Fighting Addiction Read online

  Sighing, he tugged his cock a little, thinking about how Markus closed his eyes on that last, long note. About how the man meant every word when he sang it. Some days he let himself pretend that Markus knew, that the words were real. The memories.

  He had to stop this.

  Rolling up, he headed for the stair climber. He was about to step on when his phone rang. “’Lo?”

  “Hey, man. Looks like we’re making good time today.” Markus sounded damned cheerful. “You got a half hour you can spare me before we get to work? I have a hook I want to run by you.”

  “You know it. I’ll pop over.” He didn’t allow people on his bus.

  “Sure. Thanks, ba—” Markus stopped mid “baby.” They’d talked on how it was a bad idea for Candy to call him that. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah. I gotta run, man. Bye.”

  “Later.”

  He put his phone down and stepped on the stair climber. Time to run and sweat and stop thinking.

  Please God.

  Chapter Eight

  MARKUS WAS pumped. And sweaty. The first night out on the tour was usually full of headaches, but those worked themselves out in the opening acts, and the sound guys adjusted for him like a dream. Song after song had rolled out, and the fans had screamed just like they were there to see him, not Seb. Jesus, that had made him feel ten feet tall and able to climb mountains. He knew he should go clean up for the end of the show, but he waited the twenty minutes until Seb came on. He had damned near two hours; he wanted to see what Seb was doing for his opening, really see it, not just the walk-through.

  The lights went down, the opening strains of “Cajun Cowboy” started up, and then Seb appeared from the floor, riding what looked like a huge alligator. Show-off. The alligator started bucking a little, and that made Markus cackle like a fool, startling the burly security guy he stood next to. He was going to have to see if he could get a feed on his bus or something. He might need privacy to watch Seb’s show.

  The music sounded tight, the crowd was screaming, Seb’s voice was rocking—Markus could admit that the man put on one hell of a show. There were surfboards and BMX bikes and stuff all over, the extreme-sports theme heavy this year. It was like a bizarre cross between those X Games things and a concert. It suited Seb to the ground.

  The Jumbotron lit up, and the cameraman zoomed in as Seb was doing his “Hey, Nashville” speech, and Markus frowned.

  Jesus.

  Was Seb wearing contacts?

  Markus sure as hell hoped so. Those eyes were… wow. Seb’s pupils weren’t quite pinpoints, but they were small, and Seb’s eyes twitched like he was looking for a predator. Somebody needed to back off whatever diet pills he was on. The only thing that caused that kind of reaction was speed, right?

  He watched Seb move across the stage, jogging and sweating, singing his heart out. The man looked flat-out amazing, but he also seemed a little out of breath. Markus made a mental note to ask about how much caffeine was in those shakes. The camera zoomed in again, on Seb’s hand, which was shaking the littlest bit. Lord knew the man didn’t get scared out there.

  Markus frowned. He’d wait and see how Seb was by the end of the show.

  They still had to work out the weirdass jam sessions that happened at three in the morning. Kyle was going to have a breakdown. Markus had thought about having one too. It was just the craziest schedule ever. Hell, he’d even bothered to look up whether people could live like that, sleeping just a few hours. Markus was pretty sure it was unhealthy as hell.

  Apparently he’d started muttering, because the security guy was giving him the fish-eye and moving away. Markus shook his head, turned, and headed back to the dressing room Tawny had gotten set up for them. The last thing he needed to do was draw anyone else’s attention to Seb’s weird little things.

  There was a huge bouquet of white roses, a dozen Round Rock doughnuts, and a six-pack of Barq’s root beer sitting there waiting for him.

  God, Tawny was a doll. A pain in his butt, but a good woman.

  Markus inhaled three doughnuts, knowing he had to scarf a bunch of them before Kyle checked in. He worked off enough on concert days to eat half of that dozen and not gain a pound.

  He looked at his wardrobe choices for the encore. Jeans, naturally, but… white T-shirt? Black? The hat went without saying. He was wearing his summer straw….

  Seb was in a wifebeater, bright red, so he’d go with white, mess with the cameraman’s balance a little bit. Those guys got bored.

