Sympathy for the Devils, part 6
Disclaimer: If you've read the previous parts, you know this is all false. Part 5 here.
Summary: Backstory to Marco van Basten and how the hell they got Ed to join the band. R for language and violence.
Ed’s fast asleep on the bed-my bed, Marco thinks smugly. Well, he’s not incorrect. He’s been the owner of this house and of this man for so long, he feels as if this was his empire.
Marco van Basten, white-collar thief, one of the smartest around. Stealthy. Silent. Just like a snake.
He learned his trade from the music business, too. He was a financial advisor in a small Dutch record company, Double U Records, managed by some guy named Guus Hiddink. The working place was alright, but Marco had always been ambitious, and that’s when he saw it was easy to try… a fraud.
It had worked wonders-soon enough, artists there were complaining about unpaid royalties and several legal stuff, and Mr. Hiddink just couldn’t figure out what had been going on. The stability of the company began shaking, and Marco resigned, as if he had been a victim of the company’s crisis. That helped him to avoid being caught-well, Hiddink was never that smart, anyways.
He had stolen enough money to guarantee himself a comfortable life-yet, that wasn’t enough. Marco has never been a man to respect the limits. He wanted… more.
It had gotten to him easy, a matter of chance-he’d met a man he could call his friend, Ruud Gullit, one day at a café. Gullit had been a successful folk artist at Double U; yet, the local quality of the record company had also meant he had not been that famous, and that the bankrupt had really affected him. The unsuspecting singer talked for a while with his friend, told him about what dire straits he was in-and finally asked him to help him sell his possessions: guitars, any other kind of instruments and recording paraphernalia.
Marco had actually agreed to help him not for any reason at all, just for the old days’ sake. And, once again he had good luck: the first man that contacted him after reading the classified ad turned out to be a huge fan of Gullit-he had ended up paying for the guitar a much higher quantity than the one both Marco and his friend had been expecting. And Van Basten had thought….
It all started since then. He pocketed the extra money, and gave Ruud a quantity much similar to the one they had discussed at first. Naïve Gullit thanked him for his help, and Marco immediately suggested he could help every other recording artist affected by the bankrupt-and found a catalogue of willing victims there. It was all a matter of waiting: sooner or later, some crazy fan would want to give away his house in exchange of a guitar, a drum kit, a fucking tambourine-the artist was so desperate for money he would entrust Marco with the sales, take whatever money they were given, and then worry no more-they never asked Marco what he did, never became suspicious. Perhaps because he’d been a fellow coworker-and financial expert, hell, that guy must know what he’s doing-with them at Double U.
Pretty soon, he was known from word of mouth. Artists knew old glories, cult bands whose cult status wasn’t enough (those were the best; the few fans went wild) , bar bands who never made it (those were the worst, but there was always the guy who would spend something). Marco was the one who helped all those lost causes-he started charging for his services then, a small percentage of the sales which largely increased his income. And everybody was thankful for what he did to them: sell the old memories of their broken dreams so they could survive. They never questioned him, the way he lived, what money he kept. Well, he’d always been discreet about that.
When news of Edwin van der Sar being bankrupt reached him, Marco could only hope that guy would be his client very soon. With a house in Amsterdam to sell, a flat there too, and a house in England, not to mention instruments used by who had been a worldwide (though perhaps short-lived) sensation, he was sure he’d make a shitload of money.
But, when he finally met him, he had not expected a hormonal rush to blind his brain.
Marco’s homosexuality had never been as important to him, even, as his love of money. His new way of living allowed him to pay for expensive whores and relieve himself that way. He had everything he needed, and nothing more.
And now, he wanted Edwin van der Sar.
Ed had fallen into his trap right away: the sales of My Broken Fortune had been unusually low for him, his rehab had been a blow to his economy, and he needed the money to at least support himself until he knew what was in store for him. Ed didn’t want to leave the music world-he felt he could still write a good album, he felt he could start again. Yet, he also wanted to know where he could invest his money so there would not come a time when he would be absolutely broke. He needed financial advice, all the way.
Marco had been careful when handling him. He knew, from the beginning, the job was going to be easy and short: the guy needed to get rid of his Holland house and possessions, and the money was going to last. As for investments… releasing his line of guitars could do the trick. It would be something easy, and short… and that was the least Marco wanted. He had to keep Edwin van der Sar with him for as long as it was necessary.
