Blues Angel
by Cecilia
(After 'Africa')
They go back to Germany for a few weeks that fall, paying their respects
to their first fans, and JC goes out alone one night in Heidelberg,
pulling a baseball cap down low over his face and slipping away in a plain
car with the bodyguard who looks least like a linebacker. Everyone knows
he's going, but Lance is pretty sure he's the only one who knows
where.
Or he thinks he knows. It's not exactly as if JC is talking to him. It's
just - now Lance notices things, the way he never did before, such as that
JC sometimes comes back to his hotel room late on nights when he's
declined clubbing with everyone else and said he was going to sleep early
and not to bug him when they got back, godammit. Or the way JC's eyes
don't really swivel after girls, not automatically, not until Joey or
Justin says something, and then he wakes up pretty quick and laughs or
whistles and makes some appreciative comment, but he never does it on his
own. At a radio interview, Lance sits behind him and watches the tiny
spastic jerk of his head when the DJ asks him if he's dating anyone, the
little flicker he can't control even though he just says quietly "No, not
for a while."
He spends a lot of time staring at the back of JC's head, these days; once
JC turned around unexpectedly and their eyes met, just long enough for
fear to flash and Lance to see it. So then he had something else to think
about, worrying at the edges of why that might be; because JC has to know
that he's not going to, like, punch him out or anything, not for one kiss
that was months ago by now. And anyway he'd tried to really tell him,
once, maybe a week after, because it had been so awful the last few days.
He'd shouldered his way into JC's room by asking in front of everyone if
he could come borrow that CD now so JC had to say yes and even though he
tried to get Justin to come in too Justin just said "Nah, I got work to
do, C," and left them to their fate. And it was terrible, because neither
of them wanted to be doing it at all, but finally Lance, who was sitting
on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped in front of him while JC
kind of perched on the desk and fiddled with a drawer handle, counted to
ten, breathed in, and managed to get out "It's, um, OK. But. um. I'm - you
know, I'm not, so -" before he stumbled painfully to a halt. Then JC'd
given him this horrible tight look that made Lance feel like an idiot for
trying to assert his masculinity or whatever, because JC's eyes, sealed
off and frightened and somehow knowing something, were almost worse than
the laughter of the football players who'd beat him up in ninth grade -
gave him the same feeling, just from the opposite direction.
So in Heidelberg, anyway, he goes out, and Lance figures that the others
think he's headed for a biergarten or possibly a strip club, because after
The Song (Lance thinks of it in capital letters; it did change his life,
after all) they all have him pegged for a look-but-not-touch sort of
freak. Lance thinks he might have been happier when he thought that too.
On the other hand, though, he hates not knowing, he hates that more
than
anything, which is maybe why he makes a split- second decision that
afternoon when JC announced his intention to be gone for a while that
night, has a quick discussion with Randy about "just once, man, just a
movie, an arty movie, there won't be any teenagers there, I swear" and
why he too goes quietly out the back door a few moments after JC leaves by
the front.
He feels all James Bond when he does it, a little ridiculous in his
'disguise' of one of Justin's dark bandannas and Chris's dark frames with
clear glass in them, which he'd swiped from Chris's suitcase after dinner,
and a nice buttondown shirt which actually at one point belonged to JC,
though his arms got a little long for it when he grew more and he'd passed
it down to Lance a while back. Lance never wears it, but JC, who is the
only one who owns decent clothing at a middle level of dressiness, went
out looking pretty J. Crew, black khakis and a tan turtleneck, so Lance
figures that wherever they're going he would stand out too much in his own
stuff. He's fairly sure he's going to get caught in the first five seconds
anyway. Mike, JC's bodyguard, will spot him, if nothing else.
But when Lance tells the taxi driver, in his best broken German, to pull
in twenty feet behind the grey sedan they use for anonymity, only JC gets
out. He's pulling the baseball cap back on, and he bends over and talks to
someone through the passenger window for a little while, nodding a lot,
and Lance can tell even from this far away that Mike is in the driver's
seat swearing at him a little, telling him he'll beat his ass himself if
he gets hurt, yo, and he'd better fucking watch it, Chasez, because a
12-year-old girl could take him on and win, which is how Mike always talks
to JC when he's going to give in and go away, at least for a little while.
JC needs space a lot, and Lance is familiar with the routine. Mike is a
sucker for the earnest nod.
Two in one night, Lance thinks. They're getting soft on us. But
he
sends a prayer of silent gratitude back to Randy in the hotel, biting his
nails so Lance can watch a movie in peace. Or find out what the hell JC
thinks he's doing.
