by Riley Sierra
A startled sound squeaking out of his throat, Blake slammed the door with a foot, neighbors be damned, and let Cal devour him. Cal shrugged his leather jacket to the floor, peeled Blake’s jacket off too, and shoved his hands roughly up under Blake’s shirt.
The taut skin and muscle of Blake’s abdomen was hot to the touch. Cal toyed with the shirt, then locked eyes with Blake, perking up his eyebrows once in a nonverbal command.
Blake understood and obeyed, fingers fumbling with the buttonholes even as they staggered toward the bedroom. By the time they reached the bedroom proper, both men wore nothing but blue jeans. Cal grabbed hold of Blake’s belt buckle and pulled him close, tongue thrusting into his mouth, kissing him hotly. Blake groaned and leaned into Cal’s touch, pliant and willing, and Cal felt himself grow rock hard in his pants.
They rocked together for a moment, delighting in the friction, skin on skin and denim-on-denim, erections brushing through the fabric. Blake felt just as needy as Cal did. When Cal finally slid Blake’s belt free and tugged his pants and shorts down, he settled his hands on the curve of Blake’s ass, squeezing hard. Blake thrust against him, hips bucking, and Cal held on tight.
“God, I hope you’re not tired,” Cal rasped in Blake’s ear, tongue flicking out to lick along it.
Wasting no time, Cal shoved Blake down onto the mattress facedown, their bedcovers still mussed from the morning. He reached around, fingers walking a teasing path down Blake’s midsection, then took hold of Blake’s cock in a strong grip, hand forming a tight seal.
He stroked Blake’s dick several times, hard and already leaking, his hand soon slick. He worked his hand over Blake’s shaft several times, pumping slowly, just slow enough that Blake began to writhe and wriggle against him. The friction of Blake’s body against his was unbearable. Cal unzipped his own fly and pulled his pants down his hips, boxers along with them.
Hot flesh against flesh, he pressed his body to Blake’s, the hardness of his cock nestled in between Blake’s cheeks. Easing back and forth, Cal rocked his body to Blake’s, jolts of electricity quivering through his body, his heart rate rising.
Blake felt so good against him.
It would be even better once he was inside.
“Please,” Blake was whimpering. “I can’t. Please.”
Cal leaned down, mouthing a lewd, slippery kiss all the way along Blake’s neck, then pulled back and searched through the bedside table. There were still a few condoms floating around in there, he knew. Lube too. He found both in short order and returned to Blake with a low, wicked laugh building in his chest.
There was nothing in the world he loved more than watching Blake come undone beneath him. Blake shouldered so much, carried so much, between his band and his career and all the feelings he felt, that music in him yearning to be set free... Cal imagined it did him good to have someone fuck him until his brain emptied out.
Pooling cool lube on his palm, Cal dipped in a fingertip and brushed it teasingly along Blake’s crack, then toward his entrance. Blake let out a soft gasp of surprise at the cold temperature, then pressed back against Cal’s hand, desperate for more pressure.
Unwrapping the condom and working it slowly over his cock, Cal adjusted it around himself, but didn’t shove into Blake just yet. They got rough sometimes, but not that rough.
Slowly, Cal used his fingers to tease Blake open, just the tips of them working against the tight, sensitive ring of his entrance. He pressed two fingers against that muscle almost enough to breach through, then pulled his hand back, wringing a frustrated whine out of Blake. Cal pressed one fingertip in, slow at first, then to the first knuckle. Blake hissed in satisfaction, his hips arching somewhat.
Playing one finger into Blake at a time, Cal added a second once he felt ready. He began to thrust a slow rhythm, not too hard and not too deep, Blake rocking back against him to meet it.
Cal bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to the sweat-beaded skin of Blake’s back. At the same time, he pressed a third finger in. Blake let out a mewl, twisting his fingers through the sheets.
Ever so slowly, Cal worked the fingers in and out of Blake’s body, steadily pressing into the tight heat of him. Blake groaned with every thrust now, filthy sounds that went straight to Cal’s dick, which was just about so hard it hurt.