He became a thief, a leech with Edwin. He kept half the money of everything he sold, and coaxed Ed to invest in whatever failed projects he could think of (the most known one was a fiasco of a nightclub, obviously very poorly handled) and it was not long before Ed had to say goodbye to his house in England and all that was left was his flat in Amsterdam.
Edwin had become very disheartened, and told Marco he could no longer pay for his services-a middle-class has-been didn’t need a financial advisor. And Marco, fearing he would lose the man he lusted for, who had been nothing but his client, made his move.
It was a risky offer, but, then again, Marco had risked more when he had committed the fraud.
He told Ed that, after all this time together, he’d found out just what he needed: a manager (Ed’s record company had long dismissed him, after all his failed stunts and the promises of an album that never came). He offered himself as his new manager, who would help him find gigs. In exchange of what? Nothing. No money. Except… them living together. He would work for him in exchange for a fuck every now and then. That was all.
Ed decided to give this man another chance-one could say he’d gotten used to him, or maybe he just wanted a chance at the music world all over again, someone who would find him a place to play. It seemed easy, after all. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done a similar thing before. Dirk had worked as his doctor for a fuck, and then become his friend and lover. It was easy. He knew how to do it.
Or so he thought. Pretty soon, Ed found Marco was taking over his plans, his house, his life. The fucks were not only once a week, now they were daily, or even more times a day, sometimes even when Ed was not on the mood. And, what was worse, every time they actually landed a gig in a small bar, Marco had a penchant for getting drunk, and that was starting to get on Edwin’s nerves. Hadn’t he been on rehab because of that? Wasn’t he trying to overcome his addictions… and his so-called manager wasn’t?
Finally, Ed grew tired of him. One day, after Marco came back of some bar (the extra money they got came from selling Marco’s stuff, of his original home. He was sure he wouldn’t need it anymore) the guitarist had a fight with him and told him he didn’t want to see him again: that he was not going to accept any more stealing, that he was nothing but a thief who had been sucking the life out of him for a long time.
He ended up receiving the beating of his life. The guitarist could not believe it, after he checked the bruises on his arms, his split lip, a swollen black circle around his eye. He could not believe he had been beaten like that by a man he had thought, at the beginning, was helping him. That he had thought, after their first fuck, that could be his friend. How had he let it come to this?
He had known he was doomed when he walked into the bedroom, and Marco had been lying on the bed, nonchalant as ever. The only words the older man had spoken were:
“So, are you getting in bed, Edwin? Or do I have to make it clear for you again?”
Ed had known, right then, it was too late. He had opened the door to a deadly enemy, had let him take over-now the way out seemed to far away.
So… how had that picture managed to appear in Ruud’s magazine?
Well, Marco hadn’t known anybody as fucking stubborn as David Beckham. And he had never had to cope with what looked as an Edwin who was willing, for the first time in his life, to fight him.
It had started that evening, before the gig-the guitarist seemed a little more active than usual: he didn’t just pick his guitar like it was a weight over his shoulders and got into the car with Marco. He had actually picked it up like he’d been glad about the gig and had rushed on to the car. Marco couldn’t understand his sudden mood swing-but he didn’t think much about it.
When they got to the club he suddenly knew: the Foreholte was not a bar that was more of a dump, like the ones he’d gotten used to see at every one of Ed’s gigs; it was more of a club, with an actual backing band waiting for the guitarist to take the stage. Hell, in the other bars Ed was alone with his acoustic propped up behind the bar because there wasn’t even proper sound.
And Edwin did take the stage, and his guitar case revealed something Marco had thought he would never see again-not on a stage.
The cherry red Strat.
“Ashes Rising”. Fucking “Ashes Rising”! And the Foreholte had gone wild, cheering at the song they remembered well.
Marco’s jaw had clenched at the sight. So, these were not the drunkards who didn’t give a damn about who was playing; the ones he was used to. Now, Edwin was playing in front of actual fans.
Oh no. No second chance was going to snatch his lover away.
And the concert was insane-all the songs from Dutch Desire, the electric sound the critics and the world had loved-and that surely the backing band knew as well, for they managed to do a decent job.
“Venus on My Fingers”.
Marco had never heard a cheer like that: as, for Edwin…
He felt great. He felt alive.