  Grinning, he toweled off, got his shirt off, and put some more deodorant on. Old Spice had never led him wrong. He was contemplating a nap when Kyle knocked and came barreling in like a freight train.

  “Doughnut. Stat,” Kyle grumbled, grabbing a pastry and stuffing half of it in his mouth.

  “How many Weight Watchers points is that, man?”

  Kyle flipped him off and grabbed another one, getting through two-thirds of it before slowing down. “Oh God. I’ve never been so hungry, man. I get like a thousand exercise points for the show.”

  Rule number eighty-four: Don’t mess with a dude and his doughnut.

  Markus held up his hands. “Eat up. We have, what? Another twenty minutes?”

  Kyle nodded. “Something like that, yeah. He’ll go off stage, do his one encore song, and then we’re up again.”

  “Cool.” Markus grinned. “You need to change your shirt.”

  Kyle glanced over at him. “You need to put one on. And wax, for God’s sake.”

  He rubbed his chest, grinning wider. “You don’t like it? I’m not sure the waxed-like-a-surfboard look is for me.”

  “So, what, you’re going for gorilla?” Kyle ducked his halfhearted swing, grabbed one last doughnut, and fled.

  Markus glanced down, tugged at the curls right under his belly button and winced. Yeah. No. No waxing. He’d leave that for Seb.

  That thought had him thumping his cock before he pulled that white T-shirt on. He didn’t have time for the hard-on right now.

  He had to go do the best fucking job on earth.

  SEB LANDED on his dressing room sofa like a hooked fish while they waited for the crowds to disperse. Christ almighty, that had been good. Exhausting and sweaty and if he didn’t get a pill and a bottle of water and a bath, he might die, but good.

  His muscles jerked and burned, the energy slowly seeping out of him enough that he could feel his fingers again. He didn’t have the energy to holler when the door opened and someone slipped into the room with him, even. It wasn’t Bev. Old Spice and the clack of boot heels.

  Candy.

  “Good show.” He lifted one hand, waved, let it fall.

  “Fantastic fucking show, man. You rocked it out.” Candy stopped about three feet from the couch.

  “Thanks.” He squinted a little. “My shades over there, man?”

  The lights were murderous.

  “You bet.” Markus grabbed them for him, handed them over, their fingers not quite touching. “Good job on ‘Dodging Bullets,’ man. That really got the crowd.”

  “I love that one. I didn’t get to see enough of your set, but I could hear the fans.”

  “It was pretty damned great. They sang all the songs.” Candy bit his lip, which always meant he was working up to pointing out the bad now that he’d gone through the good. They did this after every show back in the day, tearing it apart. “I got to ask something, ba—Seb.”

  “Go for it. Was I flat?”

  “No. No, you’re Mr. Perfect Pitch, and you know it.” Sighing, Markus shook his head. “Are you on diet pills?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Quit reading the fucking tabloids.” He wasn’t on any goddamn diet pills.

  “Well then, tell me what’s going on.” Finally settling on a stool he pulled over from the bar, Markus stared at him. “Your eyes are all messed up, and you’ve got the shakes.”

  “The meds make my eyes sensitive to the light, man, but they’re not diet pills. Dr. Norman gives them to
me.” Antidepressants and stuff to help him focus, keep him clear-headed and from wasting his time.

  “You were out of breath a couple of times too.” When he opened his mouth to growl, Markus held up both hands. “I’m just saying what it looks like on the Jumbotron, man.”

  “They just upped my dosage in the last day or so. It’s always hard. No stress.” He needed it. Markus and his doughnuts and nine hours of sleep was just going to have to deal. Damn it.

  Candy tilted his head but didn’t say anything else. Not about that, anyway. “I think we need to streamline the staging between openers.”

  “I talked to Rick about that. I want your band all ready to go in the back behind Fancy, and my guys can set up quick while you’re working it.”

  “Sounds good. You’re the brains, baby.” Markus winked, which just made Seb stare. Stupidly. The man was so fucking hot. So fine. He wanted to tackle the big son of a bitch and just lick and suck and rub.

  Markus cleared his throat, cheeks hot. “Uh. Any tips for me?”

  “Either lift your head up or tell the cameramen to shoot lower. Your face is never on the big screen.”

