Counterpoint

by Anna Zabo

  When the check came, he paid and left a sizable tip, and then saw Janelle out. He kissed her cheek again when they parted company. “Thank you. Lunch did help.” At least to put some of his mind at ease.

  His heart was another matter. That ran off into those self-same weeds and woods, even as his mind tried to corral it, lest his heart become entirely lost.

  Chapter Ten

  Dom had spent more of the week dressed as Domino than he had in a while. Ray suggested it might be smart if the brash, loud rocker actually showed up at the studio once in a while, since the press and fans had figured out where they were practicing.

  That made sense. He could get away with slipping in as himself, but it was a bit conspicuous that Domino never walked in. Eventually, people would catch on that Domino was practicing—just not as Domino. The fear that had raked up his back at that prospect had made Mish ruffle his hair and kiss him on the forehead.

  “Put on your makeup and those kick-ass boots of yours, and come play with us, honey.”

  He dropped his head and muttered into her shoulder, “I think you have boot envy.”

  Mish patted his cheek. “I do, but those things would kill my legs in concert. No fucking clue how you move in them.”

  Practice. And—he’d never admit this—for the first couple shows on tour, his calves ached to high heaven.

  So Tuesday he’d marched into the studio to flashes of camera phones and shouts, fully his rock-god self—and it felt good. Really fucking good. The energy, the courage. The strength. He rubbed his Celtic knot tattoo and thought of Adrian, of his mouth and hands. That smile.

  The next moment, his stomach had tangled like the lines of his ink. Because what—who—Dom was now was not the man who wanted to kneel down at Adrian’s side in that cozy office. Or cuddle up with him on the couch. Or be taken apart by mouth and cock and hands.

  Yeah. No way Adrian would want Domino.

  “Little weird, huh?” Ray bumped his shoulder. “Back in the saddle.”

  Dom pushed thoughts of Adrian aside. “What? We’ve been practicing for weeks!”

  “Yeah, but not like this.” Ray grinned at him. “With you as rock-star you.”

  As Domino. A strange vertigo filled Dom. “I’m me. I’m always me.” But was that true? Had it ever been?

  In the end, those practices were some of the best they’d played. Near live-performance quality. And there was more about that, too. The venue was nailed down, and the time and date—six weeks from now. They were set.

  Thursday was the photo shoot for the article that was going into RockPass Magazine, and the marks Adrian had left were gone, so Dom put on his low-slung leather pants and not much else, and posed for the cameras. Sexy, snarling Domino Grinder. And once more, it felt so damn real and right that it hurt—and gave Dom whiplash.

  Ray and Zavier were still talking with Marcella and the photographer when Mish and Dom entered the dressing room to change into something a little less full-on rock star and to pack up. Mish leaned against her makeup station, crossed her arms, and leveled that look at him. “You okay, hon?”

  He should have expected her to ask eventually, but it caught him off-guard anyway. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Not exactly a lie. Not quite the truth. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the man Adrian never saw. The rock star. The persona that gave him the ability to walk onstage.

  She got that look she always got when one of them was bullshitting her. “Tell me for real, Dom.”

  He dropped his shoulders. “I love this.” He gestured to himself. “I feel a thousand feet tall when I’m Domino and onstage.”

  She cocked her head. “And you feel safe.”

  His laugh was strangled. “Yeah. You should have seen me when I was younger. I was a wreck.”

  “You’re not that old, honey. People grow.”

  True. But the strangling fear still lurked deep inside him. The voice that told him he wasn’t good enough to be onstage with Ray. “Yeah, I know that.”

  “And your man?”

  God, Adrian. He closed his eyes briefly. “I feel safe with him, too. But not as Domino.”

  “If this guy is worthy of you, you should be comfortable with him all the damn time, no matter what.” She pushed herself off the station and opened her arms. An invitation.

  He took it, stepping forward and letting her wrap him into a hug. Mish gave the best hugs, probably because she towered over him by several inches, even when he wore his boots. “But Domino is so different,” he murmured. “And what if he tells someone else who I am?”

