Dorian Seacrest owns a music store and performance venue with his friend and business partner, Evan Harper. When Evan rushes into the stockroom a week or so before Christmas to tell him Caesar's Flame is booked for New Year's Day, he goes into shock.
Many years have passed since Dorian has seen Laramie Treble, the drummer and leader of the now globally successful alternative rock band. Their erstwhile relationship -- mostly about sex -- deteriorated once Laramie became famous, mainly because he wanted to sleep with everything that moved. So Dorian left him to it. He wanted monogamy and forever, or nothing at all.
Now Laramie is back and in hot pursuit of Dorian once again. But Dorian is not making it easy. He can't, because his heart won't survive another round, especially if all Laramie wants is something casual like before. He's just not built that way.
It seems, though, that Laramie is determined to prove Dorian wrong, and there might be a little drummer boy in his future, after all. Dorian just has to decide whether to let his heart beat to Laramie's drum.
A few minutes later, I hunched my shoulders and pushed into the wind, making my slow way home. I preferred to walk more than I drove. It saved on gas, and my vehicle had too many miles on it, as it was. It was a fifteen minute stroll, usually, but it was gusty this evening. When I finally arrived at my condo building, I was shivering and ready to warm up. Unfortunately, I noticed Laramie’s SUV parked next to my truck.
I was in no mood to deal with him, and he could freeze his balls off in that fancy car of his, for all I cared. I took the elevator to the tenth floor and strode down the hallway, thankful for the heat in the building. When I turned the corner, I saw Laramie leaning against my door, watching me with a wary expression as I approached.
“Why don’t you drive instead of walking? It’s way too cold outside,” he said as I stopped before him.
“Why is it any of your business what I do?” I retorted. Of course he remembered where I lived, having been here numerous times while we’d been…whatever we were, back then.
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Jesus, don’t bite my damn head off.” He didn’t move out of the way, however.
I took the key out of my pocket. “You’re blocking the door.”
“I want to talk to you, but you keep blowing me off.”
“That’s unusual for you, is it?”
“I’d never expect that from you. Why are you being such a dick?”
“You make it sound like I have to give you a reason for what I say or do, when we don’t have anything between us anymore. Never really did, actually, since it was all about sex.”
“But, I thought we could --”
“We could ... what? Oh, I see. You wanted us to get together, is that it? Maybe fool around a bit like the old days, until you get bored and move on? What do you take me for, stupid? Don’t you have some groupies to fuck or something?”
“You mean the two from earlier?” He shrugged. “They’re harmless, and way too young for me.” He was so cavalier about the whole thing. God, enough already.
I rubbed my forehead. “I’m tired, Laramie. It’s been a long day, and I don’t see the point to this conversation. Can we not do this, please? You’re wasting your time, and mine.”
He watched me for a moment, then stepped aside so I could finally unlock the door. “I don’t know what else I can say to get through to you. I’ve changed, Dorian. I’m not that guy anymore.”
“I’ve yet to see proof to the contrary. Your track record precedes you, Mr. Treble. Good night.” I shut the door in his face.
“Dorian, Come on!” he yelled. “I’m a tool, okay? I know that. Just talk to me. Please?” I didn’t respond, but leaned against the door, my forehead resting on the hard surface as I tried to quell the tears of frustration I knew would fall if I let them.
“Go away,” I whispered. He pounded the door for a while, and I was sure the neighbors were wondering what the hell was going on. After ten minutes of silence on my part, he gave up, but not before slipping a business card under the door. I waited a little bit longer before I picked it up.
The card had his name, email address and phone number. “Call me,” he’d written on the back. No way in hell.