Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I nodded because I knew that about him.
“But then you came out from the back in those damn jeans with the holes in them, the ones that stick to your legs like a second skin, and I thought, damn, look at the thighs on that man.”
“Okay.” I placated him.
“I did,” he imparted with a grin. “Then you turned, and I saw how great your ass was, and those shoulders that go on for days…”
“We can be done with this now,” I told him.
“All the pretty colors in that hair of yours, and of course, let’s not forget your big, beautiful brown eyes. I mean, I saw you and thought, yeah, I want that.”
“That?”
He snickered.
“That’s right out of a fairy tale, isn’t it? That,” I repeated, pausing for effect, “sounds very once upon a time.”
Putting his head down, he laughed huskily.
“Yeah, you’re a riot.”
Lifting his head, he leaned across the island, puckered for a kiss.
“Absolutely not.”
“Now,” he demanded. “I want my lovin’ now.”
It was hard to say no to someone I loved that much.
By the time he finished the first half of the second sandwich, he started to slow down. More fruit went in his body, Gatorade, water, orange juice, and I had a sandwich as well, some fruit, and water. And it was good and nourishing, but really, for me, the best thing was just soaking up his attention.
Later, back in bed, just cuddling, spooning him, he took a deep, trembling breath.
“You’re scared about something,” I whispered in the dark. “Just tell me.”
“I need you to stay just for a week, all right? Just seven days. Let me finish my album, and then I can go home with you before I have to start promoting the new record.”
I took my own breath then. “I can do that.”
His sigh was long once he had my answer.
The frightening part was, when would it be enough? At what point would he have made it, or not, in his mind? I wished he could say when that would be, and I wished I had the balls to ask the question.
In the morning, I made everyone breakfast, and then the rest of the band left to return to their cabins to get ready for the day, and I joined Dawson in the shower. We were the last ones to the SUV, and I drove us all back to the studio.
When five sober, clear-headed, heavily caffeinated but non-illegally-drugged men walked into the studio, as they all got situated, ready to work, Miles Barnum, the producer, had me sit beside him.
“What is your name again?”
“Oh no, I’m not with the band.”
“You may not be with the band, but this has been a mess and—”
“We’re about to do a soundcheck,” the engineer chimed in, looking utterly amazed. “Who the fuck are you, man?”
I smiled at both of them. “I’m Chris Gardner, Dawson’s boyfriend.”
Miles nodded. “Okay, boyfriend. Well, if you want anything, you let me know, because we just need you to hang out for a bit.”
“Well, I promised Dawson I would be here a week, and hopefully they can get the record completed in that time. Apparently, it’s all done but the vocal tracks. That’s my understanding.”
“I’ve never heard of a record being done in a week,” the engineer remarked.
“Never ever?” I asked with a grin. “Not one?”
After a moment of us staring at one another, he threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine, we’ll see what happens.” He sounded quite skeptical.
It didn’t take seven days; it only took five.
Amazing how seamlessly the band played together when everyone was on a food-and-sleep schedule, the only drugs in their systems caffeine and nicotine, and without any outside distractions at all.
The gates that had been open the first night, I had the property manager close them, and they sent out some security people to keep the grounds trespasser-free. Simple changes that were easy to implement.
The issue was, originally it was just the five of them, no road manager, no one to make certain everything went smoothly. But now, with the second album completed, there would be a tour bus and a plane and a whole team of people traveling with them, and that announcement led me to understand that no, Dawson would not be coming home with me as he’d planned.
The last night I was there, Dawson and the guys played the Hollywood Bowl, and when they came off the stage, he was so excited, telling me they were going to be in Las Vegas the following night to play a concert at the House of Blues.
“So you won’t go radio silent on me,” I said as I walked with him toward the bus. “You’ll call me.”
“I already promised I would,” he replied, smiling, the euphoric high of having played a brilliant show still rolling through him. “I was stupid, but it won’t happen again, baby, I swear.”