The Temple of Heaven

by Z. Allora

  Jordon followed the herd and stood on the escalator. The all-white terminal had soaring ceilings with multicolored hanging mobiles. Boy, how cool it would be to have his art displayed for millions to see—though no one stopped to appreciate the red metal ribbon that cut across the area they just walked through. How could they not notice the light installation? There had to be tens of thousands of bulbs painstakingly designed to create an ever-changing pattern, so visually pleasing Jordon imagined he could hear the colors.

  Shit, that line. That was what everyone else focused on. The slow-moving tail leading to Passport Control looked like the line was a half a mile long if it were unwound.

  After an eternal wait, Jordon crossed the yellow line and stood in front of the customs agent.

  The man in a crisp olive-green uniform and hat asked in perfect English, “Why are you here?”

  “My brother’s band is on tour, and I’m attending the shows.” Jordon used the reason the Dark Angels’ manager had given him. Keep it simple.

  “How long are you here?” The agent scrutinized Jordon like he’d broken four laws exiting the plane.

  “In China, um… it’s a whole tour….” Shit. How long would he be in China? It was a simple question. “Um, a few weeks.”

  The agent studied him. “Less than thirty days?”

  Jordon stifled a yawn. He was pretty sure, so he nodded. “Yes.”

  The agent inspected his passport and frowned as he leafed through the filled pages. He found a blank page, slammed the stamp down, and took the form Jordon had filled out on the plane.

  Whew. He bypassed the duty-free stores and saw on a monitor that his plane’s luggage would be on belt three. Thankfully, both bags had arrived.

  He headed toward the exit, and the agent at the door stopped the family of four in front of him.

  Oh boy. Here we go. The agent questioned them in Chinese and then sent them to a different line. The agent barely looked at Jordon and waved him through.

  Bursting through the auto-open doors, he faced people lining the forty-foot-long railing separating him from the exit. Some held flowers or balloons, others clutched signs, and everyone scanned the crowd looking for someone else.

  Story of his life.

  He wished he hadn’t told Zack not to come. Getting into a car with a stranger and having to make small talk wasn’t high on his list of fun-time activities.

  “Jordon Davis” read an iPad sign. He braced himself, only to find Zack holding the device. His brother’s fiancé, Andrew Nikeman, stood behind him.

  “I told you you didn’t have to show up, but I’m so glad you did.” Jordon collapsed into Zack’s arms.

  He let his brother hug him tight until Zack said, “You look like shit. I still can’t believe you forgot when your flight was and—”

  “Zack. Jordon got here in one piece.” Andrew saved him. “But he’s probably exhausted. Let’s get him to Suzhou.”

  “You’re right, Drew,” Zack admitted.

  Hell might have frozen over. For the first time ever, Jordon didn’t take issue with Andrew’s interference.

  Zack kept hugging Jordon almost too hard. “I’m sorry, Jordie. I got worried, and maybe I might have missed you.”

  Holy crap! One growl from Andrew, and Zack not only backed off but he played nice? The whole whips and chains thing they had going appeared to help give his brother perspective and keep him in line.

  Zack released him, allowing Jordon to shake Andrew’s hand. Jordon mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Andrew nodded and gestured to the man standing beside them. “This is our driver, Jack. He’s going to drive us to Suzhou in his MPV.”

  Jordon nodded back to the man, who didn’t want to shake his hand but only wanted to grab his two bags and knapsack. “Um, thanks. But what’s MPV?”

  “Multi-person vehicle. It’s what they call SUVs here,” Andrew supplied, proving once again he was quicker than Google.

  The three of them followed the driver to the covered parking garage. They piled into the SUV… MPV.

  Jordon lay down on the bench seat. Heaven. He could live in this bench seat, because he was never moving again.

  “I saw your boyfriend sing last night,” Zack said, low enough that even if the driver did understand English he wouldn’t have overheard.

  Jordon pushed upright. “Mother of Monet! Do I really need to say it again?”

  Zack leaned over the seat to ensure Jordon couldn’t avoid his eye roll.

  Curiosity tickled Jordon’s brain. God, the exhaustion swallowed him, but he remained sitting. He had to know. “How was the band?”

