The Lost Boy Read online

  The Lost Boy

  by Anna Martin

  Sequel to The Impossible Boy

  www.annamartin-fiction.com

  © 2020 Anna Martin

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  First edition January 2020

  Cover art by Garrett Leigh www.blackjazzdesign.com

  Characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any person depicted on the cover of this book is a model and is not affiliated with, nor do they endorse, this story.

  For Andy and Alice. My A Team.

  Five years later.

  Chapter One

  Stan stepped out of the car and immediately pushed his sunglasses back down on his nose, protecting his eyes from LA’s harsh sunshine. The driver scrambled around to collect Stan’s small rolling suitcase from the trunk, and Stan murmured his thanks as he tapped his phone, adding a tip to the driver’s fare.

  While he waited, he twisted his long, thick blond hair into a knot at the back of his neck and secured it with a band that he usually kept around his wrist. Los Angeles was definitely hotter than New York. Stan had anticipated this, and dressed casually for the flight in loose pants, a thin tank top, and flip-flops. But even his light clothes felt like too much here.

  The house had imposing iron gates over the drive, and Stan walked up to them, wondering if he’d have to figure out how to get inside or if someone would come to collect him. His thoughts were answered as he spotted a familiar figure loping toward him.

  Stan shook his arms to release the tension in them and took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. The gates opened automatically when Tone got closer, and Stan grabbed the handle of his case and dragged it over the threshold.

  “Am I fucking glad you’re here,” Tone said, pulling Stan into a rough hug. Stan went with it, allowing himself to be held and wrapped in the familiar. Tone was just like Stan remembered him—big and gentle, scruffy hair, scruffy beard, and the kindest eyes Stan had ever met.

  “How’s he doing?” Stan asked as he stepped away.

  Tone shrugged. “The same, mostly.”

  Stan didn’t say anything else, just followed Tone up to the beautiful big white house.

  Inside, the air was blessedly cool, and Stan felt the AC like a kiss on his skin. He’d seen this house in a magazine article about the band. The entrance hall was decorated in black-and-white tiles, and a huge sweeping staircase dominated the room. It had made a fun juxtaposition on the cover of Rolling Stone—the grotty, grungy band in the elegant, opulent surroundings of Beverly Hills.

  “How about the others?” Stan asked.

  “They’re all out in the recording studio. They’re pissed at him,” Tone added.

  Well, that wasn’t anything new. “Okay. Where is he?”

  “In his room. Go to the top of the stairs and turn right, then go all the way along the corridor. It’s the last door at the end. You can’t miss it.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  Tone shook his head gently. “I think it’s probably better if you go on your own.”

  It hit Stan then, the betrayal. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Tone rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit, Stan. He never would have agreed to it.”

  “Neither would I,” Stan muttered.

  “Go on. You’re here now, you might as well.”

  “This is entrapment,” Stan said, but put down his suitcase, kicked off his flip-flops, and left it all in the hallway before heading up the stairs.

  The house was big and shiny new, built in the style of older Hollywood mansions but with little tells that spoke of modern construction. It was beautiful, and Stan hated it.

  The carpet under his feet was thick and muffled his footfalls as he made his way along the long corridor. Artwork on the walls caught his eye, but he didn’t stop to admire it.

  He didn’t bother knocking when he got to Ben’s room, just pushed the door open and let himself in. Inside, the room was dim and musty, smelling of cigarettes and weed and unwashed man. Ben was huddled in the middle of a huge bed, the white sheets beneath him stained. Shivering and sweating at the same time, he wore just a pair of loose black boxer-briefs that had probably fit him well, once. He was skinny, but that word didn’t really work because he had always been slim.

  Emaciated.

  That worked better.

  Stan sighed and went over to the bed. He sat down next to Ben, who barely registered his presence, and smoothed his hand over Ben’s dirty hair.

  “Oh, darling. What have they done to you?”

  Ben turned his face away and sobbed.

  An hour or so later, Stan went back downstairs and found his way to the kitchen, following the sound of voices. Conversation stopped when he walked in, and he felt like a bug under a microscope until Summer rushed over and hugged him close.

  “Oh fucking hell, I’ve missed you,” she said.

  Stan hugged her back.

  “We just ordered food.” Geordie gave Stan an apologetic look. “I forgot about the time difference. You’re probably starving.” Then he winced at his choice of words.

  “I ate on the plane,” Stan said. “But dinner would be good.”

  The group looked much the same as they always had… almost. Tone had changed the least, which didn’t surprise Stan at all. He was the sort of man who would probably never change. Fame and fortune hadn’t affected him much either.

  Summer was slimmer than she’d ever been, her ribs hard lines under Stan’s hands, her hair a washed-out version of her formerly vibrant pink, the dark roots starting to show underneath. He wondered if she was doing okay. Geordie and Jez looked… they looked tired. Worn out. Dealing with Ben had probably left them that way.

  They were under a huge amount of pressure, after all.

