Guarding January (4 page)

“You can’t….” Could he? No one. “That’s my….” Oh. Confused.

“What are you trying to say?” Rye took his arm and helped him up.

“I was working. Playing. That’s my guitar.”

Rye looked at the guitar he was still holding. “I know?”

“Let me put her away.” He reached out, blood dripping on the floor.

“Whoa, you’re hurt.” Rye set the guitar down against his chair, then took Jeff’s hands, tsking. “Your poor hands.”

“It doesn’t hurt. I was…. Did it sound good? It felt good.”

“It did. Not at all what I expected.”

Rye led him from the studio up the stairs to the kitchen where he grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard under the sink.

“What did you expect?” He looked at Rye curiously.

“Well, I’ve seen your videos….”

“That’s my job—the drama and wildness. That’s what they pay to see. I’ll have to go back to that, and soon. Soon there will be people everywhere again.” He knew that the only reason no one was here now was because of Donna.

Rye shook his head. “I get it on the road, but you don’t have to do that in your home. This is your private space.” Rye bent over Jeff’s fingers, putting antibiotic cream and bandages on the worst of them.

“Not here. Up in my rooms.”

“I say the whole house. I can’t keep you safe if the place is full of groupies and hangers-on. You can have friends over, of course.” Rye put away the first aid kit and pulled out the blender, moving around the kitchen with easy familiarity.

“It’s the lifestyle. Hookers, groupies, musicians.” He watched, fascinated, as Rye moved. “What are your vices?”

“I’m not allowed to have vices.” Rye gave him a teasing smile.

“See? You’re not allowed to. I’m not allowed not to.”

“It’s not going to be easy, pretending to be that bad boy while you’re on tour but having to do it clean.”

Rye put ice cream, frozen strawberries, a bit of ice, and some protein powder into the blender.

Jeff shrugged. He’d fail. There was no other answer, unfortunately. He had a touring contract, but without the speed, he was boring, normal, simple. Just a man. On the road there would be need and opportunity.

Just thinking about it made him tired.

The conversation was cut off by the blender, Rye whirring up his mixture before pouring it into a large glass and setting it down in front of him.

“If I made soup and sandwiches, will you have some?”

“What kind of soup?” He took the shake, drinking deep.
Oh. Oh, so good.

“Well, tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches have always been my favorite. I’m pretty easy, though.”

“I like tomato soup.” He didn’t eat meat, he didn’t think. He liked eggs. Potatoes. Soup.

“What else do you like?” Rye pulled out a cookie sheet and grabbed a bunch of tomatoes, a couple of peppers, and some onions and garlic. He cut them all up, sprinkled them with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and then put them in the oven.

“Eggs. Mashed potatoes…. What are you doing?”

“I’m making tomato soup.”

“Soup comes from a can.” Everyone knew that.

“It doesn’t have to.” Rye grabbed the blender and put in more berries and ice, whirred it up, and put it in a glass. He came over to sit next to Jeff, drinking the smoothie.

“You can’t make soup in an oven.”

“Well, no, but I can roast the ingredients that are going into the soup. Then I’ll blend them together and voila—soup. I like cooking. With my job there’s lots of time to look up recipes, read about techniques, and put them into practice.”

Okay.

Okay, Rye was weird. “Are you queer?”

“Because I like to cook?” Rye chuckled and went on without waiting for an answer. “I am. Are you?”

“I’m asexual. I don’t go for it.” All his love went into the performance; that’s what the shrink thought, and the shrink said that was okay.

Rye looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Seriously? With all those piercings?”

“Yeah. Those are for me, not for other people.” He had had sex, but really, other people worried him with their diseases and hang-ups and things. Music was the best lover.

“You’ve never been in love?”

“No. Well, I am with my job, I guess. That’s exciting and worrisome, and it tried to kill me. That’s like love.” His job was to be a vampire king.

Rye snorted. “I’m not sure that love is trying to kill you.”

“Oh, look at the songs. Love is dangerous and deadly.” Entire careers proved that.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“You can either be normal or be insane.” And as peaceful as this normal was, it was fleeting.

“I don’t think anything is that black and white, Jeff.”

