Page 43 of Undercover Star
Josh had learned that about a week after they'd returned from Scotland, when he'd asked why Matisse was dealing with all this crap himself when he undoubtedly had staff to do so. He'd not seen or heard from Matisse for three days afterwards, and he still cherished fond memories of the weekend following their disagreement.
Matisse wasn't just a workaholic insomniac. He was a perfectionist, too. And Josh, who'd met two other performers with huge fan bases and equally large retinues since hooking up with Matisse, wondered whether these were attributes necessary to make it in the music industry. And whether remaining in the closet was another requirement. He'd never really considered it, having grown up listening to Freddie Mercury, George Michael, and the Pet Shop Boys. But he could accept that he had no idea what made fans love or hate a star. If questioned, he'd have said he chose his favourite musicians because of their music, but he was coming to realise that the music was only a very small part of the story. And that it was one of the things bothering Matisse about his chosen career.
Mat wanted to be judged by his music. But to achieve this, he might have to give up his stage career.
"I'll admit that I'm looking forward to spending more time with Mat," Josh acknowledged. "He's kept me grounded these last weeks, but he's run off his feet with the concert tour coming up and all. I'm not sure...."
"Marissa thinks it's good when you're around." Montgomery's jovial tone changed to something more careful. "Apparently, Matisse has a tendency to land himself in hospital before a concert tour. No sleep, too little food, constant practice. She says she's never seen him so relaxed before."
"Relaxed? He's wound tighter than.... I can't even think of a good comparison. He's definitely not relaxed."
"Maybe that's relative. Maybe compared to other tours he is the pinnacle of relaxation. At any rate, Marissa is convinced that it is all down to you, and she's hoping you keep doing what it is you do." He winked, and Josh fought his way through a wave of images not at all appropriate to share with one's superior officer at work. Until he arrived at the idea that he might be as good for Mat as Mat was for him.
It was an idea that needed a lot more contemplation.
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MATISSE WAS SO TIRED, he stumbled on the stairs. Nothing serious, just a foot set wrong on the way down and a hasty grab for the banister to keep upright. Heart beating a little too fast from the sudden scare, Matisse stopped and breathed. A broken foot or twisted ankle would be disastrous a week before the start of his concert tour. Deciding to cut himself an early afternoon and head home for some rest seemed an even better idea than it had an hour earlier when he couldn't make his brain remember a simple step sequence.
Once again he wondered whether to call Josh. He wanted to hear his voice, wanted Josh's arms around him. Most of all, he wanted Josh to tell him he could sleep. When nothing else worked, the simple phrase—It's okay, Mat. You can sleep now.—uttered in Josh's rumbling baritone worked like a switch on Matisse's overtired brain whether Josh had worked hard to turn his body into a tired, blissed-out heap or not.
He'd wanted to make that call all day, but he feared he'd pissed Josh off the previous night with his foul mood and snide comments.
Neither had been Josh's fault.
Just before they'd set out, Matisse had seen a Tweet speculating whether Josh was more than a bodyguard. The comment had rattled Matisse's cage. Not because it was true, but because he’d suddenly wanted to show everyone that it was. He'd had to stop himself all night from reaching for Josh's hand or leaning against him in a manner that would have given the game away, and it had turned him as cross and bitchy as a three-year-old
For the first time ever, Matisse wanted to be out, but they'd not discussed it and he wouldn't spring something like this on Josh, or on any of his staff. Marissa, excellent at damage limitation as she was, would tear his head off if he pulled such a stunt.
He'd grown steadily grumpier throughout the evening, and Josh, the only one he'd let close enough, had borne the brunt of his mood. By the end of the night, Josh had not even wanted to come up. He'd simply driven off after making sure Matisse was safely home. And Matisse, instead of getting fucked through the mattress as Josh worked off his frustration, and sleeping like a baby after, had been awake all night. Fine, he'd gotten three songs out of the dark hours, but—
The blast of a horn admonished him to watch where he was going, when he hadn't even realised he was already walking down the street. Then he heard voices calling his name.
Fans. A group of them heading his way at a run. A spike of fear raced down his spine and he wished he'd called Oats and Rigger before he left the studio.
Was it ironic that he'd been caught when he was almost home? If it was, Matisse didn't appreciate the sentiment. He used to love meeting his fans face to face, without barriers between them. Getting squished in the melee had never bothered him, even if he found a few bruises the next day. He'd never paid more than cursory attention when Oats had lectured him about the danger posed by overwrought fans. When it happened, the speed and violence of the attack had left him scared and shaken. Once he'd been released from the hospital, he'd started to draw back. He'd been careful where he went and he hadn't met fans on his own.
Until now.
If he turned and ran right now, he had a chance of making it to his apartment building ahead of the fans. But how would that look? He had a concert in a few days' time. He didn't want any negative publicity.
Matisse took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He could do this. He could face twenty or thirty fans on a London street. Banter a bit. Sign autographs. Banter a bit more. Go home after. He could. Do. This.
He wasn't so lost to all sense that he'd turn on the spot and wait in the middle of the pavement. Instead, he took a few quick steps and braced his back on a convenient stretch of wall before he faced his fans.
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RINGING THE DOORBELLhad no visible effect. Since security had let him up, Josh knew Matisse was home. What was he doing that prevented him from opening the door? Josh figured music had something to do with Matisse's abstraction. The first concert was only a week away, and the last few times they'd seen each other, Matisse had been as nervous as a cat on ice. Distracted, too, and caught between a myriad of tiny details, none of which meant anything to Josh.
Added to the workload, Matisse wasn't sleeping. Josh had become used to finding him in his study at dawn, immersed in arrangements or new music. He'd also become used to dragging Matisse back to bed for the express purpose of tiring him out. It was never a hardship.
Mat not answering the door could mean he was sleeping.
Finding him buried in music was a much more feasible option.
Josh reached into his pocket and pulled out the key Mat had given him when they'd returned from Scotland. He'd never yet had need to use it.
The sight that greeted him when he stepped through the door into the living room made his jaw drop. Mat was sprawled on the sofa wearing nothing but tight jeans, a ratty T-shirt, and a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. His eyes were closed, and his hair spread along the edge of the couch, where he rested his head.
