by Amy Lane
“You take us to see horses,” Katy said, her voice quavering. “And you’re nice, and you never yell because I touched the wrong thing, and you’re not dirty rock stars, and they’re just so mean!”
She started crying, and Blake comforted her, taking her to her room and letting her cry on his shoulder until she fell asleep—prebath, of course! Blake hoped Briony wouldn’t be too cross. Katy was nine, so she was almost too old for this, but the family rule of thumb was never wake a sleeping child. Sheets could be washed, a bath could wait, but the time lost comforting an overtired kid could never be regained. He took Katy’s phone and her souvenirs and her hat and then her shoes, leaving her in her shorts and her pretty blouse while he tucked her in.
He caught Briony on the way out, when it was obvious she was looking for the girl.
“Sorry,” he said, gesturing to Katy’s room and closing the door behind him. They’d asked her if she wanted it done in all pink, but yellow and green had been her choices instead. Briony and Shelia had put butterfly decals on the walls, which she’d loved, and most of her stuffed animals were cats. Blake was under the impression that if staying put during the tour worked out, the kids would get pets, and he looked forward to coming home to that.
Briony grimaced. “Shit. Well, tomorrow’s a pool day, so we can just skip the bath and play in the pool instead, right?”
Practical woman. Blake adored her. He and Kell had once had to lift her bodily and take her to safety because she was busy running their equipment while a riot boiled up around them. He’d never forget the terror in Kell’s eyes as they realized that not only was the crowd getting ugly, but Briony was in the thick of it, running around at the foot of the stage.
“Yeah. She’s… she’s not excited about going to Grandma and Grandpa’s.”
Briony’s eyes got tight at the corners. “Neither are we. I’ll call Sam. Maybe she can be there for the visit.”
Blake looked behind him and made sure the door was shut. “I… I don’t like those people,” he said, letting his raw loathing escape. “I… I know it’s only two weeks, but she spends more time with the nanny than with them. And they talk shit about us.” He felt stupid saying it. “I mean, we’re expecting it, but Katy likes it here. When she goes with her mom, Sam takes time off and stuff and they have fun. I got no problem with that, but….”
“But that place killed Grant,” Briony said softly.
“Yeah.” Blake had walked in Grant’s shadow for a long time—long enough to stop hating the shade and start loving the shelter. Grant had left them, left the brothers, left Mackey, and Blake had stayed. Anything he did, any fuckup he made, would forever be measured by the fact that he’d stayed.
He’d been there as the brothers had grieved, had seen the damage wreaked on someone who should have been young and beautiful, but who instead had wasted in the poison of his parents’ garden.
Blake had lived in a poisoned garden once. Only he’d uprooted himself and gotten free. Helping the guys as they mourned their friend had made him realize something important about himself—he had enough compassion to feel for Grant Adams, to wish him happiness when his body let him go. He had enough self-respect not to hate Grant for coming first, and for being grateful he had a place in the lives of the men they’d both loved.
Katy had been the family’s blessing in so many ways. If nothing else, Blake would fall on his knees and kiss the man’s picture, just for moving hell and high water while on his deathbed to make sure his little girl got to belong to the Sanders’ family and not the place they were sending her now.
“We have no choice,” Briony said, deflating a little. “Kell has no choice. I’ll talk to Trav—”
“Trav is right here, and we need to move before she wakes up.”
Trav looked irritated, but then he often looked irritated. He’d looked irritated as fuck when he’d showed up at the hotel room to take over managing the band, and he’d looked fucking irritated as it became clear that the bunch of fuckups who’d been getting high and wandering lost for a year needed more than a manager—they’d needed a daddy figure.
And he’d looked irritated as fucking ass when he’d realized he was falling for Mackey Sanders and wanted nothing to do with being that man’s daddy.
But through it all, he’d provided guidance, structure—hell, a road map—for a bunch of guys who’d never had someone show them what a man really did when he walked in the world.
