“Duuude. You hadn’t had sex in two years?” Billy crossed his hands over his crotch like it hurt in solidarity.
“Closer to three,” Hunter confessed. “Things were . . . not great at the end there.”
“Holy shit, my friend.”
Hunter got a stupid little thrill by being called “my friend” by Billy. Hanging with the band—minus Colin, who seemed to have a stick up his ass at all times—was a lot more fun than he’d expected.
Jesse pulled his latest marshmallow from the fire and started futzing with the graham crackers.
“So, like, I have an idea,” Billy said excitedly.
Jesse presented Hunter with another s’more.
“Oh, no.” He tried to wave it off. “You have it.”
“I made it for you,” said Jesse with such an odd earnestness that Hunter could only nod his thanks and accept the gooey offering.
“We should, like, publicize you as our gay friend,” Billy said. “Like, on Insta and stuff. Eventually, it will get out that you’re, like, one of us. And then you can sit back and let the dick roll in.”
Hunter barked a happy laugh. “‘Let the dick roll in’?” Billy was a goddamned delight.
“Well, yeah. I was trying to think what the gay version of ‘let the pussy roll in’ would be.” He turned to Jesse. “Do you think we have gay groupies? I don’t think we do. But I’m sure we could get some if we tried.”
Jesse, who had sat down and had another marshmallow on the go, merely raised his eyebrows. He had gone oddly silent. Not only was he not all over Billy for his presumption, like he’d been earlier in the day, he wasn’t talking at all.
“Well, I thank you for the offer, Billy,” Hunter said. “I’m touched.” He really was. And he actually wouldn’t mind hanging out with these guys some more, if not while he waited for “the dick to roll in.” “But I kind of have a professional reputation to maintain, and—don’t take this the wrong way—I’m not sure being splashed all over Instagram on the prowl with Jesse and the Joyride is a smart move, careerwise.”
Billy nodded sagely. “I can see that.” Then he stood. “Okay, well, enough chitchat. I’m getting in the lake. Any takers?”
Hunter looked to Jesse. He didn’t want to say that he was going to do what Jesse did, but . . . he was going to do what Jesse did.
“Nope, I’m done swimming,” Jesse said.
“Me too,” said Hunter.
“Okay, dudes. See ya.”
Jesse moved closer to Hunter to allow Billy to escape around him—he’d been blocking the main path that led to the fire pit.
“Finally.” Jesse sighed. “Sorry about all that.”
“He speaks!” Hunter teased. “I thought maybe the fire had hypnotized you.”
Jesse smirked. “Pro tip: the fastest way to get Billy to go away is to stop talking to him. Also, I sort of gave up trying to protect you from him by about the time croquet with shots started. Billy’s an acquired taste. I figure you’ve either acquired him by now, or you’re never going to.”
“I think I’ve acquired him.”
Jesse liked that answer, judging by the unguarded smile that blossomed as he pulled yet another exquisitely bronzed marshmallow out of the fire. “Are you ready for another one?”
“No!” said Hunter, holding his stomach.
“Okay, I’m done too, so I’ll torch this, then.” Jesse moved the poker back to the fire.
“Wait!” Something in Hunter rebelled at wasting such a meticulously cooked marshmallow. “Give me the marshmallow without the other stuff.”
Jesse pivoted, and the poker came out of the fire, the marshmallow pointing at Hunter. He started to grab it, but Jesse suddenly pulled it back.
“Careful!” Jesse said. “You’ll burn yourself.” He retracted the poker and started to remove the marshmallow from it.
“And you won’t?”
“I’m an expert at this,” Jesse said, and Hunter would have thought he was joking, but his face betrayed no hint of amusement. And, of course, he was an expert at marshmallow-toasting, along with about a million other things, so why wouldn’t he be an expert on removing molten marshmallows from sticks?
“Here,” Jesse extended his hand. The marshmallow rested between his thumb and first two fingers. But then the marshmallow stared to sag, and Jesse said, “Whoa!” and rotated his hand to try to save it.