  “No shit?” Markus shook his head. “I do work the hat too much, huh?”

  “That and you pay a lot of attention to the kids on the floor.” He was sensitive to that one because he’d been called on it. A lot.

  “Oh hell. I never even thought of that. I’ve never had a stage setup quite like this.” Nodding, Markus rolled his head on his neck. “Thanks.”

  “You know it.” He stretched, wincing as his sweaty shirt pulled. “You okay?”

  “Just wore out, I think. You okay?”

  “Sweaty. I hate this part—waiting to go to my bus, shower, jack off. You know, let all this go somewhere.”

  “I….” Those dark eyes dipped to his crotch. “You know it.”

  “You guys want to jam with us tonight? We go from three to six.” It was a bonding thing. A safer bonding thing than he wanted. He wanted to bond with a certain hard body.

  Sebastian. Stop it.

  “I’ll bet Kyle sleeps tonight, but I’ll sit in.” Markus actually looked surprised.

  “Yeah? It’s more fun than you’d think. We call it rehearsal, but it’s a jam session.”

  “Then I’m in.” That grin was megawatt.

  “Bring your guitar to the band’s bus when we stop at three.” There would be coffee, laughter, and music.

  “I can do that.” Markus stood, stretching a moment.

  He let himself admire, knowing Markus couldn’t see his eyes. “You glad to be on the road again?”

  “I am. It’s weird, to be without the band, you know? But it’s good.”

  Seb nodded. He’d seen how choked up Markus had gotten singing “West Texas Town.” It had been the man’s first hit, and the guys in the band had all been there for it. You got into a groove with the band, and Markus hadn’t hit that with his new guys yet.

  “It’ll happen for you. Abe loves you already.” He thought Kerry and Jonny were considering jumping ship. Of course, Bruce thought Kerry might be pregnant too.

  “I know. The best part of the night is being onstage with you.”

  “Hell, yes.” There was nothing like that—playing and singing, touching each other easily, the screaming crowd, the lights. It was sex, but better, because it could be real.

  “I guess the buses will be ready, huh?” Markus shifted from foot to foot, looking restless as hell.

  He looked at the clock. “Ten minutes or so, yeah. Bev will let me know. You want me to get security to walk you to yours?”

  “No. No, I just don’t want to bug you, baby. I know you like to decompress. I couldn’t sit in my dressing room anymore, though.”

  “So sit, dork. We’re friends, for fuck’s sake. Have a fucking piece of pineapple, and we’ll watch cartoons on the TV.”

  Markus could be so fucking complicated.

  Blinking, Markus chuckled, then came to sit on the couch. “I wonder if Bev could bring me a sandwich.”

  “Shit. Bev could bring you an entire cow dressed like a platter of fried chicken. What kind do you want?” He grabbed his phone, hit Boss.

  “Moo.” Then Markus’s eyes lit up. “Fried chicken.”

  “Hey, lady. The hairy-monkey redneck wants fried chicken.”

  “You got it,” Bev said without missing a beat. “Breast or thighs?”

  “Bring both, and he doesn’t like the weird gravy on his potatoes.”

  “Coleslaw?”

  Man, he’d forgotten how complicated food was.

  “No, just biscuits.”

  Markus grabbed the remote, started looking for something, a goofy grin on his face.

  “Anything for you, honey? Something?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Okay. Okay. You—you have pineapple, right?”

  “I do.” He grinned, not even looking.

  “Okay. I’m on it.” She hung up, and he knew it would be less than fifteen minutes.

  “Thanks,” Markus murmured, settling on some pawn shop show.

  “Have you seen the one set in Alexandria? That main guy looks just like my Uncle Beau.”

  “No shit? He always had the best hair.”

  “Still does. I went to see Maman a few months ago, and me and Beau chatted.” Maman didn’t know him from Job, really, not anymore. It had been a couple of years since the dementia had taken her away. He sent money to Sister to keep her comfortable and happy and just stayed away, and Uncle Beau was local and all, so he knew she was being taken care of.

  It confused her to see him and hurt his heart to see her like that.

  Markus didn’t ask how Maman was, and he was grateful. They just moved on. “I always liked Beau when he came to the show. Did I tell you who called, wanting an interview? Wacey Carrol. You remember him? The guy from that rodeo show we did back at the beginning?”

