Loverman Read online

  “Yes,” Kemp acknowledged. “You’re not wrong.”

  “I wasn’t complaining.”

  “I know.” Kemp let his hand drop.

  With a shrug, he walked away. That rare, gentle moment was over. Where the touch of his hand had warmed, there was only a lack.

  Typical Kemp. He seemed to hate himself for any show of humanity. Of kindness or empathy. Charles grittily refocused.

  He had an exhibition coming up in a fortnight at one of the city’s top galleries.

  He’d fought hard to build his commercial career because he hadn’t wanted any part of his life funded by his inheritance. So far it had worked. That massive pile of shares and cash generated by his father’s mining empire were being tended by a carefully vetted team of financial advisors. He hadn’t touched it. Ever.

  It had been a point of honour… or revulsion. Dirty money, blood money.

  In Charles’ world, Kemp’s disinterest in that money made him a rare, exotic beast. Still, Charles would have liked someone close to him, not a paid advisor, to talk it over with.

  Not having a bond like that with Kemp, with anyone, hurt. He’d often bitten back the impulse to talk to Kemp about donating the lot to charity, setting up some kind of trust to do so. Anonymously, the gesture without publicity or unwelcome thanks.

  But Kemp… Kemp would scarcely believe he had that kind of altruism in him. Not that Charles blamed him. Not after those early years.

  Absently he ran his fingertips over his wrists, soothed by the pleasurable, warm throb of his flesh under that touch. Calmed, he turned his mind to the exhibition. His work had been on gallery walls before, but that had been group exhibitions.

  This would be his first solo show. It would remind people he could do more than photograph elite locations and consumer goods no one needed more of.

  Had Kemp even remembered that the exhibition was coming up?

  If Kemp didn’t, that was hurtful, but Charles couldn’t bring himself to ask if he’d marked it in his calendar.

  Across the room Kemp had slung himself down onto one of the big, ragged sofas, cross-legged with an old notebook.

  Kemp’s working method was also his preferred method for putting up a wall: notebooks and his phone were full of fragments of songs, ideas. Or he’d disappear into the makeshift studio upstairs. Sometimes music floated down or Kemp’s gravel baritone, snatches of lyrics.

  Those lyrics were full of a beautiful dark tenderness.

  What it would feel like if Kemp ever unleashed the true tenderness he was so capable of upon him?

  Devastating. At one point, Charles had craved it more than oxygen.

  He was staring numbly at one of the images of his lover hung, suspended, in that harness—surely the realisation of many a fan’s fantasy—when Kemp’s phone rang.

  “Jesus.” A rustling thud as the notebook was tossed to the trunk serving as a coffee table. Kemp spat, “It’s late enough. I should set my phone to silent. If it’s Murphy off his face again, I’ll bloody kill him.”

  “Then ignore it,” Charles suggested.

  “I’m tempted.” Still swearing, Kemp got to his feet. He’d slung the phone to the kitchen counter as he’d walked in, Charles recalled.

  Now he headed for it, barefoot on the polished concrete floors, the black varnish on his toenails stark against his pale skin. The man scarcely had to dodge furniture to reach the counter because he had so few possessions. The ringing continued.

  The only decent furniture in the room was a beautiful fifties Danish teak dining table and chairs. Charles had bought that and had it delivered while Kemp was away, touring, couldn’t send it back, because the battered chain-store thing that he’d possessed was just awful. An abomination against the beauty of this space.

  This entire place was rented, yet Kemp spent many thousands on computer equipment, on the contents of that mini-studio upstairs.

  Truly, the man had no respect for money. He’d seen Kemp hand fistfuls of dollars to homeless people, beggars in the streets. Always in the night hours it seemed, looking back now, times when Charles had been able to reschedule, grab time to be with him after Copenhagen. Strange cities, sightseeing or seen post-concert, Kemp coming down off the adrenaline high of performing or flying on seeking new experiences.

  At such times, away from Sydney and its memories, concentration focused on the grind of touring, he gave Charles a distracted, but kinder, version of himself. It wasn’t enough.

