Not necessarily in a bad way. It wasn’t like Doyle was being rude.
Even at the rehab center, people he met there, including staff, made pleasant comments about his music.
Maybe he doesn’t know who I am?
Clark and the other guy had already left, and yet there they still sat, the guy doing something on his damn phone. Finally, after about five minutes of that, Mevi had enough.
“What are you doing? Are we just gonna sit here all night?”
The guy didn’t even look up. He held up one finger and kept going through his phone. Finally, after another couple of minutes, he lowered his finger but didn’t look up from the phone.
“Rule one—driver controls the music. I might ask you your opinion, but I get the final say.”
Mevi wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “What?”
The guy’s head didn’t move, but his gaze swiveled toward Mevi. “Did you not hear me, or not understand me?”
“What kind of asshole are you?”
Now Doyle turned his head, his dark brown gaze boring deep into Mevi’s. Instead of getting riled up, the guy actually seemed to downshift into a smoother, calmer, stronger gear.
“Rule number two—no insults. We’re adults. Act like one.”
Even the guy’s tone…it didn’t come off snippy. He couldn’t describe it.
“Fuck you.”
Doyle’s focus returned to his phone. “You’re good-looking, but you’re a client, so that’s a hard no, sorry. I don’t sleep with clients. Rule three—you do what I say, when I say it. You need me a lot more than I need you. I’m not an asshole unless you treat me like one, and the first few days between us will be rocky enough anyway, I’m sure. But my job is to get you to Chicago, and help you stay sober, and that’s what’s going to happen if you want to pull your assets out of the fire.”
Doyle’s answer to Mevi’s off-the-cuff insult had caught him off-guard. This guy was an experienced addiction counselor and sober companion? This guy acted nothing like any of the counselors he’d had in rehab.
“You’re not dragging my ass to any twelve-step meetings.”
“As long as you do what I say, that won’t be necessary.”
He’d honestly expected a different answer than that despite what Clark had assured him. “Um…okay. Good.”
Doyle met his gaze again. “You’re probably not going to like this, but we’re dyeing your hair ASAP. Can’t hide that.”
Mevi dodged the statement. It’d been a couple of months since he’d been to a stylist, and his roots were long and obvious. “Where are we going?”
“Sarasota.”
“Florida?”
“I don’t know if there’s another one, but yes, Florida.”
“And we’re driving? Seriously?”
“I’m driving. Seriously.”
“Why aren’t we flying?”
Doyle smiled. “Because either you’re going to like or hate me at the end of this road trip. I don’t care which, to be honest, but you can’t escape me. Driving will keep the paparazzi off our tails. And I happen to be a sadist.”
He hit a button on the phone before tucking it away in the center console and closing the cover.
The opening bars of the overture “Work Song” from Les Mis streamed through the speakers.
Incredulous, Mevi stared at the guy. “Seriously?” Although Mevi would give the guy points for being ballsy.
Doyle grinned as he buckled his seat belt. “I warned you, I am a sadist. Besides, I love this show. And I’m a fan of irony.”
* * * *
But mostly, Doyle was a sadist, even if the guy wouldn’t know he meant it literally, not metaphorically.
He was glad Mevi had immediately recognized the music. That meant they’d be listening to a lot of show tune albums over the next couple of days. Stuff they could either talk over, bond over, or ignore each other over. He had a lot more on his iPod, but hadn’t felt like digging that out of his suitcase tonight.
Working in his office or alone at home, he was usually doing something else he needed to focus on and couldn’t actually listen to the lyrics. In a car, driving, he loved music that told a story.
Hence show tunes.
As Doyle headed east, Mevi stared out the passenger window. “Where are we stopping?”
“Barstow.”
“That’s a shit-hole.”
“You’re not staying at the Ritz now,” Doyle told him. “We’re laying low. Hopefully there’s some place open between here and there I can get you some hair dye tonight. What color are you naturally?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Doyle waited him out even as Jean Valjean and Javert verbally duked it out through the speakers.
“Brown,” Mevi muttered, pulling the hood of his jacket back and taking off his hat.
In the dim light from the instrument cluster and passing street lamps outside, Doyle saw the guy’s roots providing a dramatic contrast to the rest of his hair.
Personally, Doyle thought the silver color made the guy look years older and it wasn’t even slightly flattering, but it was a style he’d had for years, his trademark.
“Might have to go darker than that to get the color out. Would probably be easier if we cut your hair first.” Mevi’s hair was usually somewhat longer than it currently was anyway. At least, it always was in the promo shots and videos he’d seen of the guy. Short, dark hair would make the guy nearly unrecognizable.
“Fine. Whatever.” Mevi turned to the window again.
Doyle mentally revised his plan. He’d get a hotel room for them first, then go out. If he couldn’t find any place open, he’d go out in the morning and they’d do it before they got on the road again. He wanted a good look at the guy in decent lighting before dyeing his hair.
