Conquest (3 page)
Brandon’s voice echoed in the bathroom over the running water. “Comes with the trade. Gotta study the art, you know?”
“Yeah? So what’s up with all the anime?”
“Maybe I’ll try being a voice actor someday.”
“Hey! Instead of sitting on your lazy ass, why don’t you fold my laundry on the bed?”
Jesse shot a glare over his shoulder toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you fold your own damn laundry?”
Jesse exhaled an irritated sigh. He sat on the couch for another moment before getting up and stomping across the hardwood floor to the little nook where Brandon kept his bed and dresser opposite from the bathroom. He grabbed the blue plastic laundry basket by its broken handle and dumped Brandon’s clothes on the bed. He picked up a dark maroon button down shirt and a pair of black dress pants, walked to Brandon’s closet to hang them and heard the water turn off in the bathroom. He moved back to the bed, flicking a pair of Brandon’s boxer-briefs away with his index finger.
“You know, we haven’t lived together for three months. I thought my days of having to see your nasty ass underwear were done.”
A wet towel flew out of the bathroom toward him, but fell short and slid across the floor.
Brandon walked out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans, snatching the towel off the floor on his way to the bed. He reached toward Jesse and grabbed the sleeve of the shirt he wore, rubbing the material between his thumb and index finger. “This is a cool shirt. Why do you have to be built like a damn munchkin? I never could wear any of your clothes.”
“Suck it!” Jesse threw the shirt he was getting ready to fold at Brandon and headed toward the bathroom. “You got anything that can cover this bruise?”
“I’m an actor. What do you think?”
“Asshole,” Brandon laughed. “There’s some foundation under the sink. But hurry your ass up, Cinderella. By the time you’re done primping, the ball will be over and the Prince will be in bed with someone else.”
Brandon held up the shirt, trying to decide if he wanted to wear it. “You never know. The man of your dreams could pop up when you’re least expecting it.”
Evan sat forward in the backseat of the cab. His eyes traveled up the dizzying height of the ebony Sears Tower that formed a shining shadow against the night sky. He knew it now bore the name Willis Tower, but for him, and probably so many others, it’d always be the Sears Tower. He pulled his New York Yankees cap lower over his eyes and flopped back against the seat. It felt so strange to be in the States. For three and a half years he did everything he could, gone anywhere in the world, to avoid coming back, and had managed pretty well with only having briefly returned once in that time. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the U.S., but even with not standing in the spotlight for so long people still recognized him. Whereas trekking through rural China, boating down the Amazon, or sleeping under the stars in the French countryside, he didn’t get asked for many autographs.
Evan took a deep breath and flung open the car door. The driver popped the trunk and came around to help him with his bag. Evan waved him away. He hauled out his heavy hiking pack with his sleeping bag tied on top and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced at the doorman, who looked confused as to whether he should help him with his bag or not. A black limousine pulled up, and the doorman darted for it. Evan shoved a few bills in the cab driver’s hand and headed for the door.
Without a glance at him, Evan walked into the lavish lobby. Visitors and hotel staff stopped in their tasks, conversations hushed. All stared in his direction. With his battered pack decorated in dirt from countless countries, his faded black Motley Crue T-shirt, his jeans with rips and tears, his Yankees cap frayed around the rim, and two days worth of stubble on his face, he knew he looked like a dirty vagrant. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t showered in over twenty-four hours. Catching flights and living on planes as he worked his way from Tokyo to L.A. to Chicago didn’t allow for such a luxury.
He stepped up to the counter and dipped his shoulder, letting his pack slide off and crash on the ground. He kept his eyes down: his cap blocked his face as he dug in his front pocket. “I need a room.”
The woman behind the counter looked him up and down. A man stepped to her side, ready to assist should a situation break out.
“Yeah. A penthouse suite if you have one available.” Evan pulled out his roll of cash, thumbing quickly through the bills, going past twenties to fifties, fifties to hundreds.
“Why? I’m paying cash.”
“It’s just policy, sir.”
Evan huffed in agitation, reached in his back pocket to retrieve his New York driver’s license and a credit card, and flicked both across the counter toward her.
She picked them up, blinked, and held them closer to her eyes. She looked up at him, down at the license, back to him. “Are you
the
Evan Arden? The singer?”
At the mention of his name, things quieted even more in the lobby.
Evan knew everyone watched the scene, waiting to see some crazy drifter get thrown out the door. He slowly lifted his head. He fixed his bright blue eyes on her and pulled off his cap. He combed his fingers through his chestnut brown hair, and from the choked squeal that slipped out of the desk clerk’s throat, he figured he didn’t need to affirm his identity any further.
“Listen, I’ve traveled a long way, for a long time. I need three things. A suite with a hot tub, a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, and a New York strip done medium-well from the best steakhouse in town. Cool?”
She nodded quickly. “Consider it done, Mr. Arden.” She signaled for a young man to grab Evan’s bag, then motioned to the concierge desk. “Marcus is the concierge on staff tonight. He knows everything and anything about Chicago, and would be pleased to assist you should you have any questions. It is such a pleasure to have you staying with us, Mr. Arden. Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton.”
Evan glanced over his shoulder toward the concierge desk. The man behind it waved enthusiastically to him. Evan nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to follow the young man with his pack. Once in his room, he got the hot tub filling and stepped up to the window overlooking the city below. He sighed, braced his forearm against the glass, and laid his forehead on his arm.
He pushed away from the window and went to retrieve the bottle of wine. With the door secured behind him, he headed for the hot tub, shedding his clothes on the way. He eased down in the churning hot water, his tense and knotted muscles already loosening, and took a long drink of wine from the bottle. He stared blankly at the water, then closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool, dark glass of the wine bottle.
