Page 19 of Backstage

I see him letting down his guard a bit, but then he gives me a smile too big to be sincere. “Before embarking on this career, I worked in a...cafeteria,” he says hesitantly. “And you’re going to experience my fantastic baked pasta today.” He smiles his usual smile, which I’ve learned to recognize as him being proud of something but doesn’t want to show it.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea to eat. I’ll get bloated for sure!” I said, feeling insecure. I mentally calculate how many calories pasta has, and I’m sure I won’t be able to get rid of it with a fifteen-mile run.

Damian stops and puts his palms on the counter, making his arms and chest muscles stand out, which makes my lower abdomen tingle. The thoughts that go through my mind for an instant are scandalous, and I find it hard to put my mind back on a Damian who is not naked.

“First rule of when you’re on tour: never skip meals. You need all the energy you can muster to not be finished in the second week. The rhythms are exhausting. You are not allowed to be weak because you don’t eat properly. If you don’t feel like eating just before you go on stage, that’s fine, but at least have a bigger meal in the morning or early afternoon,” he explains.

His way of doing things is authoritative but also wise. It sounds like he cares about me and what I do when I’m on tour with them. I’m still struggling to come to grips that we, for the Jailbirds, are an investment and that it’s in their best interest to make sure we learn the ropes and quickly. In those moments, when I’m with Luke, Taylor, and Martin in the rehearsal room perfecting the pieces we’ll do together, we’re still incredulous at the luck we’ve had. We feel like we’re living the dream, and it’s hard to think that this is really becoming a job.

“Okay, let’s try this baked pasta that you claim you know how to make,” I joke while watching him tinker with the stove, looking like a Greek god descended to earth to drive us mortals crazy with lust. He grabs the ingredients and puts them on the counter with such confidence it makes me want to be a tomato just to feel those strong, firm fingers on me. I can’t help but get lost in the intricate weave of veins that stand out on his arms, potent and virile, imagining how it feels to be wrapped in their warmth. I would transform myself into the very fabric of the t-shirt covering his sculpted pecs if I could be in close contact with his skin.

When I squeeze my thighs to relieve the tingling sensation between my legs, I realize that the path I have to take to get my shit together is still very, very long. He’s circling the island to come towards me and I pray he doesn’t notice how excited I am. Coming up beside me, he turns the stool towards him and steps between my legs, grabbing a spoonful of the sauce he’s cooking.

“Try it and let me know whether it’s salty enough or if you prefer it tastier,” he whispers, making it the most sensual sentence of the century.

I look at him inebriated as he grabs my chin with two fingers and feeds me with the other hand. At this moment, he could give me a spoonful of hamster food and I would eat it without a second thought. His eyes are full of desire while his thumb wipes a drop of sauce from my lips, which he offers to me to taste directly from his skin. I wrap my lips around his fingertip and lick the sauce off without taking my eyes off his face. Damian follows the movement without breathing, and only when I feel his erection awakening in his pants do I realize how close he is.

“It’s tomato,” I whisper in a hoarse voice, the breath escaping my lungs with difficulty.

Damian wrinkles his forehead. “I know it’s tomato. That’s how you make the sauce.” He raises an eyebrow, steps away a bit, and lets me breathe. When his hand leaves my face, I almost feel like I’ve lost a piece of me.

“It’s good...it’s just salt...I mean, it’s okay,” I stammer, embarrassed by my inability to formulate a coherent sentence.

His lips are arched in a mischievous smile as he puts the spoon on a plate and lowers himself to look me straight in the eye. “What is it? Are you nervous?”

“No, why should I be nervous?” My thin voice betrays my words.

“I don’t know, it’s just an impression. I feel like your heart is working overtime.” He puts two fingers on my neck to feel my pulse. His touch is so electrifying, a little moan comes out of my throat before I know it. The smile spreads over his lips, and with a slow, calculated gesture, he grazes my cheek with his nose until it reaches my ear.

“Be careful with these noises, or I’ll start thinking you like it when I put my hands on you,” he whispers as he gently touches the skin of my neck with his thumb.

I have stopped breathing, stopped thinking, I stopped having control over my body. I close my eyes and shamelessly enjoy his proximity. Only when I miss the heat do I open them again and focus on his face, a few steps away from me, with the smug smile and arched eyebrow of someone who has realized he has me.

I purse my lips and turn towards the stove, my cheeks on fire, short of breath. Damian chuckles as he returns to take care of the meal, and I realize that it will be a challenging tour, and not just from a business point of view.

*

I’ve been locked in the dressing room for at least half an hour since Sid had me change, and did my hair and makeup. I can’t go out on stage like this, I can’t do it, I can’t handle anxiety. You can see everything from my belly to the stretch marks in my arms. You can see my nose is too big without my glasses, and my eyes look like two headlights. I look like one of those dolls with a big head and big eyes.

Not only Brad will notice that, fat or thin, I’ll always have flaws, the rest of the world will have something to say about it too. All I have to do is look at how they treat the Jailbirds in the papers; how they point out what’s wrong with the models who hang out with them. Models! The ones who eat an extra stalk of celery and the newspapers scream pregnancy. What will they say about me? About my chubby ass and the scars of my struggles with food on display for all to see?

“Lilly, are you in there?” Damian’s voice almost makes me gasp. I told Luke I didn’t want to see anyone when I kicked them out. He probably thought since I didn’t listen to him, he’d give the job to someone who intimidates me.

“If I say no, will you go away?” I whimper.

“No, let me in.” His voice is calm but firm. He won’t leave here until I open up.

I turn the key and lower the handle; Damian comes in and locks the door behind him. The room, already tiny, seems microscopic with his bulky size. I look up, and I can’t help but see his muscles squeezed inside a simple black T-shirt and a pair of jeans of the same color. He looks good even with that worried frown on his face.

“I can’t go out there. I can’t...I can’t.” I keep saying it like a litany, unable to explain what I’m afraid of. He doesn’t know how fragile I feel in front of people, my body exposed to the judgments of others.

Damian grabs my face in his enormous hands and forces me to look up at him, into his magnetic eyes. “We’ve practiced so many times, you don’t have to be afraid. I’m with you, and you have to trust me, okay?” He says it in such a sweet way I almost forget what I was about to do. Almost.

I run to the bathroom and kneel down in front of the toilet, puking out my soul. Damian lowers himself and with a delicate gesture pulls my hair away and holds it steady. With his other hand he massages my back, leaving a warm and extremely comforting trail along my skin.

“Sorry,” I tell him when I finally get up.

Damian smiles at me and from the back pocket of his pants he pulls out a bottle of water and a travel bag with a toothbrush and toothpaste. I grab it with shame for the show I’ve just given and use it generously while he keeps his eye on me, maybe to see if I’ll go crazy again.

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