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It had been like that from the start.
Brodie liked to push back against the label’s demands. Sometimes, I agreed; other times, we argued until we ended up in a place that worked for everyone. It meant success for him, the band, and the label.
At first, the label hadn’t been entirely supportive of Brodie’s outspoken nature or his gender-fluid style. He dressed however he pleased, and he often wore makeup.
In his usual way, he told them bluntly to fuck off as I stood beside him, backing him up.
Brodie was an intuitive musician, and he was the same way with everything in his life. It didn’t need to make sense on paper or to other people as long as it made sense to him.
No matter what he said or did or wore (or didn’t wear), Brodie was a beautiful person. Creative, talented, special. When he turned his attention to you, you felt like you were the one in the spotlight.
Greg often referred to Brodie as an “entitled brathole.” That was his opinion.
The band hadn’t shot up to the top of the charts because of me or anyone else at the label. It was mostly Brodie, his unforgettable voice, his presence, his gift. He didn’t just sing his songs; he lived them.
I’d enjoyed my tussles with Brodie from the beginning. He was a smart-ass, emphasis on smart. I’d rarely met anyone as quick or as funny.
And I’d ignored his flirting. He did it with everyone, and it didn’t bother me.
Until this past year, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
Not his teasing, not his flirting with others, and not his hookups with every gorgeous man who paid him attention. And theyallpaid him attention.
Well, not so much lately. Or perhaps he was being discreet—something that was rarely said about rock stars.
And me? I was having a midlife crisis; lusting after a man fifteen years younger and so far out of my league, we might as well be from different planets.
I probably needed a break. If I got away from him for a while, things would go back to normal. These urges for him would fade.
All that reasoning went by the wayside when I was alone with Brodie, and he was looking at me like he was now, like I was the only thing he wanted.
“I’m leaving,” I announced, standing on shaky legs as the bus gently swayed.
Had I really just said that?
“A sabbatical,” I continued. “Once this concert is done, I need a month off. Clear my head.”
Maybe longer. Maybe for good.
For once, Brodie had nothing to say, his eyes wide.
“Let me memorize this moment. Brodie James has been silenced,” I quipped.
His shocked expression morphed into anger, and I braced myself for the inevitable backlash.
He shook his head, his black hair falling into his eyes. I resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, to push those locks back so I could see his face.
When we first met, he’d worn his hair shaved. Now he was growing it out, the thick waves hitting his cheekbones, barely his ears. It was tousled and sexy, and his fans were obsessed with his new look.
Who could blame them? I was obsessed myself.
With or without makeup or sexy hair, he was so goddamn beautiful, and in a way I’d never anticipated. In a way I could no longer deny.
But he was free of the wrinkles I was now sporting. And the occasional gray hair amongst the brown.
“Never gonna happen,” he growled.
Before I could stop him, he grabbed my belt loop and yanked, bringing me in so close our hips collided.