He was being reborn, at the Foreholte, who had been his mother-club: and now, once again, it felt so good to see girls howling, boys cheering, arms playing air guitar. Just like the old times. In fact, it had been so much like the old times for Ed that when some drunken kid actually yelled “Play Freebird!” he had complied, leaving even the backup band surprised at his still undeniable quality.
And Marco had hated every single second of it.
Edwin had finished the concert not with a stern face like at the other venues: now he waved goodbye to the crowd with a smile, his wide, shining smile, and had walked off the stage. Marco had nearly jumped off his stool to drag him away from there, but he accidentally spilled his don’t-know-what-number-it-was Scotch all over himself.
Those small minutes were enough for two men to approach Edwin.
The guitarist recognized them right away-he had not collaborated with Rio, but he’d heard of what a figure he was, at the studio. As for David Beckham… well, his face was present in posters, tabloids, pageants. How could he not have recognized him?
Marco had finished wiping the Scotch off his shirt the best he could, and he was very bloody angry. And, when he saw two men were talking to Ed, he was even angrier.
He had walked on to the smiling trio, his footing a little wobbly by now, and had yanked Rio’s arm a little roughly.
“What’s yer problem, m’mate?” the swarthy bassist frowned.
“I am Edwin’s manager,” Marco slurred. “Anything that has to deal with him, you have to speak to me first. ANYTHING.”
The last words had been almost a shout-but Marco had to leave clear who was in charge. Edwin deliberately ignored him. Rio, for his part, turned towards David with a cocked, questioning eyebrow-Becks just laughed, the teasing look in his eyes suggesting they had found the “jealous lover”.
“Very well, then,” the drummer took a step forward. “Very nice too meet you, Mr.…. should I call you Mr. Edwin’s manager?”
Marco’s brain spelled out a string of very filthy insults in Dutch.
“Van Basten,” he finally managed to spit out. “Marco van Basten.”
“Nice to meet you,” Becks held out his hand, still smiling. “My name’s David Beckham. And this ‘ere’s m’mate Rio Ferdinand.”
“Never heard from you,” Marco answered, rudely.
“Perhaps you’d have heard of them if you cared about music,” Ed had suddenly stormed in. “David Beckham was Eric Cantona’s drummer, and Rio Ferdinand is one of the finest session musicians there are.”
“Oh,” was all that Marco said, for he was fighting with a rush of fury. Speaking up to me, bitch? Let’s see if you can speak with my cock in your smart mouth when we get home…
“Thanks, matey Ed,” Rio smiled.
“Matey” Ed? Whoever gave you permission to talk like that to him?
“Very well, now that we know each other…” Fucking God, Marco would have liked to punch that squeaky voice into oblivion. Goodbye, Mr. David Beckham. “I’ll get down to business, Mr. Van Basten. The thing ‘ere’s, our manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, ‘ery important man in the music business, wants yer boy ‘ere, for a new band.”
“Not interested,” the words came out of Marco’s mouth as quickly as a bullet.
“Really?” Rio nearly shrieked, but Becks motioned at his friend to keep calm.
“C’mon, m’mate. Think ‘bout it. Yer boy goes off wit’ us, becomes as famous as Eric Cantona was, makes millions. Would be good for him. If you ‘ave a contract with ‘im, well, we could reach an agreement, you tell us how much, n’ we see what we can do…”
“There’s no contract.” Bloody show-off prick.
Becks arched an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Marco kept on, urgency starting to cloud his senses. “I’m independent, I need no contract. Furthermore, I’m Edwin’s financial advisor. He needs me near, to look to his money. And I can’t leave him. I’m his bodyguard.”
Now Becks’ eyebrows were comically raised, and Rio shot out a glance to the guitarist-the look on Edwin’s face immediately gave away there was no such thing as a bodyguard.
“Ok, then…” David insisted, “we’ll leave you a number, huh? ‘Ive us a call when yer ready. If yer his bodyguard, per’aps he’d like to ‘ave you along. No problem with us.”
Marco pocketed the small paper with a mobile written on it. Just for appearances. It was going to be flushed down the toilet once they got home.
“But I’m warning ya,” Becks suddenly continued. “Ya don’ give us a call, I might as well pay a surprise visit to yer house. Ed tol’ me where he lives.” He smiled. “You see, yer boy’s just what we’re missing to take over the world, matey. The missing piece.”
A small, proud smile crossed Becks’ lips when he shook hands with both Dutchmen as a goodbye. Rio tilted his head discreetly, and walked out with his fellow countryman.
