The Gift (3 page)

He looked down at his new assistant, fast asleep on his shoulder. August was going to be pissed with himself when he realized where he'd spent the last hour or so. Doren didn't mind. It gave him a chance to get a good look.

August was cute: nice face, slim body, awesome ass even in hideously tailored off-the-rack slacks, not to mention a mouth that made Doren hard just by looking at it. But none of those things explained the draw Doren felt, that tingle in his sub-conscious, the pull that Doren felt when he caught August's eyes with his own. He loved the way August seemed to go all on-guard when Doren had his attention, and the way August bit the inside of his cheek when he was trying not to say something that he desperately wanted to.

It was odd. And cool. But it was the oddity that was making Doren nervous. It wasn't like he didn't have his choice of hot bodies. Men, women, potentially eithers or boths, were coming out of the woodwork now, falling over their own feet to get into his bed. He had no reason whatsoever to fight anyone for attention. Yet, for some reason, that was exactly what Doren wanted to do. He wanted August's attention—all of it—and that wasn't a good place for Doren to be. He hadn't grown up with a lot, had been poor as dirt for most of his life. When one grew up in foster homes and government centers, one learned quickly that you either got out or you got stuck. He'd gotten out. But he'd worked hard to do it. For that reason alone he tended to fall to the wrong side of self-important too often. If he asked for something, he wanted it. And he wanted it right then and there, without question or argument. He gave attitude. He didn't get it.

Yet as quiet and awkward as August was, it was obvious the man had a mind of his own and wasn't afraid to use it. Like when they'd shown up at the apartment to pick August up. August had been waiting, like Diana had directed him to. He'd had his luggage outside, all ready to go, with his identification in order and his paperwork completed and signed, just like he'd been told. He'd even, as directed, been dressed casually, with jeans and a rock-tee of The Smiths, one of Doren's personal favorites. But over it all August had worn the jacket for that damn suit. Doren could tell by the glint in August's eye when he saw Doren looking at it that August had done it on purpose, too. So had it been wrong for him to take offense? Was it wrong that he had done what any man who needed to assert superiority would have done in the same position? Was it a bad thing that he had pulled rank?

Perhaps, Doren considered, making August take the jacket off right then had there had been a little much. Maybe insisting that August would not be allowed to step one foot on the bus before the offensive clothing was gone had crossed some boundaries. One thing was very clear, however. August had been furious. And while August had fumed in silence, Doren had stood his ground, eyes mocking, mentally egging August on. How far could he push before August told him to fuck off? Considering August had to force himself to stutter words since the moment they had meant, Doren thought it might be fun to see if August could get a little spicy when nudged.

He hadn't. He'd stood there, stoically steaming, and taken the jacket off. So Doren had pushed harder. For no good reason—none at all—just to see if he could away with it, Doren had stepped off the bus, reached for the jacket, and then dropped it on the sidewalk. It had still been on the walkway, a deserted, crumpled pile of cloth, when they'd driven away.

August hadn't spoken a word while he was shown around the bus. He remained quiet as he was introduced to the guys who would be playing for Doren on the tour. It wasn't until they were back at the front of the bus with the sun streaming in through the windows that Doren noticed the defeated expression in August's eyes. And it had made his stomach tighten like he was about to be sick. He'd been expecting anger, playful taunting, maybe even some flirtatious back and forth to make the drive go a little quicker; not hurt feelings. He'd been swept with the urge to stop August, pull him aside, and whisper that he was sorry. But that wasn't going to happen. Not there. Not in front of everyone. So instead he offered August a drink, and August had merely lifted his chin, took a breath, and looked past Doren instead of at him. "No. That's my job."

Then he'd gotten up, grabbed Doren a beer, selecting the brand that was piling up beside Doren's chair already and popped the lid. "Glass?"

