Authors: Heidi Cullinan
“Very good. Perhaps you aren’t as bad a puppy as I thought.” Crabtree favored Gordy with a brief smile then glanced over his shoulder at Steve. “You may go.”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“Leave. I’ll take the keys to your vehicle, as I’m not yet certain when I’ll be finished. If I need anything, I’ll call Ethan.”
Steve didn’t move. While this was what he’d wanted, Crabtree taking control, now Steve wasn’t so sure it was the best thing. He opened his mouth to voice his reservations.
Crabtree looked him dead in the eye.
Any doubts Steve had harbored over whether or not Crabtree had been a killer, a ruthless mobster, died in the glance. At the same time, though, he saw why Ethan and Randy trusted him, why though Mitch didn’t like him, he had faith in him too. Steve saw Crabtree the man, the lines he had crossed and the ones he never would.
Steve realized how much he’d failed Gordy, not being this wall or finding safety for his friend sooner. His gut knotted so hard he hunched forward a little. He wasn’t forty-two, he was fourteen, realizing how far his life choices would echo, knowing he’d accidentally hurt the ones he loved.
Crabtree’s expression gentled. “It’s all right. He’ll be fine, and so will you. You’ve done the right thing. I know what I’m doing here much better than you imagine. Better yet, go ask Randy about my history. If I know my boy, he’s had this in mind from the minute he found out Gordy existed.”
That actually did sound like Randy. It gave Steve some ease, but it was still hard to head out into the parking lot. He stood in the empty center for a long time, thinking.
Eventually he started back to the ranch, the past closing behind him as a strange, uncertain future expanded exponentially ahead.
Chapter Fifteen
The club on South Padre was called Crave, which apparently was also the name of a gay bar in Las Vegas. It wasn’t anything, Randy said, like the real Krave.
“When we get to Vegas, I’ll take you,” Randy promised Chenco. “Then you’ll understand.”
Chenco frowned. “When am I going to Las Vegas?”
Randy only winked and went to help Booker with the setup.
Booker had been funny lately—ever since Steve and Mitch had looked into Tristan. He’d been better once Crabtree had started hanging with him, but there wasn’t any question he’d changed. Chenco had thought maybe he and the gangster were sleeping together, but when he asked Book about it, Book got all funny and tense. “It ain’t like that,” he said, as if Chenco had stepped in something holy.
Sometimes, when Crabtree wasn’t around, Booker showed up high. Seriously fucked-up high, and more than once Ethan or Steve had sent him off instead of letting him rehearse. One day Crabtree caught him stoned, and the two had a very bad fight. Chenco couldn’t hear what happened, but Booker was worse now—not high as often, but jittery, especially around Chenco. He got the feeling Crabtree wasn’t doing anything with Booker, not anymore.
Which made an already tense situation much worse. Ever since Chenco had agreed to the South Padre show, he and Booker had fought, and Chenco involving Ethan so heavily made Booker really jealous. Which was stupid, to Chenco’s mind—the man ran a fucking casino with a theater attached. Why in the world would they
not
want to get his opinion on things? Somehow to Booker, Ethan’s inclusion was a betrayal, and when Randy came over to help him set up, Booker threw down the gauntlet.
It was hours before opening, but there were three other acts there as well, and the owners. He got right up in Randy’s face, shaking a clutch of cords in his face. “This is
my
show. I got this gig. The lights are my thing.
Mine.
”
Randy put up his hands. “No sweat, buddy. Just offering to help.”
Yet even as Randy stepped back, Ethan came quietly closer. Randy’s husband was having one of those moments when he looked like he’d been hanging out with gangsters a lot more than investment bankers.
Chenco hurried to Booker’s side. “It’s fine, Book. It’s our show. They’re just helping.”
“We don’t need no damn help.” Booker loomed over Randy. “I’ve been doing her lights since the first fucking day. This is my show. My lights.
My job.
Get out of my fucking way and let me do my job.”