  Mish pulled back. “Sweetheart, someday your cover’s gonna be busted. You’ve been damn lucky it hasn’t been yet.”

  His heart stuttered and a cold wash flew up his back. “I know.” He hated thinking about it. “But it’ll happen faster if I tell someone.”

  “Even the man you trust?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it? “Maybe?”

  Her sigh was heartfelt, and cut straight through Dom. “You need to be true to you, hon.”

  “I know.”

  They broke apart and got to packing when Ray and Zavier entered the room.

  If Domino was his true self, who was the man who wanted to spend time with Adrian? The one who playfully texted him, the one who’d stroked himself off to Adrian’s voice on the other end of the phone whispering just how hard he should come. He’d skimmed through the books on BDSM Adrian had lent him, and there Dominic was, too, in some of those paragraphs and explanations. Adrian was on those pages, as well. His control and care.

  In the dark of his room Thursday night, he stared up at his ceiling, thin lines of light cutting across the painted white surface, and tried to piece all of it together. Domino. Dominic. The music and the stage. The burning need to play and perform. The fear and panic. Bowties and button-downs. Kneeling. Being tied up. The way Adrian made him feel so good and complete with words and touches. With laughter and sweets fed on the end of a fork. The light in Adrian’s eyes when Dominic turned around and fucked him instead.

  He wanted every single piece of it all. But one was a lie, a sham, and the other was real. And in the end, he couldn’t be both. He could never be both.

  What happened when there were two dreams, and holding one meant losing the other? Dom closed his eyes and tried not to think about that.

  * * *

  If the week as Domino had thrown him, his weekend with Adrian twisted him around, tossed him up in the air, and set him gently back down on his feet. Two weekends, that’s all it had taken to upend everything he’d planned. All he knew about himself.

  Friday during one of their breaks at practice—he’d slipped into the studio sans Domino again—Zavier joined him by the window. “Your gentleman friend is, by all accounts, a very decent man.”

  Dom chuckled and stared out the window. “I could have told you that.”

  Zavier gripped him on the shoulder, and Dom turned to meet his gaze. “You did. But you’re also somewhat biased.”

  Dom swallowed, the previous night’s musings rushing back in. “I don’t even know if I should be seeing the dude.”

  The comforting hand shook his shoulder. “Dom. You’re allowed to be happy. And I think you are. This dude—he gives you something you aren’t getting here.” Zavier nodded at their instruments and the studio. “Even as happy as the band makes you, too.”

  Dom pulled away. “I don’t think Adrian would be interested in Domino Grinder. And more often than not, that’s who I am.”

  Zavier was quiet for a time, then sighed. “I have no head for romantic entanglement, but I know people and I know connections and I know kink.” He tipped his head and studied Dom. “I’d be willing to bet just about any amount of money that the man Adrian Doran wants is the same one standing in front of me.”

  That was absurd. “You’d lose.”
>
  “I’d win.” Zavier’s grin fell away. “Life’s short, Dom. And fragile and unexpected. Don’t throw this away without thought.”

  Dom studied Zavier and those serious blue eyes, then his gaze drifted across the studio to Ray. Zavier—and he and Mish—had nearly lost Ray last year. Sometimes the images of Ray struggling to breathe, of the chaos of the work to save his life, still haunted Dom, and he wondered if Zavier had nightmares, too.

  Yeah. He probably did. Of all of them besides Ray, that night had impacted Zavier the most.

  “I’m not going to lose.” Zavier’s eyes flickered, and he patted Dom’s shoulder before heading back toward his drum kit.

  Dom wouldn’t throw anything away without thought, even if he wasn’t sure which this Zav had referred to. But he was gonna have to throw something in the end, once he figured out who the hell he really was.

  That was the thought that stayed with him, even as he headed toward Wall Street and the building where Adrian worked on Friday, a duffel of clothes and toiletries slung over his shoulder. He’d always been able to balance the two disparate halves of his life, mostly by hiding Dominic and letting Domino take the stage, literally. The man he was now, wearing a button-down and bowtie? That was for little snippets of time when he wanted to snag a fuck—or just be left alone. That’s probably why no one had ever figured out who Domino was—Dominic wasn’t around all that much. But now he was.