This was something he’d had to do a couple of times with other clients to help disguise them when they’d needed to stay hidden for a few weeks instead of being on a shoot. With an actor, it didn’t matter as long as a wig was being used for shooting. Sometimes, with female clients, he did get them a wig to wear until they were someplace he didn’t have to worry about them being recognized.
Photogs were too good at spotting celebs with sunglasses, hats, and hoodies.
You had to physically change someone’s appearance. Hair was the easiest way to do that.
They rode without talking as Doyle started singing along with the soundtrack. He’d seen the musical a couple of times in traveling productions, never on Broadway. And he had the movie on DVD.
* * * *
If anyone else had told this story to Mevi, he’d be laughing his ass off about now, and he damn well knew it.
But…this was his life.
Doyle didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he’d probably be a top contender at any average karaoke night. And bonus points for knowing all the words and apparently giving zero fucks what Mevi thought of his singing chops.
Grudgingly, Mevi found himself tapping his hand against his thigh in time with the music and even softly singing along with some of the songs. As the Pacific coast drew farther away behind them, he wondered exactly where this road trip would lead.
Or where his recovery path would lead.
He knew he was fucked if he didn’t pull it together. That pissed him off most of all, that somewhere along the way, he’d left his resolve, his will, in the dust.
Like he didn’t even give a shit.
That wasn’t him.
That was nothing like him.
But who was he, really?
He damn sure wasn’t the guy his fans thought he was. Would they even like him if they knew the real him after all the years he spent putting on a fake image for them? Would they still listen to his music?
Would the others in the band be punished professionally for him misleading their fans?
He’d feel horrible if that happened, and was yet another reason for his silence. Collateral damage wasn’t something he wanted on his co
nscience.
He settled in for the ride, since right now, that was all he could do.
Chapter Four
Being well after midnight when they reached Barstow, Doyle ditched his plan to find hair dye. It’d have to wait until morning. Right now, he was more concerned about a room. He found a hotel not far off the highway that looked reasonably clean and safe. Leaving Mevi in the car—and taking the keys with him—he walked into the office to check in, a room with two double beds, telling the desk clerk he was there with his “brother.”
He’d claimed brothers and sisters and daughters and sons and even a father and one aunt—because the actress pitched a fit when he’d said he was going to call her his mother—during his stints as a SC. Since he was never romantic with his clients, there was never any question from hotel staff.
In reality, he was alone in the world, other than his friends. There were some distant cousins he hadn’t spoken to in years, but that was okay. He was at peace with that.
When he returned to the car, he found Mevi staring out his window, into the distant darkness of the desert surrounding the town. He didn’t expect the guy to talk to him yet, but the fact that Mevi wasn’t swearing at him and hadn’t tried to get out and leave were good signs. After driving around the hotel to park in front of their room, Doyle shut the engine off, retrieved his phone from the console, and got out without saying anything. As he pulled the bags he’d need from the back hatch, Mevi finally followed him out and around and got his own things without a word.
Including his guitar case.
There was a little bit of progress. Doyle would hate to have to sit up watching out a window in a darkened room to see if the guy was going to play toddler and sit in the car all night.
One client tried that.
Once.
Unlocking the door and walking in, Doyle found the room acceptable to him after pulling back the covers on the bed closest to the door to make sure there weren’t any signs of bedbugs. Then he turned the AC on and made sure the curtains were securely pulled shut.
The view finder didn’t have a cover on the inside, so he grabbed a piece of tissue and jammed it into the hole.
“What’s that for?” Mevi asked.
“Privacy. Assholes have attachments they can use to film through them.”
“Oh. Shit. I didn’t know that.”
“Always block the view finder if it doesn’t have a cover. And look at the bottom of the door.” He pointed to that one, which had a solid weather seal. “If it’s an interior hotel room, sometimes there’s a small gap. If so, block it with a towel.”
“Thanks. I never knew that.”
“In the morning,” he told Mevi, “I’ll go out and get us breakfast and what we’ll need to cut and dye your hair.”
“Think you can trust me alone that long?” Mevi snarked.
Here we go.
“If I can’t trust you alone for less than an hour, then I guess you’re the one who’s fucked, huh?”
Mevi’s brow furrowed. “Okay, you do realize who the hell I am, right?”
Bingo. Now that Doyle had locked on to a chink in the man’s armor, he could exploit it to draw him out.
“You’re a man who got fucked over by a thief, self-medicated with alcohol as a result, and is facing financial ruin if he can’t get his shit together. Accurate?”
Mevi’s head cocked as he seemed to be studying him. “I mean, Clark told you who I am, didn’t he?”
* * * *
This was…weird. Fascinatingly weird. After sixty days spent in the carefully controlled aquarium that was the rehab facility, it almost felt like he’d been dropped into the Twilight Zone.
Maybe the world had changed a lot in that time, like something out of The Walking Dead, only without zombies.
