The Gift (16 page)

He pushed both August and Morana from his mind; at that moment he had Doren to deal with. He would lay bet to his belief that Doren didn't even know how long they'd been sitting there. Just drifting, drinking in the music, with closed eyes and face turned up to the ceiling ... Jealousy clawed at Anton's belly. Oh, to be that young and beautiful, to have that much power. What he could have done with it instead. Life was, truly, most unfair.

"You like them," Anton grinned when Doren finally opened his eyes and found himself again. It was a statement, not a question. Anton had known Doren would. That was the whole plan.

"They're okay, I guess. Where's August?"

Even to his mind's eye Anton knew his look of concern wasn't entirely convincing. He tended to struggle with concern. It meant, for that moment at least, that one was feeling more for that with which was being dealt with than one did of one's self. And that was just all kinds of foolish. "He left with Morana."

Doren rose, a flush of surprise on his face, but Anton reached for him, soothing Doren back into the chair. "Relax. He just had a touch too much to drink and wasn't feeling well. Morana is seeing that he gets back to the hotel. He didn't want to disturb the evening and asked me to let you know he'd meet you back there."

Doren looked doubtful.

"He's your assistant, Doren," Anton clucked. "You know he's not going to let a bout of illness get in the way of an important work event." Anton decided to tempt his hand and see just how far the music had taken Doren already. Was it feasible that they'd manage to worm themselves through? "I could make arrangements to have you driven back if you think you need to go?"

Doren paused, trying to read Anton's face, and Anton almost smirked at him.
Not my mind, boy, but nice try.

"I dunno … was he all right?"

Anton waved Doren's concern away. "Of course! Nothing we haven't all done at one point or another, right? He's young, still learning." Doren turned his gaze back to the band. "But for the important things, the reason that we're here. Tell me, Doren, what do you think of the band?"

Doren shrugged. "Why are you asking me? You're the big music guru, aren't you?"

"I am," Anton smiled. "But I don't have your ears, Doren. And let's face it, no one experiences music quite like you do, do they?"

Doren's eyes narrowed, again trying to read him, trying to decide if he was actually hearing the implication in Anton's words. He decided he wasn't and Anton smirked.
Oh, you bet I know, Doren. I know all about you. I know more about you then you even know about yourself.

Doren nodded once before replying, "The musicians are amazing. The writing is great, both lyrically and instrumentally." He pursed his lips and stared at the stage. "They lose it on the vocals though. The singer is painfully weak."

When Doren stopped and listened again, Anton itched to touch him. Just to see if he could feel it racing through Doren's blood. "It's a shame," Doren continued. "They'd probably have something pretty good there with the right guy singing."

Anton raised an eyebrow, feigning the dawning of sudden inspiration. "Doren, yes! Yes, you're right!" He waited to catch the inquisitive look, and when it came, "Why not you?"

Doren gave Anton a look as if the man had gone insane. "Me? No thanks. I don't work with a band."

"But why not? It's not like you don't need musicians to play for you anyway?"

Doren bristled defensively. "And what's wrong with the musicians that I have already?"

Anton gave him a sideways look. "Oh, come on now. There's no need to get protective. They're just hired guys, Doren, it's not like you know them. Besides, look at this crew. They're good looking, they've got great stage presence, and let's face it, if you've got to stand beside a bunch of guys on a magazine cover, these guys would make a good collection, don't you think?"

Anton reached for Doren's arm, dragging his attention away from the stage and back to the table. "Sorry, correction, standing
behind
you on a magazine cover." They held each other's gaze for a minute before Doren dropped his eyes and searched the table for his beer. "Of course, there's no need to make any decisions right away. Think it over. Give it some time. There's no rush."

"Oh, hey!" Mock-inspiration illuminated Anton's expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a CD. "I just happen to have their demo with me. Why don't you take it? Give it some speaker time and see if you warm up to the concept. You never know, they might grow on you."

Doren took the CD and flipped it over cautiously. The shiny surface caught the stage lights and prisms of color flashed through the room; hot red slashes over the white faces of the audience, brilliant blue that sliced through the band as they played, and silver streaks that screamed against black walls.

"Couldn't hurt to listen, I guess." Doren tucked the CD into his jacket pocket. "I'll put it in tomorrow back at the hotel."

