CHAPTER FIFTY
I closed down my lap top and strolled over to the kitchen where Justin was rooting through the refrigerator. "Hey," I greeted nonchalantly, reaching past him to grab a beer and taking the opportunity for a closer inspection of the shoulders of his hoodie: yeah, I was right. Only a few rainspots darkened the material.
"Hey." He shot me a quick look as he pulled out a pack of chicken breasts. "Stir fry okay?"
I shrugged as I popped the cap off the bottle. "Why don't we get take out? It's kind of late to start to start cooking."
"It won't take long." He put the chicken on the counter and started opening drawers, presumably searching for a knife. "Why waste money when you've got food here?"
"It's one of the perks of being financially solvent," I smirked. "I can treat myself whenever I want."
He slammed the knife he'd selected down on the counter, making me wince for my granite finish, before grabbing a chopping board. "Do you always have to be so facetious?"
"I find it helps." I chugged my beer and then leaned my elbows on the counter, watching as he returned to the refrigerator and began yanking vegetables out of the crisper. "Justin … you don't have to cook for me if you don't want to."
"I have to do something to pay my way."
"No, you really don't." I put my beer down and walked over to him. "Put that shit back and talk to me. Where have you been?" I tried to take his arm but he jittered away from me, and carrots, onions and zucchini went tumbling to the floor. I bent down to retrieve them.
"Why do you want to know?" His voice held that mistrustful quality I hadn't heard for a while and I looked up at him; he wasn't making any effort to come and help me, I noticed. "I thought you said I could come and go as I wanted. I didn't realise I had to check in and out." His face was set, his hands clenched by his sides, and I couldn't work out whether he was mad or scared.
"You don't." I could feel myself getting pissed with him again as I straightened up, my hands full of vegetables. "But you've been gone a long time, and it's kind of wet out there." I dumped everything back in the crisper and closed the refrigerator door before turning to him with raised eyebrows. "And yet curiously, you're not."
He folded his arms across his chest. "And you think I owe you an explanation?"
"I think you might have had the manners to call and let me know where you were, or to at least have answered your fucking cell," I retorted hotly.
He narrowed his eyes. "Is that why you bought it for me? So you can keep track of where I am?"
"I think I have the right to know, don't you? You're on bail, remember?"
"Right," he shot back. "And I'm not stupid enough to do anything to jeopardise that! Do you really think I want to go back to jail, Brian?"
I ran a hand through my hair. "Honestly? I have no idea what you want." I turned away from him and went to retrieve my beer. To my surprise he followed me.
"Fine. If you really want to know, I was at the hospital, which was why my cell was off. Mom was already there, so after I'd spent some time with Molly she took me for a coffee and we talked, and then she drove me back here. Do I have to tell you what we discussed?"
"No. Of course not. Jesus!" Hoping I didn't look as stupid as I felt for forcing such a mundane disclosure, I took a swig from the bottle and then set it down again. I hadn't really wanted it in the first place. "So why didn't you just say you were going? You left me standing there like a fucking moron! It was humiliating, Justin!"
"Humiliating?" He stepped closer, getting right in my face. "I'll tell you what was humiliating! Standing in those fucking stores having you dress me up like I was your little kept boy! Paying for everything … Christ, those people must have thought you were my fucking sugar daddy or something!"
I was startled by the intensity of his anger. "Okay, I'm willing to concede I might have got a little carried away," I admitted. "But why didn't you tell me how you were feeling, instead of running away like a little sissy?"
"Because I didn't think you'd let me leave, that's why!" he shouted.
I blinked at him. "Why the fuck would I do that?"
His gaze never wavered, and I thought I could see accusation in his eyes. "Because I know another reason."
Okay, now I was thoroughly confused. "I'm sorry, I'm really not following this conversation. Reason for what?"
"For why you arranged for me to stay here. For why you've gone to so much trouble for me."
Ohhhhh …. Well, I'd have been ecstatic that he'd finally worked it out, if his expression hadn't implied that he was far from happy with the revelation. "And that is…?" I prompted.
"You said it yourself." His voice was as grim as his face. "I need a new 'image'" – he made mocking air-quotes – "only this time, you want to be the one controlling it!"