  “Come on, sit down,” Summer said, taking Stan’s hand and leading him to the big island in the middle of the kitchen, where several tall barstools were pushed close to the counter.

  “Drink?” Jez offered. Several empty beer bottles were already lined up next to the sink.

  “Water would be good.”

  “We’ve got the fancy fizzy stuff,” he said, walking over to the fridge. Stan took a moment to look at him. Jez had ditched his preppy style since the band had made it, and these days he was wearing his dark hair longer so it curled around his ears. It suited him, though Stan was still a little surprised to see him wandering around in cut-off sweatpants and a tank. He looked more like a California surfer than a British schoolboy.

  The thought made Stan smile. Jez came back and held out the bottle.

  “Thanks,” Stan said, accepting the water and twisting off the cap. It hissed at him angrily.

  He couldn’t escape the hard look Tone was sending his way. Stan nodded at him.

  “What are we going to do?” Tone asked.

  Stan thought for a long moment. In reality, there were a lot of answers to that question—Stan had spoken to Tone at some length before agreeing to come to LA. Ben had been in and out of rehab twice already, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go back. That would have an impact on the band, though, and Stan couldn’t help but consider them too. They could make an announcement that he was leaving and could attempt to release the next album as a four-piece. Rumours had been swirling for long enough that there was trouble within Ares, stoked by the recent row that had erupted at an awards show. Ares had performed, and then Ben and Summer had been caught going their separate ways after a screaming argument that was caught by several phone cameras backstage. TMZ had reworked that article and kept the story hot for weeks.

  “We’re going back to London,” Stan said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was the right thing. For Ben. For himself. And for anyone else who wanted to come with them. “To Camden.”

  Stan wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting. Jez looked furious. Geordie looked resigned. Summer… Summer looked like she was about to cry.

  “I’m coming with you,” Tone said immediately. “When are we leaving?”

  Stan glanced at the clock. “Tonight. I’ll see when the next flights are.”

  “Stan, we’re in the middle of recording a fucking album,” Jez snapped, his anger bubbling to the surface. Geordie put a hand on his arm.

  “Jez.”

  “No,” Jez said, shoving Geordie away. “Just because Ben can’t get his shit together does not mean we’re going to flush what we’ve achieved down the fucking drain. He owes us.”

  “He can record in London,” Stan said calmly. “Well, not right now, he can’t. He can barely stand. I don’t even want to think about the sort of comedown he’s going through, but it doesn’t look pretty. Look, we might be able to get him to a place where he can finish recording if we get him home. He can’t stay here, Jez. It’s killing him.”

  His words hung heavy in the air, too true for comfort.

  “I’m coming with you,” Tone said again. “You won’t be able to move him on your own. I can help.”

  “Okay,” Stan said, nodding.

  “We have work to do,” Summer said. Tears streaked down her cheeks, milky black mascara leaving trails. “But we can maybe come back to visit when we’re a bit closer to being done.”

  “There you go. There’s the plan.”

  “What are you going to do with him when you get there?” Jez asked, looking slightly more resigned to the idea.

  Stan shook his head and gripped his water bottle tighter. “One step at a time. I’ll work that out next.”

  Tone booked the last flight out of LA that night, leaving just before midnight. They hustled Ben into clothes and packed a handful of essentials—laptop, phone, chargers, guitar, a change of clothes—leaving toiletries and mostly everything else behind. Stan thought a clean start back home would be good for him. It certainly couldn’t make anything worse.

  The plane was quiet, save for the roaring of the engines, and Ben promptly curled up in his first class seat and went back to sleep. He’d barely spoken to anyone in weeks, according to Tone, and didn’t seem to want to change that habit. Stan wrapped himself in a huge knitted cardigan—the plane was cold—and tucked his feet up underneath himself as he turned to talk to Tone.

  “There’s a lot I don’t know yet.”

  Tone nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry we lost touch.”

  “Don’t be,” Stan said. “Life happened. I understand.”

  “I’m still sorry.”

  Stan smiled softly and set it aside. “I need to know what’s been going on. I get that I’m a last resort here, and I’m okay with that. But if I have any chance of helping him, you have to tell me some stuff.”

  Tone sighed heavily, checked his beer, and finding it empty, called for the flight attendant.

  “It didn’t happen overnight,” he said. “It must be hard for you to suddenly see him like this, but it wasn’t like one day he was the guy you used to know and the next day he’s….”

  They both glanced over to check Ben was okay. He’d curled up, his back to them, but seemed to be breathing steadily.

  “He’s a fucking mess,” Stan said candidly.

  “Yeah. I had a feeling, you know. Way back when. Ben never handled all of the shit that came with being a musician as well as the others. Summer and Jez revel in it, Geordie tolerates it, but Ben didn’t know how to deal with the fans and the scrutiny.”

  Stan nodded. He’d seen a lot of that for himself.