“Weird bloke,” he whispered, once they were out.
“Indeed,” the drummer agreed. “But whatever’s wrong with him don’t matter. Van der Sar’s coming with us.”
Marco drove like a bat out of hell back to the flat, sending fiery glances to Edwin every now and then. However, the guitarist, in the passenger’s seat, remained oblivious to them.
Is that so, bitch? Do you think you’re once again the musical sensation? You’ll see…
He didn’t even wait for Ed to take his guitar out of the car. He just pulled him out of the vehicle, into the elevator, and into the house, never loosening his iron-grip on his arm.
A harsh shove left the guitarist on the carpeted floor, looking up at his “bodyguard”.
“What was that?” Marco shrieked. “What was all that playing with your Strat and stuff?”
“My songs,” Edwin answered proudly. He didn’t seem worried, not at all. “I thought you knew them.”
Marco tried to kick him, but Ed dodged him, though the man did reach his leg, and the guitarist grimaced.
“And then. All that bloody nonsense about a band.”
“It’s not nonsense if I join it.”
Marco yanked Ed upright by the arm and pressed him against the living room wall.
“What did you say?” he hissed.
“I am joining the band, Marco.”
The back-handed slap made Edwin’s lips bleed once again.
“I don’t care!” he suddenly yelled, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “I’m joining that band, whether you like it or not. Even if I have to run away from you, I will, Marco!”
The older man then pulled Edwin towards him, trying to kiss the blonde guitarist, a kiss that was more of a bite.
“You know I’d beat you till you begged for mercy if you left me,” he groaned, after the kiss was broken.
“And you’d kill me,” Ed smiled bitterly. “So what? You’d kill your fuck toy and your gold mine. It’s worse for you, Marco.”
There was a tense silence. Two men looking at each other, the tension between them palpable. Marco was at a loss. Ed had never acted that proud before.
“You love money,” Edwin suddenly spoke. “And, believe me, if there’s anything Sir Alex Ferguson knows what to make, is money. This band is something big, Marco. We’ll make millions. And-here’s what I’m offering-you let me join it, I give you all of it. My entire share. Everything. Every single cent.”
An unbelieving smile crossed the brown-haired man’s face.
“Are you saying, Edwin… you’re buying your freedom?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Marco’s smile became broader.
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“I tour with you.”
Ed’s laugh was, once again, bitter and resigned. “You’re the punishment for my sins. If I have to drag you around like a ball and chain to earn my salvation, I will. Yes, come with me.”
Marco laughed darkly, and then walked on to Edwin, his hand finding his hair… and caressing it.
“In that case, Ed… what do you say, we celebrate? For the band, huh?”
The guitarist hadn’t answered. He had felt tired, very tired after that confrontation-deep inside, he had thought was going to get another beating, that he’d never join the band. So, after Marco fucked him, gripping his hips firmly so he was the one in control, so he could speed Ed’s slender body up or hold it still when he wanted to-he had just collapsed on the bed and fallen asleep immediately.
And Marco’s there, looking at him. Edwin, who’s asleep, his naked back pale in the moonlight, only shadowed by the dark lines that draw the tattoo of the wings.
He’s beautiful. Marco knows so. And he’s not willing to share that beauty with anybody. He has plans of his own…
“So naïve,” the older man says, walking slowly towards the bed. “That’s what made you fall in my trap since the beginning. Hell, Edwin, seems you still don’t know me.”
Ed doesn’t even stir. His breathing is even and calm. He’s probably dreaming of a stage, far away from Marco…
“You think I don’t know what the music world’s about, huh?” Marco himself goes on. “C’mon, babe. I’ve seen tours, I know artists. What are you planning to do once the tour’s over, huh? See if you can beg something off your little new friends once you’re a penniless guitarist? Go and lock yourself up in the studio with them? A tour can’t last forever, Ed. And, once it’s over, everybody goes home. And, even if you don’t like it, your home is with me.”
The man’s fingers brush the wings of the tattoo carefully, as not to wake up the sleeping guitarist. However, there’s something about that touch that suggests power, as if the owner of the bird was admiring his fine specimen, but also reminding him he’s the one who holds the key to the cage.
“Go ahead,” Marco finishes. “Recess time. Have your fun, fuck boys, fuck girls, feel you’re adored once again. Because, when you come back to me, I’m not letting you go, pretty thing.”
