Changing Lanes - 1. Wedding Bells

“This is totally nuts, we can’t do it that way... it’s... it’s... abnormal, that’s what it is, and fucking perverted!” Eric grumped as he paced back and forth in the living room of Helen’s imposing Bel Air home, flicking his coiled-up shirt at the crystals of a low-hanging chandelier precisely because he knew that it drove Helen crazy.

Helen chewed on her lip as the tan, shirtless bassist took another flick at the dangling crystals, making a few of them tinkle. Giving him her best evil glare, she snarled, “Leave my chandelier alone! Just because you’re pissed at Brandon and Chase does not mean you get to take it out on me or my furnishings!”

Eric paused, and turned to face Helen, smiling the most innocent of smiles, which belied the mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. “Aww, come on, mom, I’m not hurting it. Besides, it’s knocking all the dust layers off so you can actually see the glass.”

Helen hauled herself to her feet. She still moved a little more slowly than she used to; she’d recovered from the gunshot wound to her gut but it slowed her down. However, what she’d lost in physical adroitness she more than made up for with her acerbic tongue. “Eric, honey,” she said in her sweetest voice, one Eric had grown to fear. “I assure you that my fixtures are not caked in dirt, and thus are not in need of your assistance,” Helen’s voice changed, rising in volume as she took a menacing step in Eric’s direction, “So leave my fucking chandelier alone. I swear, about the only time I ever see you wear a shirt is when you come over here, and it takes you about thirty seconds to whip it off and start molesting my furniture with it. Don’t bother denying it; I know you do it to bug me. However, be forewarned, two can play at that game and I’m much better at it than you are. And another thing, you're lucky I'm not really your mother, or I’d have done the sensible thing and drowned you at birth!”

Knowing – at least sometimes, and this was one such time – when to quit, Eric smiled and tucked his shirt into the back pocket of his jeans, resisting the urge to give the chandelier one last flick. Tossing his sun-streaked brown hair back with a snap of his neck, Eric grinned and then gave Helen a wink.

Satisfied, Helen nodded once and said, “Okay now, back to the issue at hand. You’re just going to have to accept Brandon and Chase’s decision. It’s their wedding so they get to do it their way.”

Letting out a disgruntled snort, Eric returned to his pacing. “It’s sick, that’s what it is. Who ever heard of a stag party with your fiancé in attendance? I had everything booked up; two adjoining conference rooms at the hotel, catering for separate parties, everything. Jon was going to run Brandon’s and I was going to run Chase’s, then halfway through the night we’d switch. It was going to be wild; I was going to book a troop of male strippers and everything. I had all sorts of stuff planned,” Eric wisely refrained from mentioning some of his other plans.

“I am quite sure you did, and I’ll bet that’s part of why Brandon and Chase decided to combine their stag parties; safety in numbers against your pranks,” Helen said.

With a shrug, Eric replied, “That just makes it a little harder, but it’s tradition, Helen. Stag parties have to be wild.”

Arching an eyebrow in Eric’s direction, Helen said, “Your newfound love of tradition strikes me as overly convenient. Just keep it halfway sane, okay? I also want you to keep in mind that you still aren’t old enough to legally drink, and neither are Brandon and Chase. Just keep it discrete, and no tequila!”

“Would I ever go too far?” Eric asked, thinking fond thoughts about his favorite liquor and giving Helen his most disarming smile, which she didn’t buy for an instant.

“You, go too far? Perish the thought,” Helen said in a sarcastic tone, thinking of the countless times Eric had done precisely that. Managing a rock group like Instinct often entailed dealing with wild musicians like Eric, but Helen had grown to think of the four members as family. They – the three Carlisle brothers and Brandon – were, in a very real sense, her boys. Their reaction when she’d been shot had left her with no doubts that they felt the same way, but like any good mother, Helen still had to lay down the law every once in a while. Now was one such time, and after taking a deep breath, she said, “Eric, you, your brothers, and Brandon are in a very precarious position. Right now, you are all still basking in the glow of being national heroes, but even saving two cities won’t protect you forever. The press and public opinion are always fickle, and the goodwill you have had may prove fleeting. Brandon and Chase came out on national TV. So far, so good, and the public has accepted them, for now. However, any wild debauchery that results in bad press and that can change in a heartbeat. For the sake of the group, plus your own public images, you need to keep things halfway sane.”

Eric’s blue eyes flared for a moment as he felt the weight of Helen’s words and the unwelcome duty that they imposed. He knew she was right, but that didn’t make the restrictions any less onerous. With a touch of exasperation in his voice, he asked, “When is it ever going to be okay for us to be us? When can we stop worrying about public opinion any time we do anything?”