Cal withdrew his hand, running it over the latex covering on his cock, then spread more lube all over it, readying it. He leaned over Blake from behind, the very tip of him up against Blake’s hole, and Blake humped desperately back against him, whispering nonsensical little mumblings, begging Cal to fuck him.
So Cal obliged. He pressed in with the same slow care he’d used with his hands, enjoying the way Blake’s tight heat sheathed him. He clenched the muscles in his ass, driving forward a little at a time, every inch of his skin alive with sensation. He pressed into Blake with more than just his cock. It was like a joining of their bodies on a spiritual level. Like they were becoming one.
Only when Cal was fully hilted in Blake did he let out a soft, pleased groan. His chest flush against Blake’s back, he stroked out a bit, then back in. Blake cried out, squirming beneath him.
Yes. He was close to losing control.
Cal picked up the pace, his rhythm quickening, every slow stroke of his cock hitting a place deep inside Blake’s body that caused him to cry out into the mattress. Cal stretched a hand forward, gripping a handful of Blake’s hair, thrusting into him much harder now. Blake muffled his cries in the bedding, fucking himself back against Cal in short, needy thrusts.
It was only by the strength of his willpower that Cal didn’t come then and there. But he knew he was close.
His thrusting growing heavier, more instinct-driven, more animal, Cal gripped at the powerful muscles of Blake’s thighs with his hands. He kneaded them, fingers smoothing over the skin, then finally he reached around and took hold of Blake’s cock again. Blake practically screamed.
Squeezing hard, Cal began to stroke along Blake’s length in time with the thrusts he made into Blake’s body. Blake’s noises turned more primal, deeper, and his breath was ragged with effort. Cal felt a familiar tingle and tightness in his balls. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before he came.
Driving into Blake with all his might, he gave in with wild abandon for the last few thrusts, letting Blake’s internal muscles milk him as he drove in again and again. Blake cried out once, high and feathery, then came with a whole-body shiver, his cock twitching in Cal’s hand. Cal felt Blake’s body tighten around him and that was all it took.
White-hot pleasure arced through him, so intense it was temporarily blinding. He held Blake down into the mattress, erupting into the condom, deep inside him, owning him yet also belonging to him. It was the most intense orgasm he could remember.
Collapsing atop Blake’s back, Cal needed several seconds to just breathe, his limbs utterly incapable of supporting him any longer. After regaining some strength, Cal rolled off Blake and into the bed. He peeled the condom off, knotted it at the top, and tossed it into the bin in the corner of the room.
Blake hadn’t moved. But he let out a low, pleased groan. Where Cal had kissed and sucked along his neck, a couple welts were forming.
Slowly, as if pulled together by gravity, they drifted up into one another’s arms. It took some contorting and the blankets were completely messed up, but they got there in the end.
Blake took a single finger and traced it along the line of Cal’s jaw.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, in that silly post-coital punch-drunk voice of his.
“I’m not sure that’s the word,” Cal said with a laugh.
“Shut up.” Blake pressed a kiss to his neck, then nipped him, just a tiny hint of teeth.
Within minutes, they were dozing off in one another’s arms. In their rightful places.
43
Cal, One Month Later
Cal could tell something was amiss the second he stepped through the apartment’s door.
Well, garbage wasn’t the right word. There was a subtle distinction between garbage and packaging. The mess strewn across Cal’s carpet was the latter. There was a pile of shrink wrap that looked to have been pulled off something large, a couple of big white plastic bags, now empty, and perhaps most tellingly, a cardboard box that was now empty and half-flattened.
Cal slipped his boots off and stepped into the living room. He followed the trail of debris to the kitchen, where plastic and paper rustling sounds could be heard. Blake was up to something.
A rectangular glass aquarium—Cal estimated it to be about ten-gallon sized—sat atop his kitchen counter. Beside it were the boxes for a sponge pump and a fifty-watt heat lamp. Strewn all over the kitchen floor were little plastic baggies, all empty now.