This isn't as seedy as it could be, thank God, not the absolute worst
neighborhood in Heidelberg. The street is kind of dark when Lance gets out
and pays the driver, but it's fairly quiet and there isn't much trash in
the gutters. No hookers on the sidewalk, nobody standing around trying to
thrust little bags of powder into his hand, like happened in Hamburg once
when he and Joey had gone to a street they shouldn't've. Nobody at all,
really. Lots of shops closed down for the night, one open cafe-thing on
the corner, and the club JC's gone into, which has a gentle outdoor light
shedding a glow on the sign next to the green doors. It's called Der Blues
Engel, its name spelled out in flat black letters on the grubby board, a
spiderweb covering one corner.
The place seems to be all one big room, although it takes Lance's eyes a
little while to adjust after he pushes open the door and slips in, head
down as much as possible. He feels exposed, half-expecting JC to be
watching the entrance, although of course he isn't. Lance sees him almost
as soon as he dares to look up, seated at the bar, with a beer in his
hand, one of the dark German beers that he loves. He's taken his baseball
cap off already, gotten rid of it God knows where, and he's leaning one
elbow on the bar, back to the door, watching the stage at the far end of
the room.
A jazz quintet is playing, something Charlie Mingus did that Lance
actually recognizes because JC had played that one CD so often the year
the band was getting together, over and over on the other side of the wall
he shared with Lance. They're mellow up there, low-key, and Lance wonders
if they're American - the sax, the bass, and the drummer are all black,
though the pianist looks awfully - German, all blond short straight hair
and broad shoulders, and Lance would bet good money that his eyes are
painfully blue. Maybe he's a session player or something. It's very dark,
shadowy people shifting in the twilit edges of the room, and he can feel
the smoke start to seep into him almost immediately. Justin's going to
kill him when he smells this bandanna. He takes a deep breath and moves
away from the door, not making eye contact with anyone as he moves
towards
a booth against the back wall, as far away as he can get from the bar and
still see it. There's no dance floor here, at least not tonight; the main
part of the room, sunk two steps down in the middle of the floor, is
filled with round tables, three or four chairs each, maybe nine-tenths
full, men and a few scattered women. Luck is with him though and there's a
booth with nobody in it, probably because the view of the stage is
terrible, but he really couldn't care less. He slides in, wishing he were
as relaxed as the band; looks around helplessly. His plan hadn't gotten
farther than following JC and hoping he wasn't recognized, and now that
he's here he's no longer sure exactly why.
He's watching JC talk quietly with the bartender when a deep voice says
"Konnte ich dir ein bier kaufen?" and puts a tall mug in front of him.
He looks up and says "Thanks," smiling automatically at the tall blond guy
standing in front of him who smiles back broadly and starts to sit down,
just as his brain kicks in and he jumps, thinking shit. "Oh," he
stammers, shaking his head quickly, apologetically, pushing the beer back
a little, searching for the German words, "I mean, nein! sorry, danke,
danke, but, uh, nein."
And thank God, the guy just shrugs philosophically and says, "ah, keep it"
in soft, heavily- accented English, straightens up and turns away, going
back down among the tables and disappearing in the shadows at the edges of
the floor. Lance tries to slow his heartrate, and he's glad the guy left
the beer because he really needs it now, he really does, he downs as much
of it as he can without taking a breath. Now that it's over his face is
burning and his hands are shaking a little. Stupidstupid, he thinks, as
he comes up for air.
When he can think straight again he checks over to the bar, starting to do
it surreptitiously before realizing how dumb that is and turning his whole
head instead of his eyes. Yeah, Bass, maybe you should sign up for the
CIA instead of NASA if this band thing doesn't pan out. JC is leaning
back against the polished wood, swiveling slightly on his stool in an
absentminded sort of way. His eyes are closed and his head is moving
gently with the music. He looks relaxed, Lance thinks, and the music is so
good, and it's easy and kind of nice to watch JC sit by himself, thinking
that nobody's looking at him, and when the song comes to an end Lance
realizes, surprised, that he's relaxed as well.
That's the end of the set, desultory applause from the audience and the
band gets up one by one, the bass player popping his knuckles, the drummer
twisting his arms together high above his head and arching his back,
getting up gratefully and leaving through a side door. The other four come
out into the crowd, blending anonymously into the dark and smoke and
people getting up to clap them on the back, and Lance thinks this can't
possibly be the end of the night, it's so early still. Taped music starts
up softly, though, something Lance doesn't recognize, with a rolling piano
over a steady slow beat, and a woman singing at the bottom of her
register, ragged raw, and that seems to be a signal to push a few tables
aside, clearing a little space on the floor, and it's not like Lance
doesn't know where he is or anything, not like he didn't know really deep
down from the time JC said he was going, but he feels all the tension come
back into his shoulders when everyone who gets up to dance is male.
He wrenches his eyes away from the floor and back to the bar, and jumps
again, because JC isn't alone anymore. The piano player from the band is
leaning up next to him, saying something, Lance can't tell what, but JC
kind of waves a hand vaguely in the air and he stays, pulling a paper and
a pouch out of his pocket and starting to roll a cigarette on the bartop.
