Time Out of Mind [Suncoast Society] (Siren Publishing Sensations ManLove) Read online

  He walked over to his bags on the bed and started rooting through them. “Thanks for getting dinner.”

  There was…something about his voice, the way he said it. Almost like he sounded guilty about something.

  Doyle handed him the tester he’d already pulled out. “Before you eat.”

  Mevi looked up from his search, staring at it for a moment before taking it from him and going through the routine.

  * * * *

  Mevi wondered how long Doyle had been out there…and hoped he hadn’t heard him masturbating.

  If the guy was straight, even better, it meant he could safely fantasize about Doyle all he wanted, right?

  Right.

  Except he’d rubbed out two orgasms while in the shower, not meaning to and thinking he’d use the shower to do even more work…until he thought about the sound of Doyle’s voice singing along with the Hamilton soundtrack and…there had been the first achingly hard woody. He’d nearly made it through his shower until he started getting hard again.

  And with them in close quarters, better to get it out of the way like that than to go into the bathroom for a while later and have to explain it away.

  While he was open-minded and didn’t mind people getting their kinky freak on, he wasn’t going to ask Doyle if the guy minded if he wanked in the next bed.

  That was…excessive.

  While Mevi dressed, Doyle turned the TV to the Weather Channel since the hotel’s cable seemed to have four channels, two of them showing livestock and ranching shows and the other one being Fox News.

  “Sorry it’s not the best digs.” Mevi forced himself not to watch the guy eat with chopsticks, deftly, his long fingers easily working them. “Hopefully we’ll find a better place tomorrow. Did you decide if you want to sightsee?”

  “I-I’d rather not.” He forced his gaze down into his moo goo gai pan. Being cooped up in such close quarters as a car would be exquisite enough torture by the time they reached Florida. No reason to string it out any longer than necessary. “If I’m not working we can…talk.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Mevi did like that Doyle wasn’t trying to push him too hard. “Do you have any kids?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said you’re divorced.”

  “No. No kids. Never wanted any, and she did. That was a contributing factor.”

  “Ah. Sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  Mevi tried to inject some humor into the situation. “I, heh, sorry, man. I thought you were gay, at first.”

  “Why?”

  “When I said ‘fuck you’ to you. Your response.”

  “Ah. Understandable.”

  “No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m actually bi, but no worries.”

  Mevi froze, stunned.

  Had he thought he was out of the woods?

  Oh, shit.

  “Is that a problem?” Doyle asked.

  Mevi realized he was staring, so he shook it off and started digging into his food. “No, man. Sorry. Not a problem at all. I’m cool.”

  “How about you?”

  His face heated. “How about me what?”

  “I’ve never heard of you having kids.”

  “Oh. No, not as far as I know. I don’t want any, either. Not after what I went through.”

  “The theft and trial?”

  “No.” He crammed a forkful of food into his mouth. “My father,” he muttered around it.

  Maybe this was his out. Let Doyle talk to him about that kind of stuff and divert the subject.

  Because if he let himself focus for too long on the fact that this hottie he’d be spending the next ten weeks with was not only single, but bi?

  I’m doomed.

  * * * *

  Doyle wasn’t sure how hard to push him. I’ll lead by example. “My dad died when I was young. My mom died right after I graduated high school. She’d never remarried. After what I went through, I decided I didn’t want to be a parent and possibly put a kid through what I went through.”

  Mevi stared at him for a moment as he chewed. “Mine didn’t die soon enough,” he muttered in that same, low voice. Once again, the other man’s gaze focused on his food. “Very closed-minded. That’s why I ditched Wyoming as soon as I was old enough.”

  “Is that when you moved to California?”

  “Yeah. Me and a buddy used to play stuff locally. Instead of wanting to be actors we moved out there to make music. Dad used to yell at me for taking time out to write music instead of doing stuff like football in high school. Just wasn’t my thing, you know? Wanted me to go into the military like he had. Again, not my thing. I respect our military, don’t get me wrong. We do several charity shows a year with the USO. But I hate guns. He thought it’d toughen me up. So…I left.”

