FIC: I Know What I'm After (1/7)
Title: I KNOW WHAT I’M AFTER (1/7)
Author: Montmorency
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: About 4,400 (this part only)
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Never happened. Written for entertainment only. The real people who form the basis of these characters have their own lives.
Summary: Adam and his friends are in a band, and their guitarist just ditched them to play for Madonna. Tommy shows up at the audition, but disappears shortly afterwards.
Notes: If you notice that certain names appear similar to those of real people, but not quite the same, that was done on purpose. The age difference between Adam and Tommy has been changed to suit the story. They’re about four years apart in this.
This, by the way, is not a work-in-progress. It’s done, about 27k words. I’m posting it in seven parts, every day or so. I really struggled not to start posting right away. I’m impatient like that. The story is SO much better for not having been posted as a work-in-progress. I have my wonderful pre-reader and prompt-provider fairfax_verde to thank for that. The prompt was hers, from the kinkmeme, and wasn’t filled. It was too good to go unfilled, and I’m grateful that I got to be the one to do it. As I’ve been writing over the past few months, she has provided feedback and ideas and cheerleading. Without her, the story would be floundering hopelessly in never-never land still. Also: any typos or errors are 100% my bad.
Thanks to @tuke18 for the gorgeous picture of Tommy, and adam-pictures.com for that of Adam. Crappy cut-out job on Adam's hair entirely my responsibility.
Chapter 1
“He’s gone,” says Isaac. “Might as well get past it.”
Adam pouts. “What a friend. My career is going down the toilet before it ever got started.”
“I’m not going to blame him,” Brian says. “You would have done the same thing in his shoes.”
“As if I would wear his shoes,” Adam scoffs. “He has such shit taste.”
Only Ashley remains silent.
“Whatever.” Isaac waves his hand in front of their faces. “Focus, guys, we can’t blow this gig and we need a fucking guitarist, like, yesterday. We need a new band name, we need a fresh start.”
“What’s wrong with the band name?” asks Brian.
“Nothing. A new name would show we’re a new lineup is all.”
Adam slouches further in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Life sucks. The remaining members of the band are sitting in this warehouse-like space that belongs to a friend of Isaac’s, somewhere in east L.A., in a semi-circle of rickety folding chairs. A clown school’s worth of badly stylized guitarists has paraded in front of them for three hours now. It doesn’t help that Monte was a technically skilled guitarist and it’s hard to compete with that - or replace it. Still, by now surely one of the wanna-be rockers would have been a reasonable substitute.
But no. Monte had to leave the band two measly weeks from their biggest, most important gig ever, because somehow he’d managed to hook up with Madonna - fuckin’ Madonna - and become one of her guitarists, and her tour started two days ago.
“How many more are out there?” Brian asks Isaac’s friend Matt, who is acting as production assistant.
Matt opens the door a smidge and peers out, then closes it. “Looks like one more.”
“Thank fuck,” Isaac says. “I’m getting hungry.”
Adam shushes Isaac and asks Matt, “Promising?”
Matt shrugs. “Try scrawny and underfed. Possibly underwashed as well.”
“Show him in, let’s get this over with,” Brian says. “Then it’s dinner time.”
Isaac pumps his fist and gets a glare from Adam.
Matt wasn’t kidding. The kid who nervously shuffles in the door is tiny, his eyes huge and scared in his small, pretty face. His Metallica t-shirt is tatty and his jeans have holes. Even his guitar looks worn out and tired.
“What’s your name?” Brian calls out across the space.
“Tommy Joe. Tommy,” says the kid, picking up the cable jack from the floor and plugging it into his guitar.
“Whatcha gonna play for us?”
“Enter Sandman?” The kid is so diffident, clearly struggling to appear confident.
“We’re not a metal band,” Adam says.
“Can it, dude,” Brian warns Adam. “Go for it, Tommy.”
Tommy Joe hangs his head, bangs obscuring his eyes, and starts the opening bars. He stops and looks at the amp, then at the semi-circle of people questioningly.