Summary: Backstory to Marco van Basten and how the hell they got Ed to join the band. R for language and violence.
Ed’s fast asleep on the bed-my bed, Marco thinks smugly. Well, he’s not incorrect. He’s been the owner of this house and of this man for so long, he feels as if this was his empire.
Marco van Basten, white-collar thief, one of the smartest around. Stealthy. Silent. Just like a snake.
He learned his trade from the music business, too. He was a financial advisor in a small Dutch record company, Double U Records, managed by some guy named Guus Hiddink. The working place was alright, but Marco had always been ambitious, and that’s when he saw it was easy to try… a fraud.
It had worked wonders-soon enough, artists there were complaining about unpaid royalties and several legal stuff, and Mr. Hiddink just couldn’t figure out what had been going on. The stability of the company began shaking, and Marco resigned, as if he had been a victim of the company’s crisis. That helped him to avoid being caught-well, Hiddink was never that smart, anyways.
He had stolen enough money to guarantee himself a comfortable life-yet, that wasn’t enough. Marco has never been a man to respect the limits. He wanted… more.
It had gotten to him easy, a matter of chance-he’d met a man he could call his friend, Ruud Gullit, one day at a café. Gullit had been a successful folk artist at Double U; yet, the local quality of the record company had also meant he had not been that famous, and that the bankrupt had really affected him. The unsuspecting singer talked for a while with his friend, told him about what dire straits he was in-and finally asked him to help him sell his possessions: guitars, any other kind of instruments and recording paraphernalia.
Marco had actually agreed to help him not for any reason at all, just for the old days’ sake. And, once again he had good luck: the first man that contacted him after reading the classified ad turned out to be a huge fan of Gullit-he had ended up paying for the guitar a much higher quantity than the one both Marco and his friend had been expecting. And Van Basten had thought….
It all started since then. He pocketed the extra money, and gave Ruud a quantity much similar to the one they had discussed at first. Naïve Gullit thanked him for his help, and Marco immediately suggested he could help every other recording artist affected by the bankrupt-and found a catalogue of willing victims there. It was all a matter of waiting: sooner or later, some crazy fan would want to give away his house in exchange of a guitar, a drum kit, a fucking tambourine-the artist was so desperate for money he would entrust Marco with the sales, take whatever money they were given, and then worry no more-they never asked Marco what he did, never became suspicious. Perhaps because he’d been a fellow coworker-and financial expert, hell, that guy must know what he’s doing-with them at Double U.
Pretty soon, he was known from word of mouth. Artists knew old glories, cult bands whose cult status wasn’t enough (those were the best; the few fans went wild) , bar bands who never made it (those were the worst, but there was always the guy who would spend something). Marco was the one who helped all those lost causes-he started charging for his services then, a small percentage of the sales which largely increased his income. And everybody was thankful for what he did to them: sell the old memories of their broken dreams so they could survive. They never questioned him, the way he lived, what money he kept. Well, he’d always been discreet about that.
When news of Edwin van der Sar being bankrupt reached him, Marco could only hope that guy would be his client very soon. With a house in Amsterdam to sell, a flat there too, and a house in England, not to mention instruments used by who had been a worldwide (though perhaps short-lived) sensation, he was sure he’d make a shitload of money.
But, when he finally met him, he had not expected a hormonal rush to blind his brain.
Marco’s homosexuality had never been as important to him, even, as his love of money. His new way of living allowed him to pay for expensive whores and relieve himself that way. He had everything he needed, and nothing more.
And now, he wanted Edwin van der Sar.
Ed had fallen into his trap right away: the sales of My Broken Fortune had been unusually low for him, his rehab had been a blow to his economy, and he needed the money to at least support himself until he knew what was in store for him. Ed didn’t want to leave the music world-he felt he could still write a good album, he felt he could start again. Yet, he also wanted to know where he could invest his money so there would not come a time when he would be absolutely broke. He needed financial advice, all the way.
Marco had been careful when handling him. He knew, from the beginning, the job was going to be easy and short: the guy needed to get rid of his Holland house and possessions, and the money was going to last. As for investments… releasing his line of guitars could do the trick. It would be something easy, and short… and that was the least Marco wanted. He had to keep Edwin van der Sar with him for as long as it was necessary.