  “Do you have contact with your mother?”

  “Yeah. We’re not real close, though. She imagined a house full of grandkids. Again, not me.”

  Doyle suspected there was more, maybe even a lot more, that Mevi wasn’t admitting yet. So Doyle verbally stepped back a hair, to give him some breathing room.

  “How’d you get the name Mevi?”

  “My buddy got drunk and couldn’t say ‘Malcolm Levi Maynard.’ Slurred the fuck out of it. I liked the sound of Mevi. It stuck.” He poked at his food. “You probably think I’m a horrible son, huh?”

  Mevi had brought it back around, meaning he wanted to talk. Doyle decided to let him. “No. I think you have strong feelings. Feelings aren’t right or wrong, they just are. What you do with them is what counts in the long run. I spent a lot of time as a kid mad at my father for something he had no control over. He died. He didn’t want to, it just happened.”

  “My father had full control over what he did.” Mevi forked more food into his mouth. “Told me not to come crawling back there, looking for help. So I didn’t go back until it was time to bury him. And I paid for every cent of it.”

  Doyle wasn’t sure if he meant literally, metaphorically, or both. “When was that?”

  “Two weeks after I turned thirty. Our fourth album had gone gold the week before and looked like it was heading to platinum.”

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  * * * *

  Yeah, Mevi had a metric fuck-ton of regrets.

  The most current one being that there was no way in hell he’d ever be able to have a real-life indulgence in some of the fantasies rolling through his brain about Doyle.

  “Only that I didn’t tell my father to fuck himself earlier. Even when I left, I really didn’t say it. Just said I was leaving, and I left. I owned my truck. Me and my buddy packed our shit and left. He ended up going back to Wyoming four months later because he couldn’t handle the grind. I ended up famous.”

  That was another regret. Because Bob had died in a car wreck three years earlier, a drunk crossing the line one night and hitting him head-on.

  Mevi had paid for Bob’s funeral, too, when he’d heard about the accident, although he hadn’t gone to the funeral. He’d never met Bob’s wife and kids, and didn’t want to be a distraction to them by showing up and getting mobbed. He’d called the funeral home and paid for everything with a credit card and told them to refund the fees to the widow.

  “Did you have a problem with drinking back then?”

  “No. I mean, sure, I drank occasionally, but I was focused, you know? Working three shitty-assed jobs to afford a third of a really crappy one-bedroom apartment. I couldn’t afford to drink, much less do drugs. Didn’t have time to party. One good thing I learned from my old man was a work ethic. Just not the kind of one he thought I should have. I’ll give him credit for that, I guess.”

  “And you’ve never tried drugs?”

  Mevi thought about that particular regret. Coming home and finding one of his roommates, and the guy’s girlfriend, stone-cold dead in the living room. An OD from bad heroin. It turned out the guy actually renting the apartment had been a dealer and kept th
at hid from Mevi. Easy to do, since he was hardly ever there. And not like he had a lot of shit to start with for them to steal, and he kept his guitar locked in his truck.

  He’d moved out immediately, and in with a guy who also washed dishes at one of the restaurants he worked for.

  “No,” Mevi finally said. “I saw what they did to people. Seen a lot of it. Been offered a lot of drugs, sure. Didn’t want it in my brain, anyway. Alcohol, at least I knew if I had a drink or two, the worst I’d lose was a couple of hours by not being able to drive.” He took another bite of his dinner. “Problem was, over the years, I buried myself working, trying to ‘make it.’ Nothing was ever good enough for me, no level of success. And I trusted David.”

  “David?”

  “My business manager. Thought he was a good guy. Bonnie and the others tried to warn me early on, but he was a good guy. I’d never been fucked over in a big way before. I was clueless, I’ll admit it. Then…”

  Mevi shook his head. “They were right. And I blamed myself as much as I blamed David. That in that one area I was ‘lazy,’ and look what happened? Alcohol became an escape at that point. Fuck it all, you know?”

