Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

really like these guys, huh?" he said loudly, to be heard above the still-noisy crowd.
    "They're so awesome. I can't believe I'm going to meet Devastation. My friends are gonna flip."
    Scott moved in closer to Eddie, wrapping an arm around his thin shoulders and helping to steer him through the maze of hallways and people. "Devastation?"
    "The lead singer," Eddie said with a snort.
    Ah, things were becoming clearer. "Does he have a last name?"
    Eddie shrugged and stepped away from Scott to catch up with Marshall. "Do you think he'll give me an autograph or maybe a picture? That would be fucking—"
    "Eddie!"
    "Sorry."
    "I'm sure he'll let you have both," Marshall said. "He's a super nice guy. Always catering to the kids at the show with autographs or pictures."
    "Like a pedophile?" The words were out before Scott could consult with his brain.
    Marshall stopped short, and Scott barely missing crashing into the back of him. "What?"
    Scott smiled. "Nothing. That's not the word I meant to use. What I meant to ask is if Devastation was a pedagogist. You know, like a teacher."
    Marshall and Eddie shook their heads and went back to walking. Scott huffed out a breath of relief. Goddammit, what was wrong with him? When they reached the backstage area it was a fluster of activity; people loading equipment, people with clipboards, people standing around talking to what looked to be members of the other bands. Scott didn't see Devon… Devastation anywhere, but why would he? He was probably holed up in his personal dressing room with some fist-pumping fans kissing his feet or other more private body parts. The more Scott thought about it, the angrier he got. Devon had used him, had lied to him and worst of all, had made Scott feel guilty about his suspicions. Devon couldn't move much lower in Scott's mind.
    "Scott? Are you coming, man?"
    Dammit, he needed to stop stepping out of reality. "Yeah, of course."
    Marshall knocked on a very non-descript door, certainly not the door of a rock and roll superstar , though Scott wasn't sure if what Devon actually did was rock and roll or some other kind of annoying music. It didn't really matter. He just wanted to get the confrontation over so he could go home and have his breakdown in private.
    "Come in!" The voice was definitely Devon's and Scott's blood pressure suddenly spiked. He held back when Marshall and Eddie entered the room, hiding beside the doorframe. He told himself he was prepared to see Devon again, but even the sound of his voice sent tingles up and down his arms.
    Eddie's voice broke through his anxiety. "Uncle Scott! S-man! Aren't you coming in?" Then he was pulling Scott into the room, and the scent of musk and sweat assaulted and thrilled his nostrils. But it was the underlying fragrance that tickled the inside of his nose, the little hints of Devon scattered about in the air. Scott needed to get a grip.
    He squared his shoulders and unslouched his body despite the flight part of the fight-or-flight equation firmly stamping its feet. Oh-my-fucking-God-what-am-I-doing? He needed to get back the anger he'd felt when he'd seen Devon up on the stage, the rage that he'd been betrayed over something as silly as his boyfriend being a rockstar or scream star or whatever the fuck he was. Unfortunately, all he was feeling was nervous apprehension and fear that Devon would just laugh in his face— ha, ha, joke's on you, fucker —and Scott would return home to melt into a puddle of rejection and embarrassment.
    A hand on his arm dragged him inside, the force sending him sprawling into the back of Eddie. Who knew the kid was so strong? He kept his head ducked down, reaching for the zipper-pull half-way down his jacket and slowly pulling it up to his neck. It was a ruse to keep from falling immediately into Devon's gaze; lame but hopefully it would work.
    Eddie's fingers still wrapped around Scott's forearm and he tugged a little harder as he spoke. "Devastation, this is my uncle Scott. He's not a fan but he brought me here and he's pretty cool."
    Scott looked up into shocked brown eyes, the expression on Devon's face closer to pain than "ha, ha, joke's on you, fucker." He quickly recovered, one corner of his mouth curling up in that half-smile Scott used to love so much—loved only two short weeks ago. The inconsistency of having only one dimple glowing back at Scott told him the smile wasn't real and Devon's original reaction was still coursing through him.
    Devon reached out