It took a moment for the penny to drop, and then I stood there a bit longer with my mouth hanging open. God knows I'd been insulted before, by experts, but I couldn't ever recall having been so taken aback by a comment in my life. "You fucking what?" I managed to get out. "You … you think I'm another Saperstein?"
My total shock must have registered, because his expression softened a little and some of the anger went out of his voice. "I'm not afraid of what you'll do to me the way I was with him, no, of course not. You've been kinder and more supportive than anyone I've met in a long time."
"Wow," I snarled. "Thanks for nothing." I realised my hands were trembling, so I clenched them and stuck them deep in my pockets. "I can't believe you said that to me, Justin. I can't fucking believe you'd think such a thing."
"I think it because I've been through this before!" He lifted his hands, palms up, in an almost pleading gesture. "How many hours do you think I spent standing around while Gary picked out what I was going to wear and when I was going to wear it? Telling me how to act, and what to say, and what to sing? Trying to mould me into his idea of a superstar?"
"And you think I'm doing the same thing?" I actually felt nauseous.
He gave an angry little shrug. "Who's the one insisting I still have a career as a singer? Who's already got an agent lined up for me? Who's the one going on about how Sirius is dead and how I need a new persona? Well, it seems to me you were making a pretty good start on inventing the new one today!"
"That's not what I was trying to do," I protested. I wanted to sound outraged, but it came out more as a strangled whisper.
"Good. Because I'm not going to let you." His jaw jutted as he drew himself up to his full height, or as close to it as he could get. "You've never given me reason to be afraid of you Brian, so I can say this to your face: I whored my music and my talent because I didn't think I had a choice … but now I do. This time, whatever I do and however I do it are going to be my decisions, nobody else's. If I ever sing in public again, it will be as me, Justin Taylor, and the image I present will be the one I choose. Not you."
Wow. That fucking stung. My first reaction was cold fury: how dared the little shit talk like that to me, after all the crap I'd put myself through on his behalf? I was a beat away from telling him to get his sorry ass out of my Loft and find some other mug to adopt him. Luckily the saner, more honest part of me couldn't truthfully blame him for the conclusion he'd jumped to, erroneous though it was, not given the way he'd been conditioned: no, if anyone were to blame for his misunderstanding it was me, pushing all the wrong buttons at the wrong time, making him doubt me when I thought I was earning his trust. Yet paradoxically, even as I was mentally berating myself for my stupid behaviour I was also elated by his defiance: look at the brave little fucker, all five-foot-whatever of him, refusing to back down, standing up for himself and telling it exactly how it was! How fucking great was that? So maybe I hadn't screwed things up too badly after all, not as long as I could set the record straight before things got any more out of hand. I stuck my tongue in my cheek and hitched a brow.
"You're a cocky little shit, aren't you?" I smirked. "Look around you, Sunshine … my life is fucking fabulous, thank you very much. I'm surrounded by fabulous things, I have fabulous taste, a fabulous bank-balance … hell, I'm fabulous. Why the fuck would you think I need to steal anything of yours?"
His brows crinkled a little: obviously that wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. "Gary had everything, too. It didn't stop him from wanting more."
"Gary Saperstein is a sick, tasteless, talentless little prick and everybody knows it. He'll never be able to own enough or spend enough or steal enough to change any of that, only he's too dumb not too keep trying. Whereas when I climb on another man's back I'm not looking for a free ride … well, not the kind you're talking about, anyway."
I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, so I took his elbow. "Come on. We need to talk."
He dragged his feet a little but allowed me to tow him to the sofa, and when I sat down he perched himself beside me.
"Okay," I began, looking him squarely in the eyes. "Firstly, I have absolutely no knowledge of the music industry so I wouldn't presume to try and influence any decisions you make about your future or your career, other than to make sure you have whatever opportunities you need in order to achieve them. I'll give you my honest opinion if you want it, but that's as far as it goes. As to Sammy, the only reason I ever got him involved was because at that point your major concern was to make yourself some decent money in order to help your mother, and I wanted you to realise that you had options available other than Saperstein. I'd like to add that I made sure Sammy heard your CD before he saw you perform as Sirius, so that it would be your music that caught his attention, not the crap Saperstein had you singing. And it did. He's not an easy man to impress, but your songs blew him away, Justin."