  Adrian wasn’t a fuck, though, and Dom didn’t want to be alone. Not now, not this weekend. He wanted to forget all about Domino Grinder and just be the man Adrian wanted. But who was that guy? Maybe that’s what he needed to find out.

  Because Dominic Bradley hadn’t really been himself since college, and even then, Domino had existed, had cried out for his time, for the stage and the lights and the music.

  Yeah, he was fucked. Dom stopped walking. This wasn’t going to work. He should—

  “Dominic!”

  Adrian’s bright voice slammed into Dom, and he turned toward it, wanting, needed to see. Oh, and yes. He wanted the relationship, too. Shit.

  Adrian wore a light gray suit and a light pink shirt. His tie was purple and charcoal, and his hair shone red in the summer sun, as if the light had stripped away the brown to reveal the ginger beneath. He was fucking gorgeous. And that smile—it was for Dominic. For him.

  The duffel slid off Dom’s shoulder when Adrian drew close, and he couldn’t help wrapping his arms around him. Adrian stiffened momentarily, then moved to tip Dom’s head up.

  The kiss was blinding. It wasn’t erotic or lurid or even that long. Just a sweet touch of lips, a hint of tongue, and the happiest damn sigh Dom had ever heard.

  “And here I was wondering if you’d missed me,” Adrian murmured. He pulled back, opening a more appropriate amount of space between them.

  “Yeah, I did.” That was the only truthful reply. “A lot.”

  Such a bright grin. “Let’s go home.”

  And they did go, straight to Adrian’s house. More kisses, and this time, in private, they were intense and breathtaking. Adrian’s mouth found Dom’s with a fierceness of purpose, as if each swipe of his tongue could mold their bodies closer together. Dom moaned when those hands grabbed his ass and ground their cocks together.

  “Dinner first, Dominic?” Adrian asked between nips and sucks and bites. “Or do you want to scream for me?”

  And fuck did that melt Dom’s bones and enflame his cock. “Scream, Adrian. Make me scream.” He wanted to forget who he was. Remember that, too.

  Adrian fucked him over the back of the couch in the living room, hard and fast, holding Dom by the hands he’d clasped at the small of his back. Dom’s feet lifted off the ground with every hard thrust and he did exactly what both of them wanted: writhed and moaned and screamed in pleasure.

  “Pictured this all week,” Adrian growled. “Your ass in the air. Your tight hole.”

  “God, Adrian, please!” He needed every second of this, every inch of Adrian in him, every bite. “Fuck!” The roar of his blood, the way Adrian hit him inside so perfectly. “Can’t. Gonna.”

  “Good,” Adrian bit Dom’s shoulder through his shirt. “I want to feel you come, Dominic. You fucking beautiful man.”

  Everything hazed and he screamed Adrian’s name, spilling all over the couch cushions underneath him. And for the first time in his life, he thought maybe being Dominic was better than Domino.

  When Adrian pulled him upright, there was that loving concern that always made Dom’s heart ache. “Hey, you okay?” Adrian seemed to be searching his face, his hand so gentle against Dom’s cheek. “Babe?”

  “Yeah,” Dom croaked. “That was just so fucking—” Perfect. He laughed as his heart and mind tumbled over and over. “I’m fine.”

  “All right.” A peck on the nose, and Dom closed his eyes. “Let’s go get cleaned up, and I’ll cook dinner.”

  The rest of Friday was spent laughing and eating, then snuggling on the same couch—though they avoided the cushions that were damp from Adrian’s cleaning.

  “I stain-proofed them, but I have no idea if that stuff actually works against jizz.”

  Dom laughed. “I guess that’s not something they’re gonna put on the can.”

  Adrian pulled him close. “Might be good marketing, though.”

  “You just call up the company and tell ’em. I’m sure they’ll love it.”

