by Arden Powell
In the end, the fallout went like this:
Brad ended up with a broken leg, some cracked ribs, and a colorful assortment of scrapes and bruises. He might have escaped unscathed had he not made the mistake of grabbing Rikki’s half-dismantled bike instead of one of the other cultists’ more functional ones, but Rayne said that was karma in action. Kris wondered if he should feel bad about not feeling bad, but if anyone deserved a hospital trip, it was Brad.
The cult was arrested on twelve counts of kidnapping and unlawful confinement—Travis, the fireworks arsonist, was likewise arrested and charged—though Rikki narrowly escaped thanks to having been tied up at the time of their rescue, and Angel’s fierce insistence on vouching for him.
Calloway likewise avoided charges, though that wasn’t to do with Angel, but with the label stepping in to smooth things over. Kris didn’t hold a grudge, though Angel said she did, a little. Rayne seemed sympathetic, but not enough to resume their publicity stunt for the remainder of the festival—not that Brian would have let him anywhere near Cal following that whole debacle. Cassie was insufferably smug about the whole scenario, though Kris probably would have been too if he’d mounted a rescue mission like that while twelve people had let themselves be captured and tied up by three or four pseudo-religious skinheads.
Butch confessed that he spent the afternoon alternating between kicking himself for leaving them unguarded in their moment of need, and quietly laughing at them for being taken down so easily. He swore he would never take anything Rayne said at face value again, in case he was actually being coerced into sending his security away. Rayne apologized at great length and promised to negotiate a raise, which Butch said he would use to invest in a GPS tracker implanted under Rayne’s skin so he couldn’t get himself kidnapped again. Brian seemed uncomfortably keen on that idea, not that Kris could blame him.
Neither Passionfruit nor The Chokecherries were any worse for wear following their adventure, though Brian was verging on apoplectic as he conferred with the cops and made long-distance calls to lawyers, trying to cement the charges and get everyone’s stories straight. Kris did his best to stay out of Brian’s path, hoping that as long as Brian was preoccupied with those legal matters, he wouldn’t have time to kick Kris out of the band for bringing the peacock to Rayne and starting the whole mess in the first place.
After giving their statements to the cops, the bands only had a minute to spare before stumbling onto the stage for their afternoon show. Passionfruit played a good set, their adrenaline giving way to giggles as they bounced off one another, reveling in their freedom. Kris watched the show from side stage, pressed up against Rayne, their hands entangled between them. They hadn’t tried to kiss again. Kris knew they would during their show, and he’d love it as he always did, but after—when they left the stage, and the crowd finally went quiet—they were going to tuck themselves away somewhere dark and private, away from prying eyes. He could feel the promise in Rayne’s heartbeat and the heat from his body, and the light that glinted in his eyes, and in the curl of his hair.
“Are you going to tell them you’ve been promoted to godhood?” Kris asked, standing on tiptoe to reach Rayne’s ear and be heard above Passionfruit’s din.
“I do like it,” Rayne admitted. “I think I’d make a good god, don’t you?”
“Like your ego needs any more stroking,” Kris scoffed, but his heart still skipped a beat at the thought of worshipping Rayne like that, him laid out on an altar while Kris knelt for him, mouth watering.
Rayne squeezed Kris’s hand tighter.
Kris didn’t remember much of the show. The lights burned and the crowd screamed and Rayne was on fire, prowling to and fro like he couldn’t keep his hands off Kris, and singing like he needed the whole world to sing with him. Kris sang too, away from any mike—he couldn’t hear his own voice over the rush of blood and the screams from the audience and the pounding music, but he sang until his throat was raw and his head was spinning and he thought, Yeah, I can see where the cult is coming from. There was nothing like losing yourself in the oblivion of something beautiful, and Rayne—he was perfect. He demanded adoration, and the crowd was only too happy to give it to him.
