Hat Trick

by Eden Finley

  I was going to make a caveman joke, but it was so loud in the club I could barely hear my own thoughts let alone my voice.

  Soren dragged me into the corridor leading to the bathrooms.

  Presumptuous much?

  Surprising me yet again, he kept dragging me past the bathrooms and toward the emergency exit.

  “Are you kidnapping me?” I yelled over the loud noise of the club.

  He stared down at me, and his lips twitched, but he didn’t answer.

  When he pushed me out into the alley behind the bar, I didn’t know if I was supposed to be scared. Anyone else, I probably would’ve been, but my flight instinct was nowhere around. My gut said the others wouldn’t have invited Soren if he was dangerous, but there’d already been too many assholes in my life, so I was still wary.

  “Want to explain to me what you were doing in there?” Soren’s voice was gruff, and it immediately went to my cock.

  I hadn’t had such a visceral reaction to a guy’s voice before, but I pushed that from my mind as I tried to work out what he meant.

  “Dancing?” I asked. “Having fun?”

  Soren ran a hand through his hair. “The song was complete bullshit then?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can handle that.”

  “What song?” What the fuck is he talking about?

  “The song you sang at the Rainbow Beds benefit. The original.”

  Rainbow Beds was my brother-in-law’s project, and my band played the benefit to raise money to help launch the charity. But that was months ago.

  I stumbled back until I bumped into the wall behind me. “My song? You … you know my song?”

  “He’s Mine” was everything to me. Benji, my bass player, was convinced it would be our first hit. He was almost right. It was the song that got us signed with a record label, but it wouldn’t be our first single. The label said releasing a love song first would limit our stylistic choices in the future.

  “I came out because of that song,” Soren said. “And if you … if it’s not real, I’m going to lose my ever-loving mind. So, please, tell me that song was about your boyfriend and you’re as happy as ever and that love conquers all and all that other bullshit because with the way you’re throwing yourself at every single—and taken—guy in there, I’m starting to think it meant nothing. Isn’t Lennon your friend? And you’re in there all over Ollie—”

  I ignored what was supposed to be an offensive comment because I couldn’t get past the first thing he’d said. “You came out. Because of my song. Like, my song …”

  “Yes. Your song, your song, your song. If it’s not real …” Soren didn’t look upset; he looked distraught. “It’s gonna be like finding out Bobby Orr was on steroids.”

  “Who?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

  I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I always hoped my words could get through to people, to touch them and make them feel comforted or brave or whatever they needed to feel. I just thought I’d be famous before that happened.

  “You were at the Rainbow Beds benefit …”

  Soren continued to stare at me, disappointment clouding his face with every second I didn’t clarify about the damn song.

  “That song,” I said slowly, “was about my brother and his husband. The song is real. It’s just not my story.”

  I saw the moment it clicked for him.

  Hope bloomed in his light eyes. “For real?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Soren bent at the waist, his hands going to his knees. “Oh, thank fuck.”

  I couldn’t help but find his reaction amusing, but more importantly, I couldn’t believe he was that deeply invested in my music.

  Me. A poor kid from nowhere Tennessee. No college degree. Hell, barely even a high school diploma. I inspired someone to step outside their comfort zone.

  I had to do something to remember this moment. “Seeing as you’re technically my first-ever fanboy … wait, you can’t be called any type of boy … fanman?”

  Soren let out a deep laugh.

  “Can I please buy you a drink?”

  In a few years’ time—hopefully—I wouldn’t let fame go to my head because I’d remember the six-foot-one mountain of a hockey player having an identity crisis because of one of my songs. I’d remember the bravery it took for Soren to sit in front of a room full of journalists and announce to the world he was gay. He did that because of me. Jethro Jackson. The biggest white trash to ever trash.

  I’d hold on to Soren’s story to keep me humble.

  Soren finally composed himself and stood tall. “Buy me a drink? No way. If anything, I owe you several drinks. You … you changed my life.”