Hunter didn’t even think about it until Jesse’s fingers were in his mouth. His aim as he lunged—his imperative—had been to save that perfect marshmallow. The idea of all Jesse’s work landing unceremoniously in the dirt had seemed unacceptably tragic at that moment.
But then, of course, Jesse’s fingers were in his mouth.
And maybe it was the booze, but they might as well have been on his dick.
They might as well have been everywhere on his body, actually, all at once. Everything in him jumped to attention, even as his brain started to panic. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d just sucked Jesse Jamison’s fingers into his mouth.
But, damn, his Tinder date from the other night had wrapped his mouth around Hunter’s cock and hadn’t been able to summon the kind of reaction Jesse had with a couple of fingers in Hunter’s mouth.
A couple of fingers that were not moving. They remained in his mouth, and Jesse’s eyes sparked.
Maybe. Or it might have been the reflection of the fire.
It was probably the fire.
The booze had made Hunter slow. He didn’t understand why Jesse hadn’t pulled his hand away.
Probably because Hunter hadn’t actually eaten the marshmallow, which, of course, had been the whole point.
So, as awkwardness started to creep in, he did. Tried to dislodge it without too much . . . sucking. He had to resort to sort of scraping his teeth along Jesse’s fingers, which judging by the way Jesse’s nostrils flared—like he was about to lash out in anger, almost—hadn’t been any more welcome than sucking would have.
He pulled his mouth off as quickly as possible, ordering himself not to look at the shiny, marshmallow-coated fingers he’d left behind. “Sorry,” he tried to say, but since his mouth was full of oozing marshmallow, it came out as an inarticulate mumble. He hammed it up a bit, chewing exaggeratedly, but Jesse didn’t even crack a smile.
Still, he forced himself to play it cool, to not look away. To look away would signal that he was embarrassed, that he was imbuing what had happened with more meaning than it deserved. “I didn’t want all your hard work to go to waste there,” he said when he had finally swallowed the damned marshmallow.
Jesse didn’t move. Not only had he not moved back to the spot he’d been occupying before Billy left, he hadn’t lowered his hand. Which left them face to face, staring at each other, Jesse’s hand floating in the air near Hunter’s lips. Jesse’s mouth was closed, but his jaw moved slightly, like he was grinding his teeth, and he was still doing that flaring thing with his nostrils. He looked like he was at war with himself.
God damn, Hunter hoped he hadn’t ruined everything. With a start that cut through his tipsy sluggishness, he realized Jesse Jamison was, functionally, his best friend.
And now, his functional best friend was, rightly, pissed off, and—
No. Wait.
Now his functional best friend was . . . about to kiss him?
While he was performing his mental self-flagellation, Jesse’s hand, which had been hovering so close to Hunter’s cheek, made contact with it.
It was like a brand. A brand that sucked the air out of his lungs. He was breathing heavily—short, sharp exhales through his mouth—as he watched Jesse’s face get closer and closer, the flames from the fire painting its sharp planes with a shifting light that was both eerie and beautiful.
And if Jesse had been at war with himself, suddenly, it was over. The victorious side emerged in the form of a smile—a small, knowing one he flashed for only a second before he placed his mouth over Hunter’s.
The kiss was loose,
a little bit sloppy, and insanely hot.
Maybe it was the fact that they were both buzzed. Or maybe it was more of Jesse’s inherent ability to know exactly what was called for in any given situation, but Hunter had never had a first kiss like this. There was no lead-up. No orderly progression from “now we are kissing tentatively with closed mouths” to “now someone is making an incursion” to “okay, now we’re all in.”
No. Jesse just lowered his already open mouth over Hunter’s, like this was something they did all the time, and let their tongues sink into each other’s mouths.
Jesse groaned.
No wait, that noise, that moan of relief, had been Hunter. It was like his body, his entire being, was setting down a huge burden, falling onto the warmest, fluffiest bed after days of toil.