  Kemp picked up his phone. “Yes?” he bit out.

  Kemp’s music had first hooked him back, drawn him to this, against all wisdom. Isto’s second album had hit globally. The few times Charles had permitted himself to flick through Isto’s interviews, he’d seen an older, sharper Kemp, self-possession hardened but fuck-you attitude intact.

  Charles craved that attitude. That eloquence.

  By then harsh experience had taught him that no other man could match what he’d found with Kemp. That soaring sense of freedom, of possibilities, of surety.

  Now Kemp’s attention was fully focused on the call.

  “No, you didn’t wake me, I was already up. No, it’s fine. What’s happened?”

  Charles felt himself tensing at the long silence. He knew by the tone of Kemp’s voice just who he was talking to. Not his bandmate Murphy, but Viva. Of course. Who else would his lover reply to politely at this hour… Charles glanced at the time on the screen before him and scowled. It was past four in the morning. She would have a full day’s work ahead of her. Just because the filming had finished did not mean the pressure had let up.

  Which meant something had happened. Something serious. For the first time, the day’s heat truly left him, and he felt chill.

  He turned in the chair and allowed himself to openly listen.

  “Christ,” Kemp was biting out, long, supple back turned to him now, which seemed so utterly symbolic. Every muscle under that ink-free, luminous skin was finely tensed. “You’re sure he doesn’t need to go to a hospital? And the police? No? Has he even given you the bastard’s name? Because if he has—”

  Charles found he was leaning forward and drew himself coolly back. His manicured fingers picked up a pen and toyed with it.

  The unbanked rage Kemp felt was hitting him in a wave.

  Normally it would make his cock harden, because, Christ alone knew, any emotion Kemp cared to share with him, to throw his way, was welcome. But this… this angry concern being shown for some unknown man, it just made him…

  Charles played the emotion out the way a therapist he’d hired had taught him to, years back, and recognised it for exactly what it was.

  Jealousy. The most pathetic of all emotions. And the only one that he, having tied this wild man, this sex-on-legs rock star to his side, knew was insane to give way to, but then he’d never had any logic where Kemp was concerned.

  And it was… despicable to feel jealousy when what was being discussed was so obviously some terrible act of violence.

  Knowing that didn’t kill the seething pain in his heart and gut.

  The man was his weakness, the only one he permitted himself. One he should give up, for his self-respect.

  He just had no idea how to begin.

  Chapter Five

  “You are fucking joking.” Viva was openly distasteful.

  She was standing in the kitchen of the Darlinghurst terrace she shared with her boyfriend, Red, lean and toned in grey yoga pants and a mauve singlet top. Kemp guessed they were the first things to hand when Red’s brother Stephen had arrived injured, bleeding and near incoherent at the front door only an hour or so back. He shouldn’t have even been driving a fucking car.

  Now Kemp’s eyes flickered over her fists, clenched on her hips. He reached out, rubbed a hand down her arm.

  “Look on the bright side, Viva.” Humour wouldn’t work, but Kemp threw it in anyway. “Charles did bring some quality drugs.”

  She huffed in disbelief and turned away to grab the kettle, poured
boiling water into the coffee plunger. The plunger was shoved down with a violence that made Kemp wonder if she’d sustain second-degree burns from shattering the thing.

  “Yeah, I’m so glad Durant had some leftover pain killers from that little skiing accident, the wanker. And I’m thankful he’s donating them to Stephen, considering that nothing bar a broken neck will persuade him to see a doctor. What I’m not pleased about is that Durant is here.”

  Kemp’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. Her sarcasm could have peeled the paint from the elegant, funky, lilac-grey walls, decorated with framed film posters as they were. As it was, he scanned them, half expecting the waves of anger she radiated to rattle the damned things from their hooks.

  “Well, Stephen does need them,” he pointed out. “Aspirin and an icepack just weren’t going to cut it.”

