Alluring Passion: A MM Contemporary Bundle

by Peter Styles

  He closed his eyes. And shifted his legs, and rolled over onto his side. Then he moved to his stomach. Restlessness settled at the nape of his neck, infuriating. Get up, his instincts said. Get up and get moving. Do something. It’s been too long since the last time.

  His eyes snapped open again and he rolled out of bed, onto his feet. Grabbing his guitar case, he shoved his feet into his shoes and trudged out of the room and back out through the lobby.

  “Leaving so soon?” the kind, fat woman at the desk said. She watched a small portable TV intently, not even looking in his direction. She didn’t need to, to know who he was. He was the only guest.

  “No,” Angel said. “I’ll be back. Just got a gig.”

  That was a lie, but it made the woman look up with a vague smile. “Good for you, hon.”

  Yeah, he thought sullenly, good for me.

  The day was as sweltering as ever as he reentered into it. He shoved that to the back of his mind and stuck to the shade of the trees planted in the yards of a neighborhood as he made his way towards the park. At least, he went where the signs for the park pointed him. Small towns had this tendency of shifting things around and not changing the signs because the locals already knew where everything was.

  Even if this turned out to be a pointless venture, he relished in the coolness of the shadows beneath the trees. They were giant specimens, oak and maple and pine. He wondered at what they might have seen in their long lives, and how different the world looked when they first emerged from beneath the earth as tender saplings. As he walked, he saw entire families of squirrels and even glimpsed the crested head of a red-bellied woodpecker up in the trimmed branches of an oak. Here and there, children shouted in play, sometimes scampering into view and then away again almost as swiftly. Dogs tied up in front yards barked at him, growling low in their throats to remind him that he didn’t belong here. He was a stranger, a cowboy unwelcomed in these parts.

  The adults he passed, either doing yardwork or watching their children, stared at him with the same intent in their eyes. Angel thought that they would growl at him too if they could.

  He didn’t smile at them. He didn’t wave. He just kept his eyes moving, letting them know they were seen and then cast aside as unimportant to him. He didn’t want their stories.

  The sidewalk eventually sloped down and Angel caught his first glimpse of the park. A small factory yard piled high with pieces of lumber stood between him and it, meaning all he could see was the long stretch of sidewalk, lush grass, and a bench. The closer he came, the more details revealed itself: the trees planted meticulously here and there, a furrow filled with water that split the park in half, and the train tracks that framed the far border. In the middle of the park, on one side of that watery ditch, he saw what appeared to be a monument of some kind. Interest piqued, he stepped off the sidewalk and onto the grass.

  The monument was a circle of cinderblocks buried in the earth, framing a patch of mulch and a young tree within that looked, to Angel’s inexperienced eyes, in desperate need of watering. The inner edge of the cinderblocks was framed with bronze plaques, each one listing the name of a soldier and the date they died.

  “Interesting,” Angel murmured. If he needed one, this might be an excuse to head to the graveyard if Chance didn’t come to him. He could say he was looking for the graves of these people. He wondered what battles claimed them, what war took them away.

  Well, this wasn’t a good spot for his music. That would be disrespectful, so he moved back deeper into the simple little park and jumped the muddy furrow to get to the other side. Each tree had a plaque, which he stopped and read at his leisure. These plaques listed the species of tree and the names of those who donated them. A nice little touch, he thought. It was also a desperate little touch. Astoria had so little to be proud of that they labeled everything they did have, as if to flaunt it and prove how privileged they actually were.

  Reaching the sidewalk again on the other side of the grass, he chose a bench that lay in the shadows beneath a watching tree. There he sat and pulled out his guitar, placing his hat upside down at his feet before playing.

  He ran through all the songs he wasn’t going to play that night, not wanting any passersby to have their enjoyment spoiled for them. He needn’t have worried, however. In the three hours that he played, no one walked by. Plenty of cars drove past, but no person ever came near him. And still he played anyway, because pleasing an audience and pleasing himself had long since become part of the same entity. Even if one did not happen, the other was there to soften the blow. He liked his own music, enjoyed the sound. The trees were his audience, and the bumblebees and birds gave accompaniment to the sounds he made.

  A wasted three hours, but also not a waste at all. After all, music was all he had.

  The restlessness melted with the movement of his fingers across the strings. His heartbeat aligned with the pacing of the notes, marking time better than any metronome. As always, he felt at peace.

  Finally coming to the end of the very last measure he intended to play, Angel stilled his fingers and took a deep breath. His hands were cramping and his fingertips were marked with deep lines from pressing on the strings, although that no longer hurt like it once did. Thick calluses prevented that.

  He put his guitar away again and then started off back the way he had come, hardly aware of the fact that he was smiling. This time when he tried to take a nap, he was successful. The echoes of his own songs carried him away to sleep, but they were not the very last thing he was aware of before drifting away.

  No, that was Chance, whose song was still unknown. For now.

  Angel slept.

  Chapter 7

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  The sad thing was, that was entirely a lie. Chance had known he was going to do this ever since the offer was made. He had just been lying to himself the whole time since then, pretending he didn’t care what Angel wanted. He didn’t care that Angel was going to be waiting for him to show up. A guy like that, no doubt he would leave the bar with someone else and hardly spare a thought as to who was actually supposed to show up instead.

