Page 45 of Backstage

Lilly looks at him in awe and then turns to me. “Did he really just use the words ‘squirrel’ and ‘one-eyed’ in the same sentence? I swear, I don’t recognize you guys,” she whispers to me.

We all burst out laughing at the way she’s watching us like we’re exotic animals in a zoo cage. Actually, when most people think about the life of famous musicians, they think of excessive drugs and trashed hotel rooms. It used to be like that. You created your name and tried to live up to it: dangerous, provocative, and entirely out of control. Nowadays, if you do something like that, you’re blacklisted by the media. Everyone knows that alcohol and drugs are bad for your health, and they’re not as cool as they used to be. Sure, some people still do it, it’s not like we’ve all suddenly become saints, but it’s done in private, behind closed doors with no witnesses.

Lilly turns to me. “I’m almost scared to ask, but what’s your hobby? If you tell me you knit, I swear I’ll quit the tour!” she says, pretending to be outraged, and gets a laugh out of everyone.

“Are you crazy? Nothing that dangerous!”

She smiles at me and motions for me to sit next to her on a deckchair, and then watches Michael’s craftsmanship with that branch. When she diverts her gaze back to me again, I can feel myself smiling. “I love watching TV shows on Netflix. I usually binge watch the ones I like best, but I don’t have time when we’re busy recording an album.”

She seems pleasantly surprised by my passion, and I feel almost relieved that she approves of my choice. “What do you like in particular? What kind?”

“I likeMarvel,Luke Cage,Jessica Jones...but also political intrigue likeScandal.”

She turns to me with eyes and mouth wide open. “You like the shenanigans in the oval office? I didn’t think you were such a bad boy,” she jokes. “We should watch together sometime. I think we’d get along,” she says, making Thomas laugh, who’s studying us like lab rats.

I feel cornered by her proposal, which has nothing to do with me being innocent. I imagine fucking her in a hotel room with an episode of some series as background noise to our moans.

“It can be done, but in the meantime, come here, relax and enjoy this magnanimous gesture from our manager.” I get comfortable on the deckchair and lure her between my legs until she rests her back on my chest. There is nothing relaxing about this gesture, with my erection pressing against her ass, but when I’m around her, I don’t even try to inhale deeply and take my thoughts elsewhere. It’s a losing battle, so I live in a constant state of excitement that I will devote myself to when I’m alone in the bus, like a teenager.

We arrive at the location of the concert in the late afternoon. After almost two months of touring, Evan decided to book a hotel, as we have two shows here before leaving for North Carolina and the festival. We need a decent bed, a shower, and some space for ourselves to keep from going hysterical.

I go to my room and take a deep breath of clean air, something we haven’t had for weeks inside that bus full of four people. I put my bag at the foot of the bed and open the curtains. The view from the 12th floor of the hotel over Austin, Texas, is astonishing. From here, I can see Zilker Park with its trees, thermal pools, and botanical gardens. If I wasn’t so tired and in desperate need of a day lying in bed I’d go out and enjoy the sunshine in the greenery of the park.

A visit to the Texas State Capitol would not be bad either. I’ve always been intrigued by the fact that it’s completely covered in pink marble. It sure looks beautiful in pictures, but seeing it live must take your breath away. I look at the Frost Bank Tower covered with mirrored glass and those two angular points that stand out on top. I am almost blinded by the reflection of light, but not so much that I can’t see One Congress Plaza. The palace seems to be built like a massive staircase. It is impossible not to notice its red granite standing out in the middle of downtown.

Someone knocks on my door, disrupting my scenic viewing, and I roll my eyes.

“Martin, I swear, if you forgot your underwear on the bus again, this time you’ll be walking around without it,” I shout as I walk across the room to open the door. It’s not a vast space, but it’s still a good-sized room with a king-size bed, a bathroom that looks bigger than my place in Brooklyn, and a small living area with a round table and two armchairs. Evan certainly wasn’t stingy. I open the door, surprised to find a smiling Damian at the threshold.

“And I swear I won’t be able to get the image of Martin on stage with no underwear out of my head. Thank you,” he laughs.

“Sorry,” I snicker as I step aside and let him in. He’s so tall and broad that the room which seemed significant to me before now seems suffocating and small.

He looks around and nods, approving that Evan hasn’t relegated us to a dump. He’s wearing sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and he’s barefoot. He’s handsome even without the clothes Sid makes him wear on stage. In fact, I have to say I prefer him this way. I’ve always had a thing for men who walk around the house barefoot; I find them sexy, and Damian is no exception.

“Aren’t you gonna meet the others?”

Damian smiles, shakes his head, and sits on the edge of my bed. “No, they go out clubbing, but I don’t feel like going out tonight. I’d rather stay in bed and watch a movie with room service. The tour usually drains all my energy. I prefer to go out only when I have to go to some party Evan’s throwing for promotions I can’t miss.”

“Do we have room service?” My eyes pop.

Damian laughs, throwing his head back like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “Yeah, take advantage of it while Evan’s paying for it.” He smiles at me like a kid who’s done something wrong.

“Okay. Why are you here, then?”

“Would you like to come upstairs and get something to eat and watch a movie? I’ve got a great TV in my room. It’s not as exciting as carving wood, but I promise you’ll still have a good time,” he says, smiling hopefully.

I feel the hot flashes rising from the bottom of my belly to my cheeks and back. I mean, I’m about to experience spontaneous combustion. Me, alone, in a room with a man who is literally messing up my hormones to the point that I feel revved up about watching a movie and having dinner on his bed. It’s assisted suicide for those four neurons that have remained active after I was next to him on the bus all day.

“Okay, why not?” I hear myself say the exact opposite of what my brain suggests to me, which is to stay cooped up in my bathroom under a cold shower.

“Bring something comfortable. I can’t stand seeing people lying on the bed with jeans on.”

I find myself smiling when he slips me the key to his room, and a series of obscene images, including his abs and pecs, cross my mind. He doesn’t have his shirt on in my head, he doesn’t even have his pants on, and the show makes me blush extraordinarily.

“Top floor, presidential suite.”

Of course, he’s staying in the presidential suite. Where else? “Did you really give me your room key? What if I sell it to the fans waiting outside the hotel?” I raise an eyebrow in defiance.

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