by Amy Lane
“You need someone who can care for you,” Cheever said with dignity. He looked back at his brothers. “You guys think?”
“Righteous,” Jefferson said.
“Everyone needs someone.” Stevie’s smile, so insidious at the best of times, crept up to being diabolical. “Or several someones.” He and Jeff did the fist bump of polyamory and turned to Kell.
Kell was pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate being the last to know,” he said simply. “But I appreciate you telling me.” He stood and set his guitar on a nearby stand. “Guys, I’m gonna go take my butt-hurt self to the house so I can whine on my wife about this.” He grimaced. “Does she know?”
“Oh God, yes,” Blake said with such passion Cheever had to wonder what had been said.
“Well, marrying someone smarter than you are is a curse and a blessing.” He graced the twins with an evil smile of his own. “Isn’t that right, guys?”
“I know you’re trying to start something,” Jefferson said laconically, “but we both know you’re talking about Shelia, so consider it finished.” He and Stevie went in for the fist bump again, and then they stood, so fluidly, so close together, Cheever was forced to wonder whether the three of them didn’t take turns being in the middle of the sandwich.
Stevie caught him staring and winked. “Whatever you’re thinking, little man, add whips and chains and handcuffs, then double it.”
Jefferson rolled his eyes. “He’s messing with you. But yes.”
They walked out together, laughing at their own private joke, and Trav and Kell shook their heads at each other. “Yes,” Trav said, like it was a long-standing argument. “Yes, the boys do sleep together when they all sleep together.”
“I don’t think so,” Kell retorted. “Because they would have said something. I mean….” He flailed. “Mackey and you been together, what? Nine years? I’m obviously not gonna lose my shit!”
“Yeah,” Blake said, pushing himself up from the couch with an effort. “But it’s so much fun to watch the rest of us try to figure it out.”
“Oh my God. That is a hell of a long time not to kiss someone in public if you love them like that,” Kell muttered. “We know they all sleep in the same bed! Nobody cares which one’s the father of which kid! Who cares if they kiss? Are they looking for some sort of award? ’Cause I’ll give it to them myself if we can just stop talking about this six times a year!”
Cheever claimed Blake’s hand again, and to his relief, Blake laced their fingers together. “Really?” Cheever asked, fascinated. “You guys… I mean, this happens a lot?”
Kell gave a snort of disgust. “It’s the dumbest fuckin’ thing. The only one who isn’t curious is Mackey.”
“And Briony,” Blake added. “Because I think the women tell each other everything.” For no apparent reason, his ears turned red.
Kell stared at him. “Explain that.”
“Nope.” Blake shook his head vehemently. “Nope, nope, nope. Just… you know, ask Briony.”
Kell chuckled, his earlier irritation apparently dimmed. “Cheever, we’re getting up at fuck-all in the morning, per usual. Don’t break our second guitarist. We like him.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Cheever said virtuously. And then, more soberly, he added, “Thanks for trusting me with him.”
“You’re grown,” Kell said mildly. “Make sure your shoes fit good. Blake can show you how to put that moleskin stuff on so you won’t get blisters.”
And with that odd but sound advice, Kell and Trav turned and left, leaving Blake and Cheever together in the empty living room.
“Why’d you do that?” Blake asked.
“’Cause I meant what I said. It’s my job.” Cheever moved into Blake’s space and cupped his cheeks. “Now kiss me, and then feed me. Apparently dinner, a movie, and shoes are going to determine the progress of my whole life.”
Blake closed his eyes and kissed him, and as Cheever’s eyes fluttered closed, he thought that maybe it wouldn’t be the dinner, the movie, or the shoes.
Maybe the whole course of his life would be determined by this kiss.
BLAKE KNEW the town.
Shoe shopping went quickly, Blake telling the sales girl what terrain they’d be on, asking Cheever where his tender spots were, and then grabbing some socks that he said saved the guys a lot of blisters. Guilelessly, Cheever told him to grab some running clothes and special underwear while he was getting stuff, because bringing a backpack next door would have been too obvious. But Cheever had hopes for how this night would end—he just didn’t want to scare Blake.