Doren had shaken his head, feeling strangely chastised, and they'd sat without conversation while August made notes in his planner. August had fallen asleep a few hours later while Doren was playing with the guitar, strumming the strings slowly and methodically, letting the guitar weep to the hum of the tires. Doren had finally put it down an hour ago, hoping to get some shut-eye himself, and when he'd leaned back against the couch August's head had slipped against his shoulder. Doren's response to August's closeness had been immediate: all those light curls against his cheek, August's breath on his neck, August's chest, much firmer than it looked, pressed against his arm—and it was total madness, Doren was sure of it. If August had been a groupie he would have made a move right then and there, no matter who else was on the bus or what they were doing. But he wasn't. August was his assistant—his employee. And how he was going to deal with that fact with the way his body had felt at the moment, Doren didn't have a single clue.

He knew one thing though; it was going to be a long trip if he didn't get a hold of himself.

The bus shuddered and slowed and August opened his eyes to still-dark skies.

"Morning, sunshine."

The closeness of Doren's voice shocked him and he looked up quickly, confused and displaced, the color flooding his cheeks instantly. Oh, God, no. Please no … "I'm so sorry," August muttered, struggling upright. "You should have just pushed me away."

"Are you kidding me? You can fall asleep on my shoulder any time," Doren teased, his eyes roving over August as if August was breakfast being served just for him.

The door opened in front of them and the bus driver walked through the cabin, eyes on the floor, doing his best to pretend he couldn't hear the conversation. August watched the expression change in Doren's face, watched Doren's eyes shield over before Doren leaned in close and spoke, just a little louder, a little more cocky, "Next time why don't you try it in my lap?"

August pulled back, disgusted, and with a quick snap of heel to floor and a stiffening of spine, Doren stood and left the bus. Within minutes August could hear the busy sounds of people digging out luggage and the casual laughter of the musicians. He needed to get his ass up, get himself in gear and make sure all of Doren's stuff got where it needed to be, check the room was up to par and ready. Instead he sat for a long stretch of minutes, staring blankly at the front of the hotel.

"I've made a mistake," August told himself, listening to his voice echo in the empty vehicle.

There was a time in August's life when he stood back and let people do what people did without fighting back. He was raised to let his parents make the decisions, to listen to his superiors and smile and nod. Stand with the crowd, not against it. Be part of the scene, but never fight it. It had made both his parents very comfortable. His father was an Executive Director at a marketing firm. His mother was the Distributions Manager at a cosmetics company. They both went to church on Sunday and were active in their community. In fact, they spent far more time on work and society than they'd ever spent with him. When August finally worked himself free of that knot, retreating to college to pursue music as not just an escape but as a career, he'd been convinced he'd finally get a chance to shed himself of smug, self-righteous posturing. College had proved that falsehood immediately. The professors, the staff, even the other students had been lousy with it. They were either better than everyone else, knew more than everyone else, or just downright full of themselves. His roommate had been a nightmare. His job had been a joke. Then this. This job. That had seemed like a perfect way to round things up and get himself back on stride … and all he'd ended up with was more crap. The hero he'd admired behind the gloss and glitz of advertisements and interviews was just another self-important, smug prick with an indulgence for showing off in front of a crowd.

Maybe it was time to go home, accept his father's suggestion of an entry-level position and dig his heels into becoming a marketing guru; sell his soul for the promise of a forty-hour workweek and weekends off, buy a house in the suburbs, and wait for death.

August took a deep breath and was just about to stand when Doren hopped back in the bus. He walked up a step and leaned against the railing. They looked at each other for a long time, but it was Doren who broke the pause. "So are you coming?"

It was now or never. Tell Doren to pound off and go home, a couple of hundred bucks lighter from the return bus fare, or take the bull by the horns and tough it out. After all, what had he been expecting? Doren was in the throes of becoming the 'Next Big Thing' and people had been treating him like he was made of gold for months now. The young ones worshipped him, the rest wanted to fuck him, and anyone with an ounce of ability wanted to cash in on him.

