by Sean Kennedy
On A Night Like This #3
Come into My World
By Sean Kennedy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
On A Night Like This: Never Too Late © 2017 Sean Kennedy.
Excerpt from On A Night Like This: In Your Eyes © 2017 Renae Kaye
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission, except where permitted by law.
To Australia’s true queen: our Kylie. Especially for you.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
Wow! by Sean Kennedy
(link)
Confide in Me by Renae Kaye
(link)
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Preview
Bio
Links
Chapter One
I hated being closeted.
But I was trapped. I made that decision for me a long time ago, and I’d been caught within it ever since. A foolish response to a question that could have easily been answered truthfully, and I wouldn’t be so miserable now, four years later.
I was a typical reality television star whose career stalled once their season was over and a bunch of newbies came in for the next. I was probably still considered a minor—very minor—celebrity, but I wasn’t getting invited to any red carpet events. Maybe the occasional event at a local council fair day. And I did it. It was a paid gig, and I needed as many of them as I could get.
But back in the day? I was on the cover of television magazines and there were a few fan websites dedicated to me. Those websites stopped being updated when they had someone else to focus on the year afterwards, and I was relegated to being “Hey, aren’t you…?” or, even worse, “Hey, weren’t you…?” as if I’d stopped existing and a lower-ranked clone took my place.
Anyway, I’m Steve Colvin and I won the second series of Remember My Name.
Vanessa Amorosi said I had the voice of an angel. And one of the sisters from Sister2Sister—I can’t remember which one—said I eclipsed Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah,” which actually embarrassed me as nobody could do that. My winner’s single went straight to number one and stayed there for six weeks. Then my album debuted at #117, I got dropped from my contract, and my second single was never released.
And the next year’s winner did exactly the same. Except their album debuted at #134. So, I won! Kind of. And even though I became an abject failure, I still get recognised. You would think they would completely forget about me, but I was prone to show up on those Whatever Happened To… lists, and anytime I actually tried to get a gig somewhere, singing my own songs, there was inevitably some write-up in a local gossip column pitying me and saying, “Surely he should realise the dream is over, and just give up?”
Yeah, and become what? My older brother is a bank teller. Should I have become that? Not that I am dissing Joel—he seemed happy enough, and he has a new boyfriend so he thinks life is fantastic—but bank teller was not my dream career.
I didn’t even know if singing was, anymore.
But it was how I made the little money I got. When you’re the least little bit famous, you’d always find some people who still gave a shit about you and turned up to your gigs. I knew mine by name. They’re ex-fourteen-year-old girls, who were now young eighteen-year-old women, but still in that fourteen-year-old mindset. And the twinks still loved me, or so Joel told me.
And, look, trust me, I wasn’t dissing any of them either. I couldn’t afford to. They’d usually drag along some friends as well, and when those friends got tired of having to go to the gigs of some has-been they kind of remembered, they got replaced with other friends. And the cycle continued.
And I was still dragging the weight of the closet behind me.
When the moment happened—and subsequently passed me by—the reporter caught me off guard. I had just been coming off stage after a performance on the show. It was Disco Week and I had done a rousing rendition of Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” (wearing a black jumpsuit, not a white bit of flowy material held together with a belt). I was miffed because special guest judge Rob “Millsy” Mills had told me he wasn’t sure Kylie really fit the theme, as the Disco era was more a product of the 1970s. I had to bite back the retort that at least I wasn’t best known for “fitting” into Paris Hilton—who knows, maybe I should have? I could have been showcased on heaps of those Remember This Controversial Television Moment lists or specials, sandwiched between Dicko telling Paulini she was too fat to wear a gold dress and Rick Ardon losing his Speedo during his appearance on Celebrity It’s A Knockout!
But, no. I had thanked him for his opinion and secretly cursed him to a lifetime of playing the Scarecrow in shopping centre tours of The Wizard of Oz during school holidays for the next decade.
And that was when they got me.
“Steve, as you know, it’s Pride Week before our next episode, and as an obvious lover of Kylie, is there anything you would like to say to your gay fan base?”
I froze. It was a dig at me; I was sure of it. The media was convinced all the guys on Remember My Name were gay, even though they needed us to be straight so we could continue to be sold to the audience and gain them magazine sales and page clicks online. They didn’t think gay boys would be as popular as the straight ones, and obviously knew nothing about the advent of slash fiction.
Maybe choosing Kylie had given me away. Of course, now I roll my eyes when I think back to that performance, and think yeah, der. I mean, sure there must be some straight men out there who love Kylie, but there’s a reason it’s a stereotype.
My mind slowly turning over, and sweat appearing on my brow, I managed to spit out, “Sure! I love all of my fans. Pride Week is a time to celebrate, and as a straight guy I realise how much better off I have it than some, so I can only offer my support and love and hope everybody has a great party!”