  “Who’s Bonnie?”

  “Bonita. We all call her Bonnie.”

  “Ah. Doesn’t need to be tonight, but at some point I’d like you to tell me about the events that led up to you being committed to the rehab center.”

  Mevi was ashamed to admit he couldn’t remember much of it. Bonnie’d had the sense of mind to pull her phone out and record it in case she had to call the cops on him.

  Clark and Mevi’s lead counselor had shown him the video during his first week in rehab, when he’d been arguing with them why he should be let out.

  That’s when, resigned, he had to admit they were right. What he watched on the video horrified and shamed him.

  “When we reach Florida,” Mevi finally said. “I’d rather get through the trip first.” Another poke at his food. “Will the cravings get easier?”

  “Eventually. Sometimes stress will trigger them. We’ll work on developing healthy coping techniques to help you get through them.”

  Doyle sounded so…calm. Not cocky, but a quiet confidence or surety.

  “Twelve-step isn’t my deal,” Mevi said, not sure if he’d already told Doyle that.

  Doyle nodded. “That’s fine. It’s not for everyone. Some people pick and choose what works for them. Only thing that matters is whatever you use works and is a healthy technique, not just another crutch that will let you down.”

  “I don’t want to be another one of those ‘Hollywood Meltdown’ kind of stories, you know?”

  “I can’t promise you anything except that we’ll try. I’ll work with you, but you have to do the actual work. And it won’t be easy. Some of it will suck, and suck hard.”

  Mevi hoped Doyle couldn’t see the sudden flush of heat filling his cheeks.

  He wanted to suck something, all right.

  And it lay between Doyle’s thighs.

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, with Mevi showing no interest in stopping to sightsee, Doyle ditched that plan and focused on getting to Florida as quickly as possible. He was almost regretting exposing Mevi to Hamilton and finally coaxed him into listening to The Hamilton Mixtape album for a little bit of respite.

  He might as well have offered a couple of lines to a cokehead.

  They stopped Saturday night in Mississippi. Doyle was awakened by a noise just after dawn Sunday morning and spotted Mevi sitting up in the next bed, earbuds in and working on his iPad.

  That Doyle hadn’t heard him get up and get his iPad bothered him. Either he was more exhausted than he thought…

  Or maybe it’s just that I’m enjoying spending time with him.

  Because you’re attracted to him, asshole.

  They were on the road less than an hour later. Tate had texted him again, begging him to reconsider.

  Clark was happy to hear reports that Mevi was behaving himself and hadn’t made a complete ass out of himself, or run Doyle off yet. Doyle knew that wasn’t totally altruistic on Clark’s part. As Mevi’s manager, and the manager for the band, Clark made more money if the band made more money, and the band would definitely make more money with Mevi back in full form.

  At least Mevi relinquished control of the car’s music back to Doyle. They’d had a good Wi-Fi connection at the hotel. One of the first things Mevi had done was log into iTunes and buy the two albums and put them on his iPad.

  Doyle kept the cabin’s volume low enough so Mevi could work. As he drove, Doyle sang along as the Broadway versions of Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett dispatched unsuspecting victims to put them into pies.

  It wasn’t until he was halfway through the musical that he realized the theme of unrequited and lost love—and revenge—probably wasn’t the best one to be listening to right now.

  Not when a man he knew he could never have sat in the seat next to him.

  * * * *

  Mevi knew if he engaged in too much personal conversation right now, he’d end up confessing to Doyle. Not just that he was gay, but that he had the hots for Doyle. A key problem with that had hit him last night—Doyle might tell Clark and get someone else if he thought Mevi had the hots for him.

  Torturing himself with Doyle’s presence was masochistic, yes, Mevi would admit that.

  But considering his creative flow had returned with a tsunami vengeance, he didn’t want to disturb what was working in his brain.