Blake had prepurchased tickets at the Regal Cinemas with 4DX—their seats buzzed; the theater had wind and scent effects and 3D—and Cheever had never enjoyed watching shit blow up over a field of flowers quite so much. They had reservations at a Korean barbecue place, where you cooked your own meat, and Blake knew the sides to order. He warned Cheever away from the kimchee because he said they made it authentic there and redneck white boys weren’t smart enough to like it.
The meal took a long time because they had to cook their own stuff. They had time to talk, gentle-like, and if the conversation lulled, there was always, “Wait, do we cook the calamari or do we eat it raw?” which could occupy them until Cheever started to talk about the market for artists who could sketch for science books. Then they’d be on a roll again.
Toward the end of the meal, as they finished their sodas and waited for their chapssaal doughnuts, the kind filled with red bean paste, Blake looked down at his fingers as he toyed with his napkin.
“This was fun,” he said softly. “This, being outside of the hospital. You’re a fun date, Cheever. I could do this again.”
“Me too.” Cheever gave him a measuring look. “Do you do this a lot with people?”
Blake bit his lip and looked away, hiding a shy smile. “Not so much,” he said. “Not after the rock-star thing.”
“So maybe we could do it again,” Cheever said, pleased. “That would make you and me sort of special.”
“You think you’re not special?” Blake turned his head and caught Cheever’s eye, that shy smile on his lips Cheever’s undoing.
“You think you’re not?” Cheever asked, suddenly shy too.
Blake shook his head. “Lucky,” he corrected. “You’re special, Cheever boy. I’m lucky.”
Cheever laughed softly. “Would you like to get lucky?” he asked, because God, his skin tingled from wanting Blake’s touch.
For a moment, Blake’s eyes got really big, and he worried his lip again with his teeth. Cheever could see a big red flag of hell yes! waving behind his eyes.
But then he closed those hazel eyes, the ones that seemed to glow for Cheever alone, and shook his head, his shy smile fading. “Not tonight, baby boy.”
Ah, the “baby boy”—the words Blake used to remind himself that he was the grown-up when he was feeling vulnerable. Cheever wasn’t buying it.
The waiter arrived with their doughnuts, and Blake picked up his fork. “Let’s eat our dessert and go home.”
But his cheeks were flushed, and he had trouble meeting Cheever’s eyes for the rest of the conversation.
BLAKE HAD driven one of Kell’s many cars on the date—this one a brand-new red Mustang Fastback that Cheever loved a lot.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Blake judged, shifting smoothly as he took the 405 back into the hills. “I just wish he wouldn’t buy shit in candy-apple red. Man, I’m going like five miles over the speed limit, maybe, and every cop for miles is sporting a chubby just because they know there’s a red car going fast somewhere. I mean, in Lancaster, all you had to have was a red primer spot on your car and some asshole would pull you over for driving while white trash and ticket you.” He shook his head. “The night I ran away from home, I took my mother’s Toyota. It was made of primer spots. I swear to fuck, I went exactly one mile below the speed limit until I cleared the grapevine.”
Cheever’s breath caught.
�
�Did she report it stolen?” he asked.
“She woulda, but I left it at the bus station in Burbank and called her from a phone booth before I took a bus to Santa Monica Pier. Man, I had a plan to be a street musician and someone was gonna fuckin’ discover me.”
“Who discovered you?” Cheever asked, hearing the bitterness under the self-deprecation.
“My first trick,” Blake said grimly. “But that was three days later, when my hands were shaking from hunger. It went all right. At least it was a choice.”
Cheever reached across the console and touched his thigh gently, not wanting to shake his concentration on the road.
“Choice is important,” he said. “I’d be a big choice for you, wouldn’t I?”
“A scary one,” Blake admitted. He captured Cheever’s hand for a brief moment and squeezed. “It’s all right. I can make that choice if you can.”
I’ve made it. I’m in love with you.
“I can,” Cheever replied mildly and then rolled down his window and let the wind blow away words for a while.