  But, those were such lies! Chance was so interested that it almost made him feel stupid, like a preteen girl crushing after a member of some boy band who she would never in a million years actually meet. And even if he wasn’t interested, he knew he would have gone anyway. He had been a victim of constant letdowns for his entire life, constantly stood up or ignored. He couldn’t do that to another person. If Angel wanted to see him there, he was going to be there.

  But he put it off. Hours passed as he paced around the floor of his living room, holding his stomach and waiting for the nervousness to go away. It would pass, he told himself. Like a stomachache, it would pass. But it didn’t. In fact, it kept getting worse and worse. He ran through entire conversations in his head and then couldn’t remember a single word. How stupid was that, acting like a ditz over this weirdo?

  I’m pathetic.

  And becoming more and more pathetic as the minutes went by. Pretty soon he felt like he was going to tear his hair out, and then explode. But, he didn’t explode. Aside from running his hands through it a lot, his hair was unharmed. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was in his car and driving down the darkened streets to the Bullpen. His stomach hurt. His heart felt like it was in knots. Breath evaded him. He staggered into the bar like a dead man walking.

  And there sat Angel, at the very back of the bar in a booth with a bottle of beer tucked between his hands. His guitar, snug in its case, leaned against the wall. His head was tilted down, eyes obscured by a tangled screen of hair.

  Almost instantly, every bit of nerves and anticipation Chance had been feeling suddenly melted and flowed out of him. His next breath was deep, if not yet entirely calm. There was nothing to be scared of. Angel had apologized to him. Angel said nice things to him. For whatever reasons, Angel seemed to have time for him and there he was, waiting.

>   I can do this, Chance realized, stunned. I can actually do this.

  His feet carried him on over to the booth, where he stood nearby for just a moment to admire Angel’s hands. They were long-fingered and clearly dexterous, covered now in beaded moisture condensing on the outer surface of his beer bottle.

  “I came,” Chance said.

  Angel glanced up at him, a wicked grin forming slow and easy on his lips. “That was easy. I didn’t even have to do anything to you.”

  Chance practically collapsed into the bench on the other side of the booth, his knees gone weak as his burning groin stole all strength from the rest of his body. Blood rushed down to between his legs, filling his cock and leaving him dizzy. “I didn’t mean…”

  Angel interrupted his stammering with a short, sharp burst of laughter that held no real humor in it. “I know. I’m messing with you. I don’t know if you figured it out yet, but I like to do that to you.”

  Chance blushed hard, color creeping up his neck and burning his ears. The pressure down low eased a little, but he pressed his thighs together to try and alleviate the rest of it. Unfortunately, that just made it worse. Angel’s face was a blur, glimpsed through a haze of desire.

  “I…I did notice that. Uh…I thought you were going to play guitar?”

  “I did. I finished. Time ran out.”

  “Oh.” Chance’s shoulders slumped with disappointment.

  Angel noticed. “You were hoping I’d serenade you?”

  Oh, the heat continued to build inside him. If he stood any chance of surviving this conversation, he needed…something.

  Slapping his palms down on the table, Chance lurched to his feet. “I’m getting a drink,” he blurted out, and then he hurried up to the bar. Walking with a throbbing boner was no easy task; he felt like everyone in the bar knew what was wrong with him.

  A minute later, he made the walk back to the booth with a fair bit of trepidation. All this time, he’d been hoping for…something. And now that something seemed like it was here, and he had no idea what to do with it or where to go.

  The cold of the bottle in his hand helped ground him somewhat, though. He focused on it while sitting back down.

  “What is that?” Angel pointed at the bottle. “Some sort of local brew?”

  Chance shrugged, literally having no idea what he held in his hand. Then, to delay talking even further, he lifted the rim of the bottle to his mouth and took a swig.

  A foul, flat taste with a harsh edge not unlike that of actual mouthwash filled his senses, overwhelming everything inside him. The scent clogged his nose, stung his eyes. The taste burned in his throat all the way down, leaving his tongue a smoldering ruin. And then the alcohol hit his stomach, and he was a human pyre, burning and burning. Smoke oozed from his pores.

  Then, the effects faded and he was left with a buzzing in his brain and a need to drink more.

  Angel was laughing. “That’s the best series of faces I’ve ever seen a person make. Shit, I should get some of that.”

  Chance laughed and then hiccupped. “I’m not sure if this junk is actually legal.”

  “That’s the best kind.” Still smiling, Angel shook his head. “I guess you’re not much of a drinker, though.”

  “Nope.” Grinning, Chance took another gulp of beer. This time, it went down easier. “So, you were only allowed to play for a limited amount of time? That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Nah. I chose the time limit. You have to keep these things brief or people start to get annoyed.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s more to being a musician than just waving around an instrument,” Angel explained. Chance stared at his lips, mesmerized by how they moved. “You have to know how to play the audience, adjust to the situation. And you have to know when you’re pushing your limits. Best to stop when you’re ahead.”