Jeff looked down at his black clothes, his dyed perfectly black hair, his white skin, and he giggled, the sound a touch hysterical.

Rye caught his gaze and chuckled. “Your choice in clothing and lack of sunshine notwithstanding.”

“Even my ink is black. I live in a different universe.”

“Extremes are part of why you wound up in rehab. You need to find balance.”

Jeff thought about that for a second, then rejected the thought. He only knew how to function on the edge. His career depended on it.

The timer on the oven dinged, and Rye went over and pulled out the tray of vegetables. Most everything was turning brown, a lot of it blistered.

After grabbing a big pot, Rye poured the vegetables and the juices on the tray into it and added cream. Then he grabbed a… hell, something, that he put into the pot, and it made noise like the blender.

Craziness.

It was sort of fascinating, honestly.

The pot went back onto the stove, and Rye added more salt and pepper. “Be ready in two minutes.”

“Are you sure that’s how you do it?”

“You can be the judge of that when it’s finished.” Rye stirred the “soup.”

Jeff drank the rest of his shake, feeling more and more solid. “I like the strawberries.”

“Cool. I was told the chocolate shakes were your favorite, but the fruit ones are better for you.” Pulling down two bowls, Rye then ladled out the soup and brought it over. “There you go. Tomato soup.”

“I like strawberry shakes almost as much as chocolate….” He eyed the bowl. It looked like soup. Sticking his finger in, he swirled it around, then sucked it clean. Spicy, warm, creamy. It was good. He stared up at Rye. “It’s soup.”

“I told you. You want sandwiches or just toast points with it?” Rye went back and cut a couple of slices of bread from a loaf of something dark.

“What the fuck is a toast point?” Jeff dipped and licked again.

“Toast cut into triangles.” Rye gave him a shit-eating grin that lit his whole face up.

“Why do they call them toast points, and no, I don’t need them. I had a shake.”

Rye shrugged. “I don’t know. They just do.” Rye put a single slice of the dark bread into the toaster. Then he brought over a spoon, along with the salt and pepper shakers. “In case you need either, though it’s pretty well seasoned.”

It was all so very fucking normal.

Quiet.

Nice.

Rye’s toast popped, and he cut it into triangles, coming back to sit next to him and eat. “So what do you usually do when you aren’t touring or playing guitar?”

“Write music. Sleep. Make appearances.”

“No hobbies?”

“I write programs.” Sometimes. He liked his computer, his phone, liked being anonymous.

“Oh? What kind of programs?”

It was weird; nobody had ever really asked about him, been interested in him outside of Lord January.

“Just stuff. Like with the movies. Apps. Silly things. I like code. That’s what my degree is in. Engineering, with a minor in music.” Music was just math, after all.

“You’ve got a degree in engineering? That’s pretty cool.” Rye grinned. “Nice to know you’ve got a mind under all that hair.”

“Hey. I’m a lord of the undead.” His lips twisted.

Rye laughed for him, eyes crinkling.

Jeff ate the soup before standing up, restless. Maybe he should explore the house.

Rye watched him, but it wasn’t like how everyone else watched Lord January. It was… more personal. Less groupyish.

“Thank you for the soup. It was nice.” Nice. God. He wandered off, heading into the main part of the house.

It was dark and heavy, ponderous, with solid leather furniture and Gothic decorations. There was a huge painting of January in the living area, gaunt and odd.

Rye trailed him through the empty rooms.

There were bedrooms and rooms with video games, a room with a pool table, and one with a huge cross in the middle of the room. Weird.

“You have a St. Andrew’s Cross?” Rye went over and checked it out.

“Do I?” Jeff shrugged and headed to look in cabinets and such. There were tons of sexual things in there, bondage and pain. He thought he recognized some of them from the Bonds of Agony tour.

“I’m surprised you’ve got all this stuff, given you said you’re asexual.”

“This is from a tour. I’m too tired to have sex.” He waved one hand, dismissing the conversation.

“Seems to me like you’re too tired to do anything most of the time. You need to be more careful of your health, or you won’t even be able to tour anymore.”

“That’s what the drugs are for.” That was what this healing was for, to get healthy enough to tour.

“You can’t do the drugs anymore, Jeff. You’re going to have to get through the next tour by eating properly and exercising.”