Anton smiled, leaning back into the darkness to shroud his face from his guest, unsure that even he could hide the self-satisfied smugness that he knew danced in his eyes. He pulled out a set of keys from his own pocket and casually loosened the last three fingers of his fist, the Lotus key fob dropping out in a perfectly planned tease. Doren's eyes lit with interest. "Here," Anton said. "Why don't you take my car? It's got an awesome sound system and you can really amp it up on the way back to the hotel."

Doren reached for the keys even as he tried to talk himself out of it. "I'm not so sure I should be driving."

Anton smiled, dropping the keys into Doren's eager palm. "Ah, that's what I have lawyers for."

He took the corner way too fast, laughing when he felt the tires slide and then grab, slamming against the door as the wheels reseated themselves, and then lurching in time with the vehicle as it snapped back into full acceleration. The stereo system was blaring, filling the space with pounding sound, and he lifted his head to the roof of the Evora and howled like a wolf. The car responded like a jungle cat, tearing up the street, engine slipping easily from sexy purr to outright roar. The combination of the furious vehicle and the intense music lit his body, ripped through his soul and settled somewhere down around his crotch. Doren felt like a superhero. And then there was that something, so much clearer in the perfectly mixed demo then it had been live, a murmur that ran deep down under the music and teased his senses. It called him, then ran; it seduced him, then slipped away.

He whipped past the hotel, stomping on the brakes so hard they screamed, and turned the car in a sharp one-eighty, whipping around and stopping hard at the entrance. He was flushed when he handed the keys to the attendant.

"Shall I arrange to send it back to the studio, sir?"

Doren laughed, reaching in to the car to dislodge the CD from the player. He slid it into his jacket pocket, patting it for security. "No fucking way. Park it."

He trotted up the stairs, through the hall, and into his room where he popped the CD into the DVD system and resumed the performance where he had left it. It didn't cross his mind to make sure August was okay. Or even make sure he was there at all.

The cool breeze that swung through the curtains called him. He knew he was dreaming; only in a dream did the feet have to follow the eyes no matter what. Because, somehow, someway, August was already sure that the last place he wanted to be was on the other side of those swinging drapes. They floated in an ominous roll of fabric, like poisonous gas over land, squirming like thousands of irritated insects. The room was familiar—Doren's room—and August's heart beat a frantic call of longing for him. He knew Doren was on the balcony, past those clinging, swaying, breathing folds of material, but even still, he struggled to find the courage to press past them. A horrible, panicked arrangement of music drifted through the open door; it chattered in his mind—thousands upon thousands of busy teeth. August opened his mouth to call out, to bring Doren back through to him instead, but speech failed. A fresh gush of wind blew into the room; it swept right through the thin fabric of his shirt, freezing his skin and chilling his resolve. Yet it also brought a harsher sound, closer, scarier, and with it came a sense of urgency. He had to act now or it would be too late.

With a deep breath August closed his eyes and pushed back the drapery. It enveloped him, wrapped him, and his head was filled with the sounds of hell: tortured agony, screaming insanity, the tear and crunch of bones and sinew. August rushed past it, whipping the drapes off of him, forcing the sound away with it. But it was not the balcony that August found himself on at all. Fires burned in rages, hard rock glistened, and falling ash littered the ground. August looked forward and there, standing at the edge of a jagged overhang, Doren stared into the darkness below. August found his voice, finally, and called out, but the words were stolen by arid wind and stinging sand.

Still Doren turned, hearing him without the need of voice, and reached. Yet in that second of contact the roar of a crowd pulled Doren's attention away, back to the ledge. "Look, Auggie," he spoke as though into August's mind. "Look at all the people."

August had never known such trepidation as what he felt walking towards the precipice and peering over the edge. Below them massed a stinking throng of tens of thousands of bodies: twisting, screaming, and writhing. Sweating together as one great beast.

"Jesus," August gasped and pulled back. "Doren, you have to move away. Stay away from them."

Doren lifted his eyes briefly, rapture burning in the blue, his smile greedy. The crowd began to lure him, chanting his name as one, and Doren smiled, lifting his arms in a welcoming salute. "My people, Auggie. My fans."

"Doren, those are not people."

August's words fell on deaf ears. It wasn't until the first set of dirty, broken fingernails began to scrabble over the edge that August rushed Doren and tried to force him away. Another set of hands followed the first, then another, and another, not only gaining purchase on the ground but also catching hold of Doren's ankles and legs. August pulled. They pulled. But no matter how hard August tried, he knew that one man could not defeat an army. Doren's body began to sway, to totter towards the crowd and the edge.