Blake parked in the big garage at the main house, which seemed overloaded with cars. “Your brother’s got a passion for ’em,” he admitted, after jockeying into exactly the right spot. “He’ll buy old ones and fix ’em up and sell ’em to the Hollywood hotlist who want a car worked on by a rock star. But he likes new and hot for himself, and ones built like a fuckin’ tank for Briony and the kids.”
“I didn’t know that,” Cheever said, humbled. “Why’d he start doing that?”
Blake shrugged, killing the engine and the lights. “Trav sort of encouraged all of us to get a pursuit—something outside of the band. Kell picked cars, Jefferson and Stevie run kids’ charities on the side, Mackey has a program gathering music equipment from spoiled rich people and donating it to schools.”
“What do you do?”
Blake tilted his head back. “Book drives. We read on the bus almost constantly—everything we can find, since we all did school online. You know, my school had a shitty library. If I’d had somewhere, anywhere to escape to, I might have stayed home for a little while longer and figured out how to get a job before I started turning tricks on the pier, you know?”
“You’re such a good man,” Cheever said, his throat tight. All his brothers were. How could he not have known?
Blake gave him a sweet smile in the heated darkness of the garage. “I’ll be a better one after I walk you to the door,” he said, and then he got out. Cheever followed him, pausing to grab his bag of purchases. He was curious about how Blake thought he was going to just leave Cheever on the doorstep.
He stood waiting just outside the kitchen, smiling a little. “There’s a button behind the door that’ll shut the garage door. Wait till I’m out, okay?”
Cheever nodded. “I don’t even get a kiss?” he teased.
“Oh, baby boy, I been waiting all night to give you a kiss.”
Mmm. Cheever should have been used to Blake’s kisses by now. Had it only been four weeks since their first one? That one had been instinctual, desperate, colored by sadness and shame.
This one was so much better—glorious, a seduction, Blake rubbing his mouth softly, sliding his hands down Cheever’s sides, under his waistband, cupping his behind through his underwear. Cheever moaned deliciously, bucking up against Blake’s hip. His own hands were wandering, none-too-subtly, and he shoved them under Blake’s shirt and found his little male nipples surrounded by short strands of silky hair.
He squeezed gently at first, and then a little harder. Blake’s hands on his backside got more aggressive, frantic, so Cheever gave a short, sharp pinch on each nipple.
Blake pulled away from him and moaned against his neck. “Okay,” he panted. “Good night kiss achieved. Don’t forget to hit that button and lock the garage.”
He disengaged so fast, Cheever might have wondered if he’d grown a second head if he hadn’t recognized the retreat for what it was.
Fear.
Fear of taking Cheever before Cheever knew his own heart. Fear of falling in too deep with Cheever and being brushed aside. What was it he’d said? A stepladder lover. God, Blake’s whole life, he’d been an afterthought. Until he’d joined the band and Cheever’s brothers had found him and inflicted their own wounds, completely by accident. Because Blake wasn’t, and could never be, Grant Adams.
Cheever didn’t give a shit about Grant Adams. All he’d ever want was Blake.
Cheever watched Blake hustling past the garage door. He glanced behind him and Cheever waved, then pretended like he was grabbing his stuff and going inside. Instead, he waited a few minutes, until Blake was crossing the yard to the other driveway. God, these houses were big, and the plots were big too, so Cheever waited. One, two, three….
He reached inside and hit the button that closed the door before grabbing his gear and hustling out. He ducked as the door came steadily down, getting out just in time to see Blake’s front door close.
He knocked this time, and waited.
Blake looked confused when he opened the door—but not dismayed.
Cheever met his eyes in the light from the porch. “No,” he said, reaching up to cup Blake’s cheek.
“No, what?”
“No, that wasn’t enough of a good-night kiss. Kiss me in the morning and ask me then.”
With that, he hauled Blake’s mouth on top of his own and shoved them both inside the house.
Wild Horses
BLAKE’S MIND shut down the minute he saw Cheever, looking determined and adult and so ready to take charge.
