The Comeback Kid (Ain't Got Shit on Me) [Part 1]

Aug 16, 2012 22:24

Title: The Comeback Kid (Ain’t Got Shit on Me)
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Brad/Ray
Word Count: 14,729
Summary: Ray’s hit bottom and has to climb his way back up again with Brad’s help. Rockstar AU, set in an ambiguous time period.
Warnings: talk of/instances of substance abuse
Notes: For parulidae, who wanted some B/R from me for her 4_a_star request. She really let me do whatever I want, but gave me this fantastic photo to work with. And work I did. Thank you for your patience, parulidae! And huge thanks to snglesrvngfrend for her speedy beta and tolerance of my dumb mistakes.



Brad found him in a near-empty basement bar sitting in front of the bowl of mangy peanuts, squinting at a glass of whiskey. He hadn’t shaved in a week, give or take a day, and Brad could see yellow rings under the arms of his white shirt.

He leaned against the grimy railing running along the bar. This was a two thousand dollar suit but it didn’t matter; he’d worn these trousers twice already. He cleared his throat; Ray hunched a little harder and gripped his whiskey.

“You’re disgusting,” Brad told him very clearly over the Elvis track playing.

Ray sipped his drink, tipping his index finger out in a point to Brad.

Brad leaned a little harder. This might take some prying. “I’ve been looking for you for three weeks.”

Setting his drink down Ray flicked the bowl of peanuts. “You think you’d be a little better at finding me by now, huh, Boss.”

“Shit’s pretty slippery.”

Ray laughed deeply and then coughed. He’d been smoking a lot, then. There’d be hell from up top about that. He managed to quell it with more whiskey.

“You come a long way?” he asked when he could, squinting, his eyes watering.

“New York, so yeah. I followed the trail of your fights and fucks. There are a lot of people pissed at you.”

Ray leaned back. The front of his shirt had several stains on it, mustard, maybe blood, God only knew what else.

“Same shit, different day,” he said bitterly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brad said, trying to head it off at the pass.

“You tryin’ to bring me in, then, clean me up?”

Brad crossed his arms. “You have work to do.”

Ray made a noise, a rough snort. “Right. Making money for the man. My goddamn creative soul for a dollar.”

“You signed the contract, Ray, not me.”

Ray rolled his eyes and went for his whiskey again, muttering about percentages. Brad waited, looking around at the low lights and the clouds of cigarette smoke. The other guys in the bar looked to be in the same shape as Ray, dry-mouthed and wet-eyed, looking to forget their mistakes.

Ray was still drinking, probably hoping Brad would get tired and go. The Elvis song tapered off and a new one replaced it. This one was mid-tempo with slick vocals and rough guitar. Ray looked over at Brad, who shrugged.

Ray’s shoulders slumped and then rocked back up again when he tossed back the rest of his whiskey. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and turned on the barstool.

“Are we getting the fuck out of here?” he asked.

Brad looked around the bar once more disdainfully before nodding. “We’re gone.”

*

Brad took him to the house in Malibu. He could remember Ray buying it in one of his fits of responsibility. He’d had quite a few of those when he’d first started out.

“It’ll be great,” he’d said, wearing his sunglasses and last night’s suit while he signed the papers. “A home base. I can get a lot of stuff done here. My apartment in New York is so fuckin’ cramped and dark. I’m suffocating there.”

Brad thought it was a lot of money to throw down, but what did he know? He didn’t have much creativity to stifle in his own New York apartment. He just asked Ray about it a couple of times and let Ray do whatever he wanted, like he always did.

Ray was wearing his sunglasses again, different ones but the same make, standing at the bottom of the stairs while Brad tried every key he had on the door. Ray’s was long gone.

“I hired a cleaning lady,” Ray said, “maybe she can let us in.”

Brad got to the third last key. “Ray, you hired a cleaning lady three years ago.” He slid the key in and it went. He had to jiggle it but it turned.

“I pay her,” Ray protested behind him.

Brad put his shoulder against the door but it opened easily. “I’ll ask Hasser about that.”

Ray said something rude and slid past him into the house, kicking his shoes off into the empty front closet and heading into the living room. Brad pulled his key out of the lock with some difficulty and shut the door. He followed Ray after lining their shoes up, ignoring the rubber mark on the closet wall.

“All this space,” he said, listening to his voice echo in and out of each room as he passed it, “and you didn’t buy a stick of furniture.”

He came into the living room, which had white carpet and a wall of windows. Ray was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, casing the joint.

“I meant to,” he said wryly.

“Yeah,” Brad said. Ray lived his life in meant tos.