And what was it that his mother used to tell him? When he was lamenting a relationship or lack thereof with what he'd thought had been his next Mr. Right? That all men were just boys with a few extra inches, including him, his father and her own dad. Now if only he could remember whether her advice had been to kill that with kindness … or not spare the rod.

Doren lifted his eyebrows, questioning August's lack of response, and finally followed with his hands.

August shook his head and stood. "Of course I am. Let's get this show on the road."

It was official. August hated him. Doren had seen it written all over August's face while August sat in the bus trying to figure out if he was going to run for his life or not. August hadn't needed to say that's what he'd been thinking. An infant could have figured it out by expression and body language alone. For a few moments Doren had considered handing the pouting man a bus schedule with a wave and a smile. "Just get the fuck out of here then," he'd heard himself say. "I don't need this from you."

Who the fuck did August think he was anyway? Last time Doren had checked, August was the assistant and he was the boss. So why was he the one tossing and turning instead of sleeping? Why was he the one who felt like a big bag of shit?

"Because I'm an idiot, that's why," Doren grumbled into his pillow. A smart man would walk down to the lobby and "accidentally" let himself get seen by a handful of groupies, bring them back up to his room, and fuck each one of them until he finally fell asleep. "No," he corrected himself aloud. "Fuck all of them." At once.

He flipped on to his side and slammed the mattress in frustration, staring at the door that separated their hotel rooms. It was locked, from August's side; Doren had checked when he came in. The memory of that moment had Doren rolling his eyes at the darkened ceiling. Okay, he got it. August was going to play the part of the demure, righteous assistant and he was supposed to be the dashing, daring wild-boy that would tempt him. He snorted out loud, convincing himself it was in distaste and not frustration. After all, Doren got what he wanted. And if Doren really wanted August, then he'd have him.

He stared at the sealed door, a mere eight steps away from where he rested. And why, oh why, did his brain keep whining the mantra that it wasn't fair to be so frustratingly close and yet so far away. Twice. He'd met August twice. August was nothing special. Attractive, sure, in a cute boyish kind of way. But that was it, nothing more than that: just another face in the crowd, another cock, a hole that could be filled. There were hundreds of them around.

He flipped again, on to his back, and focused on the ceiling, trying desperately to listen for the music. In twenty-four years of conscious memory Doren had been able to find it without effort. Not at the moment though; he was too distracted. He hadn't been able to pull a single note from anything.

With a snarl and a fling, Doren threw the sheet off him and sat up. This was stupid. He was going for a walk.

He woke to knocking and fumbled for his cell phone. If the lack of lighting in the room was an actual indication of time, someone was going to die. August wasn't sure if he actually spoke the words "It's not even six a.m. yet!" or just thought them loud enough that it seemed like it.

"Auggie? Auggie!" Knock, knock, knock; bang, bang, bang and August frowned in bitter annoyance. If that kept up they were going to be kicked out of the hotel only hours after they'd arrived.

He gritted his teeth and got out of bed, opening the door with exaggerated aggravation. "One," he growled at Doren's grin, "I warned you about calling me Auggie. And two, if you have any fondness whatsoever for your testicles, this better be important."

Doren's smile grew, his eyes sweeping August from top to bottom. "Nice jammies."

August lifted an eyebrow. "What is it, Doren?"

"Come with me," Doren gushed, all excitement and teeth and grabby hands. "I need to show you something."

"It is six in the morning."

Doren's only reply was to snag August's hand and yank him into the hall.

"I thought music people didn't get up this early," August grumped.

Doren turned and winked. "I haven't been to bed yet."

As August was pulled down the hall he rolled his eyes. This had better not be the start of a nasty habit. He liked his sleep. And if Doren was going to be a midnight rover, then Doren better be happy doing it alone. August was pretty sure there was nothing in their agreement that said he had to join his boss on early morning escapades.

"Where are we going? I need a robe or something. I can't wander the halls like this." Doren might have been fully dressed but he was still in pajama pants and a t-shirt, his feet bare. And the hallway was freezing compared to the warm bed.