THREE
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DANTE
I froze. My tongue still inside the boy’s mouth. His legs still locked around my waist. I couldn’t move—until Roger grabbed hold of my arm and tore me away.
The boy scrambled off the dressing table, almost falling as his legs hit the floor, and I barely suppressed a grin at the idea kissing me had made him weak in the knees.
“Get the fuck out,” Roger barked, barely sparing him a glance.
The boy’s gaze darted from Roger’s face, to the beefy hand clutching my bicep, and then up to my face. I got the impression he wanted to speak out on my behalf, but I knew it would only make things worse. “You’d better go,” I told him, trying for a reassuring nod.
He bit down on his bottom lip as he picked up his camera and headed for the door. The instant he closed it behind him, Roger shoved me away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“What’s the problem?” I turned to face the dressing table. It had to be nearly time for the finale, otherwise my father wouldn’t be here. “This is hardly the first time I’ve brought a groupie back to my dressing room. You’ve never cared before.” My grey-eyed boy was no groupie, but it was probably better if Roger didn’t know that.
“That’s different, you stupid brat,” he growled, hands on his hips as he glared at me. “Nobody gives a crap how many girls you screw, Dante. But that wasn’t a girl.” He jabbed a thick finger at the closed door. “That was a fucking boy.”
“So what? We were only kissing.” Crouching to look in the mirror, I fingered my hair back into place. The curls were a little on the frizzy side, but they would have to do. I’d only be on stage for a few minutes anyway. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Is that what you think?” My arm yanked behind me as he spun me around to face him. “What if someone other than me had walked in on you? Or what if that boy decides to tell the world what happened here?” He took a step forward, forcing me to back up. “Son, your career is built on the wet dreams of girls with too much babysitting money and boys who would give their right arm to be Dante Sinclair. How many dollars do you think they’ll spend on your next album, if you turn out to be a fucking twink?”
Gritting my teeth, I looked away. I’d been drilled on the elements of rock stardom since I was old enough to strum a chord. Roger firmly believed music legends were made through publicity. Talent provided a foundation sure, but after that, reputation meant everything. Public shows of arrogance, bad behaviour, getting drunk in clubs I was too young to be allowed into in the first place. It was all part of his plan to keep my name front and centre with the media, but only for reasons of his choosing. None of those reasons included getting caught kissing a boy.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Roger said as he opened the door. “You’re due on stage in a few minutes. Get your arse out there and do your job.”
Shoving past him, I stormed back out to the backstage area, where the musicians who weren’t still performing waited for the finale to begin. Roger followed me every step of the way.
My gaze darted furtively around, searching for the boy with the grey eyes. I was overcome by a sudden need to find him, to speak to him one more time before it was too late. He was the only boy I’d ever kissed, and I didn’t even know his name. I finally spotted him in the same corner where I’d first seen him, his camera slung around his neck and his hands buried deep in his back pockets. He was busy pretending to ignore me.
I grinned, taking a step towards him, but a hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Don’t even think about it.” The words were low and dark in my ear as Roger put his other hand against my side, pressing his fingertips against the bruise on my ribcage until I winced. The implication was clear. If I defied him any further, there would be consequences.
“I only want to say goodbye,” I insisted, glaring at him over my shoulder. “I could ask him to keep what happened between us to himself.”
Roger rolled his eyes as he released me. “And admit he has something over you? I don’t think so.” He shook his head at my apparent stupidity and handed me a microphone. “Love your fans, Dante, but don’t ever trust them. Remember, everyone you meet wants something from you, including him.” He used his chin to gesture to the boy before looking down at me, his anger morphing into apparent concern for my welfare. “That’s why I will always be here to protect you, son. Even if the person I’m protecting you from is yourself.”
His words rankled, even though I knew they were true. My father had protected me in more ways than I could count. From sleazy producers who wanted more from me than music. From gold diggers and frenemies who would have used my back for target practice. He’d even gone so far as to create his own record label to protect me from badly worded contracts that would have seen my hard work make others rich while leaving me penniless by comparison. But all that protection came at a cost and I paid my dues in obedience. Any time I dared to defy him, or our tempers clashed, there was no one to protect me from him.
“What do you say to skipping the after-party tonight?” he suggested, as if sensing the rebellious nature of my thoughts. “We’ll go back to the hotel, order enough room service to choke a pig. It’ll be just the two of us.”
I frowned, surprised he would even make such an offer. Roger wasn’t really thestay in and order room servicetype. He thrived on the buzz of celebrity life and the doors my fame opened for both of us. Having his attention solely on me for a whole night was almost unheard of these days. There had to be some sort of catch.
“What do you want, Roger?” I asked him. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. You don’t have to butter me up with bullshit.”
“Watch your language,” he snapped, but I met his glare head-on. He couldn’t lay a finger on me in front of so many witnesses, and we both knew it. He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can’t I want to spend time with my son on his birthday?”
My frown deepened. “You remembered my birthday?”
“Of course, I remembered.” He looked down at me. “Whatever you are to those people out there,” he said, motioning to the nearby stage, “you’re my son first, Dante. I love you.”
A bubble of desperate pleasure rose from deep within my gut. It wasn’t welcome—not when I still wore the evidence of last week’s rage on my body. But I couldn’t stop it showing up, all pathetic and grateful. It made me sick. “Can we order cake?” I asked grudgingly.
With a hearty laugh Roger clapped me on the back, avoiding the partially healed welt on my right shoulder-blade. “We’ll order the biggest cake we can get our hands on and eat the whole damned thing. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I forced a smile, figuring I might as well try to enjoy the fatherly affection while it lasted. “Thanks, Dad.”
He blinked at my use of the title. I never used it in public, given our client-manager relationship, and I’d slipped out of the habit of using it in private. But that didn’t change the fact we were the only family each other had left. Roger nodded in acknowledgment, giving me a rare, genuine smile. “You’re welcome, son.”