“Go ahead,” Brian offers.
Tommy tweaks a couple of knobs, strums, adjusts more, and then settles, hair in his eyes again. This time it sounds just right. He nails the thing, getting so into the vibe that he stops noticing that he’s not alone. Then he segues into Buddy Guy-like skanky blues.
Adam looks over at Brian and Isaac. They’re nodding at each other. Isaac’s starting to grin like a maniac.
He’s very good, Ashley mouths at Adam. Adam raises his eyebrows. She nods, No question about it.
“You can stop now!” Brian hollers.
Tommy looks up, hand poised mid-air; the wailing sounds from the amp fade away. He looks apprehensively at the four of them, fists clenching and unclenching.
“What else ya got?” Brian asks.
Tommy bites his lip, then strikes a chord. “Funk? I can do funk.”
“Impress me, baby,” Brian says.
Tommy bangs out some hot P-Funk riffs.
“Okay, stop!” Brian hollers again. “Badass!”
Tommy looks up hopefully and it goes right to Adam’s downstairs brain. He can’t help it. Under the ratty old clothes and the scared face, the kid is adorable and exactly Adam’s type because, yes, Adam has a type: tiny, pretty, slim-hipped, with a beautiful mouth. But how old is this kid? He looks sixteen. That won’t do. They play bars and nightclubs, mostly.
Tommy is unplugging his guitar and crouching to lay the jack on the floor respectfully when Adam asks his age. Tommy straightens and grips his guitar tightly. His hands are full of tension. “Twenty-one.”
Adam is surprised. Tommy looks about sixteen, but if he’s twenty-one, then he’s only four years younger than Adam. In fact all the band members are in the low or mid-twenties, now that Monte is gone. Monte hit the big three-oh half a year back. Monte even has a wife and two kids. In a way, he never fit in that well; his priorities too different - his children, his need to have a permanent home. So the group is more cohesive without him except for one problem. No guitar player.
Tommy’s eyes dart between Brian and Adam, as though he’s trying to decide who’s in charge here.
Adam asks, “Why’d you come to our audition?”
Tommy fidgets with his guitar strap. “Everybody knows what happened with Pittman, and lots of people figure you guys are going somewhere, so…” The thought drifts off.
“Been to our gigs?” Brian asks.
Tommy shakes his head no. “But I heard,” he insists. “I was meaning to.”
“Have you played with other bands?” Isaac puts in, leaning forward.
Tommy shakes his head no.
“But you’ve jammed with people?”
“Yeah, um, friends.”
“There’s a dynamic to playing in a group,” Brian says. “Takes practice to hit that sweet spot where everybody’s playing like a unit. Doesn’t come without time and work.”
Tommy hitches up his pants. His knuckles are practically white on the guitar neck now. “I can work hard. I know how to do that.”
“Sure, course you can, it’s just there’s an important show we’re doing very soon.”
“Okay,” says Tommy. “I get that.”
It’s a little uncomfortable for a moment.
Brian nods. “Sweet guitar, where’d you find it?”
Tommy grips the neck of the beat-up Jaguar a bit harder. “I bought it from a guy in Alameda.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Okay, gotcha. Hey, Matt, can you show Tommy out, okay?”
As soon as the door closes, they huddle.
“Kid’s got game,” Brian begins.
“His hair is very pink,” Isaac adds.
“So?” Ashley asks. “I think he looks cool.”
“He’s gorgeous,” Adam blurts out.
They laugh.
“Down, boy,” Brian says, not unkindly. “Settle, people. Even though he’s talented, I think he’s too shy to go on stage.”
“I’m shy,” Ashley says. “I deal. It’s not like I have to be the one out front of the band - that’s Adam. It’s not that hard to hang in the back and just play.”
Brian makes a goofy face at her. “What was all that I was just saying about how much effort it takes to play together? Was I talking to myself?”
Ashley makes a face back at him.
Isaac holds up his hand. “He’s the best we saw today in terms of playing skills.”
Brian nods his head. “But hey; that one guy with the attitude? He’d survive a live gig better.”