  “That doesn’t mean he has to be here.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  The siblings cut their eyes to the door. Charles was standing there, a shoulder leant against the frame. He returned their stares without expression.

  Until then, Kemp had thought they were alone. Even Viva would have held back if she’d known he was in earshot. She’d only snapped at Charles during the shoot because he’d deliberately goaded her, it was stinking hot, and she was under mad intense pressure.

  Yeah, she disliked the guy. Intensely. She couldn’t hide that. But she buried it as much as she could.

  “Kemp had a very long day yesterday,” Charles pointed out. “You didn’t see the shape he was in when we got home last night. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable about him driving over here, still wiped out. It wouldn’t have been safe, so I drove.”

  Wiped out? Since they’d spent half the night fucking, that was rich. Kemp raised an eyebrow in answer to Charles, who ignored it.

  Viva glanced at Charles, and Kemp saw Charles meet that look, and saw her quite deliberately relax herself, calm, dial her tension down a notch.

  “Makes sense.” It was a rare concession, as if the constant antagonism between the two of them was exhausting her. Even Viva had her limits, Kemp knew. It looked like for the moment she’d hit one.

  She rolled her shoulders, put the coffee plunger on a tray with mugs, sugar, and milk.

  Stephen was curled up on the day bed that formed part of the big green velvet sectional sofa in the terrace’s living room. The house was a perfect blend of Viva and Red; Red worked as a landscape designer, and the house was filled with palms that brushed the ceiling, lush ferns and ficus, huge vases of cut flowers on the tables, while the bookshelves that lined the walls were crammed with books on film, garden style, and the arts. It was casual, bohemian, and welcoming. Well, it was usually welcoming.

  The television was on. Stephen was staring at a film Red, sitting beside him, had pulled up. Groundhog Day. Kemp wasn’t certain if it was the best or worst choice.

  He looked up as the three entered the room. He smiled a degree. It would have been more effective if his face had not been so messed up.

  “You guys are being so good to me. I feel like a fraud.”

  Jesus, thought Kemp. Jesus Christ. Stephen’s face, even cleaned up, an icepack held to it. Split lip. Half-closed eye. The other one badly bruised.

  Fraud? He should be taken to the damned hospital.

  He should be reporting this to the police. Charles wanted him to do so. Stephen was house-sitting Charles’ Vaucluse house. Stephen had refused to involve the police. Security had been eased there, apparently at Stephen’s request. An alarm system and cameras were one thing; patrolling cars and security staying in the guesthouse was another.

  No, he didn’t think it was some random act of violence, Stephen had told Red earlier. There’d been a bad breakup. So please don’t expect him to report the attack. Because that was just not going to happen.

  Now Charles came to stand at the foot of the day bed. He was staring down at Stephen with a great imitation of real concern. “How are the pills? They working?”

  Stephen turned bleary green eyes on him. “Yeah.” He did that half-smile thing again, and Kemp guessed it hurt like all fuck to do more than that. A slow blink, and the blurred focus of his eyes made Kemp realise it probably didn’t hurt as much as it had. “They’re good. I feel kind of sleepy, but, ah… Yeah. Thank you.”

  Charles smiled gently. There was something shocking in how natural it was. This was Charles unguarded, Kemp realised.

  He hadn’t seen something like that from Charles in… hell, ever?

  Fuck, he wasn’t faking that concern. He actually meant it. Was this some gentler facet of Charles that he’d been hiding from the world all along? From Kemp himself all along?

  “Feels good, huh?” Charles was murmuring. “Those pills can make you feel pretty mellow, I remember. Get some sleep. You need it.”

  No, no ulterior motive there. Apparently. Again, somehow shocking.

  “You guys just stay with me, though, right?” Stephen was starting to sound bombed. “Just for a while. That would be good.”

  The words were slurring. The movie continued to play, and they arranged themselves on the sofas, Viva nestled up next to Red, him slinging an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. She curled up, gentle with him, against him, allowing the others a rare glimpse of the tender reverse of the fierceness she protected those she loved with, and smiled as Kemp poured her coffee and handed her the mug.