He became a thief, a leech with Edwin. He kept half the money of everything he sold, and coaxed Ed to invest in whatever failed projects he could think of (the most known one was a fiasco of a nightclub, obviously very poorly handled) and it was not long before Ed had to say goodbye to his house in England and all that was left was his flat in Amsterdam.
Edwin had become very disheartened, and told Marco he could no longer pay for his services-a middle-class has-been didn’t need a financial advisor. And Marco, fearing he would lose the man he lusted for, who had been nothing but his client, made his move.
It was a risky offer, but, then again, Marco had risked more when he had committed the fraud.
He told Ed that, after all this time together, he’d found out just what he needed: a manager (Ed’s record company had long dismissed him, after all his failed stunts and the promises of an album that never came). He offered himself as his new manager, who would help him find gigs. In exchange of what? Nothing. No money. Except… them living together. He would work for him in exchange for a fuck every now and then. That was all.
Ed decided to give this man another chance-one could say he’d gotten used to him, or maybe he just wanted a chance at the music world all over again, someone who would find him a place to play. It seemed easy, after all. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done a similar thing before. Dirk had worked as his doctor for a fuck, and then become his friend and lover. It was easy. He knew how to do it.
Or so he thought. Pretty soon, Ed found Marco was taking over his plans, his house, his life. The fucks were not only once a week, now they were daily, or even more times a day, sometimes even when Ed was not on the mood. And, what was worse, every time they actually landed a gig in a small bar, Marco had a penchant for getting drunk, and that was starting to get on Edwin’s nerves. Hadn’t he been on rehab because of that? Wasn’t he trying to overcome his addictions… and his so-called manager wasn’t?
Finally, Ed grew tired of him. One day, after Marco came back of some bar (the extra money they got came from selling Marco’s stuff, of his original home. He was sure he wouldn’t need it anymore) the guitarist had a fight with him and told him he didn’t want to see him again: that he was not going to accept any more stealing, that he was nothing but a thief who had been sucking the life out of him for a long time.
He ended up receiving the beating of his life. The guitarist could not believe it, after he checked the bruises on his arms, his split lip, a swollen black circle around his eye. He could not believe he had been beaten like that by a man he had thought, at the beginning, was helping him. That he had thought, after their first fuck, that could be his friend. How had he let it come to this?
He had known he was doomed when he walked into the bedroom, and Marco had been lying on the bed, nonchalant as ever. The only words the older man had spoken were:
“So, are you getting in bed, Edwin? Or do I have to make it clear for you again?”
Ed had known, right then, it was too late. He had opened the door to a deadly enemy, had let him take over-now the way out seemed to far away.
So… how had that picture managed to appear in Ruud’s magazine?
Well, Marco hadn’t known anybody as fucking stubborn as David Beckham. And he had never had to cope with what looked as an Edwin who was willing, for the first time in his life, to fight him.
It had started that evening, before the gig-the guitarist seemed a little more active than usual: he didn’t just pick his guitar like it was a weight over his shoulders and got into the car with Marco. He had actually picked it up like he’d been glad about the gig and had rushed on to the car. Marco couldn’t understand his sudden mood swing-but he didn’t think much about it.
When they got to the club he suddenly knew: the Foreholte was not a bar that was more of a dump, like the ones he’d gotten used to see at every one of Ed’s gigs; it was more of a club, with an actual backing band waiting for the guitarist to take the stage. Hell, in the other bars Ed was alone with his acoustic propped up behind the bar because there wasn’t even proper sound.
And Edwin did take the stage, and his guitar case revealed something Marco had thought he would never see again-not on a stage.
The cherry red Strat.
“Ashes Rising”. Fucking “Ashes Rising”! And the Foreholte had gone wild, cheering at the song they remembered well.
Marco’s jaw had clenched at the sight. So, these were not the drunkards who didn’t give a damn about who was playing; the ones he was used to. Now, Edwin was playing in front of actual fans.
Oh no. No second chance was going to snatch his lover away.
And the concert was insane-all the songs from Dutch Desire, the electric sound the critics and the world had loved-and that surely the backing band knew as well, for they managed to do a decent job.
“Venus on My Fingers”.
Marco had never heard a cheer like that: as, for Edwin…
He felt great. He felt alive.
He was being reborn, at the Foreholte, who had been his mother-club: and now, once again, it felt so good to see girls howling, boys cheering, arms playing air guitar. Just like the old times. In fact, it had been so much like the old times for Ed that when some drunken kid actually yelled “Play Freebird!” he had complied, leaving even the backup band surprised at his still undeniable quality.