Their stolen kisses came in rushes, hot and wet and all too brief, snuck in between verses. They were smiling too widely to do it properly, but Kris didn’t care—he didn’t care about a thousand people watching, either, because this time he knew it was for real. The kisses didn’t taste any sweeter for it, not yet. They were still a shot of sweat and cologne, bumped noses and teeth, but with every one Rayne reinforced the promise that soon—as soon as they got offstage—he was going to take Kris apart atom by atom, and Kris was going to love every second of it.
Kris finished the show in a daze, drunk on possibility. They didn’t stay for an encore—“Tomorrow,” Rayne said, “for the last show, but not now”—and Kris handed his guitar to Cassie without a word, not even stopping to get changed, as Rayne grabbed his hand and dragged him back to their bus, while the rest of the bands whooped and wolf-whistled behind them.
“What happened to the no-fucking-on-the-bus rule?” Kris asked.
Rayne paused, one foot on the step. “Is that what we’re doing right now?”
Kris wanted to do everything and then some. In lieu of answering, he climbed the last step of the bus and reached up to wrap his arms around Rayne’s neck and kissed him on the mouth.
It was better than kissing drunk or kissing onstage. Kris waited for the screams, or fireworks, or for the earth to tilt off its axis. None of it came. All he felt was warmth, starting in his lips like the burn from eating too many peppermints, and traveling down his body to burst around his heart and pool in his stomach, low and burning, until every inch of his body was transfused with it. He felt like he was glowing, but he didn’t want to open his eyes to look.
Rayne was solid against him, his hands running up Kris’s shoulders to tangle in his hair, teeth tugging at Kris’s bottom lip like he wanted to eat him alive. Kris would have let him.
“Can we—” Rayne began.
“Yes.”
Rayne laughed and backed Kris farther into the bus, toward the bunks. They stopped only when the backs of Kris’s knees hit the edge of his mattress. Rayne met his gaze, a question in his eyes, before pushing Kris down to sit. “I thought about this,” he confessed, “a lot more than I meant to. I imagined a hotel where I could spread you out on a real bed and take my time with you. Show you how good it can be.”
“Yeah?”
“Really draw it out,” Rayne promised. “Make it last for days.”
Kris blushed hard and his mouth went dry. He could practically feel his pupils blowing out, and he straightened, reaching for Rayne. There was little room in the bus, and as soon as they both tried to cram into Kris’s bunk there would be even less, but he was up for the challenge. He didn’t need to take up much space.
Rayne laughed. “God, I can’t believe I ever thought— ‘Historically straight,’ as if you were ever—”
“Stop talking,” Kris ordered, grabbing Rayne’s wrists. “Either kiss me or take your shirt off, I don’t care which.”
Rayne pulled his wrists free and unbuttoned his shirt one hole at a time, teasingly slow. The silk shifted, revealing his skin in glimpses, and Kris’s heart beat faster with every inch Rayne exposed.
“Tell me what you want,” Rayne said. “Tell me what you thought about.” He finally let his shirt fall open, and dropped it behind him on the bus floor. Kris shuffled forward until he was sitting on the very edge of the mattress, his feet on the floor, with Rayne standing between his knees, the opposite wall of bunks within touching distance of Rayne’s back. Kris put his hands on Rayne’s hips, his thumbs brushing the skin just above his belt.
“Get down here.”
Rayne ducked and crawled into the bunk beside Kris, all warm skin and still too many clothes.
“I need to memorize every single one of your tattoos now,” Kris tol
d him.
“Okay,” Rayne said, breathlessly. “Sounds good.”
Kris started at Rayne’s throat, on the side of his neck where the wild roses were. He kissed his way down to their leaves on Rayne’s shoulder, leaving tiny lipstick marks like petals as he went. His lipstick was purple this time, so dark it was nearly black. He couldn’t tell the difference between the ink and the plain skin by taste alone—it was all sweet and salty—but he was diligent in tracing every line, either with his tongue or his fingers. He kissed his way across the key under Rayne’s collarbone. He kissed the two birds on his chest. His breath ghosted over the snake that curled down Rayne’s arm; the last of the scab had since fallen away, but it was still so fresh in Kris’s memory that he was scared to touch it. He ran his fingers over the mandala on the back of Rayne’s neck and the sun between his shoulder blades, slow and deliberate, while Rayne panted and shivered under him. Kris was in no rush. Their last time had been so hurried—he didn’t regret it, not for a second—but now, he wanted to take his time.
