Not With Those Teeth, Mate (Maylor/Froger/Deacury)

Chapter 9

The sun had just started to rise by the time John Reid called it a wrap with Roger and the girls. The backup singers were visibly exhausted as they trudged out of the deserted record label—soon to be filled again with a hundred busy bodies trying to make hopeful musicians dreams come true. Lingering behind were the manager and his stepson, the latter just as drained as the girls but denied the fatigue as his stepfather pressed the lift's ground floor button and used the isolation as an opportunity to address what had happened earlier that evening.

"I still don't understand how on earth you got roped into helping Miami with his sweep," John muttered under his breath, earning a nervous side-eye glance from the boy beside him. "I mean, for the love of god, I know the man will do everything he can to get under my skin, but he crossed a line tonight."

"He didn't give us a choice, Dad," Roger explained, heaving a sigh and crossing his arms uncomfortably—the confined space doing him no favors. "He said it was required that we all show up."

"And what would've happened if you didn't?" the manager snapped, shooting a darted look in the blonde's direction. "He'd take away your studio time? Wouldn't let you audition for that dumb band's bloody opening act?"

Roger turned his head to the side, attempting to mask the rouge that crept up in his cheeks—ashamed that those hypothetical consequences played a large role in his willingness to follow Miami's instructions. Sure, he had only been made aware of the touring opportunity that day, but he'd had hours to sit with the idea, and the more he thought about it, the more he considered it as an actual possibility. After all, if he was away on tour, the label couldn't expect him to produce an album—an album he had yet to complete. He figured that some time off, away from his controlling stepfather and the pressures placed on him by the studio, would do him some good, maybe even inspire him to finish the project his manager was losing hair over.

Reid scoffed, shaking his head. "I'd like to see him try to keep you out of the studio. Over my dead body, he will."

"What about auditions?" the blonde blurted out, his eyes flickering to meet his stepfather's.

"What about them?" he asked, brows knitted together in confusion.

Roger bit his lip, the temperature in the lift rising as the four walls closed in on him. Perhaps it was a delirious episode spurred by exhaustion, or the urgency brought about by the descending numbers above the button panel, but he felt compelled to wonder, "Have you ever wanted to try something new, but were too afraid of what others might think?"

John rested his hands on his hips, eyes wandering around the box he and his stepson found themselves in and toe tapping against the floor, trying to decipher what Roger meant by his ambiguous question. "Are you talking about changing your sound? Because you don't need to do that. You barely have a sound as it is."

"No, Dad, that's not..." The blonde's voice trailed off as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He didn't know how to put into words what he wanted to say—words that would allow him to convey his developed interests to his stepfather without getting berated for even thinking about anything other than his album. "I'm just saying, what if there was something else that I wanted to do?"

The manager laughed. "Roger, you don't have the luxury of doing something else right now. In two weeks, we have executives coming in to hear your album, and you haven't finished a single song. Do you understand how important this is for you? Your entire career depends on this album!"

"I know it does," Roger murmured, hanging his head and locking his gaze on his feet.

"Well, maybe you should start acting like it," the manager suggested harshly, the lift coming to a stop and the doors sliding apart. Reid adjusted his suit jacket and stepped out, Roger trudging after him but staying three steps behind. They kept the distance between them the entire ride home, walking through the doors to be greeted by Elton—his first kiss to John met with ignorant dismissal, the manager slipping past his husband and heading upstairs without saying a word, and the second to Roger met with a subtle, appreciative grin.

Elton ruffled the blonde's hair. "Late night?"

"Yeah," the drummer answered, unable to hide the dejection in his voice as he peeled away from the stepparent who was the least related to him but cared about him the most. He wandered into the kitchen and ripped open the refrigerator, sifting through the shelves in search of a late-night drink. Elton trailed in after him, sitting down at the island and watching as Roger plucked a bottle of vodka out from the icebox and turned around, announcing dismally, "But I'm nowhere near finishing my album."

"You'll get it done, Rog," the singer assured him.

"What if I don't want to?" Roger muttered, joining his stepfather at the counter and twisting the cap off the bottle. "I mean, I do want to finish it, but...I can't do it like this, not with him breathing down my neck every second of every day." He waved a lazy hand in the direction of the stairs, the gesture indicating that it was John he was talking about, before taking a swig of the clear, inebriating liquid.

Elton placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and gave him a slight shake. "Everything will work itself out, darling. I know it will."