And Marco had hated every single second of it.
Edwin had finished the concert not with a stern face like at the other venues: now he waved goodbye to the crowd with a smile, his wide, shining smile, and had walked off the stage. Marco had nearly jumped off his stool to drag him away from there, but he accidentally spilled his don’t-know-what-number-it-was Scotch all over himself.
Those small minutes were enough for two men to approach Edwin.
The guitarist recognized them right away-he had not collaborated with Rio, but he’d heard of what a figure he was, at the studio. As for David Beckham… well, his face was present in posters, tabloids, pageants. How could he not have recognized him?
Marco had finished wiping the Scotch off his shirt the best he could, and he was very bloody angry. And, when he saw two men were talking to Ed, he was even angrier.
He had walked on to the smiling trio, his footing a little wobbly by now, and had yanked Rio’s arm a little roughly.
“What’s yer problem, m’mate?” the swarthy bassist frowned.
“I am Edwin’s manager,” Marco slurred. “Anything that has to deal with him, you have to speak to me first. ANYTHING.”
The last words had been almost a shout-but Marco had to leave clear who was in charge. Edwin deliberately ignored him. Rio, for his part, turned towards David with a cocked, questioning eyebrow-Becks just laughed, the teasing look in his eyes suggesting they had found the “jealous lover”.
“Very well, then,” the drummer took a step forward. “Very nice too meet you, Mr.…. should I call you Mr. Edwin’s manager?”
Marco’s brain spelled out a string of very filthy insults in Dutch.
“Van Basten,” he finally managed to spit out. “Marco van Basten.”
“Nice to meet you,” Becks held out his hand, still smiling. “My name’s David Beckham. And this ‘ere’s m’mate Rio Ferdinand.”
“Never heard from you,” Marco answered, rudely.
“Perhaps you’d have heard of them if you cared about music,” Ed had suddenly stormed in. “David Beckham was Eric Cantona’s drummer, and Rio Ferdinand is one of the finest session musicians there are.”
“Oh,” was all that Marco said, for he was fighting with a rush of fury. Speaking up to me, bitch? Let’s see if you can speak with my cock in your smart mouth when we get home…
“Thanks, matey Ed,” Rio smiled.
“Matey” Ed? Whoever gave you permission to talk like that to him?
“Very well, now that we know each other…” Fucking God, Marco would have liked to punch that squeaky voice into oblivion. Goodbye, Mr. David Beckham. “I’ll get down to business, Mr. Van Basten. The thing ‘ere’s, our manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, ‘ery important man in the music business, wants yer boy ‘ere, for a new band.”
“Not interested,” the words came out of Marco’s mouth as quickly as a bullet.
“Really?” Rio nearly shrieked, but Becks motioned at his friend to keep calm.
“C’mon, m’mate. Think ‘bout it. Yer boy goes off wit’ us, becomes as famous as Eric Cantona was, makes millions. Would be good for him. If you ‘ave a contract with ‘im, well, we could reach an agreement, you tell us how much, n’ we see what we can do…”
“There’s no contract.” Bloody show-off prick.
Becks arched an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Marco kept on, urgency starting to cloud his senses. “I’m independent, I need no contract. Furthermore, I’m Edwin’s financial advisor. He needs me near, to look to his money. And I can’t leave him. I’m his bodyguard.”
Now Becks’ eyebrows were comically raised, and Rio shot out a glance to the guitarist-the look on Edwin’s face immediately gave away there was no such thing as a bodyguard.
“Ok, then…” David insisted, “we’ll leave you a number, huh? ‘Ive us a call when yer ready. If yer his bodyguard, per’aps he’d like to ‘ave you along. No problem with us.”
Marco pocketed the small paper with a mobile written on it. Just for appearances. It was going to be flushed down the toilet once they got home.
“But I’m warning ya,” Becks suddenly continued. “Ya don’ give us a call, I might as well pay a surprise visit to yer house. Ed tol’ me where he lives.” He smiled. “You see, yer boy’s just what we’re missing to take over the world, matey. The missing piece.”
A small, proud smile crossed Becks’ lips when he shook hands with both Dutchmen as a goodbye. Rio tilted his head discreetly, and walked out with his fellow countryman.