The kiss melted what little resistance was left rattling around in his skull.
Cheever’s taste, his enthusiasm—God, his need—sent Blake reeling back into the house, and Cheever just kept kissing him. He dropped his bag of stuff just inside the door, and suddenly the little shit was made of hands. Blake’s T-shirt, a new one, special for that night, got dragged over his head and dropped in the living room. His cargo shorts were pushed down his hips as they hit the stairs, and since he’d had just enough time to kick off his boots before the knock at the door, they stayed there as Cheever kept kissing, kept touching, and Blake just let him, allowing him access to his body, to his skin, to his soul, because he couldn’t imagine anybody else as qualified for the job.
He fell back against the stairs midway up and sat down hard, but Cheever didn’t slow down. Blake’s ears, his chin, his neck—Cheever nibbled and bit, suckled and laved them all, as Blake panted, trying to keep up with every sensation as it fired across his nerve endings. Using the stairs as leverage, Cheever leaned down and took Blake’s nipple into his mouth, suckling hard, and Blake cried out, suddenly so close to coming, it was embarrassing.
“Cheever! Not here!” Cheever pulled back, and Blake managed to find some dignity. “Please, baby boy. Let me at least give you a bed.”
Cheever straightened and offered him a hand, which he took. But when he’d stood, Cheever came up even with him and spanned his midsection with his long-fingered artist’s hands. “A bed is fine,” he whispered, teasing his lips along Blake’s jaw. “No more running, Blake. This’ll be us, you understand?”
Blake nodded, because he had no choice. “Yeah.”
“I mean it. I may make mistakes, say the wrong thing, but I’m not ever gonna willingly throw you away. You have to have some faith in me, in us. We’re gonna make love and it’s gonna be okay.”
Blake closed his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest almost as hard as his cock was throbbing in his undershorts. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. You got any ideas about the making love part? I… I got experience, but it seems like you got a vision.”
“I want to touch all of you,” Cheever whispered back. “And you can do the same to me. Let’s see where that goes.”
Blake swallowed, his throat almost too tight. “Cheever—”
His fingertips on Blake’s face were a comfort. “I promise, Blake. I won’t let you down.”
“You could never let me down.” This kid—this man—had only done his best. It was all Blake had ever wanted, someone who cared for him. “You don’t have it in you to hurt me.” Even when he moved on and flew away.
Cheever kissed him again, and then gave a gentle shove. “I don’t even know where your bedroom is.”
Blake turned and grabbed his hand, leaving the clothes where they’d fallen. He pulled Cheever past what looked to be two suites, one on either side of the hallway, complete with bathrooms and sitting rooms, and to a back room, a little smaller, but with the lights on. Cheever could see the rumpled bedclothes in burgundy and gold, and posters of rock legends on the walls.
Freddy Mercury and his cats, Bruce Springsteen and his children, Kurt Cobain holding Frances Bean, David Bowie with Iman and their son—Blake looked at the posters and saw them through Cheever’s eyes and felt naked. Would he notice the theme of rock stars and their families, in the room of the only single member of the band?
But Cheever had eyes only for Blake. “You look worried.”
With you? Always. But he responded with a kiss and allowed Cheever’s response to wash away the worry, the anxiety of being seen for who he was, of being left for who he wasn’t.
Cheever’s hands at his hips burned with intensity, and moved with an assurance Blake couldn’t imagine feeling at twenty-two with his first lover. Blake started to unbutton Cheever’s skinny jeans with fingers that trembled, and Cheever covered his hands, soothing his knuckles with gentle thumbs.
“Easy.”
Blake slowed down and took the fly button by button, then pushed down and helped Cheever out of his jeans and boxers with one fluid movement. They paused for a moment—Blake because he wanted to look, Cheever because he wanted to be seen.
“You like?” Cheever asked, a hint of smugness in the corners of his mouth. His body, long and pale, slender like a reed, had a dusting of cinnamon hair at his happy trail and a thicket of it at his unexpectedly large cock. His chest was almost completely hairless and his stomach concave, the skin soft to look at.