One of the few times Trav Ford did not look irritated was when he was playing with Grant Adams’s daughter. At first Blake had been unsure—Trav had spent most of Grant’s dying time with Grant and Mackey, and he just wasn’t that cuddly. But during Katy’s first visit, it became clear that Trav was one of her safety people—maybe he just exuded calm in chaos—and Trav, stoic, capable, irritated Trav—melted around the little girl, as he seemed to melt around nobody else but the other children.
Kids were his soft spot. Who knew?
So if Trav was in on this conversation, that meant it was important.
“I’ll call Sam Adams—”
Briony suddenly smirked, reminding Blake why she got best friend credit in Mackey’s heart.
“Samantha,” Trav corrected, giving Briony the kind of look any parent would give a recalcitrant twelve-year-old. “I’ll call Samantha and ask if we can fix the visit with the grandparents.” He grunted. “If nothing else, maybe we can put it off until Mackey’s online. As it is, he’s going to have to miss dropping her off, and that’ll kill him.”
“Maybe….” Blake chewed on his bottom lip. “Maybe, you know. Invite Sam out here instead? At least for a couple of weeks? Let her in on the summer fun or winter break.” He gave Briony a smile that was all teeth, but Briony perked up.
“That’s an awesome idea. Marcia is a great help, but….” She grimaced, and Blake remembered she had a secret.
“Shelia hasn’t told them yet?” he said in a low voice, and Briony shrugged.
“She hasn’t had time to take the test yet!”
Trav’s expression went from speculative to blank. “Are you serious?”
Briony’s sheepish look said it all. “So serious. We’re gonna need Marcia’s help full-time, Trav, like, we should pay the girl. She’s competent, the kids like her, and we’re gonna have….” She paused, and her eyes widened. “Oh, holy jebus. Yeah. Six. And if you all are taking off right when school starts….”
Trav rolled his eyes. “I expected this seven years ago,” he said. “You guys are killing me. Any thought about moving half our little gang somewhere else?”
They started to hash things out, and Blake’s eyes unfocused a little, the obvious solution presenting itself, but he didn’t want to step up and say it.
He should move. He should find an apartment nearby, within running distance so he could still be part of the family. But he should give over the studio house to Stevie and Jefferson’s family, and let Briony, Kell, and Mackey live here.
The whole reason they’d all moved into the big house in the first place was that the guys—none of them—could find their asses with both hands back then. But they were a different family now.
Blake didn’t need his brothers with him 24-7 to not use. He could, in fact, have a place of his own and a quiet life of his own.
With Cheever.
Sure.
Somewhere the guys didn’t have to see him fall apart if Cheever decided he didn’t want Blake in his life like that.
As Trav and Briony tried to set the family firefly jar in stone, Blake resolved to talk to Trav quietly later.
He could find something nearby. In the same neighborhood, hopefully—although everything was so big there.
Someplace he could park his own car. Someplace he could come over and play with the kids or hang at the pool. Someplace he could have a practice room and a painting room for Cheever.
Or, you know, a guest room. An anything room.
A painting room for Cheever.
“Blake?�
� Trav said, as Briony went off to finish up the kids’ baths.
“Yessir?”
“Don’t look like that. I want you to stay in the studio house, and I’ll look for something nearby for the twins.”
Blake’s mouth dropped open. “But—”
Trav shrugged. “Look, I know you like to think you’re the least important guy in the group, but Kell would lose his shit without you, and the twins have each other. Also, with your solo career, it’s convenient to have the studio so close. Just don’t make any plans to move soon, if that’s okay.”
Trav turned around to go back to whatever cave he’d come from, and Blake watched him go with an open mouth.
Cheever took that opportunity to run by, chasing a naked Kansas, who was egging him on, his four-year-old buttcheeks wiggling as he ran. “C’mon, Cheever, you’re the one with a towel.”
“What’s wrong?” Cheever asked, throwing the towel in a beautiful arc down the hallway.
“Nothing.” Blake blinked and pulled himself back to the present. “I just didn’t know Trav could read minds, that’s all.”