JC turns his head and raises a hand for the bartender, but it's not
necessary, he's already bringing two beers over. Lance swallows some more
of his own, forgotten on the table next to him.
The guy lights up over at the bar, striking a match on its edge, and
closes his eyes gratefully as he inhales, exhales. He takes a drink of
beer, leaning back on his elbows, then opens his eyes, puts the beer down,
turns back to JC. Puts out a hand, which JC shakes, saying something so
brief it could only be his name and smiling, and Lance wonders why his
throat is suddenly so dry, why his stomach twists up. He feels, abruptly,
that he shouldn't have come, feels like a jerk, wonders how he's going to
face JC the next day and all the days after that. He takes another long
drink of beer, closing his eyes behind Chris's stolen glasses, what a
fucking idiotic idea, and he rips them off, tosses them on the tabletop.
Well, it's too late to go anywhere now. JC is turned towards the door, and
there's no way he could make it out unseen, in Justin's bandanna and JC's
shirt and his own body, which JC would know by its shadow in a crowd of
thousands. Just like he, like any of them, would know JC's.
The lighting in the room has changed along with the music; it's darker on
the central floor now, and most of the people down there are dancing,
cigarettes in their hands, arms draped familiarly over partners'
shoulders, and it's been a long time since Lance has slow-danced with
anyone, been in a place where there was music slow enough to sway to.
When
they go back to the States, maybe, they'll be in Orlando for a good long
while in the studio, and maybe then he'll find himself a girl. It's dark
down on the floor, but he thinks the two guys closest to him are kissing.
The dimmer light in the center of the room makes the edges look brighter,
gives the people at the bar metallic highlights in their hair. When, after
a few minutes, he looks back to JC, the guy is still there, just starting
another cigarette, and they're right under one of the hanging lamps,
making JC's skin golden, and the smoke is floating upwards, curling softly
in the light. They're talking, smiling, JC still sipping his beer, though
the pianist is through with his, just a few suds left in the bottom of his
glass mug, talking in brief little passages, getting-to-know-you shit,
Lance guesses, the kind of thing he's done about eight million times
himself in the last four years with nameless journalists and record execs
and partygirls and popstars. They're sitting close, knees almost touching,
though when the song that's on finishes they pull back a little, and Lance
sees JC start to trace some kind of pattern on the bartop with an idle
finger, still talking but briefly tilting his face up, a little to the
left the way he sometimes does in the studio, and Lance guesses he's
wondering what's next.
It's only a moment before Ella Fitzgerald comes over the speakers, a tinny
recording but her voice is rough and round and warm like brandy and
although she's singing in German even Lance can recognize it, and JC's
head comes back down. He looks pleased, and the guy says something,
leaning forward a little, resting his hand on the bar close to JC's elbow.
JC laughs, a real genuine laugh that makes his eyes crinkle like Lance
hasn't seen them in months, and shakes his head, and accepts a drag off
the cigarette, turning his face away to blow out the smoke. Lance's
fingers are hurting, and he shakes his head briefly to clear it as he
carefully detaches them from the edge of his seat.
JC takes another drag, exhales, and smiles again as he hands the cigarette
back. He talks for a little while, left hand shoved in his pocket while
the pianist finishes his smoke, nodding every now and then or raising a
hand to stop JC, asking him something brief. Lance wishes desperately that
he were closer, or could read lips or something. When the cigarette is
down almost to the filter, the guy taps the last of the ash into his empty
beer glass, stubs it out against the side, pushes the glass a little
towards the bartender, and stands up. JC drains the last of his beer and
slides off his stool, and Lance thinks he sees, though it's so brief he
could be wrong, that he brushes up against the guy as he moves past him a
little, heading towards the central floor, just a skim of cloth on cloth,
and the guy follows him, catching up immediately and right beside JC, but
instead of stopping with the dancers, they slip through the crowd, side by
side, until they're at the back of the stage, the passageway the drummer
went down maybe ten minutes before, the guy right next to JC, and just
before they disappear around the corner, Lance sees him reach out and run
his thumb along the fine line of JC's jaw.
They go home. Joey and Kelly, Chris and Dani, are all living together, and
Justin is seeing an awful lot of Britney these days. She even comes to a
couple of charity concerts they do in Orlando, and does an encore with
them. She sets Lance up with a friend of hers, a girl named Elizabeth,
with long brown hair that she's never cut and says she never will, and
Lance dates her for a while before the night she lets him slip his hands
into the front of her pants, hook them down over her gentle hips, and when
they come down to breakfast Britney is the only one at the table. She
gives them a knowing look but doesn't say anything, and the next one
downstairs is JC, unshaven and hungover, who leans one hip against the
counter to drink the cup of coffee Elizabeth hands him, says "morning" and
won't meet Lance's eyes.
JC goes out with the eight of them once or twice a week and dances his ass
off on the crowded floors of techno clubs, gyrating wildly in leather
pants and grinding his hips against the girls Joey introduces him to. But
he never brings them home.