  “Made in China has a great sound, and a pretty good following,” Andrew commented.

  “Even Dust was impressed,” Zack added.

  Now that was saying something. “Good.”

  “Tian Di commanded the stage as well as Angel, but in a different way. Hard to describe what he did, though he knew how to work the crowd.” Zack grinned.

  “So you don’t think I made a mistake suggesting them?” Jordon hated himself for needing the validation.

  “No, and besides, if Made in China hadn’t impressed all the people who scouted them, they wouldn’t be on the tour.”

  Relief eased Jordon’s mind. Right, this was business. “But he, I mean, they were good?”

  “Excellent.” Zack nodded. “They—”

  “Zack, don’t you think Jordon should get a little rest?” Andrew, the killjoy, interrupted.

  Smiling at Andrew like he’d given Michelangelo the lapis lazuli to paint the ceiling, Zack agreed. “Oh, right. It’s about an hour and a half without traffic, so get a bit of rest, Jordie.”

  Andrew held out his hand to Jordon. “Give us your phone, and we’ll swap out the SIM card so you can use it here.”

  Jordon handed over the phone and fell onto his side before they even got out of the airport parking garage.

  Fuck! He was going to meet Tian Di Zhao. Good God, it wasn’t like he’d forgotten. Eh, the singer was probably an asshole. Most of the guys in rock bands weren’t the kind to give Jordon the time of day, and if they did, it was only to get in someone else’s good graces.

  Though, holy hell, it wasn’t often one got to meet the celebrity they’d most like to… orgasm with.

  THE ROAR of the crowd was deafening, but it didn’t stop Jordon from climbing onstage with Made in China. Tian Di Zhao, the rock god, stood there waiting for Jordon to worship him.

  Jordon dropped to his knees in front of his idol. His fingers trembled as he dared to run them over Tian Di’s tight denim jeans, which vanished into his over-the-knee boots.

  The star of his dreams stripped off his long black intricately embroidered jacket, and the silk puddled to the floor. He stood there half-naked, his long dark hair blowing around him as if he were filming a video shoot.

  Oh, Jordon wanted him to shoot all right, but footage of a music video wasn’t what he hoped for. He could almost taste the salty sweetness.

  He traced his fingers over the outline of every ridge, bulge, and muscle in Tian Di’s thighs. Then he danced his fingers along the hidden zipper.

  Tian Di started to sing into his microphone.

  An arena full of people watched, but Jordon saw no reason not to unzip Tian Di’s pants. He wore nothing under them, and everything Jordon wanted access to was right there. Staring up at Tian Di, Jordon licked his lips.

  With a thrust of his hips, Tian Di touched the tip of his erection to Jordon’s mouth.

  The shape was so perfect Jordon might have drawn Tian Di himself. Unlike with his mangas, there was no need to erase for the censors… he only had to suck. Jordon parted his lips to take Tian Di in. He pushed forward so the cock hit the back of his throat, and with his lips, circled the base of the cock, and swallowed.

  Throwing back his head, Tian Di moaned. The lyrics got all breathy and twisted. “Jordon. Jordon.”

  “JORDON? WAKE up. We’re at the hotel.”

  “What? Oh.�
� Shit, that dream was so… real.

  Jordon staggered out of the car and waited for Andrew to settle payment with the driver. A railing in front of him overlooked a lake, a row of restaurants lined the street to the left, and the twenty-story hotel stood on the right. Huge potted trees created a walkway leading to the hotel’s door.

  “We got your bags. You look like you can barely walk.” Zack guided him into the hotel lobby.

  “I’m fine.” He threw his knapsack over his shoulder and got in line at the reception desk.

  Zack shook his head. “What are you doing?”

  “Duh? Checking in.” Jordon did know how some things worked.

  “Already done. Here’s your keycard.” Zack pulled out the plastic and handed the card to Jordon.

  “Thanks.” Jordon trailed after Zack and Andrew to the elevator.

  “It makes you insert your card before the elevator registers your floor number.” Zack demonstrated how the elevator worked.

  “Got it.” Jeez, his brother really didn’t think he could figure out even the simplest things.