  Pride was quickly replaced with the crushing weight of pressure. Ever since signing with Joystar Records, I had a bad feeling the creative side of me was going to get squashed by the label.

  They wanted to change the band’s name, my name, and our eclectic sound.

  Knowing someone out there loved “He’s Mine” enough to change their life and come out publicly, I was terrified I’d never write anything that would live up to it. Especially with the record company already trying to put me in a box.

  I wanted to savor this moment and turn it into one of those memories I’d think about until the day I died. It was the first time I had a fan tell me my words truly meant something.

  We were about to wade our way through the giant crowd again when I stopped short.

  “Soren …” The guys had been calling him that, but it occurred to me that it might’ve only been a bro thing to do like athletes did. “Uh … Caleb?” I tugged on his arm.

  He shuddered. “No, Soren’s good. Everyone calls me Soren.” He must’ve seen something in my eyes because concern etched into his gorgeous face. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “How about we don’t drink at all?”

  Soren’s brow scrunched as if he didn’t understand, but that cleared the second I stepped forward and pressed my body against his.

  “Wanna get out of here?” I asked.

  His hesitance was evident. “You’re, like, this rock god, and I’m—”

  “A hockey god. We should stick together, no?” The notion I was a god of anything was unrealistically awesome. Even if I acted like I believed it sometimes, hearing it from someone else was surreal.

  Soren’s tongue darted out and ran along his lips. They were shiny with spit and so tempting, but the hesitance on his face hadn’t wavered.

  “Want the truth?” I asked and didn’t give him time to respond. “I’m a struggling musician who can’t even keep cool about someone liking one of my songs.”

  “Loving one of your songs,” he corrected. “I tried to find more online but couldn’t.”

  We were still pressed against each other in the seedy corridor between the bathrooms and the noise of the club.

  “Take me home?” I asked again.

  “Fuck, yes.” Soren’s voice was croaky, and my body responded just as it had earlier.

  Benji had a beautiful voice. He totally could’ve taken over lead vocals if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Yet, his raspy voice never had my cock at full attention or my hands wanting to explore all of him like Soren’s did.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Jersey.”

  “Hmm, too far,” I murmured. “Bathroom?” My hand ran down his chest as I leaned in and kissed the side of his neck.

  Soren moaned. “You’re better than a fuck in a bathroom stall.”

  Hmm, debatable.

  “There’s a hotel down the block.”

  I stepped back and pulled him off the wall. “Sold.”

  We held hands the entire way to the upscale hotel, and I ignored the way it lit a fire in my gut. I didn’t know holding someone’s hand could turn me on so much.

  The lobby was marble-tiled and dimly lit, giving it that elegance only expensive places had. The people behind the desk looked at me as if I were some
by-the-hour rent boy, or maybe I was reading into it because that was kinda how I felt.

  It wasn’t the first time a random guy had taken me home, but it was the first time I’d felt out of place and nervous about it.

  Soren wasn’t like any of those other guys. Actually, he wasn’t my type at all. I didn’t do the jock thing.

  Yet, there was no denying Soren did it for me.

  My expectations were low, though. One disappointing sexual encounter after the next made it hard to get excited about things.

  Oh, I’d brag and be a douche about my exploits, but really, they left me hollow inside. I was always putting on a show, being someone else—even to those closest to me.

  When Soren took my hand again and led me to the elevators, there was no denying the flare of arousal.

  We hadn’t even reached our floor when Soren backed me up and pushed me against the side of the elevator.

  The quip about liking it rough made it to the tip of my tongue before I swallowed it back down.

  Soren’s eyes were hypnotic as they roamed over me from my face, down my body, and then back up again.

  It wasn’t in the way a million other guys had done it before.

  This was hot. It made me feel appreciated and worshiped instead of cheap and trashy.

  Stuck in his gaze, I was taken off guard when he lowered his head.