He ducked his head, glancing up at me shyly from under his bangs. "Really?"
"No, I'm just shitting you. Yes, really. Just like they did me."
Ah. Now he was blushing, and he couldn't hide the pleasure in his eyes. That was better.
"So of course I want to encourage you to keep singing and writing, because I think it will be a fucking waste of your talent if you don't," I went on. "But if you never want to sing again, fine: that's your decision. Go back to college, get your degree and then try something else … composing scores for films or TV, for instance, or writing songs for other artists. Or, if you're really determined to give up music, sign up for a different course. With your SAT scores you could take your education in any direction you wanted."
He was silent for a moment, searching my face as though he was trying to read my thoughts. "Then what was all that shit with the clothes about?" he asked.
I sighed. "Justin, you haven't known me very long, but there are some things about me that I should have thought were pretty self-evident and this is one of them. I have a habit of giving my friends what I think is good for them, whether they like it or not … over-stepping the boundaries, perhaps, but then there are very few people I actually give a fuck about, and in my defence I'd like to say that 90% of the time I'm right. You needed new clothes, I wanted you to have the best … and I wanted you to look good in them. I shouldn't have made such a big deal about it. And yeah, I'll admit I was dressing you to please my tastes rather than yours, and that was disrespectful and I apologise."
"I'm not tall enough to wear designer," he sniffed.
"But your proportions are perfect, so your lack of height doesn't really matter," I pointed out, figuring that a little blatant flattery couldn't hurt. "You looked amazing in the Armani."
All I got was an exasperated eye-roll. "Yeah, that's another thing. You said we were buying a suit for my court appearances?"
I nodded.
"Well, the prosecution's probably going to try and make me seem like I was a little gold-digger, living off Gary and using him so that I could become famous and make shitloads of money. So how is standing in the dock pimped out in fucking Armani going to help prove that I'm not?
I didn't have an answer to that. "Yeah, well. I did say I was only right 90% of the time," I told him sheepishly.
He snickered a little.
"Okay, smartass," I said, "I'll give you that. But do you concede you still need some new clothes?"
"Of course I do. Either that, or I'll have to walk around naked while mine are in the wash."
I leered at him. "You realise you've just given me the best reason for not buying you any, then?"
"Dream on, buster. It's fucking cold in here."
"Damn." I put on my resigned face. "Well, in that case, I guess we'll just have to go to Gap tomorrow and you can pick out whatever-the-hell crap you want."
To my surprise, he didn't exactly bounce with joy. "But you'll still be there, paying for everything. I'm not really comfortable with that, Brian."
Jesus. I dragged one hand down my face. How complicated could buying a few clothes be? Maybe he was taking this standing-up-for-himself thing a few steps too far. "Well, I don't see any other solution, unless you've got some money of your own squirrelled away somewhere. You can't exactly waltz into a store and use my credit card, Sunshine. That really would land you back in jail."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. "You could make me a loan," he suggested, a little hesitantly. "Just enough to get what I need. We could make it all legal … I could ask Mel to write up an agreement, and I'll pay you back with interest once I start earning."
Well, I couldn't see a problem with that, if it kept him happy. "I'll give you a loan, sure," I replied. "But there's no need to bother Mel. I'll trust you for it."
He shook his head. "No, Brian," he said adamantly. "It's not like we're married, or partners, or any of that crap. I'm only living here until the court restrictions are lifted, and then you'll be going back to your fabulous life and I'll be … wherever I am. But realistically it's going to be a while before I'm in a position to repay you, so I need you to be sure that I will, no matter where I end up or how long it takes. After all, I wouldn't want you thinking you had anything I'd need to steal, either."
Fuck. I knew I hadn't phrased that little observation as well as I'd liked, so the swipe back was fair enough, I supposed. But hadn't he sounded a little bitter too, especially the on the 'fabulous life' quote? I thought he had. Which meant my words had stung him enough to provoke a response, despite his protestations that there was nothing between us except legal necessity. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, Kinney. I frowned as though considering, although I already knew I'd never accept any repayments from him. "Okay," I said slowly, "on one condition. No interest. I don't make profit out of my friends." I held out my right hand. "Deal?"
He smiled, suddenly and brilliantly. "I guess I can live with that. Deal," he agreed.
TBC