  “No shit? I was at his place… oh, shit. Three years ago? Four? He taught me how to ride bulls.” Well, tried to. Sebastian had broken his wrist, his collarbone, and his ankle before the label stepped in.

  “Adrenaline junkie.” He got an elbow in the ribs, sharp as anything, those long old arms covering the distance between them.

  “Uh-huh. I seem to remember you damn near losing a thumb playing high school roper.”

  “What?” That gimme cap dipped to shade Markus’s eyes just like the cowboy hat did during concerts. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh. You can bullshit some of the people….”

  “Oh, fuck you.” Markus dug into Seb’s ribs again.

  He cracked up. “You wish, redneck.”

  “Of course I do.” Markus gave him a noogie before sitting up.

  That made him grin. “Lord, look at that car, man. Can you imagine how fast that little thing goes?”

  By the time Bev showed with Markus’s dinner, they were fighting over the price of an antitank gun and planning to race speedboats in Florida.

  Bev knocked and slipped in holding a bag. “Fried chicken, no weird gravy potatoes, and biscuits. I also brought iced tea. Here’s your vitamins, Sebastian.”

  “Thanks, honey.” He took the handful with some tea. “You see the show?”

  “I did. You were great. Both of you.”

  “Thank you. You’ve told the drivers to….”

  “Stop at three and at six. Yes, Seb. I know.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I’ve got your back.” She smiled, pushing her hair off her face. She was looking less put-together every day. Must be Candy’s influence. “Anything else?”

  “No, honey. Tomorrow we’re in… Memphis? Get some sleep.”

  “Thanks.” She looked tired, her ass dragging a little when she left.

  Markus held up the bag of chicken. “You want me to go eat this somewhere else, right?”

  “Why? I’m not hungry. Go for it.” He didn’t hate food; he just didn’t e
at it.

  “I wasn’t sure. Bev kinda led me to believe you’d have a fit if faced with real food.” Sitting back, Markus opened the bag and pulled out a biscuit. “Tawny would have my hide for this.”

  “So long as you don’t try to feed it to me or pull it on me in the mornings, I’m good.” They should all have Markus’s metabolism.

  “Well, I won’t say I don’t wish you would have a bite.” The other biscuit went next.

  “I’ll get fat.” He had the shakes, the pineapple.

  “Bullshit. You’re all bone.” This time when Markus touched his ribs it was gentle, almost tickly.

  “That’s because I’m on the diet.” He stretched, the pills kicking in again, waking him up.

  “Why?” The potatoes disappeared in three spoonfuls.

  “Why what?” He stood up, got some water, a piece of pineapple. Itchy. God, the new dose made him a little itchy.

  Frowning, Markus munched a chicken strip. “Why are you on a diet?”

  “Because I get pudgy in the middle.” He sucked down the bottle of water.

  “I’ve seen you do crunches.”

  “Every fucking day, man.” They were his warm-up.

  “I know. So don’t bullshit me.” Markus polished off the last chicken.

  “I have to do it.” He shrugged. “It’s a thing.”

  It made him feel in control of a life that moved too fast to see.

  “Well, I guess I can see that.” Right. Markus appeared pretty dubious. Still, if anyone had no room to talk it was Mr. Rehab.

  “If everyone would pay attention to their own damned pants size, they’d stop ragging on me.”

  “Well, unlike the press, Bev and I are just worried, baby.” Markus leaned over and gave him a short, hard kiss on the mouth before getting up and heading for the door. “I’ll see you at three. I’m willing to lose sleep for you.”

  “Then I’m a lucky son of a bitch.” Although Sebastian knew it was for the music.

  It was always for the music.

  Chapter Nine

  THE MUSIC was still throbbing in Markus’s ears when he went looking for Sebastian. They’d been jamming on the band’s bus, but they weren’t leaving at six, since they had three days before the next concert. No, they were letting all of the crew have a breather until nine, and Markus figured that was the perfect time to beard the lion in his den. They’d done three and a half weeks of shows, and Markus had finally gotten to sit and watch Seb’s show all the way through again for the first time in ages.