“We’re not here to take anything away from you.” Ethan kept his voice calm, but everything about him said
tiger, ready to strike
. Mitch stood now too, and several of the Crave employees watched the exchange from a distance.
If Booker saw any of the warning signs flaring up around him, he ignored them. He got right into Randy’s face and bellowed, “
Bullshit.
I worked for this. I worked hard, this whole time, and you come in and start calling the shots. You get up in his head, and now it’s all what
you
want, not what I want—”
“When the
hell
,” Chenco said, his own tiger roused, “did this start being about
you
?”
Booker whirled on him, all the fire formerly aimed at Randy turned on Chenco. “I work this shit for you. I get you the gigs. I make sure everything runs. I hold you up when shit goes down.
I
do that, not these assholes. They showed up at the end and took all the fucking credit, and you fucking let them.”
Chenco shook his head, as if he could dispel this craziness. Caramela rose too, adding her fire to his words. “What the fuck have you been smoking? You’ve lost your goddamned mind. We work together, asshole, and don’t you forget it’s my ass out there on stage, me in the killer heels,
me
risking getting knifed in my trailer for wearing a wig. You run the lights, but it’s me on the stage. We make decisions together, not you beat me down until I agree to whatever you want. I want their help. I want—”
“
You owe me, bitch.
”
Chenco took a step back, and to his horror Booker raised his fist.
He’s going to hit me,
Chenco realized, and he held his breath as he waited for the blow to strike.
A pale hand caught Booker’s arm a foot away from Chenco. Booker’s eyes widened in surprise then contracted in acute pain. Steve stood beside him, holding the other man’s arm, impassive, not appearing to exert any energy.
“You’re out of line.” His vocal inflections were mild, as if Booker had stepped on his toe, not tried to punch Chenco. But the fire in his eyes promised Steve was anything but mellow.
Booker’s struggle played out on his face—clearly he longed to lash out, to take Steve down, but he deflated significantly, and he didn’t attempt to struggle out of Steve’s grip. “They’re gonna take him away, and you fucking know it. They’re going to take him to Vegas, they’re going to tell him what to do, and he’s going to
fucking listen
.”
“To them instead of you, yes. He has the right to make that choice, and you have no right to hit him. And if you try…” Steve’s voice became quiet and dangerous, “…I will make you sorry.”
Everything went from bad into a suburb of hell. Booker swung at Steve, and Steve blocked him and twisted Booker’s arm at a painful angle. Ethan grabbed Booker’s other arm, and in seconds Mitch was there too, helping herd Booker out a side door into the bright afternoon sun.
Chenco stood staring, head spinning, gut knotting. It wasn’t until Sam asked in gentle tones if he wanted to sit down that he realized he was shaking.
“What just happened?” Chenco whispered, but Sam didn’t answer, only made him sit down and asked someone from the Crave staff to bring water.
Chenco drank, but he felt wooden and disconnected, the voices around him echoing oddly in his head, Sam a quiet blur before him. It wasn’t until Steve’s lower half moved into his field of vision, his bare, hairy arm reaching out, that Chenco came back into himself—he drew his breath in on a sharp hitch and leaned into the touch.
Ethan came into his vision too, crouching between Steve and Sam to take Chenco’s hand in his. His tie was undone, and he looked like he’d been in a mild struggle. His gaze was calm and steady, however. “How you doing, sweetheart?”
“Booker,” Chenco choked out, and it was all he could manage.
Ethan remained steady. “Booker won’t be with us tonight. There’s no need to worry,” he said when Chenco tensed. “I’ve seen your rehearsals, so I know what’s involved. Randy will work the lights. The club is giving us an extra half hour to set up and rehearse too. Everything will work out. You’ll see.”
This wasn’t happening.
This could not be happening.
“But why—Booker—
why
?”
Steve’s grip on his shoulder turned into a gentle kneading. “Baby, you can do this. The guys can help you too. It will all work out, just as it’s supposed to.”