Blake was fussing with their contents on the counter itself: about a dozen different types of fake plastic aquarium plant. Some were long and ribbony like kelp, some were designed to look like weeds and corals. Blake, his face scrunched up with intense concentration, sorted through them with an audible “hmm.”
A baggie of black sand sat inside the aquarium.
And most importantly, in a little plastic cube near Blake’s open beer, a brilliant burgundy and blue betta fish swam. “Swam” being something of a misnomer, given how little space he had in the container. Cal hated that pet-store packaging, because it conditioned so many fish owners to think their bettas would do just fine in the tank equivalent of a fucking flower vase.
But Blake had clearly done his homework.
Cal just stared, his heart seized up, unsure what to even say. It was, without a doubt, the most romantic and thoughtful thing a person had ever done for him.
So instead, he asked the first thing that came to mind:
“What’s his name?”
He bent down, peering through the plastic container to watch the kitchen light glimmer off the fish’s scales. His long fins rippled gracefully in the water. A smile crept over Cal’s face, starting small and ending up huge. The fish was beautiful.
“Why would I name your fish?” Blake asked. He was smiling, too. It appeared to be contagious.
They spent the next hour setting the tank up, spreading the black sand across the bottom of the glass as a substrate. Cal chose three of the plants, not wanting to crowd it.
“The guy at the shop told me the black sand would help set off his colors,” Blake said, watching Cal work. Cal hadn’t set up an aquarium in years, but it wasn’t a talent easily forgotten. They popped in the filter and heater, then dropped a bit of solution into the water once they’d filled the tank all the way up.
“We won’t put him in right away,” Cal explained. “Tap water’s chlorinated and stuff. Got to let it sit for a bit, let the drops work their magic.”
Blake stepped back, wiping his hands off on the front of his button-down shirt.
“I hate to admit it, but that was actually pretty cool. I’ll never call your fish thing dorky again.”
“You don’t have the right to call anything dorky. You did theater.”
Blake dug an elbow into Cal’s side. Cal laughed and shoved him back, play-wrestling him up against the kitchen counter. Then he paused, bending down over Blake’s face, and kissed him. He kissed Blake until his tongue was sore. Kissed him for every month they’d spent apart. Kissed him as apology for every dumb thing he ever did.
Because one thing was clear: Blake Bradley loved him. Going to a pet store and listening to some excitable fish enthusiast talk him through a proper tank setup, all so he could buy Cal a single fish embodied the qualities of their relationship that Cal held so dear.
They took care of one another. They nurtured one another. Every part of him felt better and stronger when Blake was around. He couldn’t believe he’d managed so long without him.
* * *
They left the tank water overnight. Cal hated to leave the still-unnamed fish in that stupid holder, but he knew it wasn’t for much longer. Better safe than sorry.
Waking in the morning, his naked body all tangled up with Blake’s, Cal’s first thought was everything is warm, everything is good. His second thought, upon attaining slightly more consciousness, was fish!
After a slow and delicious shower together, Cal and Blake donned their bathrobes and marched into the kitchen. Blake eyeballed the fish in his little box while Cal made coffee, rummaging about the kitchen behind him.
“All right young soldier,” Blake said to the fish. “You’ve been tasked to recon some new terrain. God be with you.”
Cal looked over his shoulder, affection blossoming in his chest. Yeah, his boyfriend could never, ever tease another human about being a dork. Or being dramatic.
The toasty smell of coffee permeating the kitchen, Cal and Blake set their new fish free into his brand new home. Cal submerged the cube into the tank, its lid removed, and let the betta swim out at his own pace. He zipped out immediately, no caution to the movement whatsoever, and within minutes he was shimmying around in the much wider waters of the aquarium.
Satisfied, Cal tossed the plastic box in the trash.
“So what are you going to call him?” Blake asked, peering around Cal at the fish.
“He’s Denver sports team colors,” Cal said thoughtfully. “Could name him after a Mammoth or Avs player.”
“Dude. No.”
Cupping his chin in thought, Cal watched the betta dart between a few threads of fake plastic kelp. A name didn’t spring quickly to mind. And naming a fish was serious business. Taking a break, he made up their coffee and sipped his, settling down onto a stool at the kitchen bar.