When Doren turned back again, fear and confusion had replaced the adoration that had been on his face. August cried out for him, gritting his teeth as he tried desperately to keep Doren in place.

"Help me, Auggie," Doren begged. "Please help me!" But it was too late. Even as August leaned all his weight back, willing to die in his place if it would mean keeping Doren from falling forward, Doren's body had already started to tumble. August cried out, cursing, screaming Doren's name as his body slipped into the abyss and fell on the squirming mass. Doren reached up, August's name still on his tongue as Doren's body was absorbed by the crowd.

August woke in a panic, his throat raw, his clothes drenched in sweat. His brain pounded in his head as badly as his heart did within his chest. He was hit with a fit of nausea and scrambled from the bed, making it to the bathroom just in time to heave into the sink. An awful dream brought on by an awful lot of booze, he told himself. August racked his brain and came up empty; he couldn't even remember leaving the restaurant, though bits and pieces of conversation stuck with him, igniting unreasonable flashes of fear. A memory of something awful scratched at the surface of his mind but the fog of whatever he had drank, done, or been given the night before held it firmly at bay.

The sight of his wrinkled clothes distressed August far more than he could understand. Had he been dumped into bed and left there? By whom? Surely Doren would have thought to take the suit off him? Apprehension swept through him; had Doren made it back all right? Had they traveled together? He peeled the clothes off his body, tossed them into a pile, and threw on one of the hotel robes. Then, oddly nervous, August checked the door that would bring him to Doren's room. And for the first time since they'd been there, the door was locked on Doren's side. Go figure; the one time when he had an insatiable urge to get through it.

Fifty bucks lighter and ten minutes later August was let into the room by a nervous cleaning lady. He was grateful, and far more skeptical of the hotel's security, when he waved the woman away and watched her scurry down the hall.

The room was enveloped in blackness and had a musky animal odor that curled August's lip and tried to push him back out. He flicked on the desk lamp, the only other light in the room the red eye of the stereo system, and walked to the bed. Doren slept on top of the covers, his body dewy with sweat and the sheets below him drenched. August reached for his forehead—cautious, breathing too hard—and let out a sharp squeal when Doren grabbed his wrist in a panic. Doren sat straight up, his spine rigid, his eyes wide.

"It's okay, it's only me."

With a deep moan Doren fell back to the sheets. "Please, don't touch me."

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head, slowly, as if trying not to displace anything. "Nothing. Just too much. My head is killing me."

"I'll call a doctor," August said, reaching for the phone.

"No!" Without any warning, Doren swatted the phone from his hand and it clattered to the floor. "I'm fine. I just drank too much and I feel like shit. Leave me alone, August. My head is pounding and I can barely sit up."

"Oh." August tried not to let his wounded pride sound in his voice. It wasn't unreasonable that Doren wanted to be alone if he felt like crap. August wouldn't want anyone around either. Probably. Maybe. "I'll come back later?"

Doren had already turned on his side, his back to August. "Later. Okay. I'll come see you later."

He dragged himself out of bed an hour later feeling hung over and itchy. The shower didn't help; the bursting water beat on his ragged nerves and made his ears ache. Food didn't help; it rolled in his stomach like poison. He didn't even attempt coffee. Or daylight. Even the thought of sliding the blinds open was enough to send shocking flashes through his skull deep enough that he felt them in his teeth. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his temples, trying to ignore the flash, flash, flash of the DVD system. They must have had a power outage. Not that he recalled one. Not that he recalled much of anything—just the righteous car and the killer music and the way it had made him feel. He'd been up until well past four a.m., looping the CD, more impressed with it every time it played. Within an hour he'd been mouthing the words and by two he'd known them, singing along as if they were his own. But it was obvious that the lack of sleep was catching up with him. Doren couldn't remember a time when he'd woken up feeling quite so crappy. And he knew that if that DVD system didn't stop flashing in his face he was going to end up smashing it into the wall. Gritting his teeth Doren reached for it, his hand hovering over the play button. He couldn't say why the temptation was there, but instead of powering it down, instead of snuffing the light out of sight and out of mind, Doren pressed it on. The CD whirled in its compartment and a rush of music poured out of the speakers. Instantly his headache faded and his mind opened with a burst of energy.