“But—I don’t—” Panic began to snowball inside Chenco, and he went stiff as he realized how close he was to coming apart.
The grip on his shoulder turned sharp, and he eased, but only a little.
Steve murmured something, and the next thing Chenco knew, Steve led him toward the side door to the stage, into an alcove with dark curtains shielding them. Steve’s big body moved in front of him, trapping him, keeping out the world, and Chenco pressed against him, burrowing his face in Steve’s chest, fighting sobs.
“Hush,” Steve ordered, his hands gliding over Chenco’s body, claiming it, demanding he calm down by sound and touch. “None of that. Not now.”
“What did I do?” Chenco whispered. “Why—?”
“You didn’t do anything. You and Booker have been coming at this for weeks. Months. Maybe years. He wanted things his way. You didn’t share his vision.”
“But I did, sometimes—”
“He’s not healthy, baby. You held back because you’re smart, careful.”
“He’s right, though—I trust you and the others, and I barely know them.”
“You trust me and the others, particularly Ethan and Crabtree, because you look at us and can tell we’re stable and strong and able to help you. This is his failure,
cariño
, not yours.”
Chenco knew this was true, but it still hurt. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”
“Yes you do. Caramela does. Don’t you tell me she can’t get on stage and own it.”
“But I was going to do ‘On the Floor’, and I need someone to play Pitbull.”
“No you don’t. Caramela’s the star. Not him. That’s why he’s so upset. He liked the idea of controlling you, of having a star in his pocket. He never really had you, but in his mind, strong people need to be pinned down.”
It sounded so ugly. It didn’t fit with the Booker in Chenco’s heart, which made him wonder if that Booker had ever been at all. He felt as if he were mourning someone who hadn’t ever really existed.
Steve stroked his hair and made soft shushing noises. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to go out there on stage, sweetheart, and you’re going to kill them, you’ll be so good. You’re strong and amazing and talented. Later Crabtree will be here, and he’ll see it too, and then, mark my words—he’ll make all your dreams come true.”
What good were his dreams if they came at the cost of losing his best friend? Chenco swallowed another sob and burrowed his face in Steve’s chest.
“The thing you said about Booker,” he began at last, “about him wanting to control me or whatever. How is it any different from the way you guys fuss over me? From the way you and I…?”
He half-expected Steve to get mad, but to his surprise, Steve only stroked his back and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “The difference, Crescencio, is we fuss and control and set you up so you can fly—in the way we see as best for you. Which isn’t much different than what Booker tried to do, except if you were to tell us no, we’d let you go.”
What he said made sense, except it made Chenco sad. It felt like Booker was really gone, forever. “I’ll miss him.”
“Of course you will.” Steve kept stroking him. “But I wouldn’t count him out. Not completely.”
Maybe Steve was making it up just to give him hope, but Chenco appreciated it anyway. “So what do I do now?”
“Now you go splash water on your face, pull out your queen and you knock this gig out of the park.”
Knock it out of the park was exactly what Chenco did.
It was rocky at first. Randy knew what he was doing with lights, but it took a long time to try and explain what Booker had done and at what times as so much of it had been instinctive. For the first half hour of practice, Chenco wasn’t sure it was ever going to work. He felt like he was performing naked and missing an arm and a leg, especially when Pitbull sang and there was no Booker there to play him. By the time they got to the top of the hour, though, he and Randy had a rhythm going, and Caramela had filled in all the gaps Booker’s absence made from the routine. When their extra half hour of rehearsal closed, Chenco thought this might work after all.
As the club opened and the floor began to fill, Chenco went back to his dressing room and began the ritual of putting Caramela together. It was strange to not do it in the trailer or at Steve’s house, to hear people milling about in the hall, knowing Steve stood there, ready in case Chenco needed him. He wondered if he should have asked Steve inside.
This will never work,
Chenco thought, staring at his half made-up expression in the mirror.
Stop whining and let me do my job,
Caramela replied. Since he didn’t know what else to do, Chenco did.