Beside him, Blake did likewise.
After a moment, Blake let out a soft snort of disbelief.
“Would you fucking believe it,” he said.
Cal picked up his head with a quick hum, curious.
Blake recited something off his phone’s screen, thumbing downward to scroll down a page. He spoke in a somewhat high-and-mighty voice, imitating a teacher or something.
“Today we delve into a fresh new single by former Sinsationals backing guitarist Rhett Ballard. Ballard, who split from the band earlier this year, says he’s always been interested in giving a solo career the old college try.”
Cal almost spit his coffee out.
“That asshole’s got an album already?”
“Nah, just one song, it looks like. I always suspected he was working on material on his own. If he’s already putting out a single he must have been. But uh, that’s not the good part...”
Cal shut up, leaning forward and watching Blake with interest.
“While Ballard’s guitar skill goes without saying, we can’t help but feel like this departure from the norm doesn’t quite work. It’s not the rollicking country we’re used to. In fact, for a man known for upbeat guitar licks and pop-country smash hits, “Southwest Moon” is unrelentingly grim. If that’s your cup of tea, you might eagerly await Ballard’s record. We’re not sure many Sinsationals faithful will share that interest, however. Two point five stars.”
Gulping down some more of his coffee, Cal peered over Blake’s shoulder and skimmed the rest of the article. The reviewer was not a fan. While he didn’t dispute Rhett’s technical skill, the piece wasn’t kind.
“How ’bout that,” Cal said.
“How ’bout that indeed.”
Looking sideways toward Blake, Cal propped his head up in a hand.
“So what would you name the fish?”
Blake set his phone aside, then regarded the fish in its tank. He rolled his eyes upward in thought and stared at the ceiling. It took him several seconds before he answered.
“Roy. Like Roy Orbison.”
As weird as that suggestion was, Cal couldn’t summon any disagreement. He kind of liked it.
“Maybe just Roy,” he said. He felt Blake’s hand ghost over his own, squeezing just a hint.
“Yeah, just Roy.”<
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Epilogue
Blake, Six Months Later
As far as recording studios went, this place was no Carousel Records. And Denver was no Nashville. But Blake wasn’t too concerned by that. Dressed down in jeans and a ribbed tank top, he checked the time on his phone. Everyone was just about due to arrive.
Stepping into the studio’s control room, he caught Cal’s eye, then gave him a little wave. Cal brightened immediately, looking up from the mixing board.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t know how to really use this. Just looking.”
“Yeah, we pay a guy to do that,” Blake said, giving Cal a little bump to the hip with his own.
“I’m glad you’ve embraced that,” Cal said with a tiny, almost secretive smile.
One of the many things they’d hashed out about Blake’s return to the recording world was that he needed to understand he wasn’t a one-man army. The stress of trying to be everything to everyone on the last Sinsationals tour had worn him down to his bones. Now that Cal was back in the lineup, he’d be keeping a stern eye on whether or not Blake was overworking himself.
They fussed with the setup inside the booth itself: drum kit, several mics, an assortment of amps and pickups all in a pile. Excitement buzzing in his veins like the most potent drug there was, Blake flitted about nervously from station to station, like Roy Orbison in his tank.
One by one, the Sinsationals showed up.
And damn it, they still were the Sinsationals. Rhett Ballard and his publishing company didn’t have a trademark on that.
It had been a slow slog to get the band back together, but eventually Blake and his people had hammered out a deal with Carousel: they’d produce a six-song EP with Cal on guitar. If Carousel liked the so-called new lineup, they’d sign a two-album deal. Just like the latter half of the Sinsationals’ original contract was supposed to be.
Every time someone brought up the new lineup, Blake laughed. He still thought of having Cal back as the old lineup. Because welcoming Cal back into his life wasn’t just a changeup in his personal business. Cal had helped him get back to his roots in a musical way, too. Less distortion, fewer poppy choruses, more wild and crazy bluegrass with way too many banjo solos and Lily going to town on the fiddle.