“You’re Mevi Maynard of Portnoy’s Oyster,” Doyle said. “Yes, I know who you are, and how famous you are. The thing is, I don’t care. You’re my client, my responsibility, and my job is to help you to the best of my ability. Your fame plays no role in that right now except in hindering my ability to help you, because I need to keep you out of the public eye until Chicago.”
“So I take it you’re not a fan then?” Yeah, it was snarky, and he admitted it.
“I have all your albums. I think you’re a very talented man. Again, that plays no role in my job.”
Now Mevi really felt off-balance. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“You’re right.”
Another answer Mevi hadn’t expected, requiring him to regroup. He just couldn’t seem to get his footing around this guy. “You’d better not be some tea-totaling asshole who tells me how easy it is to choose sobriety, either.”
“I’m twenty-four years sober, working on twenty-five. I’d never belittle the battle you’re waging inside you, because I am there in the trenches fighting it as well.” Doyle sat and stared at him as if patiently waiting for Mevi’s next volley.
And that’s what it felt like, that Doyle was some uber-excellent tennis player, calm and poised, and here he was scrambling and tripping all over himself and hitting the pavement face-first while trying to return every verbal shot.
It didn’t help that there was just…something about Doyle drawing Mevi in.
“So why didn’t we take the 10? Wouldn’t that have been a more direct route?”
“I don’t want to go through Phoenix. Too big. Too much a risk of someone recognizing you. We’re going to take the scenic route. When was the last time you were able to go on a road trip and relax?”
Mevi stared at him for a long time. “You’re serious?”
“Yep. If there are any places you want to see along the way, speak up. We’ll try to fit them in.” He unzipped a bag and started going through it, looking for something.
“Why?”
Doyle didn’t look up from what he was doing. “Why what?”
“If you want to hide me, why are we sightseeing?”
“Because once your tour starts, your anonymity ends, and your stress begins in earnest. You just spent sixty days in a highly structured environment where you couldn’t help but succeed because you couldn’t get access to alcohol. Now you need to adjust to this and get your feet under you if you want to hold on to your sobriety. You need time out of your mind to regain direction.”
“Ah. So this where you get preachy with me, right?”
“Nope. No preaching from me.” He had come up with a shower kit and what looked like a pair of shorts. “You need a shower? I had one before we left LA.”
Mevi blinked, staring at him. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’ll only be a minute and then the bathroom’s all yours.” He stood and headed to the bathroom, where the toilet and shower were located. The sink was on a vanity counter outside the bathroom, open to the rest of the room.
Mevi waited until Doyle had closed the door behind him to sit on his own bed. Yeah, that was definitely a chub in his pants over the guy. He couldn’t quite pin him down.
He thought back to Doyle’s comment about not getting involved with clients. That Doyle thought he was good-looking, but…
That meant…
Shit.
That meant the guy was gay.
Fuck. Me.
Mevi swallowed hard. He’d been determined he wouldn’t reveal that secret to anyone.
Now he’d be spending the next two months with a guy he was attracted to.
When Doyle emerged from the bathroom, he’d changed into loose shorts. He stopped at the vanity to wash his hands and brush his teeth and Mevi snuck a look.
From what he could make out, the guy had a nice ass.
Not wanting to get caught, he grabbed his stuff and headed into the bathroom to shower, locking the door behind him. While he hadn’t intended to, now he really needed to rub one out in privacy.
Ironically, it was the first time he’d felt anything remotely like physical attraction in several months. Definitely the first time he’d felt like mastur
bating since before rehab.
Instead of wasting brain cells on thinking about it, he opted to jump into the shower and take care of it. It also provided him with a desperately needed mental diversion.
Taking his cock into his hand, he fisted it and closed his eyes as he rested his head against the wall. His mind quickly spun through a wide variety of sexual fantasies he’d used in the past with good success. Even though he hardened, he realized that none of the usual fare would do the trick.
Fuck it.
He conjured Doyle’s intense brown gaze in his mind and…
There we go.
It didn’t take him long to stroke himself to a fairly intense orgasm, one that left him breathless and shaky in a good way.
Okay, then. If he needed to get through this experience using Doyle as really hot wank fodder, he would. Not like anything would ever come of it. Had to be some professional code prohibiting it, right?
Right.
He finished his shower and threw on a pair of sleep pants. When he emerged, he found Doyle stretched out on his bed and working on his laptop, the TV tuned to the Discovery channel. After Mevi finished getting ready for bed, he climbed in without comment and lay with his back toward Doyle.
“Night,” Doyle said.
Mevi finally grunted. “Night.”
* * * *
Wasn’t the most auspicious of starts, but Doyle would take the win. Mevi had apparently resigned himself to the situation.
For now.
Doyle expected at least one raging bout of pushback at some point, probably sooner rather than later. Maybe once they reached Florida and weren’t on the road any longer.
It would happen.
It always did.
How severe the episode, and what response he used, depended on the client, their personality, and how long they’d been sober. Doyle was hopeful with sixty days in rehab under Mevi’s belt, and a pressing desire to maintain his sobriety, that Mevi’s pushback would be easily managed.