  Chance looked down at the bottle in his hands. His fingers were small, pale, and useless. “That’s amazing,” he murmured. “How you can do something until you wear out your welcome. Me, if I knew I was going to wear out my welcome, I just wouldn’t do it at all.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Angel raised one eyebrow and took a sip of his own drink. “You came here, didn’t you?”

  His stomach churned unpleasantly, although the intensity of it was somewhat muted by the booze. “Am I wearing out my welcome?”

  “No, but you don’t take risks. But you took a risk coming here. I think that was pretty brave.”

  “I think you’re pretty, too,” Chance muttered. Angel laughed, although Chance didn’t really understand why. “Why do you keep complimenting me?”

  Angel leaned forward, shoving his empty beer bottle over to the side near the wall. His brown eyes were intense, glowing golden in the light. “Look, I like you. A lot. You get what I’m saying?”

  You like me and you throw rocks at me and tease me like a little boy who doesn’t know how to say the words.

  But the words were being said now, and Chance felt drunk on them. “I like you, too,” he breathed. He leaned forward now as well, knocking into his beer. Moving with lightning-fast speed, Angel caught it and then set it aside as well. “You’re weird. I like that.”

  Deep in the back of his mind, he should have been terrified of this. After all, he barely knew Angel. However, wasn’t that how relationships started? Two strangers, mutual attraction?

  He was overthinking this, just like he overthought everything. If he kept doing that, he would ruin this. And he didn’t want to ruin it.

  Before another thought could enter his mind, he did what his body was telling him to do. He rose up, butt lifting from the sticky bench with an unattractive sound not dissimilar to that of Velcro, and leaned across the table separating them to press his mouth hard against Angel’s.

  Angel’s lips were soft and yet firm, like a pair of muscular wings cradling his. He tasted of alcohol—or was that Chance tasting himself? Time ground to a halt in a way that it normally only ever did when he was working, the rest of the world passing them by.

  Then, Angel’s hand alighted on his shoulder and gently pushed him backwards. Chance jerked away, hurt. He opened his mouth, to say what he didn’t know, when someone spoke from behind him.

  “Take that gay shit somewhere else.”

  Squeaking, Chance shoved himself over to the corner of the booth and whirled to face a man who looked vaguely familiar. A quick struggle through the fog in his brain told him this was the manager he had seen talking to Angel before. That meant…

  “Don’t come back here,” the manager said to Angel. His face was a dark mask of disgust. “Finish your beers and get out. We don’t tolerate that disgusting shit here.”

  As if that wasn’t enough, now there were others staring over at them, clearly wondering who the gays were. Chance shrank down in his seat, squeezing his eyes shut tight. If any of these people were familiar with the job he did, they might get uncomfortable a disgusting gay performing burials for their loved ones. The representative in charge couldn’t fire him based on that, since that was discrimination, but they certainly could fire him if his revealed sexuality started causing trouble.

  His chest went tight. Words were locked inside him.

  Angel, on the other hand, looked as unruffled as a man could be. “We were just leaving,” he said calmly.

  The manager grunted and moved away, but not very far. Planting himself in a corner of shadows, while the other patrons openly stared, he waited.

  Chance started to stand up, but stopped when Angel’s long arm stretched out in front of him.

  “Don’t run,” Angel cautioned. He kept his voice low, so low it was nearly lost beneath the music. Chance focused on his lips, trying to read them and wondering how they would feel moving like that against his. “We aren’t doing anything wrong. Don’t let them think we were doing anything wrong. Just finish your beer. Take your time.”

  As though he watched himself in a movie, Chance reached out and grabbed onto his
beer. Despite what Angel said, he tried to hurry through it but that wasn’t very possible when the burn came anew each time. Eventually, with an inch left at the bottom, he gave up. “I’m done.”

  “So, let’s go.” Angel pierced him through with an intense stare. “Follow my lead, okay? Let me get up first.”

  Chance nodded, and the room kept bobbing long after he stopped.

  Angel stood, stretching leisurely and then grabbing his guitar with one hand. The other, he held out to Chance. “Shall we go?” he said.

  Chance nodded again, staggering slightly as he stood. His fingers curled in the spaces between Angel’s, their palms not quite matching up. Tingles raced up and down his whole arm, making walking even more difficult that it already was when the ground rocked beneath him like a boat on stormy seas.

  Somehow, they made it outside. Angel hung back now. “Where’s your car?” he said.

  Chance pointed and they went over to it. He collapsed against the bumper, breathing heavily. His mouth tasted metallic.

  Then, suddenly, a warm, hard body pressed firmly against his. Hips pressed to hips, stomachs together, hands grabbed at his wrists and pressed them against the cold metal of the car. Bending backwards, not in control of his actions, Chance looked up just in time to see Angel’s silhouetted face looming down over his. Their lips met again and it was even better than the first time. Now that they weren’t being watched, Chance closed his eyes and let his lips move, rubbing against Angel’s. The kiss carried on and on, lost somewhere in the realm between tenderness and pure need.

  And then it was over, both of them pulling apart and breathing heavy. Chance watched as dark speckles raced around in front of him, fascinated by their texture. He reached up to touch one, only to have his hand grabbed by strong fingers that held him tight.