“Then why do you look like you wanna cry? Do I wanna know? Should I get Dani?”
These were the moments when Benji really missed XYZ and being around other gay guys who weren’t afraid to talk about emotional stuff. Who didn’t get weird about his and Joshua’s relationship, and who didn’t practically wear “no homo” on their sleeves. Andy was a decent guy, a great musician, and he meant well, but he was not someone Benji could unload on.
“No, it’s fine,” Benji said. “It can wait until the show’s over. I just need a minute, okay?”
“Okay, dude. We’re back on in five.”
“Thanks.”
Benji went into the green room’s tiny private bathroom to splash water on his face. He didn’t bother with his reflection, because he knew what he’d see—tired, sad eyes and red cheeks. He very nearly broke his “no liquor between sets” rule, hopeful a shot or two would settle his nerves and make the next houreasier to bear. But his throat was already rough, and he didn’t want to risk it.
I’m a professional. I can get through this.
He still wanted to curl up and cry, but first he had a fucking job to do.
“Benji!” someone yelled.
“Coming!” After another deep breath that did nothing to calm his nerves, he left the bathroom to rejoin his band, determined not to let this screw up his performance.
They had to change their closing set list around, because by the time they went on stage for the third and final time, Benji’s voice was nearly gone. They picked as many numbers as they could that featured Danielle on lead vocals, with Benji doing his best to back her up, but it wasn’t their best work. After their last song, Benji trudged off stage with no real energy or enthusiasm, despite intense applause.
He slouched into a chair in the green room, then curled onto his side, aching and exhausted. Danielle squatted in front of him, her round face a twisted mask of concern. “Do you have a cold? Are you sick? What do you need? You look like shit.”
“Dunno,” was all he managed. He needed Joshua to have never called him with that confession, but it was too late.
“Need me to call Joshua?”
“No.” The last person he wanted to speak to was Joshua. “What I need is a goddamn drink. A very stiff one.”
She blinked several times. “Are you sure about that?”
“He looked weird after the first set,” Andy said. “Said he didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And I still don’t.” Benji sat up. “I want a drink. I’m not sick.”
Danielle didn’t look like she believed him, but she moved so he could stand. Once their equipment was safely stowed in the van, they had another hour before last call. Usually Benji either stayed in the green room, or went back to the hotel, but not tonight. Tonight he followed his band mates out into the pulsing club.
At the bar, he ordered two tequila shots, then downed them one after the other. The liquor burned nicely, warming his blood, allowing the music to get into his bones. Someone at the bar offered to buy him another shot. The guy was cute enough, so Benji tossed it back, and then went to dance with him.
Benji hadn’t let loose like this in ages, not since the first time XYZ performed at Unbound, the musical competition that had nearly rocketed them to fame. He and Joshua spent hours dancing that weekend, in between fucking around in the tent whenever they got a chance. And maybe, looking back, Benji preferred the dancing to the fucking around, but he’d been too happy to have Joshua there for the competition to complain.
Dancing to club music made Benji feel alive and free in ways few other things did. And writhing around with other half-naked men helped him embrace his preference for men over women in a safe space, with no expectations of taunts or bullying.
The liquor soaked into his limbs, keeping him loose and moving. A colorful shot of something in a long tube ended up in his hand, so he drank it. Fruity and sweet. He didn’t say no to a second one, and hot damn, he felt great. Floaty and happy, with nothing weighing him down. Not even the distance voice insisting he find his friends before he completely lost himself in booze.
Nope. He felt too good to bother, writhing and moving, semi-aware of his dance partner—partners?—touching his waist and back and butt. The touch felt nice. Soothing. The lights and music got dimmer. Further away.
Everything got further away.
His throbbing bladder urged Benji back to awareness, and he groaned loudly as the world rushed back in to ruin his perfect sleep. Bed. He was in bed. Someplace. He smelled coffee. His head throbbed, which made moving the pillow that covered it a very bad idea.
“I think Sleeping Beauty is waking up.”
Andy.
Thank God.
He only dimly remembered those first few shots at the bar, but the rest of his night was a blank. He was in bed, skinned down to his boxers, but he was with his band. At their hotel.
