figured, but for something. A deeper something. Perhaps even a fear of sex itself? The thought made him feel like a total ass.

"But he called me," Doren told his pinging conscience. He might not have done it consciously but he'd still done it. Even if August refused to acknowledge it—he'd still done it!

Doren lowered his eyes and turned the handle of the door. "Fine. If that's what you want, then that's what you'll get. But you and I both know the truth, Aug. You
did
call me. You wanted me to be here. So be careful." He took one last look at August. "Next time you do I might not bother to listen."

He shut the door behind him and when he heard the ominous click of the lock on August's side he lifted his fist in frustration and put it through the wall. The rush of pain filled his mind and forced out the other emotions.

Pain was much easier to deal with.

He heard Doren hit the wall. Then he dropped on to the bed and cocooned himself in blankets. He wanted to shout through the divider, "You don't get to be angry!" He wanted to have enough balls and power to throw himself through the door and beat the snot right out of the bastard. He wanted to shake Doren until sanity and humanity made an appearance in those damn blue eyes of his.

But the most awful part about how he felt—the very, very worst thing—was that he wanted to walk into Doren's room, drop to his knees, and beg Doren to finish what he'd started. And that was all kinds of scary.

That was all kinds of nuts.

She watched the rain fall with glee.

"Yes," she whispered into the night, "keep going. Fill it up."

She pulled the picture of the bridge in front of her and continued to work her fingers over it, stroking the image, rubbing the page, until the photo began to distort and twist. Beads of sweat broke out on her skin and dripped on to the paper. She rubbed until she was mumbling and dizzy, panting from the effort. Then, grinning wildly, she looked at the small red-haired woman who lay there naked and slipped back in beside her. There was a long night ahead and doing Anton's work always made her hungry for intimacy.

He was sweating as he ran his knuckles under the tap. They were already swelling, and the water that rushed over his hand was tinted pink as it swirled and whirled its way down the drain and towards oblivion. He had no idea how long the knocking at his door had been going on when he finally turned off the tap and wrapped his hand in a towel. He rushed for it, hoping it was August, realizing at the last minute that August would probably not come to the hall door, would instead opt for the more private entry between their two spaces, and caught himself mid-word as he flung it open.

"Oh! You are here." Ursula smiled at him with perfect teeth. "I was just thinking it best to leave. That perhaps you were already at the party." Her eyes swept down him and she lifted an eyebrow. "Or maybe you were … how to say … busy?"

Doren's eyes flew wide. "Oh, shit, Ursula!" He pulled his naked body behind the door, blushing. "I'm so sorry. I'm not thinking right at the moment."

"May I come in?" she asked, turning her eyes away from him casually. As if naked men presenting themselves at the door was an everyday occurrence.

"Uh, I guess. If you want to. Just give me a minute. I'll be right back." He didn't bother to cover himself as he walked away. There wasn't much sense trying to be modest at that point. "Did you say you thought I was already at the party? What party?"

"Oh yes!" Her voice drifted to him and Doren grinned at the accent. He had no idea what it was, but it was sexy as all hell. "That's why I am here. The boys playing the music," she popped her head into the bathroom, "what do you call them again?"

He chuckled, dragging his shirt over his head at the same time. "The musicians?"

"Yes," she laughed. "That's it! My English sometimes, it's not so good, yes? The musicians are having a party to celebrate the tour. They asked me to come by, but I didn't want to go alone. I thought perhaps you might like to come and get, how do you say … personal with everyone."

He cast a quick glance at the mirror and shoved his fingers into his hair, raking it into a stylish disaster. "Why didn't they invite me themselves?"

She waved the question away. "Oh, you know how it is. You are the big fancy star and they are just hired men. They probably did not think you would come. But I know better. You are just like everyone else, no? You are, after all," she touched his chest and smiled, "still a man."

His body still wanted what it had been denied. He'd never said no before and damn it, he wasn't going to start now. If that little bug wasn't interested, then to hell with it; August didn't know what he was missing. Doren reached for Ursula's slim, long-fingered hand and brought it to his mouth. "I would be thrilled to go to your party with you. As a matter of fact," he said, still holding her hand and spinning her towards the door, "I can't even begin to tell you how thrilled I would be to spend some time with you tonight."

Her eyes sparkled as he followed her into the hall. "Wonderful! I was hoping you would say that!"

He stopped her at the elevator door and waved towards the stairwell. "Let's take the stairs."

*~*~*

Even though it was a basement space of some kind, Doren had no idea how the guys were getting away with having the music as loud as it was. It drowned out most of the conversation but didn't stop anyone from trying. The band had been thrilled to see him, surprised, even. And after he begged them to stop apologizing for not inviting him personally they all seemed to relax. It was funny how many guests were there, not because of the musicians who were hosting the party, but because they'd been hoping to see him. But Ursula stayed close, scaring off any hanger-ons that might have got a foothold in her place.