  His mouth came down on mine, his tongue teasing my lips before forcing its way into my mouth. A loud groan filled the small space of the elevator.

  Soren was tall and overpowering. Yet, his feathery-light fingers cupped my face before trailing down my neck.

  A shot of want traveled down my spine, and with every second that passed, I moved dangerously closer to the edge. If he was to go anywhere near my dick right now, I’d probably come in my jeans. To get there so fast …

  “How are you … I mean, what are you …” I was unable to get my words out. What is he doing to me?

  The elevator dinged, and Soren backed off as the doors opened.

  His smile did things to my insides. When he held out his hand for me, I knew following him was going to break me in the best way possible. Which would also turn out to be the worst way.

  I didn’t know it yet, but my night with Caleb Sorensen would be one of the only times someone wanted me as Jet—some non-famous twenty-year-old who wrote music and craved fame. Everyone else I’d meet would want me because I was Jay, the lead singer of Radioactive.

  Chapter Three

  Soren

  Matt rushes toward the chopper, yelling, “JJ. What are you doing here?” His happy energy at his brother’s arrival is palpable, whereas I’m hoping my mixture of dread, excitement, and a touch of want is hidden.

  I watch from behind everyone as Matt practically crash-tackles Jet into a hug. Their bond is strong—something I didn’t know that night I took him to a hotel and fucked his brains out.

  I wince at that description of what happened. It was so much more than that, but I’ve never allowed myself to think of it as anything more because I can’t afford to.

  As Matt refuses to let Jet go, I can’t help noticing their differences in appearance. Matt’s a tight end in the NFL. He’s a brick house. His dark hair is cut short, and he looks like a stereotypical jock. Jet’s on the thinner side and shorter. He has shaggy and unkempt dark-brown hair the same shade as his brother’s. That’s the only similarity they have.

  It’s no wonder I had no idea how Jet fit into the group when I first met them all. I thought he was Lennon and Ollie’s friend, not Matt Jackson’s brother.

  In the few years since Matt came out, he’s become a legend in his own right. First out NFL player to play an official NFL game. First out player to win the Super Bowl. And then there’s the LGBTQ charity he belongs to. His husband started it, and they help get homeless youth off the street.

  He’s a great guy, and I fucked his little brother.

  Jet is an adult, I get that, but again, I have to use thoughts to trick my brain. Twinkish rock star. Little brother. I need to think of him like that and not like the flirty and forward man I took home from that nightclub.

  I knew he was young, and when he’d approached me in my locker room that night while I was half undressed, I actually freaked out about lusting after the boy onstage at the benefit. He didn’t look young under the stage lights, and he performed in a way that told me he’d been doing it for years. In his non-performance getup, he looked way too young for me.

  That should’ve stopped me from taking him home that night, but my mind was filled with the images of the guy I’d seen onstage, shaking his ass and singing the song that made me reevaluate my life.

  And watching him now, I’m torn between seeing him as that guy and the little brother image the rest of the group projects on him.

  Jet makes his rounds, hugging Noah and then Ollie and Lennon. The others slap him on his back in a brotherly way, and I’m kinda glad he didn’t hug them too because then we’d have to do the awkward “well, you hugged everyone else, so I guess you have to hug me” dance. What I get is even less than the others though. When his gaze lands on me, his lips flatten, and he gives me a cursory nod.

  A nod without even a smile.

  What do I do back? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

  Smooth.

  I try to steady my pounding heart as I follow them all back into the dining hut. Joni and Ema have already set another place setting, and as luck or fate would have it, or because the owners know I’m the only single one here, they place Jet next to me.

  Eyes burn into me, but when I glance at him to my side, he’s shoveling food into his mouth. Looking up, I realize it’s everyone else staring at me. Only, it’s not me they’re interested in.

  “We’re waiting,” Matt says.

  Jet lifts his head. “Huh?” His mouth is full of half-chewed food.

  “Your tour?” Noah asks. “Concert dates, no time off, no rest for the famous. All your words.”