He nipped Rayne’s skin, and Rayne tightened his grip in Kris’s hair, warningly. Kris laughed, his breath huffing over Rayne’s chest. “You can tell me to stop,” he pointed out, “if you have a better idea.”
“I might,” Rayne said.
“Does it involve taking off your pants?” Kris dipped lower, down past Rayne’s ribs to follow the faint line of his abs, then over to bite at the jut of his hip bones. He traced the veins in Rayne’s stomach down to where they disappeared under his belt. “You hiding any more ink down there?”
“No.”
Kris sat up. “Guess I’m done, then.”
“You’re the actual worst,” Rayne informed him, and pulled him into a kiss. Whatever was left of Kris’s lipstick smeared between them, and he moaned into Rayne’s mouth. When they pulled apart, Rayne looked fucked and all they’d done was make out; Kris couldn’t imagine how he appeared, with his makeup trashed and his hair mussed. Debauched might be the word for it.
He could always get more debauched.
“You, sit,” he said, and climbed over Rayne and out of the bunk to kneel on the bus floor, manhandling Rayne into the position he wanted: upright, with his feet on the floor and knees spread wide. Rayne went obediently, and soon Kris was sitting between his thighs, at eye level with his belt buckle. Kris wet his lips, his insides turning somersaults.
“I don’t really know how to do this, so you don’t get to complain about technique, okay?”
“Baby, you could bite it off and I’d probably thank you,” Rayne said. “I mean, try not to, but the bar is low.”
“Personally, I’m just going to try not to choke.” Kris took a deep breath. He was shaky, but the expression on Rayne’s face—like Kris was awe-inspiring, down on his knees like this—was exhilarating. He reached for Rayne’s belt. “Okay, rock star. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Rayne threaded his fingers through Kris’s hair and tugged to get Kris to look up again. “Hey,” Rayne said. “Love you.”
Kris’s butterflies flipped over and he grinned. “Love you too.” He slid Rayne’s belt from its buckle and smoothed his hands over Rayne’s hips. “Okay. Here we go.”
After, they lay side by side, crammed in the narrow bunk, sweaty and glowing.
“I still owe you dinner and roses,” Rayne commented, dragging his fingers up and down Kris’s side like he was petting a giant cat.
Kris hummed and stretched, tangling their legs together in the sheets. “We’re pretty close to Vegas. We could do a stopover before we head to LA. Hit the strip, find a little neon chapel, and get hitched on the down-low . . .”
Rayne flicked him in the ear, and Kris laughed and squirmed away.
“Can you imagine what Brian would say?” Rayne asked. “He wouldn’t let us out of his sight for the rest of our contracts. Maybe never.”
“Okay, no shotgun wedding.” Kris shuffled over to lie on his side, propped up on one elbow to look Rayne in the eye. Rayne gazed up at him, blissed out and adoring. “Roses and dinner for sure, though. No cop-outs this time.”
Rayne caught Kris’s hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing kisses over Kris’s knuckles. “No cop-outs this time,” he promised. “Like I said in New York—whatever you want, I’ll get you. Anything in the whole world, babe, it’s yours.”
“Well, I want to stay in the band,” Kris said. “After my contract’s up, I want to sign on for good, if Brian’s not out for my head.”
Rayne nodded. “He likes you, really. He’ll let you stay.”
Kris smiled, relieved. “And I want to do this again. Or something like this.”
“I wasn’t joking about the hotel,” Rayne said immediately. “Or if you don’t want a hotel—anywhere. Anytime. Whatever you want, that’s what I want.”
“Will you still take me to India and show me around? With or without the band, I’d really like that.”
“Yes, absolutely. I’ll take you everywhere and show you everything. What else?”
Kris bit his lip. “Mostly I just want you, any way I can get you.”
Rayne kissed him softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you the first time you told me. I panicked. I thought you were too good to be true.”