The reporter smirked at me. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, and with that I sealed my fate.
I played the game. There’s no denying I did it for myself. To stay on the show. To keep my straight female fans voting for me. Because I didn’t want to be known as “the gay contestant.”
Because I was a coward.
I could tell Joel was disappointed in me, although he never said anything. I had never told him I was gay as well, but I was pretty sure he suspected. Like knows like. But I couldn’t even be truthful with him. And I didn’t know how I could ever come out. I’d seen the reaction online to closeted celebrities who had taken their time to do so. Half the people admired them for doing so, because any out gay was supposedly a happier gay; the other half resented them for not being brave enough to do it earlier. It seemed you couldn’t win. So I lived in a state of stressed-out apathy—where I didn’t know what to do but was always anxious about it.
It didn’t help that I had Joel for a brother, either.
/> Joel Colvin was born out. Most photos of him as a kid showed him in some kind of pose, as if the song playing at his birth was “Vogue.” He was never in the closet at high school, saying, “It’s not like they don’t already guess it, so why bother pretending I’m not?” It seemed even his choice in boyfriends was a political act: his long-term uni boyfriend was the head of the campus Queer Alliance, and his new boyfriend, Mark, was a part-time drag queen. In my darker moments I dismissively thought Joel had to be the über gay.
If I did ever come out, people would be wondering why I had never been as brave as Joel, and why I thought I couldn’t come out to my parents as they were already so supportive with their first son (seriously, they had already been to see Mark perform at Connections and were calling him their third son) etcetera, etcetera.
Maybe, deep down, I just knew I couldn’t give a satisfactory answer.
Okay, I knew I couldn’t give a satisfactory answer. Just one word: fear.
Unjustified, but very real, fear.
And it affected everything. I’d drifted away from my family—and it was entirely my fault, because they never stopped trying and I pushed them away every opportunity I could get—and Joel always looked so hurt by it. He couldn’t hide his emotions like I could. Everything he felt was openly displayed. If he found something funny, he’d burst out with raucous laughter; if he was having a bad day, he’d tell you rather than saying “fine, thanks”; if he was sad, he’d cry until he got it out of his system. He was one of the most well-rounded people I knew—in fact, probably the only one.
But I knew my days were numbered. The more I tried to convince myself of something, the less I believed it. My secrets were crumbling around me, and the world was getting smaller.
Last night I hooked up with this guy on Grindr. He was fucking beautiful—dark haired, green-eyed, and pale skin with freckled shoulders. After we fucked he got out of bed and walked into the kitchen for a glass of water, his milky butt practically gleaming in the dim light that came from the hallway.
The guy I shared a house with, Callum, was staying over at a mate’s house like he did most Saturday nights, so I felt safe enough to invite a Grindr date over. I didn’t need Callum asking questions about a strange man wandering around the house naked.
But he wasn’t holding water when he came back. Silhouetted in the doorway, he was a masterpiece waiting to be painted. But he had a photo frame in his hand.
“How do you know Joel?” he asked.
Blood in my veins became a river of fire, and sweat beaded on my forehead. “You know Joel?”
“I work with him. He actually goes out with my best friend.”
Ah, fuck—he’d told me his name was Connor when he first came over, but who would have thought it would be that Connor?
He was obviously waiting for my response.
“He’s my brother,” I finally said.
“No shit!” Connor put the photo of Joel and me on my bedside table, where it disappeared back into the darkness of the room. He jumped into bed again, and idly twisted the hair on my chest with his index finger. “I can’t believe I had sex with Joel’s brother.”
“You can’t tell him,” I said.
“Do you really think I want to tell a friend I fucked his brother?”
The river of fire subsided—I was safe yet again.
“I didn’t even know his brother was gay,” he mused.
“Having your dick in his arse would probably give it away.” My tone had become sullen; I just wanted him to leave.
He laughed. Bugger, he was charming. But you could tell he was a player, and I was playing with fire just by letting him stay in my bed.
“So your parents really got a two-for-one deal, didn’t they?” His hand had travelled down and found me hard again. I didn’t even know why; dicks really do have a mind of their own. I gasped as he started stroking me off.
“They don’t know,” I managed to grunt.
“What?” His rhythm was consistent, with occasional swipes over the sensitive head with his thumb. “Nobody in your family knows you’re gay?”
“Nope.”
“Can I ask why?”
“It’s a long story.”
He stopped, but still held me in hand. I ached for him to begin again.
“If you know Joel, you’ll know how Joel he is,” I said.
Connor gave a slight squeeze to my cock. “You mean, nobody could ever mistake him for straight?”
“Yeah, he came out of the womb that way.”