Exercising.

Him.

Ha.

“I’m not fat.”

“No, in fact, you’re far too skinny. The exercise is to help with your stamina.”

“I told you, that’s what the drugs are for. There’s no help for it. We all know it.” It was inevitable.

Rye shook his head. “No. It’s not happening. You’re off the drugs for good.”

Rye was adorable. Maybe the fact that the man’s head was so far away from his feet made him a little stupid. Blood flow was important.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re staying clean. Full stop.”

“You’re very cute.” He headed out into a room with an indoor infinity pool. Oh, that was cool. He wondered when that had been put in. Or had it been there all along? He’d been high so much, he might have just never really registered it as any more than a huge tub, if that.

“Swimming’s a really good way to up your endurance. I’d be happy to do laps with you.”

“Is that why it’s so narrow? You just go and the water goes around you?”

“Yeah. There’s a motor moving the water and it pushes against you so it’s like you’re actually swimming, kind of like a treadmill only for your arms. You have to be a little bit careful because if you don’t actually swim, it’ll push you into the back wall.” Rye pointed to the heavy curtains. “And it’s private. No way anyone’s going to see you.”

“Wow.” He leaned down, touched the water. “It’s warm.”

“All the better to entice you into it.” Rye leaned over him, sliding his hand through the water too. “I like swimming. Makes you feel weightless, like gravity doesn’t count anymore.”

“I don’t know how. Just dog paddling.”

“It’s easy enough. If you can doggy paddle, I can teach you some basic strokes. That’s all you need.”

“Maybe. Maybe, yeah. I like being wet.” He touched the water again. It was like it was alive.

“You want to go now?”

“Can we? Is it safe?”

“Sure it’s safe. As long as you don’t do it alone or when impaired.” Rye started to strip down.

Well, it should be easier without his clothes, he guessed…. He wouldn’t have done it if anyone else but Rye was there, but then he wouldn’t have been even considering going into the water if anyone else was there.

Jeff stripped down too, then sat at the edge and stared into the water.

Rye had an amazing body, lots of muscles over smooth skin. There were scars too: two on his abdomen and a nasty mess of them on his right thigh. Rye left on his underwear and slipped into the water. It went up to his hips.

“What happened to your leg?”

“I was shot. The bullet shattered my bone.”

“Oh. Did it hurt?” It had to hurt. Shattered the bone? “Is your leg metal now?”

“Some metal alloy, some plastic. And yeah, it hurt like a son of a bitch.” Rye held out a hand, inviting him into the water.

“Does it hurt now? Was it a bad guy? Can I touch it?” He reached out and let Rye ease him into the water. It felt good around him, making his cock bob gently.

“It hurts sometimes. It’s a cliché, but I usually know when it’s going to storm. And yeah. I used to be a cop, and it was a drug bust that went bad.” Rye brought his hand to the scars.

“Oh.” The skin was ridged and hard, odd, but fascinating.

“I know it’s ugly.”

“No, it’s different. Lots of people like scars. I’ve got some.” He showed Rye his back with the patterns sliced into his skin. The scars were tiny, white, barely noticeable. “I let people do it on tour.”

“Seriously? That’s dangerous.” Rye touched each of the little scars, fingers warmer than the water. “I’m not letting anyone near you with a blade, Jeff.”

“Are you coming?” Now that was interesting. That was new.

“I am. Eight weeks at home, followed by thirty weeks on tour. We’re going to need to really work on your stamina to get you through thirty weeks.”

His brain wasn’t ready for that.

Thirty weeks.

“What do I do in here?” Jeff asked, looking at the water flowing around him.

“Are you okay with putting your face in the water?”

“Yeah.” He guessed. Surely he was.

“Okay. So you float on your stomach and then do this.” Rye put his arms over his head and then dropped them down in what would be a dragging motion in the water. “That’ll pull you through the water. I can hold your belly for you until you get the hang of it.”

Jeff hadn’t learned anything new in a long, long time. He hoped he didn’t drown.

R
YE
WAS
going to disconnect the damn house phone.

Between the people calling up from the gate wanting to be let in and the actual phone calls, he was being disturbed at all hours.