He laughed through a couple of drinking games while the music pounded and Ursula mooned over him, and the smile never left his face. This was how it was supposed to be. This is why guys got into music. This would make it all worthwhile—the pleasers, the attention, the amusement. Except that within a couple of hours, Doren was sick to death of the cheap beer and the crowd. It was fun for a while, but he hadn't really slept and he was starting to get a headache. With his eyes closed, Doren laid his head against the wall and considered a quiet retreat. He was saved the plan making when Ursula slid beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. She whispered, close to his ear, "Maybe it's time to upgrade to some champagne, hmm?"

He opened his eyes and locked them with Ursula's. She was older than he was, probably by a few years if he had to guess it, but she had the rocking body of a nineteen year old and eyes that were so captivating, so enchantingly green they were almost cat-like.

"Green eyes," his conscience whispered. "Just like Aug—"

He shut the thought down before he gave himself a chance to finish it. No. He wasn't doing that again. "Sounds good. But only if we can find someplace quieter."

She stood, reaching out her hand and pulling him from his chair with a wide smile when he offered it. "I know just the place."

Her voice sounded like bells as it bounced off the concrete walls she led him past. It was musical and yet, somehow, oddly annoying. It got into his insides and messed with them, twisting them into a snake pit that ate him from the insides out. He didn't bother to ask how she knew where to find the little room she playfully shoved him into, or where she managed to acquire the bottle of champagne. Instead he dropped on to an old couch that smelled of mildew and mice while she opened the bottle. The music had faded when they'd left the party, the heavy door closing out most of the sound. Still, he was able to pick up a trace of the pounding bass line, the steady thud of the drums, and he reached for it, closing his eyes and following the trail of hard rock that coupled with the reptiles rolling in his guts and activated their teeth. Even as it wounded him, it made him feel alive: hard, fast, and mean, like downing a shot of JD. He opened his eyes, stared into Ursula's as she handed him a glass of champagne and straddled his lap. He locked their gazes, let the stem of the glass slip through his fingers to shatter on the ground, then grabbed her hair and pulled her mouth to his.

She responded unquestioningly.

Great. So now, through no fault of his own, he was the one who couldn't sleep. Like somehow, lying peacefully, in his own room, not bothering anyone, his conscience had somehow let this become all his problem.

He drew himself out of bed, just to walk, just to get rid of some of the nervous tension. His body felt more awake then it had ever felt in his life. Not the wet interior of the coveted sleeve tucked away in his suitcase, not the adored little toy he'd had since he was sixteen and finally managed to get the nerve to put something inside him, not even his own palm had felt as good as that simple touch had. Which was ridiculous, wasn't it? Surely it couldn't make that much difference just because a touch came from was someone else? Or was it because it had been Doren? And if so, exactly how many men had Doren touched to know how to make it feel that good?

The thought shouldn't have made August feel as sick as it did.

"Okay," he told the room. "I want him. I like the way he feels." But that wasn't even true. Yes, Doren had felt good lying beside him. Yes, Doren's touch made him hungry to feel it again. That didn't make August want him though. What August wanted was someone.
The
someone. Mister Perfect. Mister I Will Love You Forever. Doren didn't even come close to that. Roll in some good old-fashioned musing on the whole concept of disease and virus, spiritual cleanliness—as ridiculous as that sounded even to himself—and the whole "want" idea became as unstable as a muddy slope after a rainstorm. Besides, he
liked
the fact that he felt clean. Whole. Unused. It made him different from the rest of the people he knew, even if he was the only that knew it.

So then why was he up? What was he doing wandering towards the door? What exactly, he asked himself, were his plans and how did they involve resting his palm on the latch? He lowered his forehead to the door and closed his eyes. He could muse all he wanted about life paths and future husbands. He could make up every excuse in the book and tell them to himself again and again. The fact of the matter was that he was scared, terrified even. He was scared of getting hurt, physically and emotionally. Scared of having to deal with loss—both on a personal level and the potential of having to shoulder the grief of someone else's. Mostly he was scared of not being good enough. Again.

Against his better judgment August twisted the lock, released the latch, and tried the door. He allowed himself a moment's hope that Doren had locked it from his side, of saving himself the requirement of making the decision to step through the doorway, but that wasn't the case. The door swung open, the room beyond still lit, the bed unmade, and the space completely void of life. It was a big room, but certainly not big enough to hide in. The bathroom door was ajar and August had a mental image of Doren drowned in the hot tub or drugged up and passed out cold on the tile floor. It was fleeting, however. The room was empty.