The other three exchange looks. Isaac speaks up for them: “Talent talks. Bullshit walks. We like the one who plays best.”
Brian looks over at Adam. “What do you think?”
Adam throws up his hands. “I don’t play instruments. I trust you guys to make the call on this one.”
In the end they bicker more, review the recordings they made during the auditions, decide they might give Tommy a chance, and ask Matt for the list of contact information for the guitarists who auditioned. The only missing information is for Tommy.
“I didn’t get a number from him,” Matt says, shrugging.
“What the fuck?” asks Isaac.
“He said he doesn’t have a phone.”
They stare at each other like they’ve never heard anything so bizarre in their young lives.
“What is he, an alien?” Ashley offers. “Who doesn’t have a cell?”
“Email? Anything?” asks Brian.
“Nope,” says Matt.
“What’s his last name?” Adam asks.
Matt checks the sign-in list. “He didn’t leave one. Unless Joe is his last name.”
“Then how are we going to hire him?” Adam wants to know.
Matt brightens. “He said he’d call me back to find out the outcome.”
* * *
Tommy never calls back. They hire the guitarist with the attitude, one Trevor Bowman. They put in lots of practice, in between their regular jobs. Trevor is okay but he definitely has attitude, as in too much of it. Too diva. Really good-looking and he knows it. Not that he doesn’t work hard on the songs, because he does, but his stage presence is a bit overwhelming, especially for Adam, who’s used to being the main man out front.
“Guitarist are allowed to be divas, too,” Isaac says privately to Adam, slapping his shoulder. “You can handle the competition, big guy.”
Two weeks later, their important gig goes okay but not great. They’re not setting anyone on fire yet, and they still haven’t thought up a new band name. They use the old one for now, since they’re known by it.
Brian drives Adam back to his apartment after the gig. Ashley’s in the back seat; she’ll be the second drop-off. Brian has a reliable car because he has a real job as a software designer and makes more money than the others. Adam’s car is in the shop, getting a leaking brake line fixed. Ashley has a bicycle. There’s no way she can be expected to pedal around with that giant bass guitar on her back.
“I’m lining up the next big gig,” Brian says. “My cousin who knows that guy in the business? He knows a guy who knows a different company and he’s gonna try to hook us up. Maybe a month or two.”
Adam nods, his arm propped in the open passenger window. “Wish that Tommy had called back.”
“No regrets, it was his call. He dropped us, not the other way around.”
Adam heaves a huge sigh. “He looked like he was in trouble, maybe; did you guys notice?”
Ashley leans forward, her chin resting on the back of Adam’s seat. “He was skinny for sure. I didn’t get the sense he’s a tweaker or anything, though.”
“I feel bad,” Adam continues. “I wish I could have taken him somewhere for a meal, you know? Looked like he needed it.”
Brian reaches over to slap Adam’s chest. “Not your fault, man. If he really wanted to play, he should have called.”
“Might be hard if you don’t have a phone,” says Adam, unsatisfied. He’s been keeping his eye on the local gigs, wondering if Tommy got a job with some other band.
* * *
As soon as Adam’s car is back in the rotation, Brian has the unmitigated gall to send him - like an errand boy! - to Sam Ash for spare cables and strange items like strap locks and vacuum tubes. It’s not Adam’s thing to go into guitar or music stores. He tends to buy sheet music online and let Isaac and Ashley and Brian deal with the hardware needed for shows - the mics and cables and stands and in-ears and mixers and amps. To be entirely fair (not that Adam feels like being fair right now), Brian has that pesky well-paying day job and he’s been generous, buying a lot of stuff for the band, so Adam darkens the door of Sam Ash, a couple hundred of Brian’s folding green in his wallet.
The store is gigantic and he solicits help from a willing clerk, who drags him around the store to fulfill Brian’s shopping list.
Passing the closed door of a practice room full of amplifiers, Adam hears what has got to be a bluesy rendition of Enter Sandman. He peers into the room. It’s dark-ish, with a lot of empty space, amps lining the walls and shelves. There’s just one person in there, sitting on a stool and playing a guitar, in profile.