  “Fiji must not get the news. Rest of Radioactive’s part of the tour has been canceled.”

  “Why?” Matt asks.

  Jet chews and swallows hard. “Well, it’s gonna be all over social media soon enough, so you may as well know now. I have nodes. Need to rest my voice.”

  “What are nodes?” Maddox asks.

  “Nodules. Lesions on my vocal cords.”

  “Ouch,” Maddox says.

  Something about Jet’s words doesn’t ring true to me. Or … completely true. Looking at him more closely, I notice the bags under his eyes, his skin is a little pale, and he has all the telltale signs of exhaustion, but it’s something in his brown eyes that tells me there’s more to the story. The usual spark in them is missing. There’s only one other time I’ve seen his eyes that lifeless, and it was when I’d serendipitously played a game in Tampa the same night his band was performing a few blocks away from the arena.

  For two people who’d met and hooked up in New York, who both traveled for a living and had crazy schedules, I took it as a sign that I needed to go to his concert after the game.

  Biggest mistake I’ve probably ever made.

  I try not to think of that night in Tampa. I not only hurt Jet, but the fight that followed brought reality crashing down on us. Our one night in New York was random magic that fate let us temporarily share, but it wasn’t real. It was a fantasy. One perfect night with a perfect stranger who changed my life.

  I’m brought out of the memory and thrust into a brotherly argument.

  “I don’t need surgery to fix it,” Jet says, his exasperation sounding like that of a teenager’s. “I just need rest. I figured a Fijian vacation would be the best place to do that, but not if you’re gonna get all parent-y.”

  Everyone at the table goes silent.

  “No need to bite my head off,” Matt says. “I was just asking.”

  Jet runs a hand over his face. “Sorry. I’m wrecked. Is there a room for me, or am I bunking on the floor of one of your rooms?”
>
  Joni steps forward. “Ema is setting up a room for you now, sir.”

  “You can take my room,” I find myself saying. Everyone looks at me weird. “It’s ready, and I haven’t unpacked yet. I only used the shower after we got in.”

  Jet gives me a tight smile. “Thanks. I’m kinda dead on my feet.”

  “No problem. I’ll walk you to it and grab my things while I’m there.” I go to stand when Joni puts his hand up to stop me.

  “We can arrange that. I can walk Mr. Jay to the room.”

  Nooo. There goes my chance of having a one-on-one conversation with Jet tonight.

  As I watch them walk away, though, I realize that even if I had time with Jet alone, I wouldn’t have anything to say to him. I’m not sure if sorry would cut it. Because, let’s face it, I was a total ass to him the last time I saw him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Noah throw a bread roll at Maddox’s head.

  “Dude, what the fuck?” Maddox has his phone in hand, and Damon’s reading over his shoulder.

  “I thought we were going cell phone free,” Noah says.

  “Yeah, but then Jet turned up spouting some bullshit about nodes.” Maddox goes back to looking at his phone. “‘Radioactive will be leaving the Heart tour following health concerns for lead singer Jay,’ but then it goes on to say there’s a rumored rift between Radioactive and Eleven.”

  “Eleven?” Damon asks. “That boy band?”

  “Radioactive has been opening for them for the past eighteen months,” Matt says. “His band was supposed to get their own headlining tour this year, but then they went out on a second tour with Eleven. Didn’t make much sense to me, but JJ says that happens.”

  “Why are they called Eleven when there’s only five of them?” Noah asks.

  My mouth, for some reason, thinks it’s a good idea to let everyone know the answer because it’s totally normal for a thirty-three-year-old guy to know random boy band facts. “They used to be 11OZ. As in eleven ounces—the weight of the human heart.” My brain finally catches up and forces my mouth shut, but it’s too late. I prepare for the inevitable ribbing about knowing the origin of a boy band’s name. The reason I know it? They’re a part of Jet’s life and I’m not. I may or may not have been secretly checking up on him for the past few years.