Hat Trick

by Eden Finley

  “Pretty much.”

  They only get to his knees before I give up. “Fuck it.” Pushing the middle of Jet’s back, I force him forward until his ass is sticking out and he’s braced against the wall in front of him on his forearms.

  My fingers tease his crack, and he shudders.

  “Caleb.” Jet reaches back for me.

  I press myself against him again. “I take it back. There’re two times when you call me Caleb. When you’re pissed off or when you need me inside you.”

  Jet grits his teeth. “Right now, it’s both, so hurry up.”

  I reach for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans that has the travel lube and a condom Jet threw at me before leaving for the arena this morning.

  “For later,” he’d said. I love a man who plans ahead.

  I coat my fingers in lube and give Jet what he needs though I have fun while doing it. I tease his hole, pressing against it then pulling back.

  The way he reacts, with such need and lust, it has my own body responding.

  He bucks his hips backward, so his ass takes more of my fingers. “Babe. I need … need—” His chest heaves.

  “You need my cock?” I breathe in his ear.

  “Yes,” Jet hisses.

  I press against his prostate. “You sure? I need my fingers to do that.”

  Jet rests his head against the wall in front of him. “I’m sure. I need you filling me up.”

  Despite his begging, he still whines when I remove my fingers.

  My hand fumbles with my pants and the condom until I’m covered. I use the rest of the lube to cover my cock.

  “Bend over a bit more.” I pull his hips back with one hand and push him down in the middle of his shoulder blades.

  Then in one quick move, I’m buried deep inside him and letting out a moan so loud I’m sure everyone out in the dressing room can hear it.

  I try to care about that, but it doesn’t happen. The tight heat surrounding my cock would make it hard to care if there was an earthquake right now.

  “Need you,” Jet pants. “Harder.”

  I pull out and then thrust back in.

  Jet grunts. He barely has time to catch his breath before I do it again.

  And again.

  I get a steady rhythm going and reach to grip his hair tight. It’s all sweaty from his time onstage, and even that turns me on.

  Jet’s body accepts me willingly as I slide in and out of him, thrusting harder and faster.

  With his pants around his knees, and mine around my ankles, it’s the hottest and dirtiest fuck I’ve ever had, and I can already tell the orgasm building inside me will be just as awesome.

  “Can you come hands free, baby, or do you need me to touch you?”

  Jet doesn’t even get a chance to answer before his body tenses. His ass tightens around my cock, and as his cum hits the tile in front of us, the rest of his body melts and relaxes.

  I slow down. “I fucking love how responsive you are.”

  He turns his head. “Keep going.”

  “You sure?” I give a tentative thrust to make sure he’s not oversensitive.

  “I want you to come inside me.”

  I stop completely, wondering if he knows how that sounded or if that’s even what he meant. “You mean—”

  “No. At least, not this time. I haven’t been tested in a while, but there’s a doctor on the tour, and maybe … eventually?”

  My need to take him and claim him grows with just the possibility of going bare with him.

  I lean over him and kiss along his spine, his skin tasting salty sweet. “Until then, you going to imagine nothing between us? Skin on skin, my bare cock inside this ass.” My hands trail down his sides to grip his ass cheeks and pull them wider while I dive back inside him.

  It’s Jet’s turn to moan so loud everyone outside could hear him.

  “I’m close,” I say. “You sure you can take it?”

  “Fuck me until I can barely walk because, right now, I can barely stand, and it’s pure will holding me up.”

  There’s no more talking after that. Only me fucking him, our bodies slapping together, and my balls smacking his ass with every thrust. Sweat gets in my eyes, and my muscles begin to ache, but the need inside me keeps growing until it overflows.

  “F-fuuuck,” I scream as I come.

  Jet still has his arms braced on the wall, and only when I stop convulsing inside him does he step away, pulling himself off my softening cock.

  He smiles at me as he pulls up his pants.

  I’m a little wobbly on my feet, not yet able to get my bearings, so Jet steps forward and takes care of the condom for me and then cleans up his mess on the wall.

  My pants are still around my ankles when he comes back, and he helps with them too.

  Smugness shines in his eyes. “You look wrung out when it should be the other way around.”

  I pull him to me and just kiss him because, after that, there are no words.

  There’s a knock at the door. “Now that you guys are done, Jay needs to come out here and deal with that comment he made onstage about Fiji.” It’s Luce.

  “Damn,” Jet says. “Thought that might’ve caused shit.”

  “It was kind of the truth though.” I laugh. “You did come to Fiji to pick me up.”

  “Nuh-uh. I went to Fiji to escape my life. You inserted yourself into it instead.”

  “You sound so upset by that. I mean, what we’re doing is so … hard to deal with.” My hands find their way to his now covered ass. I sigh at the clothing. I don’t like it. It should be illegal for Jet Jackson to wear clothes.

  “Let me take care of the press, and then we’ll head back to the hotel, okay?”

  “And then you’ll make an appointment with the tour doctor?”

  “Someone’s eager.”

  “Always am when it comes to you.”