“Hey,” Adam says to the clerk, “who is that?” He recognizes Tommy immediately but wants to get information from the clerk.
“Tommy?” The clerk stops. “Tommy comes in a lot to use the amp rooms.”
“How come?”
“I don’t think he has anywhere to stay so he doesn’t have an amp.”
“You mean homeless?”
The clerk nods and shrugs.
“The store owner doesn’t mind? You just let him play?”
The clerk grins. “Why not? It’s good for the store, guys come in here and what do they want? To be Hetfield or Hendrix. So if they hear some high-quality jamming, that tends to sell guitars, you know?”
Adam nods. “Do you know his name?”
“Tommy,” the clerk repeats.
“I mean last name.”
“Nope. He buys strings sometimes but he’s not in the customer database. Always uses cash.”
Adam follows the clerk to the register and pays, accepting a bag. He’s about to leave when he thinks again and goes back into the store. Fortunately the clerk has already found another customer, and doesn’t see Adam heading to the store’s interior.
He opens the door to the sound room quietly. It’s not hard since Tommy is clearly focused on playing. Adam closes the door with a soft snick and levers himself onto a stool, still mostly out of Tommy’s line of vision.
Adam can judge the kind of music he likes. No, he doesn’t play an instrument - other than his voice, which, thank you, is an instrument - but he knows enough to understand that Tommy is good at it, even if he’s not playing Adam’s favorite style of music. Tommy seems more into rock and rhythm and blues than pop. No matter. Everyone in the band has a different style and they have an agreement that everyone can do side projects, so long as the band comes first.
When Tommy stops playing for a moment, he hears Adam shuffling around on the stool behind him and nearly jumps out of his skin, turning and standing and then nearly stumbling backwards, the Jaguar clutched in front of himself like a shield.
“How long have you been there?” he asks nervously.
Adam smiles as brightly as he can. Tommy still looks ragged and ill-fed. There are haggard circles under his eyes. His hair is still pink, but faded. Adam wants nothing so much as to feed him. Maybe he needs a bath, too. And a good long nap.
“Not long,” Adam says. “But I could have listened for hours.”
Tommy blushes.
“I’m serious,” Adam assures him. “Why didn’t you call back?”
“I could tell you guys weren’t going to pick me,” Tommy says, standing his ground uncertainly. Adam is between him and the door.
Adam shakes his head. “We had to discuss things, but in the end we decided on you.”
Tommy’s eyes open comically wide.
Adam drags out his phone and checks the time. “It’s past five. Are you hungry?”
Tommy bites his bottom lip. “No, I have to go.” He yanks the cord out of his guitar and it drops to the floor.
Adam is disappointed. His ploy isn’t working. “Come on, just something quick nearby. Burger? Tacos? My treat.”
Tommy hesitates. “I don’t need charity.” He’s still blocked from the exit, especially when Adam stands up and moves closer. Tommy leans over to zip the Jaguar into a battered gig bag.
“Come on,” Adam repeats. “It’s not charity, I just want to treat you. As a thank you for auditioning.”
Tommy straightens and hefts the guitar over his shoulder. “But you must have picked somebody else.”
“Who cares?” Adam asks. “Water under the bridge. I just want to talk.”
Tommy takes a small step forward, notices that Adam doesn’t budge, and then looks longingly at the door. “I have to go, please,” he says.
Adam curses inwardly but opens the door and holds it for Tommy, who scampers through it with a backward, largely unreadable, glance at Adam.
* * *
Adam’s not a perfect person. He’s also not much for stealth but he follows Tommy out of the music store, staying a block behind. He wants to know where Tommy is going. He wants to know Tommy is okay. He still has the worst possible feeling about Tommy not having what he needs to survive decently. Adam had a good upbringing and he even has his own tiny studio apartment in a reasonable area of Hollywood. His dad helps with a check now and then. He’s never had to live anywhere especially dangerous. He knows damn well if he can’t make it here, his parents will willingly take him back in until he finds what they would call a real job. They would probably front him more money to give college another try. All that said, Adam’s well aware that not everyone is that lucky, and that there are young kids all over L.A. who don’t have the basics, who maybe have to worry about where a meal is coming from.