Giving Eric a wry but understanding smile, Helen gave him the answer he’d known all along. “When your careers are over, hon. Right now, you’re one of the hottest groups in the business. Like any business, you have to protect your brand; maintain your name. Wild behavior isn’t exactly unexpected from rock stars, but the gay issue complicates things. Your careers might last five years, or it might end tomorrow, but for now you need to treat it like what it is: business.”

The fact that he knew Helen was right was not about to stop Eric from contesting the issue. Looking down at the ground with a pout on his handsome face, Eric brushed his washboard abs once with the back of his hand before saying softly, “In five years, I’ll be almost twenty-five. That’s way too old to do... well, anything.”

Eric’s downward gaze did not prevent Helen from seeing the mischievous twinkle that had returned to his eyes. She was nearly twice the age that Eric had just despaired of being, and she had no doubt whatsoever that he had, in his roundabout way, just called her old. Picking up a chunk of Moreno glass from her coffee table, Helen hefted it for weight before saying, “In spite of what you might think, even at my age I can still throw things quite well, thank you. Shall I demonstrate?”

Breaking into a laugh, Eric backpedaled a few paces before turning to run for the door. “Okay, mom, you win, I’ll try and keep the party ‘halfway sane’,” Eric called back, though his definition was not at all the same as Helen’s.

Eric ran through the house, his tennis shoes squeaking on the granite floors, seeking his eldest brother. It didn’t take him long before reaching the kitchen, where his quarry was raiding the refrigerator.

Jon looked up from the banana and pepperoni sandwich he was building to ask, “So, did you convince Helen, or what?”

Snagging a piece of pepperoni off Jon’s plate, Eric tossed it into the air and opened his mouth to catch it. After a successful intercept, and while still chewing, he said with a shrug of his shoulders, “Nah, she thinks a combined stag party is just fine. She also warned us to keep it ‘halfway sane’,” as he waved finger quotes in the air.

Sharing a conspiratorial nod with his brother, Jon said, “We don’t want to stress her out. So, what she doesn’t know –”

“Won’t hurt us,” Eric finished his brother’s sentence with a grin.

“What’ve you got planned for entertainment?” Jon asked, arching an eyebrow in Eric’s direction.

Eric leaned back on the counter. “Strippers for sure, plus I’ve got some other stuff in mind, like a roast... You’ve seen those celebrity roast programs, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Jon asked, “Let me get this straight; you plan on subjecting Brandon and Chase, two days before their wedding, to public humiliation?” Eric simply smiled and nodded. Jon gave his brother an appraising look, and then an approving nod. “I like it. Okay, now, what about these strippers. What kind?”

Knowing full well what his brother was asking, Eric pretended to be oblivious as he replied, “I figure I’ll get some real pros; dance routines and everything.”

Rolling his eyes, Jon asked in exasperation, “You know what I mean; male, female, or some of each?”

Eric snickered, and ducked an aimed slice of pepperoni as he replied, “Bro, come on, this is for Brandon and Chase; we can’t have female strippers at their stag party. That would be like having male strippers at yours. Come on, I like the ladies as much as you do, but for this party, it’s gotta be a stag party, all the way.”

Jon’s disgruntled snort made Eric laugh. He’d expected no less, but he knew that Jon was exaggerating, at least a little. Changing the subject slightly, Eric smirked. “I had to promise Helen; no alcohol for anyone under the drinking age.”

Knowing his brother too well to think for a second that he was on the level, Jon paused to think. Breaking into a grin as he realized what Eric must be thinking, Jon asked the obvious question, “Where will the stag party be and how do we get them there?”

Eric lowered his voice to a whisper. “Jim’s in on it. He’s in charge of security and travel arrangements, so this is right up his alley, and he likes the idea. I’m still looking for a stag party location, but it has to be somewhere kind of on the way to Isla De La Palma.”

The site for Brandon and Chase’s wedding had not been an easy thing to find. Chase had wanted to get married on a tropical beach, but finding somewhere suitable in the tropics that allowed gay marriage had seemed impossible. Spain’s Canary Islands had been one option that Eric had found. They aren’t tropical; located just north of the Tropic of Cancer off the west coast of Africa, they are mainly semi-arid, though Isla De La Palma, which means ‘Isle of Palms’, has the lushest vegetation of any island in the chain. The climate in the Canaries is warm and sunny, making those islands a favorite destination for European tourists.

Hearing the name of the island prodded Jon to ask a question he’d been pondering for some time, “When exactly are you going to tell Brandon and Chase where they are getting married? They still think they are getting hitched in Massachusetts.”