“Weird bloke,” he whispered, once they were out.
“Indeed,” the drummer agreed. “But whatever’s wrong with him don’t matter. Van der Sar’s coming with us.”
Marco drove like a bat out of hell back to the flat, sending fiery glances to Edwin every now and then. However, the guitarist, in the passenger’s seat, remained oblivious to them.
Is that so, bitch? Do you think you’re once again the musical sensation? You’ll see…
He didn’t even wait for Ed to take his guitar out of the car. He just pulled him out of the vehicle, into the elevator, and into the house, never loosening his iron-grip on his arm.
A harsh shove left the guitarist on the carpeted floor, looking up at his “bodyguard”.
“What was that?” Marco shrieked. “What was all that playing with your Strat and stuff?”
“My songs,” Edwin answered proudly. He didn’t seem worried, not at all. “I thought you knew them.”
Marco tried to kick him, but Ed dodged him, though the man did reach his leg, and the guitarist grimaced.
“And then. All that bloody nonsense about a band.”
“It’s not nonsense if I join it.”
Marco yanked Ed upright by the arm and pressed him against the living room wall.
“What did you say?” he hissed.
“I am joining the band, Marco.”
The back-handed slap made Edwin’s lips bleed once again.
“I don’t care!” he suddenly yelled, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “I’m joining that band, whether you like it or not. Even if I have to run away from you, I will, Marco!”
The older man then pulled Edwin towards him, trying to kiss the blonde guitarist, a kiss that was more of a bite.
“You know I’d beat you till you begged for mercy if you left me,” he groaned, after the kiss was broken.
“And you’d kill me,” Ed smiled bitterly. “So what? You’d kill your fuck toy and your gold mine. It’s worse for you, Marco.”
There was a tense silence. Two men looking at each other, the tension between them palpable. Marco was at a loss. Ed had never acted that proud before.
“You love money,” Edwin suddenly spoke. “And, believe me, if there’s anything Sir Alex Ferguson knows what to make, is money. This band is something big, Marco. We’ll make millions. And-here’s what I’m offering-you let me join it, I give you all of it. My entire share. Everything. Every single cent.”
An unbelieving smile crossed the brown-haired man’s face.
“Are you saying, Edwin… you’re buying your freedom?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Marco’s smile became broader.
“On one condition.”
“What?”
“I tour with you.”
Ed’s laugh was, once again, bitter and resigned. “You’re the punishment for my sins. If I have to drag you around like a ball and chain to earn my salvation, I will. Yes, come with me.”
Marco laughed darkly, and then walked on to Edwin, his hand finding his hair… and caressing it.
“In that case, Ed… what do you say, we celebrate? For the band, huh?”
The guitarist hadn’t answered. He had felt tired, very tired after that confrontation-deep inside, he had thought was going to get another beating, that he’d never join the band. So, after Marco fucked him, gripping his hips firmly so he was the one in control, so he could speed Ed’s slender body up or hold it still when he wanted to-he had just collapsed on the bed and fallen asleep immediately.
And Marco’s there, looking at him. Edwin, who’s asleep, his naked back pale in the moonlight, only shadowed by the dark lines that draw the tattoo of the wings.
He’s beautiful. Marco knows so. And he’s not willing to share that beauty with anybody. He has plans of his own…
“So naïve,” the older man says, walking slowly towards the bed. “That’s what made you fall in my trap since the beginning. Hell, Edwin, seems you still don’t know me.”
Ed doesn’t even stir. His breathing is even and calm. He’s probably dreaming of a stage, far away from Marco…
“You think I don’t know what the music world’s about, huh?” Marco himself goes on. “C’mon, babe. I’ve seen tours, I know artists. What are you planning to do once the tour’s over, huh? See if you can beg something off your little new friends once you’re a penniless guitarist? Go and lock yourself up in the studio with them? A tour can’t last forever, Ed. And, once it’s over, everybody goes home. And, even if you don’t like it, your home is with me.”
The man’s fingers brush the wings of the tattoo carefully, as not to wake up the sleeping guitarist. However, there’s something about that touch that suggests power, as if the owner of the bird was admiring his fine specimen, but also reminding him he’s the one who holds the key to the cage.
“Go ahead,” Marco finishes. “Recess time. Have your fun, fuck boys, fuck girls, feel you’re adored once again. Because, when you come back to me, I’m not letting you go, pretty thing.”