What the hell was he doing here? All this time of wandering throughout the world wherever he pleased, he never once felt the desire to come back to the States until he found himself in Delphi.
He hadn’t been to Greece since his last world tour and figured it was as good of a destination as any, but he didn’t want to go to Athens since he had been there before, so he opened a map with the plan he would go to the first place his eyes fell on. His gaze locked on Delphi. After exploring the remains of the Temple of Apollo, he took a seat on a large boulder and sipped his bottled water while watching the sunset. It was then the sensation hit him that maybe it was time to come back to the States.
At the time, he pushed it aside as nothing more than sentimental homesickness. He decided to return to Japan to shake it off, but it persisted, so he booked a flight to L.A., and hopped another plane to Chicago since he knew his old friend and former producer, Greg Hansen, had moved to the Windy City with Phoenix Records when the label had relocated from New York, and really, he didn’t know where else to go. He didn’t want to go back to New York, so here he was, drifting without direction in a city he had breezed through a handful of times when touring.
Evan opened his eyes and looked at the clock in his room. It was too late at night to call Greg. He’d have to wait until morning, which meant what was he going to do with himself until then? He’d been through so many time zones his body’s clock didn’t know night from day. He shifted in the tub and took another drink of the wine. His body might be confused as to if it wanted food or sleep, but it knew one thing it wanted.
He shoved out of the hot tub, water dripped from his sleek body as he walked to the phone. His fingertips slid down his chest and abdomen to his full arousal, and he rested his hand on the hard flesh while he dialed the concierge desk.
“I was wondering if you knew who the hottest band in this city is.”
“Oh, that would be Conquest, without a doubt, sir.”
“Conquest? They any good?”
“They’re incredible. They came on the scene a little more than a year ago, but the second they hit, everyone was running to see them. Well actually, let me be honest. It’s not that
they’re
that good as in a collective group because they’ve changed members a few times, they’re constantly changing drummers and keyboardists, but it’s the singer and guitar player who are to die for. The guitarist, Kenny Cooper, is exceptional. But the one who truly makes the group is Jesse Alexander, the lead singer. His voice,” Marcus sighed into the phone, “it’s like ambrosia for the ears.”
“Is that so? Then maybe I should go see a different band. Normally I follow the creed of wherever the hottest band is then that’s where the hottest people are too, but if everyone’s going to be drooling over this little vocal god you’re describing, then maybe I should go somewhere else.”
“I’m just teasing you. Do me a solid, though. Can you find out if this band is playing tonight and where? If I walk in and everyone is fainting over singer boy, then I’ll go somewhere else.”
“I’ll ring your room in less than ten minutes and let you know. Since it’s a Friday, I’m sure they’re playing somewhere.”
“Good. And while you’re at it, can you hook me up with a car? I don’t want anything flashy, just a nice SUV.”
“Certainly. Anything else?”
“No. I’ll talk to you in a little bit.”
Evan paid the coverage charge to get into the bar, listening to the last jumble of notes to a fast rock song come to an unsteady halt.
The crowd quieted in anticipation. Evan looked up on stage. The lead singer had his back to the audience, waiting for the keyboardist to move. The keyboardist hopped back, and Jesse took over at the instrument facing the crowd. He announced the next song as titled “Shattered,” then followed with the opening soft notes from the keyboard. He closed his eyes, his fingers drifted across the keys, his honeyed tenor rose with the first verse of the ballad,
“I yelled for you as you walked away,
My voice a whisper…in the crowd…
And I watched our memories fall with the rain,
Breaking…on the ground…
I want to take it all away,
And believe the truths in the dark.
I want to live the fantasy,
The sweet delusion,
And keep you in my arms.
What can I do?
Don’t leave me to drown In these shattered memories. I want to scream,
But I can’t breathe,
I’m falling away.
Can’t you see,
That I’m alone,
And I’m slipping away? I can’t stop myself.
Can’t catch myself.
Take my hand,
Pull me out,
Please save me.
I’m shattering,
Evan stumbled back a step and bumped into the wall behind him. He stared up at the stage, his breath lost. Jesse had his white shirt fully unbuttoned, showing his smooth chest coated in a light sheen of sweat. The stage lights surrounded him in a halo of golden light, making him shine.
Evan blinked at the female voice close to him. He turned to see the bartender giving him a concerned look. He pulled his Yankees cap down to hide his face more.
Nodding in agreement, the bartender leaned on the bar, resting her chin in her hand as she gazed up at the stage. “I hear that. He sings
and
looks like an angel. He’s got it all.” She glanced at Evan with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I know guys don’t like hearing a girl gush over other guys. Can I get you something to drink?”
She ducked away and returned with his beer. Evan took his beer and began working his way through the crowd. He managed to inch to the front of the stage as Jesse wrapped up the piano interlude. The guitar joined in with the drums following, a good two beats behind where they should be. The keyboardist came to take Jesse’s place, and Jesse stepped toward the front of the stage with his mic in hand.
Evan caught the irritation that flashed over Jesse’s face when the keyboardist obviously hit the wrong notes. He smiled to himself. The guy was a perfectionist, he could see it. And with the talent he had already shown, why shouldn’t he be?
Jesse bent down at the front of the stage to a group of swooning young women. They reached out, desperate to touch his hand. He floated his fingertips from one outstretched hand to another.
Evan watched him, his fingers tingling with the desire to feel Jesse’s soft touch on them. From under his black hair, a droplet of sweat rolled down Jesse’s temple, past his indigo eye, and over his elegantly raised cheekbone to linger on his delicate jaw before dripping away. He stood up straight, his white shirt slipped from one shoulder. He tipped his head back as he raised his mic, singing the second verse and chorus,