Eric gave Jon a mischievous grin before replying, “Hey, Helen doesn’t know either; you and Jim are the only ones who know. I figure we can tell ‘em eventually, maybe en-route. Chase said he wanted to get married on a tropical beach, right? Brandon liked that idea too, but they couldn’t find anywhere. So, I did some research and found ‘em a place.”

Jon almost choked on his sandwich. Giving Eric an incredulous look, Jon said, “Yeah, right, you were watching the history channel and saw the island on a Megadisasters episode. Half the island might fall into the sea and cause a huge tidal wave, so you thought it was a perfect spot for Brandon and Chase to get married.” Jon rolled his eyes toward the ceiling before taking another sloppy bite of his sandwich.

Eric chuckled. “Nah, I saw that it is owned by Spain, and I remembered that Spain has gay marriage. So I checked, and it’s legal there. Isla De La Palma looks like the least touristy of the islands so I figured it would be perfect.”

“There’s still the matter of half of it falling into the sea,” Jon remarked dryly, though he was grinning.

“Only if the volcano erupts, and they say it isn’t,” Eric answered with a snicker, wondering how Brandon and Chase would react when they learned of the reason for the island’s notoriety. Eric had done a few second’s worth of research, more than sufficient to reveal that the postulated Megadisaster was in reality Megahype and not a real threat at all. Like so many other threats populating the airwaves, it was based on bad science and sensationalism. However, he had no intention of sharing that detail with anyone. It was, he’d decided, much more fun that way.

* * *

A few miles away, in the hotel next to the Wilshire Boulevard recording studios, Brandon snuggled up next to Chase, enjoying the lazy afternoon. Brandon absently traced his fingers over Chase’s tiger’s eye necklace, and his eyes fell on the tiny hairline scar on Chase’s neck. It had faded in the three months that had passed since its creation, so much so that it was barely visible, but Brandon’s eyes were drawn to it and he shuddered.

Chase felt his fiancé’s movement, and seeing the glance at his neck, guessed at its cause. Pulling Brandon into a hug, Chase said in a soft voice, “Brand, that was a bad day, we nearly lost each other, but it’s over now. We’re lucky to be alive. Helen nearly died, Jon got shot, and you jumped off a fucking cliff. But we’re still here and you killed the guy who did it. Don’t stress on the past; you can’t change it.”

Brandon let his fingers wander down to Chase’s bare, tan chest. “I know you’re right. I just keep thinking of how close we came. Five cops died, Günter died, our pilot and road boss died, and tens of thousands of people in Australia died or are dying from the bomb. We all came so close to dying... first on the plane, then that day in Telluride. I still have nightmares. Now, it’s like everything has changed. We’re out, and so far so good on that, not too much trouble, but Helen’s right; the public can be fickle. Our new album has to be a hit, otherwise it’ll be seen as the end of Instinct because we came out, whether that’s the real reason or not.”

Running his fingers through Brandon’s hair, Chase smiled faintly. Brandon hadn’t talked much about that day, and now that he was, Chase knew that he was finally ready to put it behind him. It would take time, but time was something they had, or so he hoped. “Brand, I know, I get nightmares sometimes too. But you know what? That day made me realize that you never know what’s around the corner, and we should make every minute count. That’s why I proposed to you.”

Remembering the proposal, Brandon grinned. “Yeah, you surprised me with that, in a good way. I think I was mostly stunned by the way you asked me.”

Chuckling at the memory, Chase replied, “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly what I had planned. Speaking of which, you’ve got Eric all wound up to find out. He’s been asking me constantly.”

“The suspense will do him good,” Brandon replied with a laugh of his own, glad to have the upper hand on Eric for once. Brandon’s mood darkened a little, as his concerns once again made their way to the forefront of his mind. “Jon and Eric have been great about all this. We’re risking their careers too.”

The tension was palpable, but Chase knew Brandon’s moods. He also knew how to change them. Easing his hand down towards his boyfriend’s crotch, Chase whispered, “‘Changing Lanes’ will be a hit, I’m sure of it. We’re writing some great songs, and the work-ups have been the best we’ve ever done. Besides, we’ve got a lot of money saved up; we made a mint from the ‘Changing of the Guard’ tour and from the encore tour that Helen arranged from her hospital bed. So if worst comes to worst, we’re still set for life. Most people would kill for that, so quit stressing. If you’re going to get all worked up, I can thinks of better uses for your energy...” Chase’s voice trailed off as his hand took over the job of communication.

Brandon quivered from the sensation. “I think you’re right,” he mumbled as the intimate touch became even more.

