The Gift

Chapter 3: The Long and Winding Road-1

Chapter 3: The Long and Winding Road

Doren

He leaned back against the couch of the bus and closed his eyes. It had been a long ride, almost eight hours, but he didn’t mind traveling like this. It was relaxing: no intercoms, no paperwork, no people poking their heads into doorways and wanting something, needing something, absolutely-having-to-have-him-do-something right that very minute. The studio’s plan had been for him to fly down and meet the band and the equipment at their first venue. He was pretty much a one-man stage presence as the rest of the guys were hired musicians, so Anton had said there was no point in being dragged around by bus with them for hours on end, but Doren had outright refused. That’s not how a body went on tour, whether the musicians would be static or not, and Doren wasn’t going to miss a single part of the experience. If it all dried up on him in six months or a year, he wanted to be able to tell his mates one day that he’d done it all while he had the chance. Besides, the bus was pretty sweet. Big comfy couches, kitchenette, bar and bathroom—he wasn’t exactly roughing it.

He looked down at his new assistant, fast asleep on his shoulder, and chuckled out loud. August was going to be pissed with himself when he realized where he’d spent the time sleeping. Doren didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to get a good look.

August was cute in that small guy, badly dressed kind of way that indie movies managed to portray so perfectly: simple face, awkward smile, slim body, and a small round ass that managed to look tight even in hideous bargain store slacks. But physical attraction wasn’t enough to explain the draw Doren felt, that tingle in his sub-conscious that came whenever he caught August looking at him. He loved the way August seemed to go all on-guard and yes-sir when Doren was speaking to him, and the way August bit the inside of his cheek when he was trying not to say something that he desperately wanted to.

Now if Doren could only figure out how to deal with the fact that he loved all those things, it would make life so much easier for both of them. Unfortunately, the last thing Doren wanted to do was deal with anything. He was beyond having “to deal” with situations. Or people. Or issues. It was his turn to be king and he wanted everyone around him to know that—especially the people who worked for him. He hadn’t grown up with a lot, had been poor as dirt for most of his life, and wasn’t really granted anyone’s interest or concern for what felt like a very long time. He’d told himself, in all those foster homes and government care centers, that it was a temporary and shitty situation, and all he had to do to get out was work hard. To try harder, reach higher, and be more magnificent than everybody else. And he’d done it. He’d f*****g done it. If that made him a little self-important then so be it. If that meant when he asked for something, that he expected it done right, without question, immediately, then so be that too. He’d put in his time being low man on the totem. Now he gave attitude, he didn’t get it.

Yet as quiet and awkward as August was, it was obvious the man had a mind of his own and wasn’t afraid to use it. That was problematic as far as Doren was concerned, and it had already made Doren force his hand once.

If August had just done what Doren had asked when they’d shown up at the apartment to pick August up, everything would have been fine. They would have gotten off to a dandy start, and everybody could have been having a happy-happy time. Instead, August had to go and try and one up him. So while August had been waiting outside just like Diana had directed him to, and he’d had his luggage outside, all ready to go, with his ID in order and his paperwork completed and signed just like he’d been asked to, and he’d even followed direction and dressed casually, with jeans and a rock-tee of The Smiths, which just happened to be one of Doren’s personal all-time fave bands, August had also worn the jacket for that damn navy suit over top of it. Worst part of it all, Doren could tell by the jut of August’s chin that August had done it on purpose, too. So, had it been wrong for Doren to take offense? Was it wrong that he had done what any man who needed to assert superiority would have done in the same position? Was it a bad thing that he had pulled rank?

No, back at seven P.M. last night it hadn’t seemed wrong. Now, however, at three A.M. in the morning, yeah, maybe it had been a little bit wrong. Time had a way of changing perspective, especially when Doren had too many hours to look at August’s expression and feel the cold Arctic wind rolling off August’s gaze.

Yes, perhaps, Doren considered, telling August to take the jacket off right there in the street had been a little much. Maybe insisting the driver not let August on the bus until the offensive clothing was gone had crossed some boundaries. Maybe standing his ground when it was obvious that August was furious, while August had fumed in silence, had been an over-step.

Most certainly having August hand him the jacket, then stepping out of the bus and dropping it on the sidewalk where it still lay as they drove off into the sunset was the point of no return, though.

August hadn’t spoken a word while he was shown where everything was on the bus. He’d remained quiet as he was introduced to the musicians and the roadies. While Doren had been expecting emotion, some wounded feelings even, he’d figured they’d work it out with some playful taunting, maybe even some flirtatious back and forth. If anything, he’d figured, it would make the drive go a little quicker. But the longer August’s anger had carried on, the more Doren had been burdened with the urge to stop August and pull him aside, to whisper that he was sorry. But that could not happen. Not there. Not in front of everyone. Not if Doren expected to remain in control of this venture.

For the next few hours they’d sat without conversation while August made notes in his planner. August had fallen asleep some time later while Doren was playing with the guitar, strumming the strings slowly and methodically, letting the guitar hum along with the tires. He’d set the guitar aside an hour back, hoping to get some shuteye as well, and when he’d leaned back against the couch August’s head had slipped against his shoulder.

Doren’s response to August’s closeness had been immediate. If August had been a groupie, he would have made a move right then and there, no matter who else was on the bus or what they were doing. August wasn’t a groupie, though. August didn’t even like him. How Doren was going to deal with that fact, he didn’t have a single clue.

He knew one thing though; it was going to be a long trip if he didn’t get a handle on the situation.