Ray smiled charmingly, laid down and spread his limbs out. He pretended to make an angel. The carpet was so plush it showed the wings and robe.

Ray stopped moving but didn’t stop grinning. “Tell me, Boss, do I have enough money for furniture?”

Brad sat on the steps leading down to the living room. “I’ll ask Hasser.”

*

A phone call to New York assured them that, yes, Ray had enough money for furniture.

“But nothin’ too nice,” Hasser said, chewing on something. He swallowed. “Food too, Brad. I bet he looks like shit.”

Brad didn’t agree or disagree, just hmmed and hung up. Ray was in the rental, picking the seat belt apart.

“How’s my old buddy Walt?” he chirped when Brad got in.

“Fine.” He put the car in Drive. “You still owe him five hundred dollars, you know.”

Ray stopped picking long enough to say, “That’s a six year-old debt. He’ll get his.”

Brad glanced at him as he pulled out of the parking lot. Ray didn’t shirk debts. He remembered every one, even the ones sealed with tequila that Brad didn’t recall. It just seemed likely they’d be paid from his estate after his funeral.

“Anyway,” Ray said. “I doubt Walt cares. He gets a damn salary, I mean, not paid in lumps.”

Brad laughed. “Your lumps are huge. Don’t act like it’s hard to swallow them.”

Ray played at indignant. “Sometimes I snort them.”

Brad shook his head. Just like that he didn’t feel like laughing anymore. He could feel Ray looking at him, could just see how defiant and troubled he looked, but he kept his eyes on the road, looking for a place to buy furniture.

*

He managed to keep Ray to the basics despite all the cajoling and incredibly childish whining. Ray never seemed to cotton on to the fact that it was his empty house and his unsnorted money, and Brad couldn’t really stop him. He raved and railed but still bought what Brad told him to and only asked the salesgirl to add herself to the receipt once.

He did insist on having burgers though. Brad went along with it, and even paid for them out of his expense cash.

“So it’s a date,” Ray said as they sat down in a booth.

Brad took a bite of his burger, chewed, swallowed and wiped his mouth. “Me buying you a burger counts as a date but you buying me a bed doesn’t?”

Ray bit his burger and let the juices run down his wrists. “That’s a guest bed, Brad. You are a guest in my home.”

“I’m really your boss.”

“Guest sounds nicer. Or slave driver. That sounds nicer than boss. It’s truer too.”

Brad stretched his legs out. The booth was small enough that he could rest his heels near Ray’s feet. “Once again, I’ll remind you that you appointed me.”

Ray brightened. “Can I un-appoint you?”

“No.”

Ray frowned, but ruined it by licking his wrists obnoxiously. While he was busy doing that some teenage girls came into the restaurant, dressed for summer and laughing. At the sound of their high easy laughter Ray jerked his hands away from his face and hunched down. He put his sunglasses on.

Brad kept eating; someone had to appear normal. The girls ordered and leaned against the counter, easy queens of their after-school domain. They poked straws into their drinks and surveyed the restaurant. Ray squirmed around. Brad watched them all, sucking mayonnaise off his thumb.

One of the girl’s eyes lingered on their table, first on Brad, who looked right back, and then at Ray, who stared at Brad.

She shrieked half a moment before her drink hit the floor. Coke sprayed all over her shoes and up to the hem of her skirt but she was already moving toward their table. Ray was trying to make his black jacket blend into the red booth.

“You’re-“ she said, breathless. “Ohmygod you’re Ray Person.”

Ray stayed slumped, as if he could just disappear by will.

She got nervous then, looking around for corroboration. Her girlfriend was paralyzed, staring at Ray.

“Aren’t you?” She asked, flushing.

Brad nudged Ray’s ankle but he barely moved. Brad turned to her. “Yes, he is,” he said.

“Oh, good,” she sighed, her embarrassment fading and her excitement returning. Brad kicked Ray again, hard enough to make him sit up to get away.

“Yeah,” he said listlessly. “That’s me.”

She grinned widely and started fumbling in her handbag, coming up with a pen. “Will you sign something for me?”

“Sure,” Ray said, pulling a napkin off the stack on the table. “What’s your name?”

The girl pushed her hair back nervously, flushing again. “Melanie.”

Ray scrawled a little note that started with a scraggly M and ended with his squashed signature, handing it off coolly. A year ago he probably would have stood on the table and serenaded the girl until she fainted.

She held the napkin gently in her palms before sliding it into her bag. “Thank you.”

Ray nodded at her, adjusting his sunglasses, and she finally seemed to clue into his mood. She leaned in.

“So is it true,” she whispered, “what’s in the magazines?”

“Jesus Christ!” Ray yelled and Melanie jerked back.