  “We’ve been trying to help him for so long.” Tone sighed. “It would seem like he was getting better, he had a handle on things. Then he’d just snap and we’d lose him. He’s been in therapy constantly, in and out of rehab, but no one can get through to him. He disappears for days at a time, sometimes more than a week—”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I wish I wasn’t,” Tone said, expression grim. “One time he just took off, and we eventually found out he was in fucking Miami. All that time we had no idea where he was, if he was okay, who he was with. Our manager had to send someone down there to pick him up.”

  “Shit,” Stan murmured.

  “I found him before the fucking press did, this last time. A few days ago. He’s been pretty much silent since I got him back to the house.”

  “How are you keeping all of this out of the gossip rags? They report on your ‘party lifestyle,’ but that’s part of the band’s image. It always has been.”

  “We have a really good manager,” Tone admitted. “She’s a good person, actually seems to care about us as people as well as the machine that makes money. We’re going to have to call her when we get back to London, let her know what we’re doing.”

  “Okay,” Stan said.

  “How about you? Tell me about the magazine.”

  “It’s good,” Stan nodded. “I didn’t think I’d ever move back to New York, but it’s good. I like the vibe there. I’m a guest lecturer at Parsons—the fashion school—and I’m mentoring three people for Teen Vogue.”

  “Wow.”

  “I never thought I’d love the teaching as much as I do. They give me a lot of autonomy to design the course. It’s not a compulsory class, but a lot of students take it anyway.”

  Classes were out for the summer, so Stan didn’t have any immediate responsibilities. The question still hung between them, wondering what Stan would do come August. He hadn’t planned that far ahead.

  “You look good too.”

  Stan grinned. “Thanks.”

  He’d maintained a healthy weight for a few years now. There were still good days and bad days, and good months and bad months, but he was better at recognising when things were rough and doing something about it. He had learned how to ask for help.

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  Stan hesitated before answering. “No. Sort of. No.”

  “Well, that was inconclusive.”

  He laughed. “I’ve been dating someone on and off, but it’s not serious. I’ve known for a while that we’re not going to have a relationship.”

  “Friends with benefits?”

  “I guess.” Stan wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never really been into the whole ‘fuck buddy’ thing, but I guess that’s what it is.”

  “Hey, I’m not judging,” Tone said, holding up his hands. “If it works, it works.”

  “I know. I like to think I’m a fairly monogamous person. But actually, having something casual has been good for me.”

  Ben shifted in his little seat-pod, and they both looked over at him. He cracked open an eye and scowled at them both. “Fuck off,” he muttered, and turned his back on them.

  “Charming,” Tone said. Then he lowered his voice. “What did you say to him to get him to agree to move? We’ve been trying to get him to go see his mum for months, and he kept saying no.”

  “I didn’t really give him a choice.”

  “Did he talk to you?”

  Stan shook his head. “I went in there, and he just cried. When he was done, I told him we were going back to London and he didn’t say no, so I went and got you and….”

  “Here we are,” Tone finished for him.

  “Here we are.”

  Stan peeked out the window; the sun was just starting to rise over the horizon.

  “What are we going to do next?”

  “Honestly, Tone, I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  They managed to bustle Ben out of Heathrow airport without fans or paparazzi recognising them, which was a miracle, and one Stan was grateful for. He knew both Ben and Tone had property of their own in the capital, but the idea was to take Ben away from situations that had led to bad decisions, so Stan didn’t want to take him there. Instead he had their driver take them back to his own place. It was an unassuming two-bedroom flat overlooking Camden Lock that he occasionally rented out to other fashion industry people. It had been empty for a few months, and Stan had arranged for some of his own things to be transferred out of storage and moved into the flat.

  Ben still hadn’t spoken more than a few words, and even then only in response to direct questions. He was weak—Stan could tell that just by looking at him—and with his hoodie and sunglasses he looked like any other junkie on the street.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m jet-lagged,” Tone said as they all dumped bags in the hallway and stumbled for the kitchen.

  “There’s a bedroom there, and another opposite the bathroom. Feel free to crash.”

  Tone looked conflicted.

  “Go on,” Stan insisted. “The sofa pulls out into another bed. I can sleep there.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Tone squeezed Ben’s shoulder and loped off in the direction of a bed.

  “Do you want anything?” Stan asked.

  Ben made hell of a picture, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black hoodie and his skinny jeans falling down on his too-skinny hips.

  “Mandy?”

  “I’m not giving you fucking drugs,” Stan snapped. On one hand, at least Ben had expressed a want for something. On the other….

  “Then I’ll go to bed,” Ben grumbled and took the other bedroom, then slammed the door shut.

  Stan pressed his fingertips to his eyes and counted to ten.

  He was tired too, beyond jet-lagged after flying from New York to Los Angeles, then back to London in the space of twenty-four hours. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t sure what his body clock thought was happening. He had things to do before he could relax, though.

  First, he went to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. There was only one bathroom in the flat, and it wasn’t a big space, so sharing between the three of them was going to be interesting. For now, Stan wanted to wash off the feel of aeroplane from his skin and get his hair feeling soft and clean again.