Cheever grimaced. “Damn, he’s scary enough as it is.”
“Uncle Cheever!” Kansas wailed, and Cheever took off again, leaving Blake to navigate the chaos on his own.
FINALLY ALL the kids were down, all the guys were with their significant others, and it was time for Blake to raid Mackey’s cupboard for cookies and go back next door.
He found the package of cookies and grinned in triumph, heading for the exit, only to be caught with his hand on the door by Cheever, who carried a backpack over his shoulder.
“You’re just going to leave me here?” he asked, not even hurt, but amused.
“Wasn’t sure you wanted to—”
Cheever stopped him with a kiss. “Unless I say I need my space, assume I want to stay.”
And all of the night before came flooding back. Of Blake, naked, body and soul, of Cheever turning him inside out and still claiming him.
And he wanted another night.
Blake was going to be blessed with another night in Cheever Sanders’s bed.
“Unless I say not tonight, assume I want you to stay.”
They’d be leaving on tour in September. How many more nights were there?
He wasn’t even sure it was his voice.
Cheever’s mouth claimed his again—he’d had a mint after dinner—and Blake devoured him greedily. Oh wow. How had Cheever been there, so close to him, all day, and they hadn’t done this since this morning?
Cheever crushed Blake up against his body, lining them both up and arching against Blake’s hip. “I want to stay,” he whispered. “Now c’mon. If we get caught having sex in the front room, I will never live it down.”
With that, he trotted out the door, Blake on his heels, the box of cookies in his hand all but forgotten.
They arrived at the house, and Cheever took the cookies from him, then found a cupboard that had apparently been filled with Blake’s favorites already.
“Briony,” he said smugly.
“She’s diabolical,” Blake agreed. Then he smiled sneakily. “But these are Mackey’s favorites, and sometimes his cookies just taste better.”
Cheever’s low chuckle gave Blake a happy little buzz. “That’s great! It’s, like, I don’t know, you guys are brothers!”
“Pretty much.” Yeah, Kell was the brother Blake would have special ordered, but he’d realized that nobody got to special order all their family. “Anyway, I steal Mackey’s cookies, he gets all competitive about ‘nobody better take my fuckin’ cookies!’ and—”
“And all of a sudden, he’s eating more,” Cheever said, his eyes doing this sort of glowing thing that said he approved.
Blake nodded. “So, want a Chips Ahoy!?”
Cheever shook his head. “Nope. My favorites are E.L. Fudge.”
“No! No! White chocolate covered Oreos!”
“You, sir, have champagne taste in cookies!” As he spoke, Cheever was moving closer, backing Blake up against the refrigerator, zeroing in on his mouth.
“Apparently, I have champagne taste in men too,” Blake teased, thinking it was true. Something about Cheever—his intelligence, maybe? His sense of humor? Maybe it was just the God-given lines of his slender body—but something told Blake repeatedly that Cheever was an indulgence. Too rich for his blood, too good to be permanent.
But standing there in the darkened kitchen, Cheever’s warmth permeating the air-conditioning, the smell of sweat and kids’ shampoo seeping into Blake’s senses, he felt the sudden craving for something sweet.
Cheever lowered his head, and Blake closed his eyes, anticipating the sweetness, and then Cheever jerked away.
“What were you all talking about, anyway?”
“Huh? What?” Blake opened his eyes and squinted.
“When I was chasing naked children through the house? What were you talking about?”
“About the twins getting a new house. I thought they’d move here and I’d get an apartment or something nearby—”
Cheever frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense. The studio’s important, and what? The kids are going to live in the top part of the house only? That’s silly. Trav said no, right?”
“Yeah. He said I should plan to stay here.”
Cheever nodded, gnawing on his lip. “That’s good. There’s enough room. I can move a studio here, and we can make an art room in the big house for the kids.”
Blake felt a little explosion right behind his eyes. “Why would you move in here?”
Cheever’s eyes got big, and for a moment, Blake thought he’d made him mad. That’s not what happened, though.