  The five of them sat, watching the film, chatting rarely, Stephen drifting into sleep in his nest of pillows, patched-up, cleaned-up face smoothed of the lines of pain.

  And Kemp sat and drank coffee, tried to put the mystery of Charles out of his mind, and watched the others, studied Stephen. He wanted to kill the mystery bastard who’d apparently done this to the guy and wondered if any of the others found this as bizarre a bonding experience as he did.

  But then, in its own way, violence had put them all together in this room in the first place. An incredible lone act of violence. One well-deserved.

  One that was still reaching out, echoing, bloody, clawing its way into all their futures, bar Stephen’s. No blood on his hands, but blood on another’s.

  Just as long as that fact never hit the light of day.

  Morning came too quickly for Kemp, with temperatures five degrees higher. At the warehouse, the stench of that beef carcass, bundled up thickly in plastic, was damned near beyond belief. It was being disposed of today, together with the rest of what had become junk, bar some of the borrowed, bought, begged, and hired props.

  The caged, stinking heat seemed to make no difference to the steady, relentless pace the guys worked at, their T-shirts or singlets rapidly sweat- and dirt-stained and the air blue with their language.

  Yesterday’s crew had been reduced to those involved in the clean-up.

  Viva demanded, and no matter the under-the-breath bitching, they all gave.

  Kemp took her to one side, out of earshot of the others. With the shoot complete, his only reason for being here was Stephen. There were certain things that he could scarcely discuss at length back at her place. The guy was still there, and Viva had to be here whether she liked it or not. “Red hasn’t been able to work out who the bastard is?”

  Viva stood, gym-toned arms crossed, watching the carpenters dismantle their work. Her face was stony. “No. It seems to be some piece-of-shit ex Stephen’s been having problems with. He’s not interested in giving us a name.”

  “So he still won’t involve the cops?”

  She shrugged.

  “You think this might happen again?”

  “Why do you think Red is climbing the walls?”

  And Charles. Charles had insisted on staying at the Darlinghurst house that day. Stephen really could not be left alone there, and Red had been planning to take the day off work to be with his brother, but it was throwing appointments out that he, running his own business, could not really afford to.

  Of course Red hadn’t argued with Charles, because as far as he kn
ew, Charles was truly Kemp’s partner. As such Charles could be trusted to treat his brother well and look after him, since moving around the place had proved markedly uncomfortable when Stephen had finally gotten up.

  Kemp felt thrown off balance.

  He could not follow that glimpse of a kinder, gentler Charles he’d had last night. But he could believe Charles would be angered and concerned that a man had been beaten up while on his property, under his roof. It would offend him, deeply.

  Kemp ran his hands over his face, feeling the frustration boil. Rage. It had become his fuel, it fed his creativity, it kept those he loved—well, the only one he loved, Viva—safe. Or as safe as he could. But Stephen… Stephen was defenceless, fragile meat for any bastard to tear at.

  The guy wore his nerve endings outside of his skin, not inside, and that made him all too vulnerable. Maybe Charles sensed that too.

  So sometimes Charles was capable of simple kindness. Whatever. He sure worked to keep that side hidden from Kemp.

  “What are you going to do?” Viva asked softly, turning to face him. “Chase this mystery ex down? Make him suffer? Get into some vigilante justice with Red? Because he’ll be up for it. So will I.”

  Kemp’s eyes met her hard, steady, knowing gaze. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Something like that.”

  “Nothing like chasing after the bad guys.”

  He gave a soft, wry laugh. “Yeah. Always an endless supply of those.”

  Viva sighed, cool even in the stinking, claustrophobic heat of that space, the sounds of men swearing, yelling at each other, crowbars being dropped onto concrete jarring. “You can’t keep fighting. Not when you won’t let anyone else fight for you.”

  “You don’t think whoever did that to Stephen should pay?”

  “I think he should have his face pounded into a wall until it looks like mincemeat,” Viva returned. “That answer your question?”

  Yeah. On that point, they were of one mind.