  If it meant unrequited lusting after his sober companion?

  So be it.

  Because it wasn’t just the creative spark fanned by the music. It was Doyle’s strong, comforting, quiet presence. Mevi had never trusted someone so quickly before. That was a miracle after what David had done to him and his finances.

  Something about Doyle told Mevi the man would not only hold his confidences, but completely meant it when he told Mevi he could lean on him.

  And that feeling, of being able to rely on someone besides himself—even then maybe not himself all the time—was a feeling he thought he’d never experience again in his life. He’d felt like that about David despite little red flags here and there.

  Sure, he relied on Clark, but his trust in the man came from the fact that Bonnie and the others trusted him and used his services.

  He would have to put on a mask and try to keep Doyle at arm’s length so the guy didn’t figure out Mevi had the hots for him.

  That might be difficult.

  But, somehow, he’d try to figure it out, even as his notebook pages started filling with lyrics that could easily be a man pining for a woman…or another man.

  A love he knew he could never have.

  * * * *

  Doyle wasn’t sure why, but Mevi’s mood worsened as they hit the Florida state line and made the final jog to the south.

  He wouldn’t hold it against the guy. The trip had been grueling, and no doubt Mevi was dealing with a bunch of mental shit. At least he’d had an initial breakthrough with the man.

  He’d take the win and bide his time.

  Doyle had already texted Kel with their ETA at a gas stop a little north of Tampa earlier that evening. It would be after dark when they arrived in Sarasota, but that was fine. Clark had already transferred payment to Kel, so they were all set there.

  Ironic that the more unsettled Mevi seemed, the more relaxed Doyle grew to see familiar landmarks. Even the changes didn’t bother him.

  This was where he’d grown up and spent the majority of his adult life.

  It felt damn good to be back “home” again in Sarasota.

  “What the hell is this place?” Mevi asked as Doyle slowed to make the last turn into the industrial complex.

  “An apartment,” he said. “A decent one. No windows, and you can play as loud as you want, day or night.”

  “Great,” he muttered. “Fucking shit-hole.”

  They parked in fro
nt of the warehouse unit, next to a pickup truck parked there. Doyle reached between the seats, retrieved the manila envelope from the back seat, and got out, leaving Mevi stewing in the passenger seat.

  He also took the keys with him.

  Doyle wasn’t going to beg the guy to get out. If Mevi was going to pick now to act like a three-year-old, Doyle would treat him like one. When he knocked on the door, it opened, and Kel immediately smiled.

  “Hey, stranger.” They shook, and Kel pulled him in for a one-armed hug. “So I’m dying to know the super-secret…eh, secret.”

  “Let’s step inside.” Doyle had tried to keep himself positioned so Kel couldn’t see into the SUV. “I hate to ask this, but I need a signed NDA from you.”

  “Okaaay, but why?”

  “Because of who my client is.”

  Doyle fished one of the forms out and handed it to Kel. Kel scanned it and reached for a pen from a desk to sign and date it.

  “You can’t tell anyone who’s here,” Doyle said. “Not even Mal, unless she signs a form, too.”

  “She will. Give me one to take home with me and I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

  Doyle removed another form from the envelope and handed it to Kel.

  “You ever hear of Portnoy’s Oyster?”

  Kel scowled. “Uh, duh. Why don’t you ask me if I’ve heard of Lady Gaga, Pink Floyd, Maroon 5, or the Beatles. Why?”

  Doyle led him outside and pointed at a frowning Mevi, still sitting in the front passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Oh…shit,” Kel whispered. “No shit? That’s Mevi Maynard? He looks so different.”

  “No shit.” Doyle led him back inside. “I cut and dyed his hair. Needed to. And client confidentiality, I can’t tell you why I’m here with him.”

  Kel frowned. “There’s not going to be any violence or anything, is there? No crazy stalker he’s hiding from?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “And what about paparazzi? I have to protect the privacy of the club members.”