  The laughter that poured from Adrian was contagious, as was the warmth, and Dom’s head spun again. He wanted this, this companionship. What he’d glimpsed that Ray and Zavier had. Someone who understood him and needed him just as much. But living this meant no more band, no more touring. No more Domino.

  Fingers touched his cheeks. “What can I do to chase away that sadness?” Adrian’s voice was thick.

  Dom shook his head. “Take me upstairs and teach me joy.”

  Adrian shivered, and there was that feather touch again, and those eyes so full of light, and something Dom didn’t want to name because it felt too deep.

  “Dominic.” Adrian breathed his name, and it was a brand and a promise. He seemed to want to say more, but then drew Dom off the couch. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday, they headed into Manhattan. Dom was pleasantly sore from yet another round of Adrian fucking him deep into the mattress, and each step reminded him of that odd juxtaposition of fierceness and tenderness Adrian possessed. The orders and control and the soft questions that asked for consent.

  Zavier was right about Adrian being a good man. And Dom had been right when, in Zavier and Ray’s house, he’d said he might fall in love. There was nothing for him to catch, no way to stop the plummeting fall he felt in his stomach every time Adrian smiled, or when Adrian had read clips of interesting news from his tablet while they’d shared homemade pancakes that morning.

  “There’s a photography exhibition a friend told me about. Said some of her work was in it.” There was something sly about the way Adrian said that, about his smile that made Dom’s blood heat. They ended up in Chelsea at a gallery that was eerily close to the photography studio the band had marched into from the recording studio on Thursday.

  Which seemed so very far away now. A dream, even. Domino’s snarls and smirks. Giving the camera the finger. All of it.

  They had to let their eyes adjust when they entered the gallery. Even with powerful lights illuminating the photographs hanging on the walls, the brilliant summer sun and clear blue day had been brighter by far. And when Dom blinked away the sun, he was struck blind again—mentally.

  The photographs, the whole exhibition, were pictures of skin and rope and leather. None explicit. All erotic. Adrian handed him a postcard with that same damned smile.

  Strength in Submission, the glossy page read, with details of the photographer, Det Newhar, plus two of their works. �
��You know the photographer?”

  “This is the first time I’ve seen their work,” Adrian said. “Though I did design a website for them.”

  That was interesting. “You design websites?”

  “Freelance, for the right people. Started doing that in California for extra cash. And I like the creativity.” Adrian pulled Dom to a wall of photographs, sepia in tone. Dark skin—a masculine chest—with leather across it and a sheen of sweat. Another with a cuffed hand, the side of a face, eyes hidden by fingers, but lips parted, almost as with a sigh.

  Beautiful. Heart-stopping. Dom wanted to see those eyes. Hear if that was a moan or a breath. Know what the person captured—both on camera and by leather—had felt. His heart hammered against his chest. At the same time, he knew exactly the emotion. Felt them so viscerally, he trembled.

  Adrian put his arm over Dom’s shoulder, pulled him closer, and the shaking stopped.

  “Do I...”

  “Yes,” Adrian said, answering the unasked question.

  Yes, Dom looked like that when cuffed. He swallowed. “Oh.”

  Adrian’s arm slipped off Dom’s shoulder and his hand touched the small of his back. “Come see my friend’s work.”

  He was drawn deeper into the gallery. The photos showed more here, out of the view of the street. Breasts, nipples, the hint of pussy and cock. Heat burned through Dom slowly, not in his balls or dick, but deeper. In his gut and soul. His mind.

  All the men and women in these photographs were tied with rope. Lengths and lengths. Cords over flesh, pressing in. Restraining. Beautiful designs of knots and lengths, of arms and legs and torsos.

  Dom could barely breathe. The beauty, the serenity. The strength, too, in those closed and opened eyes and mouths, those haunting faces, caught for a moment in something so profound Dom’s body itched as his mind cried out.

  This. This. He wanted this. His skin under those knots. Bound. Caught. Safe.

  “My friend Janelle’s work.” Adrian’s voice was reverent.

  “Not the photos.” Dom could barely get the words out through his tight throat.