It was followed by a matching groan he was pretty sure was Jesse; though, honestly, he was no longer certain about the boundary between them. And, as their tongues licked deep into each other’s mouth, he didn’t really care.
But then, another hand. Two hands on his head. Anchoring it. Tipping it back, holding it in place so Jesse’s desired angle could be achieved. And once it had been, the hands started working back along his skull, into his hair, pressing hard against his scalp.
Jesse was kissing him.
Jesse Jamison. Rock star. Famous person. Functional best friend.
A straight man.
Or at least a man everyone—Hunter included—assumed was straight.
Hunter had no idea what was going on with Jesse, but he’d be damned before he’d let himself be a piece on the side or an “experiment” for a straight rock star. No freaking way was he doing that again.
Hunter’s next groan was one of defeat, frustration, and, truth be told, a little bit of anger as he pressed his palms against Jesse’s gorgeous chest—his hands making contact with the bare skin he’d been admiring all day, touching it for the first and last time—and shoved. Hard.
Then he flinched in pain, because Jesse’s marshmallow-coated hand, which had been buried in Hunter’s hair, came out so fast and decisively that it took a chunk of his hair with it as Jesse was propelled backward.
“Shit,” Hunter said. Both because having his hair ripped out had hurt, but also because he was afraid Jesse was going to stumble into the fire. So, even though he’d just pushed Jesse away—and rather forcefully—he now lunged for him, aiming to save him from being burned.
But Jesse held his hands up in a “don’t touch me” gesture as he righted himself. Then he stepped away, so there was a good three feet between them. He muttered something unintelligible and tilted his head up to look at the sky.
“I’m sorry,” they both said, in unison, which had the effect of diffusing a little bit of the tension swirling around them. Because, really, as annoyed as he was at Jesse, Hunter had to shoulder his share of the blame.
“I don’t know why I did that,” said Jesse. “God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I started it by, uh, licking your fingers.”
“I held my fingers out to be licked,” Jesse countered, holding up the fingers in question, which still had several strands of Hunter’s hair adhered to them.
Hunter started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. The sight of his hair stuck to Jesse’s fingers was objectively funny.
To his relief, Jesse joined in. But as the laughter died down, he figured he should probably make one thing clear, as awkward as it was going to be.
“Jesse, I . . .” Damn. Hunter had no idea how to say this. How do you tell your rock star functional best friend that you can’t be his boy toy, if in fact he wants a boy toy, be it you or someone else, which you aren’t presuming he does? “Jesse, are you . . .?”
“No,” Jesse said decisively. “I literally have no idea why I did that.”
“Good,” said Hunter. “Because whatever my future holds . . .” Aww, damn. Why was this so hard? Jesse was looking at him with utter seriousness, paying so much attention it was like Hunter was about to reveal the secret to cold fusion. “I can’t live my life in the shadows anymore,” he finished.
“I know.” Jesse turned to stare at the fire. “I know you can’t.”
Well, that was a relief.
It was also a huge bummer because that kiss? Hunter was never going to forget that kiss. In fact, it was probably going to be the last thing he thought about before he did the proverbial shuffling off of this mortal coil.
Jesse, still staring at the fire, blew out a breath. “Can we chalk this evening up to too much booze and . . .”
“Too much booze, definitely,” said Hunter. “Sober croquet only from now on.” He paused, trying to stop himself from asking his next question, but he couldn’t help it. He had to know. “What else were you going to say? Too much booze and what?”
“Well, we’re friends, right?” Jesse glanced over and Hunter nodded. “So, like, forget that you’re gay and I’m . . . not. I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend . . . God.” His eyes went back to the flames, and he picked up his discarded marshmallow stick and started scratching the dirt with it. “This sounds so stupid. Hello, am I eight years old? But fuck it. What I was going to say was, I’ve never had as close a friend before. I mean, there’s the band, but that’s different.” Then he dropped the stick and looked at Hunter once again. This time, he kept looking. “When you’re a famous person, you don’t really meet people who actually appreciate you for you, who have no secret agenda. So having someone like you around? It’s new to me, and apparently I don’t know how to behave as a result. But I’d hate to have messed things up between us, because you . . . you get me.”