*  * *

Jim had his own wedding to plan. His friendship with Brandon had led to his current job as Instinct’s de-facto chief of security. Originally, he and a few of his biker friends had been hired for the very unofficial role of keeping the paparazzi at bay. That job, upon the death of the prior security chief, had placed Jim in a role where he felt decidedly uncomfortable. A biker through and through, he disliked the corporate world, and management was not his forte. He felt honored by the offer of a permanent role as head of security, but at the same time, he was apprehensive. By the time he’d finished his fourth tumbler of whiskey, his choice was clear; he’d go back to being in charge of Instinct’s unofficial protectors, and leave the job of security chief to someone more qualified. With that decision made, he’d struggled to type out an e-mail note to Helen with two fingers – his typing skill was abysmal at best, and the whiskey hadn’t helped – and his mind returned to the more pressing question; his own wedding. He had a perfect place in mind, if only he could convince his fiancée Linda to forgo a more conventional setting.

* * *

In rural Idaho, under a few scudding clouds, a man by the name of James Tate Carlshitski tended his roses, a uniform row of Lavaglut, named after their deep crimson glow, which some thought reminiscent of fiery lava. Every so often he paused to stare out at his empty, windswept land.

A businessman both by nature and profession, he’d made his money in the recording industry: CD production. Together with a partner in the shipping business, he’d done well, well enough to allow himself an early semi-retirement to the family farm he’d grown up on, and then inherited twenty years before. He still kept a hand in the business, but he found it unfulfilling these days, a condition that, had he been honest with himself – which he scrupulously avoided – he’d have traced to the loss of his sons.

“JT, you supper’s getting cold,” his wife, Jane, called out from the front porch. JT, as he preferred to be called, set down his old gardening trowel, hitched up his trousers, and walked towards the house, seeing that Jane had already gone inside. He let out a sigh; things had not been the same between them for years. He knew that somewhere deep inside she blamed him for her now-empty life. He’d hoped that with time she’d accept the fact they were gone, but her heart had grown cold to him and now they just went through the motions of married life, sustained by force of habit more than anything else. They hardly spoke these days, he mussed, wondering if she’d said more than a hundred words to him all week.

The crisp snap and crunch of tires on gravel jarred him from his maudlin reverie, and he glanced back at his driveway, to see the unwelcome return of the unmarked black sedan.

JT watched with a little trepidation as the sedan wheeled to a halt a dozen yards away. A tall man in a business suit stepped out, and the first thing JT noticed was that the suit was a bad fit on the man, both physically and, he had a feeling, by temperament. From his own years in the Army, JT recognized the look of a man unused to civilian clothes. Sizing up the man as he approached, JT couldn’t decide whether he was looking at an officer, or a senior enlisted. A glance at the man’s ramrod posture made JT think of a drill sergeant he’d once known and loathed, and the cut of the visitor’s jaw seemed to confirm it.

Assuming he was in for yet another round of questioning regarding his former business partner, JT said with a growl as the man approached, “Can’t you people call ahead, or at least come at a decent hour so you aren’t interrupting my damn supper?”

Choosing to ignore the hostile reception, the visitor came to a halt at arm’s length, and with a friendly smile said, “I’m Walter Bradson, U.S. Air Force. We spoke on the phone a few times but we’ve never met. I’m not here to question you again; that case is pretty well closed.”

“I remember you, General,” JT replied, his demeanor not having improved, “So to what do I owe the dubious distinction of this visit?”

Sizing the man up and finding him wanting, General Bradson kept to a professional air. With his friendly smile painted on his lips, he replied, “I’ve come to give you some information. A few things turned up during my review of your interview notes. I believe you’ve been lied to. There are some things you need to know. What I’d like to do is come inside and talk to you and your wife, speak my peace, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

JT’s eyes narrowed; he was unsure, and that uncertainty made him defensive. Before, the government agents had not asked, they’d ordered. Skirting the issue and looking for the upper hand, JT asked, “Is this official business?”

General Bradson had expected that question, and also the attitude with which he’d been received. For that reason, he’d been careful to omit the word ‘retired’ from his introduction, and had pulled a few strings to borrow a black sedan that, though unmarked, fairly screamed ‘government’ to all who saw it. He needed the appearance of power, a power he no longer had, but he was well aware that appearances can, and often do, trump reality.

Bending the truth a little, he replied, “Yes sir, in a way it is. I need to speak with you and your wife. It won’t take long, but it is imperative that I do so.”

Standing his ground, JT met the Generals eyes and said, in a tone even less pleasant than before, “Why involve Jane in this? Speak your peace then be on your way. Our dinner’s goin’ cold.”