Kris rested his head on Rayne’s chest and let Rayne play with his hair. “I’m pretty sure I’ve fucked up my fair share in this. Let’s call it even.” He dropped a kiss to the nearest bird tattoo.
Rayne laughed and tugged his hair. “So we’re good?”
“We’re good.” Kris kissed the underside of Rayne’s jaw and flung an arm around his ribs, nestling in close. “We’re perfect.”
The next morning, Kris, Angel, and Rikki sat side by side in the shade of the bus, their legs stretched out in the sand, watching the clouds drift by. They were white and fluffy like cotton candy, and Kris wanted to remember the image forever: the bright-blue sky and the fierce orange desert sand, cacti on the horizon, and the endless highway winding through it all. Angel’s thigh was warm where it pressed against his, casual and unobtrusive. Rikki sat on her far side, and Kris shut his eyes, breathing in the hot, dry air, and took a moment to enjoy the company. They were a million miles from Rayne’s penthouse where he and Angel had first met, and Kris couldn’t imagine life without her now—her or Rayne.
“You and Rayne are a sure thing now, for real?” she asked.
“For sure for real,” he confirmed.
“Finally. It was driving me crazy trying to get you two on the same page, you know. Like you were both determined to make things as hard as possible.”
“Sorry. Next time I’ll listen to you from the start.”
“Smarten up and there won’t need to be a next time,” she suggested.
“That’s fair.” He couldn’t speak for Rayne, but now that he had him, Kris had no intention of letting this relationship slip through his fingers. He poked Angel in the shoulder. “Thanks for not giving up on us.”
She rolled her eyes and swatted him away, but she was smiling.
“What will you do after the festival?” Rikki asked Angel.
“I’ll finish the tour, then head back home to my club for a while. What about you? You’ve got no gang anymore.”
Rikki watched the sky for a minute, his expression contemplative. “I think that’s good, though. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll figure something out. Like a fresh start.” He dropped his gaze and turned his hands over in his lap, knotting his fingers together before asking softly, like it had been bothering him for a while: “How come you took a chance on me?” He kept his head down like he was afraid of what he might see in their faces.
“Did you not want us to?” Angel asked.
He shrugged.
She touched his chin and raised his head. His gaze flickered before settling on hers, his eyes wide and cautious. “I’m a black trans girl living in America: I have to believe in the good in people. If I weren’t an optimist, I might as well be dead. I’ll help you figure thi
ngs out, if you want.”
When Rikki leaned in to kiss her, he did it slowly, like he expected her to move away or shove him back, but she did neither. Kris cleared his throat and got to his feet.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said. They ignored him, so he ambled out of the shadow, scuffing the dust with his sneakers as he walked. It was a beautiful day, and cults notwithstanding, he’d be sorry to leave the desert. Still, he expected LA would be just as breathtaking, if in a different way. Hopefully with less kidnapping.
He returned ten or fifteen minutes later and dropped back down beside them like he’d never left. They both seemed bonelessly content, their fingers tangled together in the dust between their legs, shy smiles on their faces, eyes downcast. Kris thought back to his night on MDMA, when every touch sparked like electricity. Angel and Rikki were practically glowing; was that how Kris had seemed when he looked at Rayne? He elected not to comment apart from jostling Angel with his shoulder as he got comfortable.
“So?” he asked.
“He said he’d come back to the White Rabbit with me. Help out with repairs, that kind of stuff.”
Rikki nodded, something reverent in his gaze. “Anywhere. Anything, as long as it’s with her.”
Kris decided to trust Angel’s judge of character. “Well, good. I’m happy for you.”
The clouds had long since drifted past, leaving the sky bright blue and blue alone. Rikki curled up against Angel, leaning his head to rest on her shoulder, and traced shapes on the back of her hand with his thumb.
“You see that blond guy over there?” Kris asked, nodding to Tom, who was wandering the grounds, seemingly elated by his surroundings, and possibly high. “He’s going to be a priest someday. If you still have questions about finding a new god, you should talk to him sometime.”
“I don’t know if I want a new god,” Rikki said.