  Zack opened Jordon’s room.

  “Um, why do you have a second key to my room?”

  “How many times have you forgotten or lost yours?” Zack might have a point. “I figured I’d save you time at the front desk, at least once.”

  “Whatever.” It didn’t matter, and even if it did, he was too tired to fight about it. Jordon stepped past Zack and into his room.

  “Welcome to your classic room. It’s got the basics: bed, desk, chair, reading chair, refrigerator, and a microwave.” Zack meandered over to the drapery and flung the fabric open. “It’s overlooking the Golden Cock Lake.”

  Jordon tossed his knapsack on the dresser. “What? You’re joking?”

  “Nope, your singer lives on the Golden Cock Lake.” Zack chortled.

  Andrew’s glower, directed at Zack, appeared to stop the jackassery and make electricity pass between them. “It’s actual name on the map is Jinji Lake. Though according to Made in China’s self-appointed manager, the locals call it the Golden Chicken Lake, but the translation could be rooster.”

  “Meaning cock, so—”

  “Zack?” Andrew said way too much for just using Zack’s name.

  Zack stood straighter. “Yes, Drew.”

  Jordon so wasn’t in the mood for whatever this was. “I should shower.”

  “Meet us downstairs in twenty minutes.” Zack focused more on Andrew than Jordon.

  “Twenty minutes?” Shit! How was he ever going to be ready?

  “Yeah, everyone’s at Made in China’s apartment waiting for you, so no time to jerk off.” Zack stalked over to Andrew.

  Andrew nodded. The man studied Zack like he had the power of the universe in him. “True. Twenty minutes means there is very little time.”

  Jordon grimaced. Not going there. He hurried into the bathroom, not bothering to let them out.

  He took one superquick shower, which forced him to forgo any release. He barely had time to blow-dry his hair. Shit, what to wear?

  He didn’t even unpack. Unzipping his suitcases, he found them empty. What? Had he been robbed?

  Opening the closet, he saw all his clothing hanging there, organized by type, then color. He opened the drawers and found his packing cubes unzipped, ready and accessible. Ignoring the fact his brother or Andrew had touched his underwear and how that made him feel like a kid, he grabbed a pair and slid them on.

  Stopping in front of the mirror, he stared. Damn bikini briefs might help him remember he wasn’t a kid. Not that anyone would see the satiny blue material, but they looked kind of sexy. He’d tried to paint some underwear two years ago, but the paint dried hard and came out scratchy. Hmmm, maybe he could experiment with fabric paint or direct dye and—

  His phone beeped. He grabbed the cell and read a text from Zack: 5 minutes.

  Shit! He pulled on a black T-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and pushed his feet into a pair of Vans. Rushing into the bathroom, he grabbed some mousse and worked the product through his hair to accent the waves the way Andrew taught him. After grabbing his wallet, his partially charged cell phone—thanks to his brother—and pulling his leather messenger bag out of his knapsack, he raced out the door.

  In the elevator, he texted Gwen: Travel sux. Many delays. I’m here. Heading to party with dead phone. Kill me later.

  Andrew and Zack were in the lobby, sitting in the stylish gold and apple-green chairs. The furniture complemented the gold carpeting and walls. The concentric circles on the ceiling, echoed in the contrasting orange modern light fixture, struck an odd chord in Jordon. The space tried to be lush and upscale, but failed in the art department.

  “Fanboy, much?” Zack pointed at Jordon.

  “What?” Jordon glanced down at his T-shirt. Oh geez!

  “I’m sure they’ll be flattered,” Andrew said.

  Jordon tugged at the T-shirt. “I should change.”

  Zack shook his head. “We don’t have time. Besides, if you look past the stalker factor, it’s cute that you designed the T-shirt for the band.”

  Andrew patted Jordon on the shoulder. “Zack’s right. I’m sure they’ll be honored you took the time.”

  “Come on, stan. We should go.” Zack gestured toward the door.

  “Stan? Dare I ask?” Jordon wasn’t sure if he should glare at his brother or not.

  “Stan is short for stalker fan.”