The General fixed JT in a glare that belied his easy, fake smile. “I’ll be talking to both of you. She needs to hear this too.”

JT’s demeanor changed. Where before he had felt unease, now he felt threatened, at risk from things he preferred not to dwell upon, things he preferred to leave buried, safe from the pain they could cause. He tried to read the expression the General wore, which was somewhere between neutral and accusing. He’d thought he had the situation in hand until that moment, but now he saw it spiraling out of control, and JT was a person who needed to be in control. As he struggled to think of a reply, the drumming of his heart became almost painful in its intensity. The words he sought would not come, and General Bradson settled the issue by striding purposefully towards the large grey clapboard house. Defeated, as much by his inner deeply buried fears as by the General, JT followed wordlessly towards his own front door.

* * *

Eric fiddled with the ornate globe, cut out of various stones and inlaid with black pearl, which stood on a pedestal in Helen’s study. Jon wolfed down the last of his sandwich and walked over to gaze over Eric’s shoulder at the twirling globe. Eric reached out with his finger to halt the spinning sphere, and twisted it so that the Western Hemisphere was in view. In spite of being mainly decorative, the globe was good enough for Eric’s purposes.

Jabbing a finger at Cancun, Eric said in a low voice, “I figure we could have the party here, or maybe in Bermuda. They’re both kind of on the way to the Canary Islands.” Eric paused for a few seconds, and then spun to face his brother. “Hey, what’s the drinking age in the Canaries? Why don’t we just have the party there? Brandon and Chase think we’re having it in Massachusetts, so we load them onto the plane, let them think we’re going to Massachusetts, and then fly ‘em to the Canary Islands.”

“What about Helen,” Jon asked, regretting to have to be the one to shoot down Eric’s plan. “If you try and keep her away from the wedding, she’s going to kill you slowly, you know that right?”

Eric crossed his arms and returned his gaze to the globe. A few seconds later he flashed Jon a grin. “Bro, we’re missing the obvious here. Helen is going away the week before the wedding. Her and Barbra have a romantic getaway planned up in the Poconos. So, we shanghai Brandon and Chase while she’s away. She can easily get there in time for the wedding, but not the stag party. Besides, we can’t have her at the party no matter where we have it; she’d be a wet blanket, and having somebody who’s virtually our mom at a stag party would be so wrong. You know she’d want to be there, so this way it solves all our problems.”

“Except Helen killing you when she finds out,” Jon observed dryly.

With a shrug, Eric chuckled by way of reply, giving the ornate globe another look. “Trust me, this will be good. The wedding is supposed to be private anyway, but you know damn well the paparazzi will try to crash it if they know where it is. I’ll phone the air charter company and make the arrangements for the flight, then I’ll start trying to find a place for the party on the island.”

Jon nodded in agreement. “You should probably make the wedding arrangements first, they might be harder,” Jon said as an afterthought.

With the party foremost on his mind, Eric spared Jon’s question a shrug. “I don’t think that will be hard. All we need to do is hire a preacher and haul everyone down to a beach.” With that triviality addressed, Eric returned to his real interest, planning the party. “Any idea how I can find male strippers on the island?” he asked.

“Check the Internet,” Jon said, giving the obvious answer.

Eric rolled his eyes. “I already tried that. All I found are a few clubs that have lady’s night. We need some real pros, not some amateurs.”

Still not entirely pleased with the subject – to Jon, a stripper would always be female – Jon gave it a few moment’s thought. “Find a good act here, then fly ‘em out separately.”

Eric gave Jon a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, that could work. We can make sure they’re good, then book ‘em for the gig.”

Jon raised a hand, turning his palm towards Eric as he said, “Whoa, bro. No ‘we’ for this. I’ll help with anything else, but you get to do any auditioning.”

Laughing at Jon, Eric nodded and smiled, wondering how to best go about finding the right performers.

* * *

In her study, Helen sat in her plush desk chair, her eyes closed and her body totally relaxed, except for her thumb which was holding the intercom switch. She allowed herself a smile; she’d thought that Eric had caved in far too easily, and had assumed that he was up to something. He usually was, so that took no leap of intuition, but Helen congratulated herself for correctly guessing that Eric had an overseas location in mind. She was also very pleased with the reference to her as ‘mother’.

The decision turned out to be an easy one to make; better to let Eric think he was pulling the wool over her eyes. So far, she found his plans acceptable in the main, though they contained some gaping holes. Keeping the press away should, she hoped, help insulate the group from any bad fallout. She didn’t begrudge her boys some fun, and this way she hoped she could keep an eye on things.