“What the fuck?” Ray said, furious. “You read in a magazine-“

Brad stepped on his foot so hard he probably crushed some bones. Ray moaned but his mouth snapped shut. Melanie looked horrified and everyone else was staring their way.

“Excuse me,” Brad said, using Ray’s foot as a push-off point. He stood and took Melanie’s elbow, guiding her away from the table. Her friend followed behind them without prompting.

Brad took them outside and put them at arm’s length. They both looked bewildered.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “That was uncalled for.”

The girls fidgeted. “It’s okay,” the friend said quietly.

Brad shook his head shortly. “Ray was rude to you. He’s in the middle of writing an album and stressed, but still. Let me apologize for his behavior.”

A little excitement crept back onto their faces.

“He is?” Melanie asked, and then frowned a little. “Is it gonna be like his last album?”

Brad worked to make his face appear confident. “I think it’s gonna be more like his first.”

God fucking willing.

“That’s awesome,” the friend said.

Brad nodded and smiled. “It is. And I should get him so he can get back to it. Again, please accept my apologies.”

They started to walk away, already dissecting their encounter with the Ray Person, but Brad remembered the trunk of his rental and called them back.

Brad knew it was probably wrong, but he was also pretty sure t-shirts and stickers and the stupid underwear with Ray’s autograph on it went a long way to ensuring this wasn’t going to be another thing about Ray Person for the papers.

*

They fought in the car.

“We are trying to fix this, Ray,” Brad said as evenly as he could. “You are not helping at all.”

“Fuck you. Who’s we? You and Fick, the musical dream team? You guys are assholes.”

“I’m not an asshole. I didn’t fuck up my career with carelessness. I didn’t yell at a girl, a fan, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, well…” Ray gestured aimlessly and reached for his cigarettes.

“You can’t smoke in the rental.”

“Fuck you. Make Fick pay for it.” Ray lit up, tossing the burning match out the window.

*

The furniture wouldn’t be delivered for another twenty hours so they had to sleep in the car too.

“You can sleep on the floor in the house if you want,” Brad told him as he turned the car off. Ray grunted and got out of the car, still smoking. He slammed the door and stood on the driveway, stretching like Brad wasn’t even there.

Brad left him to his sulk. It never did much good to do anything involving Ray when he was like that. Instead he took off his suit jacket and folded it up for a pillow and reclined the seat. When he looked out the window Ray was going into the house.

He focused on sleeping. If he didn’t sleep he’d never be able to manage Ray and then they’d both be sunk instead of just Ray.

He dozed until the cooling night air woke him up. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or why he was sleeping in a fetal crunch. Then he saw the open lock on the car door and sat up slowly. If he'd been thinking he would have waited the hour or two to get a bigger car, but he'd rushed out of the city with the first thing he could get, worried about finding Ray smashed into the gutter.

But Ray was fine and here he was, sleeping in a fucking rental car. He stretched as much as he could and forced the seat back a few final inches, using his jacket as a blanket instead of a pillow. At least out here in the suburbs it was quiet, not like New York.

With the jacket it was warm enough to sleep but he woke up when Ray got into the passenger seat anyway.

"Fuck you," Ray said when he opened his eyes. Ray dropped his own seat back with a crunch that Nate would probably have to pay for. He ripped the jacket off Brad and wadded himself up in it.

"Fuck you too," Brad murmured, rolling as far over as he could, tucking his hands into his armpits.

*

He left Ray sleeping in the car in the morning, wrote don't leave in the condensation on the windshield and hoped for the best. He walked down until he found a diner that had a pay phone out front. He called New York, where it was mid-morning.

"Fick."

Brad pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning on the phone. His eyes ached from the sun but his sunglasses were back in the car. "It's me."

Nate sighed. "Where are you? Did you find him?"

"Malibu. Yes."

"How many pieces is he in?"

"One."

"Wow." Nate was silent then, probably turning in his chair, looking out the window of his office at all the people that listened to the music he made. "Well, what's happening? Is he alright?"

"I have no idea. He hasn't fucked off again yet."

"Small miracles, I guess. What are you gonna do with him?"

Brad shielded his eyes from the sun, looking down at the phone's case. Someone had scratched Sheila loves James in the metal and someone else had written James loves head under it.

"I don’t know. Do you want him back there?"

"No. We're trying to work things out here. People are already forgetting and it's only been a few weeks. More time will help, as long as you keep him away from cameras and drugs and men."

Brad nodded. "I'll try."

"Do you think you can get him to work?"

"I don't know about that. He's pretty fucked up."

Nate sighed. "I know. See if there's anything you can do."