It’s not at all that Tommy’s so cute; he’s also polite and sweet and definitely a little enigma, all of which is attractive to Adam. He’d like to talk with Tommy, just sit down and talk and learn more about him.
He needs to know that Tommy is okay.
Sure enough, five more blocks and Tommy walks into St. Paul’s, a church with an attached homeless center. That reminds Adam of the other emotion that Tommy brings forth in Adam, a desire to protect. All his life, Adam’s brother Neil has mocked him for befriending stray dogs or sticking up for kids that were bullied in school. It’s part of him now and he’s not going to change. He doesn’t especially want to change. If caring about people and animals is stupid, well, Adam will wear that label without shame.
The center looks like someone cares about making it nice. The paint on the walls may need updating, but it’s sturdy. It looks safe. At least now he knows that Tommy will be okay tonight. He walks back to where he parked his car and slings the bag of purchases into the passenger seat. He blows his bangs out of his eyes - the cheap product he uses is losing its hold - and dials up Isaac. “Hey, I found that kid,” he says. “Totes by accident.”
* * *
It’s a good thing that Adam has a night job instead of a day job. He sings three nights a week in a chorus of an off-Broadway-style musical that plays downtown. That leaves him lots of free time during the business day.
The Sam Ash clerk is surprised to see Adam browsing every afternoon in the store. “We have a great sale on mics,” the guy says, after Adam admits to being a vocalist, not an instrumentalist. After a week of this, and no Tommy, Adam asks outright.
“Tommy? Sometimes he haunts Guitar Center instead,” the clerk says.
Duh. Adam could smack his own forehead. Guitar Center is a few doors away. They probably feel the same way as Sam Ash and let Tommy play at will.
The big sound room deep inside Guitar Center has an open door; he can hear the sound and follows it through a maze of equipment. The amp is turned politely low but yes, that’s Tommy, who turns when he hears someone coming.
“Please,” Adam says. “Please. Just tacos, okay?”
Tommy raises one eyebrow. That’s a skill Adam admires since he himself has never perfected it. “You’re kind of a pain, you know that?” Tommy says.
“I’m persistent,” Adam corrects with a big smile. “Come on, it’s just tacos.”
* * *
Adam convinces Tommy to take a ride in his car and they drive to El Cholo downtown, after stowing Tommy’s guitar in the trunk. If nothing else, the place has awesome margaritas. Tommy certainly seems hungry: he easily plows through a gigantic combination plate that Adam pressed him to order.
“My mom always said I have a hollow leg,” Tommy says, muffled through a mouthful of quesadilla.
Adam can’t eat his whole plate. He wishes he could, but he was chubby in high school and it took a lot of work to get into relatively decent shape, so he doesn’t want to backslide. “Want mine? I have to stop, I’m on a diet.”
Tommy looks up, a fork poised. “Why? You look great.” But his eyes are on the Spanish rice and tamales festooning Adam’s plate, so Adam pushes it over. If he can’t enjoy eating it himself, he can enjoy watching Tommy eat it.
“How long have you been playing guitar, Tommy?”
Tommy stops eating for a moment and calculates. “Nine years.”
“I’ve been singing in musicals since I was in middle school. I have - had the greatest voice teacher back in San Diego. She was amazing. She’s the one who convinced me I had a career in music if I worked at it.”
“I never had any lessons,” Tommy says. “My uncle gave me an old guitar and a way cheap amp that he didn’t want any more. He showed me a few chords.”
“Didn’t your parents want you to have lessons?” Adam asks. He can’t imagine if his parents hadn’t stepped up to the plate and changed his life by getting him involved in theater and music back in school. He’d been a lonely little kid acting out before they did that.
Tommy slurps his soda and shakes his head. “Too expensive.”