Hunter grinned. His face heated, and it wasn’t from the fire. He felt like he’d been picked to be on the cool jock’s team in gym class. He knew what Jesse meant. He and Jesse had sort of been friends at first sight, platonically falling for each other that day on the train and then effortlessly picking up their friendship again two years later. Normally, Hunter would be highly suspicious of a self-proclaimed straight guy who planted one on him and then insisted he was still one hundred percent straight, but they had a weird sort of chemistry that was hard to know what to do with given that they didn’t play for the same team. But all that stuff aside, Jesse was right. They got each other. “Yeah. I, uh, feel the same way.”
“So.” Jesse stood and zipped up his hoodie. “We cool?”
“Yeah,” said Hunter, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment swirling through him. “We’re cool.”
The funny thing was, they were cool. In a million years, Jesse wouldn’t have thought his little backpedalling campfire speech would have worked so well, but after the cottage weekend, things went back to normal—on the surface, anyway. As the months slipped by, the band moved from recording to postproduction and started gearing up for a big tour, and Jesse continued his hospital visits. Somehow, he’d gotten roped into judging an informal talent show the kids had decided to mount. Avery came back to visit and to help organize it. Every time he saw her, he said a prayer of thanks that she had remained well. All of the kids, actually, wormed their way into his thoughts more and more.
Jesse had never thought of himself as a kid person. He wasn’t patient or wise. He lacked the qualities required for good parenting. His sister had those qualities. Hunter had them too. They were often on display in his interactions with the kids.
But none of the kids seemed to care about Jesse’s shortcomings. They just hung out, usually in a conference room the hospital set aside to give them some room to spread out and play. Sometimes he and Madison and some of her friends played formally, a band working on mastering a song of the kids’ choosing. Sometimes he jammed, taking requests. Sometimes they goofed around taking selfies and talking about life in and out of the hospital.
Sometimes they talked about death.
Because sometimes one of the kids would be too sick to come by.
And sometimes—twice, to be exact—kids Jesse had known died.
They died. Children died.
He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that people died every day, children included. But all the same, it seemed unbelievable. They lived in a prosperous, learned society. How could this happen? He wanted to go up to the roof of the hospital and shout that very question, so loud everyone in the city had to pay attention. How can we let this happen?
Which was why, despite his original intention to go incognito—the kids had respected his request not to post about his visits on social media—he found himself agreeing to the hospital CEO’s request to record an ad for their new fundraising campaign.
All those suits had to do was ask him to do something, and he sighed, thought of Avery and Madison and the rest of them, and capitulated.
Matty was all for it. He was thrilled, in fact, when he learned of Jesse’s long-standing involvement at the hospital and started pressing Jesse to take selfies on his visits, a request that Jesse mostly ignored, even though ignoring Matty was not usually something he did.
So Jesse was at the hospital a lot more.
He was seeing a lot more of Hunter.
And, yeah, on the surface things were the same as they’d always been. They went to dinner. Sometimes they got takeout and took it to Hunter’s apartment or to Jesse’s house. When he could get away from the hospital—Dr. Baby Silver Fox said he was working on it, but to Jesse, he seemed like as much of a workaholic as ever—Hunter came to the cottage. He’d even started hanging with Jesse and the guys in the city occasionally.
Which was normal. They were buddies. Friends. Best friends, basically. As Jesse had so schmaltzily proclaimed that night at the cottage, they “got” each other.
So everything was fine. The same.
On the surface.
“Hey,” said Hunter, looking up from his desk and flashing a smile the same way he always did as Jesse rapped on the doorframe the same way he always did.
Infamous Page 8