"I'll do my best."

"Okay," Nate said. "Well, thanks for checking in. Keep me in the loop."

"Yessir," Brad said and hung up, coins rattling.

He was too tired to eat so he just bought coffees to go and drank his sitting on the steps to Ray's house, watching his note on the window evaporate, the letters fading to smudges.

*

Ray was a pill all day, bitching endlessly about all the shit Brad made him buy so he could keep living and not be such a slob.

He shut up twice; once when Brad bought beer and once when they went into a music store and the clerk gave him a guitar to play. A Gibson Les Paul Standard.

Ray took it to the middle of the floor, holding the guitar like it was a gift from God. Who even knew what he’d done with his guitars. When Brad had checked his New York place only his father’s guitar had been there, and Ray never even touched that one.

Ray fiddled with the strings and the strap, looking careful and a little shy.

“When did I last play?” he asked Brad.

“By my count, eight and a half weeks ago.”

Grimacing, Ray looked at his calluses and stretched his fingers, as if he’d need that. He looked at the clerk bashfully, shrugging his strapless shoulder. But he played.

He started off by testing chords, before riffing a little, before clearing his throat and starting one of his old songs, Mahned Bridge.

Brad had heard that song a million times since it’d helped launch Ray to fame, but it still sounded good on that beautiful guitar, smoky and simple, a song for lovers.

Ray played it most of the way through, turning the second bridge into a solo. But when he got too into it and started to hum the words he stopped, switching to a Johnny Cash song before he petered out.

The clerk seemed a little beside himself. Maybe he’d just figured out who Ray was, or maybe he was just smitten. “Sounds great,” he croaked, then cleared his throat.

Ray grinned with all the watts he hadn’t used for months, taking the guitar off. “It’s a good guitar.”

The clerk nodded eagerly and took it back, his fingers sliding when Ray’s touched his. When he saw Brad looking he almost dropped the guitar on the counter. For his part Ray took big steps backward until he was near Brad. He didn’t look at Brad, which meant he was embarrassed. The air in the store got very sharp then, everyone staying still under imaginary looming headlines until Brad sighed and told Ray to just buy the damn guitar already; he’d need one to work, after all.

*

That night they drank beers on the back patio. Brad looked at the lights of other people’s house while Ray played his guitar, strumming in circles.

“How long do we have?” Ray asked.

“Hm?”

“Until Nate makes me go back to New York. There’s no way you haven’t talked to him by now.”

Brad drank some of his beer, listening to Ray work on chords.

“I think this time it’s my call so you’d better behave.”

Ray spliced a chord, ugly, and then fixed it. Usually he would say fuck you but this time he sang it as he strummed, his voice low and mellow, stingless.

*

It kept getting hotter, just a few degrees, each day. It was just in the west. New York was having a fine early summer, mild and wonderful. Nate asked after the heat in his second phone call, but he was distracted by something. Brad could hear his pen scratching, probably writing a check to some newspaper or magazine.

Brad told him it was fine. After he hung up he bought some cotton t-shirts so they wouldn’t die from the heat.

Aside from the heat and the day they almost gave the maid a heart attack by being in the house, it was peaceful enough. Brad found that if he cooked and cleaned then the worst Ray tended to do was chew on his calluses and bitch.

The peace, such as it was though, was tenuous, held in place by the guitar Ray was never far from at home. And when they went out he kept playing, dragging his fingers over tabletops, strumming along his thighs.

It was always the same chords, as far as Brad could tell.

Waiting on tuna melts and room temperature water from the diner, Brad asked Ray how he was doing.

"You mean," Ray said, dropping his imaginary guitar, "without drugs or dick?"

An old woman nearby looked scandalized. Brad rapped his knuckles on the counter.

"Not really, but that works."

"I'm great. Peachy. Wouldn't want to snort a thing or put it in my mouth."

Brad laughed. Ray was still angry about being babysat, as he saw it, but it didn't have quite the venom as the first ten times he'd said something about coke or cock.

For a change of pace Ray smiled instead of saying Fuck you. "I think the real question is how are you doing? You must hate it, not being crammed into your little office, answering my fanmail."

"Trombley answers your mail. He's gotten pretty good at your signature. I keep the press from eating you alive, do your bookings, and make sure you eat."

Ray nodded. "I bet it's too hot here for you." His fingers started tapping on the counter.

"It's fine," Brad told him. "I used to live here."

"Oh, shit," Ray said, tapping frozen again. "I totally forgot. Shit. You could be visiting your family or something."

The waitress, a dinosaur of a woman who wouldn't know Ray Person if they paid her to, slid their boxes of food across the counter and took Brad's sweaty twenty. Ray waved off the change and took the food.