  “Funny.” Jordon stomped past Zack and Andrew. “And stop unpacking my clothes for me.”

  “We were just trying to help,” Zack called out.

  Jordon grumbled. “But I don’t need or want that much help.”

  Zack caught up and handed him cards. “Here. These are taxi cards. You live and die by them here.”

  What the fuck? “Dramatic much? Meaning?”

  “Unless you learned Mandarin in the last few days, you might have a hard time finding your way back to the hotel if you’re separated. Drew also took a picture of the hotel card with your phone just in case.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Jordon put the cards in his bag.

  Andrew handed him a baggie of stuff.

  “What’s this?” The package contained a packet of tissue, another hotel card, one hundred yuan, which was about fifteen dollars, soap leaves, a package of wet wipes, and several coins.

  “For restrooms. Unless we’re in a Western place, you might need it.” Zack grimaced as if he’d run into some trouble.

  Andrew added, “They usually charge one RMB to use the bathrooms, and many don’t have bathroom tissue or soap. The one hundred yuan is taxi or food money for places that don’t take credit cards.”

  “Got it. Thanks.” Jordon slipped the package into his bag.

  Andrew led them on a walking street out to a six-lane road. “If we took the other path, it meanders along the boardwalk that rings most of the lake. But since you’re tired, I thought heading along the main road would get us there sooner. That’s the band’s apartment building.”

  Jordon looked in the direction Andrew pointed—at a twenty-six-story apartment building. Tian Di Zhao was just three blocks away.

  “Hey, slow down. It’s not a race,” Zack whined.

  “So this is an industrial park?” Taking in the lake, the trees, flowers, and several abstract art statues, it didn’t seem like that could possibly be correct.

  “Yes. It’s the SIP, or Suzhou Industrial Park.” Andrew added, “There’re some factories, but this area has a lot of apartment buildings.”

  “What’s that?” The building looked like an uneven coil of wire but was somehow familiar.

  “That’s Suzhou’s answer to the bird’s nest, the Olympic building. It’s a decent-sized theater, according to Dust. Right next to it is the Biergarten, which is the German restaurant where Made in China performs.” Zack pointed in the opposite direction. “Farther along the lake is Moon Bay. Drew and I walked around there last night. There are a bunch of restaurants and shops. Wh
y are you going so slow?”

  Tian Di is in that building. “I’m not.”

  They turned down a side street, and one more turn brought them to a guard gate. They went through the pedestrian walkway, which opened into a circular driveway with two tall apartment buildings on either side and a fountain in the middle.

  Andrew guided them to the building on the left and pressed 901 in the building’s security box.

  A sick-sounding buzzer pierced Jordon’s ears.

  Zack pulled open the door and held it for Andrew and Jordon. The slumped guard didn’t even lift his head off the desk. Zack snarked, “Hm, so much for residential security.”

  Andrew and Zack led him through the marble lobby to the elevator.

  Andrew explained, “The guys just buzzed us in so the elevator will go to their floor.”

  Jordon whistled. “Fancy setup.”

  “They have a private entrance where you take off your shoes,” Zack added.

  The elevator opened to an all-gray, swirly marble room with a fountain, bench, a basket of slippers, and a graveyard of shoes.

  Zack set out three pairs of slippers. He and Andrew slipped theirs on quickly. “Come on.”

  “Um, let me check my messages. I’ll be in soon.” Jordon sat on the bench.

  Tian Di was inside that apartment. God, he felt crazed and scrambled. Everything took on a surreal quality that muted the edges of reality—or maybe it was jet lag.

  Andrew guided Zack through the door before he could argue or tell Jordon what to do.

  Jordon pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. He was a few feet away from meeting Tian Di. What the fuck was wrong with him? Tian Di was a singer. He’d met a ton of singers and some truly famous people. Celebrities didn’t scare Jordon, fame didn’t impress him or give him butterflies. Somehow Tian Di crept under his skin in a different way.

  Maybe he could slip into the gathering unnoticed, quietly introduce himself to the band, claim exhaustion, and go back to the hotel.

  Through the door, a woman’s words echoed. “Angel, I read that you are bisexual.”

  “Yup, I am,” Angel said.