Adam looks down at his food. He could kick himself for thoughtlessness. Sometimes he forgets how lucky he was, compared to some. He looks up, determinedly shifting the topic. “You want to make a career of music? I sure do. It’s not easy; we’ve been trying for a couple of years before Monte screwed us over.”
“Pittman’s pretty great,” Tommy agrees. He’s still working on what’s left on the plate. He hasn’t slowed down since he started eating. Adam is a little worried he might explode.
“Well, he screwed us good and proper. What a fucker.” Adam exhales wearily. “It’s not like I don’t work in music already, singing in the chorus in some shows, and it pays the rent, not gonna lie, but it’s not the same as doing my own music.”
Tommy is staring at him now. “You sing in a chorus?”
“Yeah, cool, huh? I mean, they pay me to do it. So that’s good. But like I said… anyway that’s my day job, so to speak. I can’t wait till I can quit it and put everything into the band and writing songs.”
“That’s so cool, that you get paid to do music.”
“I’m very lucky,” Adam agrees. “Believe me, I know it. What’s your day job?”
Tommy shrugs.
“Did you go to college?” Adam has to ask, but he thinks he’s never seen a kid who looks less like he’d be interested in college.
“I wasn’t any good at school so my parents took me out and taught me.”
“You live with them?” Adam asks. He can’t help delving further into the mystery of Tommy.
Tommy looks suspicious. “No.”
“Do you work somewhere?” Adam tries again.
Tommy looks like he’s being grilled and he doesn’t like it but isn’t sure how to make it stop. “I help a friend who delivers water softeners and shit like that. He pays me what he can.”
Adam leans back in his chair. It seems wrong. Tommy’s clearly meant to be a musician. He feels like shit that the band didn’t grab him immediately, instead letting him get away. Not that the band is making money or anything, but they sure as fuck have plans to turn this into a paying thing. They’re after an album contract and Adam, for one, is fucking sure he’s going to do everything he has to in order to make it happen. Tommy should be with them. Then he could make sure Tommy’s okay.
Unfortunately, Tommy isn’t getting with Adam’s program. Tommy wants to be left right where he is when they’re done. Adam tries to give him a ride and Tommy insists he’s going to catch a bus. At last Adam convinces him to be dropped off near the Guitar Center. Tommy still doesn’t tell Adam where he lives, or where he’s going the minute Adam drives off.
Idling in a free parking space near the corner of Sunset and North Vista, Adam pops the trunk and looks over at Tommy. “I’d ask for your phone number,” he begins, “but you probably haven’t got a phone still…?”
“No,” Tommy says. “Thanks for everything.”
“How can I see you again?”
“Why?” Tommy sounds mystified.
Adam thinks fast. He’s worried about Tommy now, but Tommy has some pride and it’s not Adam’s business to make Tommy feel like a child. “What if Trevor quits the band? It could happen.”
“He’d be an idiot.” Tommy climbs out of the car.
Adam lurches into action and gets out and meets Tommy at the open trunk. “Tommy, I just - I like you. How about, say, dinner again? Do you like movies?”
Tommy retrieves his guitar bag and slings it over his shoulder. “You mean a date?”
Adam’s eyebrows go up. Apparently, he’s being pretty transparent. “Would that be bad?”
“It’s not a good time for me to do that,” Tommy says. “It’s complicated.”
“I could make it simple. Just friends.”
“It’s too complicated,” Tommy insists. “I can’t.”
* * *
Once he lets Tommy go, Adam drops his ass back into the driver’s seat and puts the car in gear. At the last moment he had shoved a card with his cell phone number into the pocket of Tommy’s jacket: Just in case, he had said firmly. He wonders if Tommy is going to the church shelter again. He wants to follow Tommy at a distance and make sure he’s okay.
But that’s not fair. Tommy’s grown up and doesn’t deserve that. Adam’s father used to tell him sometimes in life, you have to let something go. You can’t force the world to come to you. Adam grimaces. Dad was right. As usual. As annoying as it is to admit that.
On to Chapter 2