As the door swung closed behind them Ray said, "Really, you could go. I'm okay."

Brad shrugged, sitting at a picnic table beside the parking lot. "Nah. I've got things to do."

"Like watch me fuck up my life," Ray said, but he seemed happy enough about it while he unwrapped his sandwich.

*

He thought about going. Watching Ray walk around the house in his boxers and the guitar strapped to him, mumbling nonsense along with those endless chords was wearing on him.

Then he thought about seeing his family in person. Having to look the life he left behind in the eye: the woman he was supposed to marry, the house down the street from his parents’ where they would live, the beach where the children they would surely have would play.

He told himself he was too busy.

To make work he read all the papers carefully, but none of them mentioned Ray at all.

*

They went to a bar, dressed casually so they'd fit in. Brad heard hushed whispers but it was dark so no one was sure enough to come up to them. Brad ordered himself a whiskey and Ray a beer. He tried to keep Ray out of his drink but that was difficult; they ended up swapping halfway through.

It was a dark bar but they played pop music instead of Ray's stuff. Ray rolled his eyes a lot but still talked about doing covers better than the originals.

Brad let him talk, stealing his whiskey back. Beer was for people on probation.

The music was stupid but they danced to it after a few drinks. Ray worked on his hip swivels and Brad kept his feet on the floor but moved his shoulders obligingly and kept his drink from spilling on women's hair and shoulders.

Somewhere around the sixteenth song and seventh drink Ray slid closer to Brad, moving obscenely, eyes lazy. Brad laughed at him. Ray had been doing this for years, at house and record deal parties alike. It made people uncomfortable and got Ray branded as outrageous, something he loved.

Shimmying in front of Brad Ray went for his drink. Brad held it aloft so all Ray got was the sweaty inside of his elbow.

"C'mon, Colbert. I finished mine."

Brad held him back with a hand. "Buy your own."

Ray cupped Brad's hips. "I hired you. Give me your drink."

Brad lowered the glass enough to sip from it. "You hired me as your boss. No."

Ray drummed on his stomach. "You're the worst." He kept shimmying, but went backwards, bumping into a couple and slipping through them. The gesture he made was rude and lingered as long as he could see Brad.

He brought back two whiskeys, at least.

They didn't close out the bar. The floor was sticky and it was so hot. It was Ray's idea to leave, and to tuck a few beers into the waistband of his jeans for the road.

The walk back to the house was nice, the air cooling Brad's armpits and the small of his back. He had to pick a suspicious hair off his beer but he was used to that kind of thing.

Ray kept pace with him and kept up a conversation with himself: critiquing the music choice at the club, the songs' structures, the atmosphere, Brad's inability to share.

Brad hmmed when it seemed appropriate and rolled his beer over the back of his neck. Even without his suit he was sweating from the bar and the dancing. Ray looked how he felt: damp at the temples and the collar of his shirt.

It was after midnight but they had no hours to keep so they landed on the porch, splitting the last beer from the fridge.

Ray cradled the guitar but for once didn't really play.

"Do you remember how to play?" he asked, rubbing sweat and condensation off his palm before he took the beer.

Brad looked at the guitar. When Ray played he could almost see the notes in the air and he understood them, but his fingers on strings was a long time ago, way before Ray got famous.

"Probably not." He held up his hands, looking through whiskeyvision at his fingertips. They felt just like fingertips, except for his right index and thumb, which had a certain smoothness from years holding pens to sign paperwork.

Ray turned the guitar strings-up on his lap, balancing it. "You used to be pretty good. Not like, me good, but not bad."

Brad liberated the beer from Ray, shaking it. Half empty. "You only saw me play twice, maybe."

"Yeah, and then you quit forever. Awed by my genius, I bet."

Brad shook his head, but Ray wasn't completely wrong. Awed was not the right word, but from the start Brad had seen where Ray was heading, even if he was just some dumb kid from Missouri fucking around.

"You should play sometime," Ray said, but he didn't offer the guitar.

Brad shrugged. "Play what? One of your songs?"

Ray grinned. "That would be pretty cool. You could come on stage, play back-up guitar."

Sipping the beer Brad shook his head and handed it off. "No thanks. I can't imagine the fucking trouble you'd start."

Ray pounded the rest of the beer and threw the can on the lawn. "Can't get much worse."

"Nate assures me it could."

Ray made a face, mouth turning down, beer-sour. "He assures you. Jesus. What am I supposed to be, sorry?"

Brad shrugged. "You're a public figure, Ray. Lumps."