He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Because that’s what couples do,” he said with exaggerated patience. “But I’m starting to get that you’ve got a big blind spot about that for yourself, so I’m going to let that pass.”
Blake thought about pushing him away and schooling him on the ill-conceived idea of becoming that close, that fast, after only one night together. Instead he just grazed Cheever’s cheek with his knuckles.
“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
Cheever laughed, the sound so low and growly, Blake felt it where their stomachs touched. “I feel obligated to take you upstairs and make love again, if only to remind you how much you need me.”
Blake bit his lip to keep in the low cry that wanted to escape. “I can’t need you, boy. What happens when you leave?”
“Shut up,” Cheever said gently. “Not gonna happen.”
This time, the kiss landed, and Blake didn’t crave him any less than he had before. He opened his mouth and let Cheever in at the same time he took over the kiss, keeping his lips firm and his tongue dominating so Cheever knew….
Cheever knew…. Oh hell, the boy’s hands were in his pants and Blake couldn’t say no. He was kneading Blake’s backside, grazing his fingertips down the inside of Blake’s cheeks, and Blake rutted up against Cheever’s hip in need.
His fingertip sought out Blake’s pucker, and just when Blake moaned, Cheever pulled his hands up and cupped Blake’s waist.
Blake whimpered and ripped away from the kiss, resting his head against Cheever’s shoulder.
“This is so not fair,” he muttered, bucking against Cheever without restraint. “This is… this… oh God.”
Cheever tickled his ear with soft lips. “Go upstairs and get naked.”
“What?”
“I’ll be there. Just go get naked.” Cheever batted his eyelashes. “For me? I mean, I could blow you here—”
He made as though to squat on the kitchen floor, and Blake grabbed him by the bicep.
“No! Jesus, Cheever.”
“Then go. Naked. Facedown on the bed. Turn off the lights if you need to—”
“But—”
“Just go.” Cheever kissed him again, and Blake found himself running up the stairs, fully clothed this
time, his cock aching and body tingling in anticipation.
He said hello to the fish—who appeared to all be alive, which was nice—and then stripped quickly and did what Cheever asked, not sure why he was doing it, other than the fact that Cheever made him feel good.
Cheever was up a few moments after he’d gotten situated, with a bottle of orange juice and some napkins… and two boxes of cookies, which made Blake laugh softly to himself.
“Not taking any chances tonight?”
“Are you kidding? I’m getting a mini-fridge up here just to take care of you.” Cheever stopped for a moment and pulled the blinds over the bed up, then turned off the light.
“What?” Blake asked, turning slightly and resting his chin on his hand.
“You look….” Cheever ran his palm down Blake’s back, sliding it across his shoulders, down his spine, framing his hips. Blake arched against the bed, thrusting into the sheets because Cheever’s hands were hot and rough, and even when they were moving gently, they hinted at total possession.
“Look what?” Blake mumbled.
“Beautiful,” Cheever told him. He bent and kissed the back of Blake’s neck, adding a little teeth, a little tongue, and Blake moaned softly.
“So not—”
Cheever dragged his tongue down Blake’s spine, the same path his palm had taken. “See,” Cheever murmured, finishing off with a little nip at the small of Blake’s back. “That’s what you’re not getting. You see….” He parted Blake’s cheeks and blew softly, and Blake sucked in a breath that almost choked him. “You see…,” Cheever repeated, suckling on Blake’s buttock, hard enough to leave a mark. He let it go with a pop. “You see all the bad shit you told me, because you didn’t want me to feel alone.”
He licked the love bite, and Blake squirmed. He resisted the urge to pull his knees under his chest. Any more submission and he wouldn’t be able look Cheever in the eye tomorrow.
“It’s who I am,” Blake said, trying for dignity, but it came out in a whine.
“No.” Cheever parted him again, and this time swiped all the way down his crease with his wicked, terrible, wonderful tongue. Blake saw stars and buried his face in the sheets, not able to find any words.