His fingers slid up my shaft and teased me by remaining at the top for a moment, before sliding back down. Oh fuck, I just wanted him to pump me dry by this point. I would have told him my tax file number and where Gran hid the family jewels.
“So, he basically stole my thunder,” I continued. “When he officially came out, my parents practically held their own Pride parade. I was doomed from that moment on.”
I tried to thrust into his palm, to make him start again, but he used his free hand to hold my hip down. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. He could have been part of the Spanish Inquisition in a former life.
“But surely enough time has passed now?” he asked.
“I’ve spent so long denying it,” I said as he rewarded my confession by starting a slow stroke again, “that it just seems it can never happen.”
“You can’t live like that. It’ll kill you.”
“No, this is killing me,” I said, pointing at what he was doing.
He grinned, and stopped again.
“Bastard,” I said, through clenched teeth.
“You’re loving it.”
I had to admit, the pain was exquisite. But fuck, I wanted to come. Preferably against his chest to stake some claim over him like he did me. I was all for egalitarianism.
“If you don’t mind a bit of advice from a hook-up, I think you should try and get over these years of self-inflicted trauma and come out. Joel’s a good guy, so I can’t imagine—”
“Joel may be a good guy, but I’m not.” Fuck, I sounded like a camp Disney villain. Or was that an oxymoron?
“Sounds like you’re just putting up excuses again.”
“Are you going to make me come, or not?”
I guess that really summed up what I thought about his advice.
Connor shrugged, his glorious shoulders—he was obviously a regular gym attendee—bunching with muscles. “Sorry for speaking.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s not your problem.” I was going to go limp any second now.
“So you recognise it’s a problem?”
I didn’t expect to get psychoanalysed while being jerked off. And I was wilting, as I suspected. “I just mean that it’s something I get to figure out on my own terms, like everybody else does coming out.”
He started jerking me off again, but this time he wasn’t looking at me. I was hard soon enough, and I came without a sound. He let go of my cock, and it lay raw and limp against my thigh, still pulsing.
Connor wiped his hand off on my bed sheet and started fumbling around for his clothes. His shirt was hanging on the neck of my guitar and his jocks had landed under my piano keyboard. I hoped he wouldn’t find them, and have to come back another time to retrieve them.
Even after finding out he knew my brother, I was already imagining future hook-ups between us. I liked him. He was sexy, funny, and could hold a conversation. Maybe bankers were more interesting than I gave them credit for.
Had I just make a banker joke? Ugh.
“You don’t have to go just yet,” I said, wiping myself down with the corner of my sheet.
He paused from putting on his shoes. “Nah, I think it’s for the best.”
I was being brushed off, and I deserved it. But all I could think about was making sure my skin was saved. “You’re not going to tell my brother, are you?”
I heard his car keys jangle as he pulled them out of his pocket. “I’m not a kid who has to be reminded. As you said, you
get to judge when you come out.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He left without saying goodbye, and I logged on to Grindr and blocked his profile.
I didn’t know why I did that. It was useless anyway; if he was a friend of Mark and Joel’s I could run into him again. He rubbed me up the wrong way, no pun intended. He got to me.
And out of all the guys I’d hooked up with, there was only one other who had gotten under my skin like that—although for entirely different reasons.
His name was Dev, and I didn’t know why the fuck he let me treat him the way I did.
And I was so aware of what I was doing and I couldn’t stop myself. Like I said, I was the worst.
Dev is a completely different person to someone like Connor. He’s more introverted, but he didn’t have a self-esteem problem or anything like that. Dev is coolly confident, and always measured in his responses to everything. You could tell he truly thought about what he was saying before he said it, and because of that you could trust his opinion on anything—even if you didn’t like it.
But he could also be funny, and I really liked hanging out with him. It was why I kept going back to him, even though he deserved better. I loved how his dark eyes glinted when he was happy, and I felt like I could fall into them if I let myself. I knew he wanted more, but I kept pushing him away. It was so fucked. But this was also what I was doing to myself, and it was why I resented Joel so much at the moment. He had the boyfriend, the job—well, a job—and the life he wanted.
I wanted that.
Dev’s also a rehabilitation nurse, so he is a really good person. His job is a cause, looking after people and trying to make them well enough so they could go home able to look after themselves again. Believe me, I saw the parallels and the irony of me ending up in his life.
When I first saw his pic on Grindr, he didn’t have a face. He was in his nursing scrubs, and he wore them well. I wished I could make him turn around so I could see his arse in them. I bet they clung beautifully—later on, I would find out they did and he would start to think I was a pervert with a hospital fetish. The V-neck of his scrubs gave a beautiful glimpse of a toned but not muscly chest, as the angle was looking down upon him. I wanted him, despite being faceless, and I’d hoped he would want me.