Ray seemed to explode inside his skin, but stayed contained enough to not upset the guitar. "Public," he half-yelled. "A public figure! I see all these assholes getting beauty queens pregnant and going to fucking rehab and oh, aren't they mysterious? And me, raked over the coals for-" His voice cut out. "For-"

"I know," Brad said. "I know what it's like."

Ray turned to face him. His voice still blazed. "You don't know shit, Colbert. Who gives a fuck about you? I'm the only person on the planet who cares what you do."

Brad kept his mouth shut tight. If he didn't he might end up beating the shit out of Ray on the lawn.

Ray glowered at him, but shut his mouth too. He looked out at the beer can, a clear angry yearning for a thousand more on his face.

Brad got one hand under himself, starting to get up. "I understand," he said icily, "that this is difficult for you, Ray. I understand that you've been coddled and told you're special by everyone except for me and you didn't think you could make a mistake and then you did and now you're paying for it."

Ray glared at him.

"I understand," Brad told him, opening the screen door, "but I don't really care. Get the fuck over yourself and stop acting like a piece of shit."

He went inside, closing the door quietly, leaving Ray there on the porch.

*

In the morning the maid knocked on his door.

“Sir,” she said through the door. “Sir?”

Brad was halfway into his suit but he opened the door anyway, buttoning his shirt. “Yes?”

She screwed up her mouth for a second before letting it go. “When I came in today Mr. Person was on the front lawn.”

Brad stopped buttoning abruptly. “Was?”

She scratched her ear. “I think he’s still there. He didn’t seem to be in much shape to move.”

“Jesus,” Brad said, stepping around her. He strode out of the house, top buttons abandoned, socks catching on the steps, to see Ray spread-eagle on the lawn, dusty and stained.

Brad stopped at the top of the driveway. The maid came to the doorway, looking worriedly at Ray.

Brad swore to himself and then, over his shoulder, asked, “Was anyone on the street when you came in?”

“I don’t think so,” the maid called, “but the paper’s here.”

Swearing again, Brad picked his way along the dewy lawn to Ray and crouched beside him. He tested Ray’s pulse. It was fine. He slapped Ray lightly and Ray twitched.

He got his arms under Ray’s armpits and started to lift him. “Can you help me?”

The maid came down the steps and took Ray’s feet and together they lifted Ray while he moaned. Luckily, as soaked in liquor as he was he still didn’t weigh much and no one saw them.

The maid looked like she could help carry Ray to his room but it was too early for Brad’s thin patience so he steered them to the couch. Ray bounced once, moaned, and then laid still on his side.

Brad went back to buttoning his shirt up. “Clean around him,” he said gruffly to the maid.

She looked at Brad and then Ray before going to the kitchen. She brought back the one mixing bowl Ray had bought and set it on the carpet near Ray’s face.

“I’m not cleaning it up,” she said, “if it happens.”

“Fair enough,” Brad said. He reached into his trousers for his wallet. He pulled out a twenty - all he had until Nate’s wire came through - and handed it to her. “Thanks.”

She tucked the bill into the pocket on her uniform. “I’ve seen worse,” she said mildly.

“Have you,” Brad murmured, watching Ray’s open mouth breathing.

*

He found a café to work in for the day, not that there was much he could do beyond read the paper and imagine mailing Ray to Russia. For the hell of it he looked at the classifieds, but no one was looking for anyone who had almost joined the Marines but instead, in a fit of insanity fueled by affection, had agreed to be their best friend’s manager. Qualifications: does not require personal space. Adept at staying calm under pressure, no matter how ratfucked the situation may become. Completely loyal, completely stupid.

He tried to write a timeline, a plan. If Ray magically got it together today, he could write twenty or so songs in three months, three maybe. Recording could be done in a month, if they kept up a good pace. They could be ready to release inside of eight months. Ray could be aggressive about press. He could be apologetic, humbled but not without his spark and charm.

The tour could be a year, two years, however long it took to return Ray to his debut form. The last eighteen months could slide away and take Ray’s ugly, lazy sophomore album with them.

They could be okay. If Ray got it together before sundown.

*

He went home to cook dinner. The maid was gone, Ray was still asleep and the bowl was empty.

Brad scraped some stuff out of the fridge and cooked a dinner he ate leaning on the counter. Before he was done Ray’s dark head crested the line of the couch, shaking around.

Ray groaned. Brad finished his vegetables and rinsed his plate. Ray staggered into the kitchen, squinting at the one light on.

“Brad,” he said weakly.

“Ray,” Brad replied, professional. He started to turn off the tap but Ray stopped him, shuffling forward to stick his head under the tap. He smelled stale and rough, exactly the same as he had when Brad had found him in that bar, worse when the water hit his hair.

