begins blending with rain. Fat raindrops mix with the small white dots which become fewer and fewer until only water slides down the glass. Martin waits another second but James does not look at him. “Good night, James.” He shakes his head in defeat as he leaves the guestroom.
Martin’s suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Hallway to the kitchen looks long and feels daunting. And he wants a drink. Correction. Many drinks.
Chapter Four
John sits in his office in front of his laptop reviewing the thirty thousand search returns on ‘James Michael Whren.’ ‘James Michael Logan,’ his mother’s married name, yielded almost a million results, most highlighting his music career, producing and writing credits, and the like. John is looking to find out what’s happened to him recently. Can’t possibly help the man without some understanding of what is going on.
He’d never have guessed James would attempt suicide. People driven by an internal obsession were usually unscathed by the external world. Whatever happened to him must have been powerful enough to rip him from the cocoon he’d built with music, which John wouldn’t have believed possible. Not James.
A piano or a guitar seems to be involved with every memory, from the first time he saw the boy pounding away on the piano on the empty stage at Covent Garden in London. ‘That’s the child prodigy,’ Martin had told him. ‘He’s fourteen.’ Martin was in his mid-twenties then, back in the days when he was hot, and healthy. Thought is so overwhelmingly depressing he pushes it aside and continues his reverie... And the prodigy became a man, and John recalled James on the beach that winter in the Hampton’s, in those worn jeans and that gray sweater, running scales on the guitar at six in the morning. No denying the man’s talent, or beauty. John used to tease Martin for his interest, but there had been times even he’d harbored fantasies.
James had always been Martin’s friend. Really, they were more like colleagues, since James never integrated into their lives like so many of Martin's other work cronies. Mentally compromised, possibly suicidal and clearly ravaged, and Martin still wants him. John doesn’t. He has no desire to be with someone so insular. John wants to be James. Or, at least, have the looks, possess his talent, and have his family money. Martin doesn't look at him the way he looks at James. No one ever looked at John the way most people look at James. John wants to try that on for a day. Wear it awhile. Bask in being the object of lust. Hard to remember feeling desired.
He relaxes back into the chair and rubs his eyes, then focuses on the page of links, seemingly different versions of the same story:
James Whren, Sole Heir to Whren Family Fortune Arrested in Drug Scandal.
John clicks on the link and brings up an article in the London Times Mirror. Picture of James in his late teens conducting the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican. His eyes are closed, his arms up and extended, he’s holding thin white batons in both hands. He looks like he’s making it with God.
John stares at the picture. He doesn't really want to be James. There’s a price with everything. With looks comes fickle lust. With money, especially inherited money comes responsibility. Great talent is only achieved through focused practice, letting most everything else fall away, which is exactly what James had done. If John doesn’t watch it, he’s about to go there with Martin. Surprises him to see himself reflect James, and even more surprising to feel shamed by it. And it suddenly dawns on him why James may not want to be James anymore.
“James Whren, son of Edward Whren, twenty first Earl of Carham, was arrested Tuesday on drug related charges.
Chief Constable Richard Brunstrom of New Scotland Yard made the arrest at Heathrow airport before Mr. Whren boarded a flight back to the United States with
Martin’s suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Hallway to the kitchen looks long and feels daunting. And he wants a drink. Correction. Many drinks.
Chapter Four
John sits in his office in front of his laptop reviewing the thirty thousand search returns on ‘James Michael Whren.’ ‘James Michael Logan,’ his mother’s married name, yielded almost a million results, most highlighting his music career, producing and writing credits, and the like. John is looking to find out what’s happened to him recently. Can’t possibly help the man without some understanding of what is going on.
He’d never have guessed James would attempt suicide. People driven by an internal obsession were usually unscathed by the external world. Whatever happened to him must have been powerful enough to rip him from the cocoon he’d built with music, which John wouldn’t have believed possible. Not James.
A piano or a guitar seems to be involved with every memory, from the first time he saw the boy pounding away on the piano on the empty stage at Covent Garden in London. ‘That’s the child prodigy,’ Martin had told him. ‘He’s fourteen.’ Martin was in his mid-twenties then, back in the days when he was hot, and healthy. Thought is so overwhelmingly depressing he pushes it aside and continues his reverie... And the prodigy became a man, and John recalled James on the beach that winter in the Hampton’s, in those worn jeans and that gray sweater, running scales on the guitar at six in the morning. No denying the man’s talent, or beauty. John used to tease Martin for his interest, but there had been times even he’d harbored fantasies.
James had always been Martin’s friend. Really, they were more like colleagues, since James never integrated into their lives like so many of Martin's other work cronies. Mentally compromised, possibly suicidal and clearly ravaged, and Martin still wants him. John doesn’t. He has no desire to be with someone so insular. John wants to be James. Or, at least, have the looks, possess his talent, and have his family money. Martin doesn't look at him the way he looks at James. No one ever looked at John the way most people look at James. John wants to try that on for a day. Wear it awhile. Bask in being the object of lust. Hard to remember feeling desired.
He relaxes back into the chair and rubs his eyes, then focuses on the page of links, seemingly different versions of the same story:
James Whren, Sole Heir to Whren Family Fortune Arrested in Drug Scandal.
John clicks on the link and brings up an article in the London Times Mirror. Picture of James in his late teens conducting the London Symphony Orchestra at the Barbican. His eyes are closed, his arms up and extended, he’s holding thin white batons in both hands. He looks like he’s making it with God.
John stares at the picture. He doesn't really want to be James. There’s a price with everything. With looks comes fickle lust. With money, especially inherited money comes responsibility. Great talent is only achieved through focused practice, letting most everything else fall away, which is exactly what James had done. If John doesn’t watch it, he’s about to go there with Martin. Surprises him to see himself reflect James, and even more surprising to feel shamed by it. And it suddenly dawns on him why James may not want to be James anymore.
“James Whren, son of Edward Whren, twenty first Earl of Carham, was arrested Tuesday on drug related charges.
Chief Constable Richard Brunstrom of New Scotland Yard made the arrest at Heathrow airport before Mr. Whren boarded a flight back to the United States with
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