He turned his face this way and that, his swollen eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open, water streaming everywhere. He stuck his tongue out, panting, trying to lick some of the water.

He came up soaked, flipping his hair back, water splattering the cupboards, his dirty shirt stuck to him, dark underneath.

Brad looked at it, the darkness. It had a shape.

“Ray.”

Ray looked at his chest, then at Brad. He pulled his soggy shirt up slowly, past his skinny belly and ribs, all the way up to his armpits. On his chest was No Dice written in ink, bookended by stars, all of it ringed in red, irritated skin.

Brad closed his eyes briefly. “Really, did you have to?”

Ray had the sense to look sheepish. “Whoops,” he said.

*

After Ray had had a real shower, Brad bandaged his new tattoo.

As he taped the gauze on tightly, Brad said. “You’re lucky you didn’t ruin this thing, rolling around on the lawn like an idiot.”

Ray shrugged. “It’d be fine. All the others are okay.”

Brad nodded. It was true. Ray didn’t spend much time picking his tattoos out or caring for them. Still, Brad was careful to seal all the edges down. It was a stupid tattoo but it was part of the new Ray now. Maybe it could be useful.

Ray ran his hand through his hair and then smoothed his eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

Brad paused before finishing the seal above Ray’s left nipple.

“Okay,” he said, stepping away. “You’re as good as you can get.”

“Yeah,” Ray said, smiling at him. “Thanks, Brad.”

*

Ray’s endless chords started to get a little form. He didn’t stop walking around in his boxers, carrying the guitar, his hair pushed back but now the chords skipped up and down, forming a rhythm that came to a jerky crescendo.

There was that, and while he walked and worked his mouth moved, sometimes to count, but most of the time he was saying things. He was always concentrating too hard to notice Brad watching him from the couch or the kitchen table, his mouth working out whatever he had inside his mind.

*

A letter came from New York, if you could call half a sheet of paper with Nate's thin scrawl and a phone number with a Seattle area code written on it a letter.

Below the number, Nate had written, Got some calls from some news guy sniffing around. He knew some stuff. Watch out.

Reflexively, Brad looked out the window. Some kids were out there, eating popsicles, but none of them looked particularly investigative.

He folded the letter and tossed it into the garbage. Knowing Nate he'd wonder where that Seattle number went, but if he wrote it down once he probably did it twice.

"Ray," Brad called as he turned around. "More now than ever, I need you to not talk to strangers."

"What?" Ray said, poking his head out of the bathroom door. He had a toothbrush in his mouth. Brad thought it might be his.

"Just got a letter from the boss. Some reporter's trying to get to you." Brad reached for the toothbrush.

"For fuck's sake," Ray said. Brad pulled the toothbrush out of his slack cheek. "I haven't done anything lately."

"Yeah, I know." Brad looked; it was his toothbrush. He stuck it back into Ray's mouth.

Ray kept brushing. "I'll keep my head down," he mumbled, foam dripping down his chin.

"Good," Brad said, straightening his tie. "Now hurry up. We have a meeting."

Ray spit and wiped his mouth.

"Tell Fick thanks," he said, letting Brad straighten his tie too.

Brad did Ray's knot too tight. He'd start pulling on it as soon as they hit the receptionist and he needed to be presentable. "Tell him yourself."

"Whatever."

*

The meeting went okay. Ray was too chatty but he kept it clean and barely touched his cigarettes. The executives seemed interested in Ray, but scared of his wild reputation. At least they have been some measure of soothed by Brad's calmness and his plan.

"One show," Brad said. "A test. If it goes well it could mean something for you. "

Ray looked around. "A lot of somethings," he muttered.

The financial guy narrowed his eyes. "He'll need to sign some stuff. Releases, a contract."

Ray glared. Brad squeezed his knee hard under the table. With his free hand he pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket.

"Whatever you want," he said smoothly, smiling at the honchos across the table.

*

"This sucks," Ray said in the car on the way home.

Brad adjusted his sunglasses. "No, it doesn't. In six months you could be putting a record out and be on your way."

Ray glowered in the way that told Brad he was right. "Can I have some coke?"

"Fuck no."

Ray gave him a pleading look. "I need something to take the edge off.”

Brad gestured out the window. “Enjoy the view.”

“Brad.”

“Ray,” Brad replied patiently.

“I hate you,” Ray said, pouting out the window.

Just to piss Ray off, Brad drove twenty-five the whole way home. He wanted to take his time and watch the sun get rosy as it went down.

*

Ray chose his moment just right. He waited around the kitchen, drumming on the counters while Brad chopped vegetables, watching Brad use the knife, intense on the cutting movements.

Brad tried to talk to him, but he wasn't responsive and it was hard to cut his focus between the dull knife and Ray.

He was just starting to ask Ray if he would at least help as he cut a tomato when the knife slipped, skidding on the tomato's skin and biting into where his thumb joined his hand.

He swore, dropping the knife on the floor. Ray watched the bloody knife scratch the floor and then looked at Brad's hand.

"You all right?" he asked, pointing at the blood filling Brad's lifeline.

"Yeah," Brad said, pressing on the cut.

"We have gauze?"

"Yeah," Brad said again. He pulled a dish towel off the rack and wrapped his hand up so he wouldn't bleed on the white carpet on the way to the bathroom.

There was some gauze under the sink, but it was hard to wrap his hand. He brought the gauze out, clenching the towel tightly. "Ray, I need your help."

Ray was gone. The air still felt like it was in motion, being sucked toward the front door. Brad leaned against the counter. There was still blood on the floor but at least Ray had put the knife in the sink before he'd left.

*

He wrapped his hand as best he could and dumped the blood-stained vegetables in the garbage. Scotch was as good a dinner as any.

*

Ray came home long after it was dark. Brad was three scotches in, but he'd taken it slowly. Ray clearly hadn't. He tripped down the stairs into the living room and had to take a knee. His hair had fallen over his forehead and he looked smeared. He smiled at Brad.

"You're alive," he sighed. He gestured to Brad's wrapped hand.

Brad rattled the ice in his drink. "Have fun?"

Ray squeezed one eye shut. "No. But I had to."

Looking at the ceiling Brad took a drink. "I don't know what to say."

Ray smiled wider, and then softer. He kneewalked across the carpet until he could rest his dirty fingers on Brad's knees.

"Don't," he said. "Don't say anything, Brad. I know I'm fucked up. I am. I am."

Brad looked at Ray over his drink. Ray's head was half-bowed and he was holding onto Brad's knees tightly. He looked up at Brad, so fucking sad but still smiling. Brad sucked on his own bitter tongue for a second and then opened his mouth.

Ray shot up and almost lost it when he let go of Brad's knees but he recovered by getting Brad's shoulders instead.

"Don't," he pleaded, his sour breath spreading over Brad's face. "Don't, don't, don't."

Brad had close to forty pounds on Ray and so much more sense, but he stayed still, breathing in Ray's rank breath.

Ray's face got soft then, his thumbs pressing into Brad's chest before sliding. He leaned closer, his breath hot and suffocating.

"Don't say anything," he said. "Okay?"

It happened in slow motion: the crystal-clear slide of Ray's face closer. Even the touch of his mouth was slow and off-center, his dry tongue slipping against the corner of Brad's mouth, catching on stubble.

Brad could feel how hot it was and the cool space on his mouth that the spit left. The ice in his drink rattled. He kept breathing, his own breath curling back at him.

Ray sighed deeply, moving a little to kiss Brad's lips properly. He squeezed Brad's knees and then cupped his cheeks, tilting his mouth against Brad's.

The ice clinked again, harder, and when Ray shifted, his palms stuck a little to Brad's cheeks, sticky with a rummy smell.

Brad dropped his drink. The ice tinkled desperately on the way down before riding a wave of scotch to a soft landing on the angel-white carpet. He shoved Ray down into the puddle of scotch so hard he skidded on his elbows, a blur.

"Jesus," Brad said, his voice shaking like the ice. "What-"

Ray was quick to get on his knees again. "No," he said, waving his hand. "Don't."

"Shut up, Ray," Brad said. He stood up so fast he got dizzy but there was nothing to hold onto so he just stood his ground. He ran a hand through his hair, aware of his heartbeat and the taste in his mouth. He shuffled around Ray.

"I'm leaving," he mumbled, wiping at his mouth.

Ray watched him, eyes big and dark, kneeling higher as Brad passed him. "Don't go!" he yelled after Brad.

Brad shook his head. He didn't look back. He couldn't stand to see Ray looking hopeful, the knees of his trousers wet with scotch.

*

When he bellied up to the bar the bartender took a look at him and said, "Oh, good, you're here. Your friend didn't pay his tab."

"I'm not here to clean up his mess," Brad snapped. The bartender looked surprised, and then took another look at Brad, his messy hair, his unevenly rolled sleeves.

He got down a highball glass. He got out the kind of whiskey Brad drank here and poured a little in. "You can pick up where he left off," he said, sliding the glass over.

Brad picked up the glass and sat on the closest stool.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, not bothering to toast anyone or anything.

Part Two

generation kill, writing

Previous post Next post
Up
[]