  Jet looks like he wants to say something to that, but instead, he gives me a peck on the cheek and walks out into the dressing room, only wearing his pants and no shirt.

  I grab his shirt from the floor and follow him out, expecting to be totally annihilated by mockery for having very loud sex in a very small bathroom, but no one even bats an eye.

  Marty must sense me waiting for the joke. “Don’t worry. It’s not a real rock tour if no one’s fucking in the dressing room.”

  I could easily get used to this rock star lifestyle.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  JET

  Because Harley disappears after soundcheck in Seattle, and Soren and I disappear after Radioactive’s set, we avoid the inevitable run-in with him.

  The same happens in Vancouver.

  It gives me a false sense of security, which is why in Salt Lake City, toward the end of my set when I take the opportunity in between songs to take a drink of water, I don’t know what’s going on when the audience starts screaming as if Chester Bennington himself came back from the dead and walked onstage.

  I turn. Nope, not Chester Bennington. Just Harley Valentine.

  “Hello, Salt Lake City!”

  As Harley passes Benji and comes straight for me onstage, Benji takes a step back and mumbles something to him, but Harley ignores him and keeps coming for me.

  The crowd is still screaming, the sound echoing in my ears.

  This is the closest I’ve been to Harley in the week since we rejoined the tour, and he still has the ability to make my nerves get the better of me.

  Messy, short brown hair. Growth on his chin that has a ginger tinge. High cheekbones on full display. Sad but beautiful dull-blue eyes that are green in some light. It should be a sin how pretty my ex-boyfriend is.

  I plaster on a smile and speak through gritted teeth, making sure my mouth is nowhere near my mic. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting on a good show?” He turns to the audience which is still too busy going nuts to calm down. “I was chilling backstage, listening to Radioactive rock your world, when I realized I hadn�
��t officially welcomed them back on tour with us.” Harley has to yell into the mic to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

  The joys of boy band mania.

  “Now, Jay here. I happen to know he’s from a small town all the way down in Tennessee, so I figured a good ol’ ‘Tennessee Whiskey’ toast might be in order.”

  I shake my head but play it off like “Aww, shucks” instead of “I want to fucking murder you.” He used to hum this song to mock me. I always found it endearing until now.

  “Know your audience, dude,” I mutter. “No one here is gonna know that song.”

  “You know I’m all about educating youth on good music. You gonna start? Can’t promise them something and then take it away.”

  With a huff, I play the opening chords and take my position at my mic, while Harley sings and shows off the more soulful tone of his voice.

  He has amazing talent that doesn’t always get to shine because of boy band dynamics, but it’s his voice that made me fall in love with him once upon a time.

  His voice is the reason I gave Eleven “Someone Else’s Perfect.” I mean, the royalty option helped in the decision-making, but it was Harley who sold me on it.

  When we get to the chorus of “Tennessee Whiskey,” I join in on the harmonies.

  And this is the part where I hate having a connection to Harley. When we’re singing and messing around with our music, there’s an undeniable connection between us.

  We complement each other, and I feel the emotion of the song in my bones.

  I guess I’m lucky he picked a song that has negative connotations for me. Anything that reminds me of Tennessee and my upbringing is enough to turn me sour.

  During the next chorus, Harley moves closer. Glaring at him and mentally telling him that’s a bad idea goes unheard.

  We come so close we share the one microphone, and I hate how magical it feels as we sing the powerfully effortless lyrics together.

  The label is going to have a fit over this, and it’s the type of moment that will go viral. But it’s not as if Harley gave me a choice here. What am I supposed to say about him hijacking my stage? Get back in your corner, bitch? That’d bring more attention than singing with him.

  We finish the song and breathe heavy, and he stares at me in the way that used to make it easy to get lost in him.

  While we were singing together, I felt that bond I’ve always had with him, but right now, there’s something missing.

  That connection’s severed.

  It’s like we used to be wired together, but when we were torn apart, we spent months trying to fix us the wrong way. Now, it’s as if those wires don’t even match up anymore.

  Harley steps back, away from the mic. “You can’t tell me you and your hockey player have even half as much chemistry. You can’t fake what we just did.”

  My gaze flies to Soren, where he has stood for the last three shows. Even with his arms folded, pissed-off look on his face, and flushed red from jealousy or anger or maybe both, Soren makes butterflies swarm in my gut.

  Harley’s wrong about one thing. While Harley and I have undeniable chemistry, Soren and I have something fundamentally deeper. So much so I don’t even know what to call it.

  And Harley pulling this stunt might’ve put all of it in jeopardy.

  Harley exits stage right after waving to the crowd again, and I’m left with a total mind blank. I need to do something. Like sing, maybe. I guess. Fuck, what song were we up to on the set list?

  We can’t leave the stage without singing our closing song, which is “Hat Trick Heartbreak,” so my fingers do the work for me and start the song on my guitar.

  Both Benji and Freya look at me weird because I know I’ve skipped over a couple of songs, but I need off this stage ASAP.

  We kinda fumble our way through it. The backup band sings more than I do, but we get there in the end.

  In a bit of a zombie state, I leave the stage unsure if I even tell the audience goodnight.

  Just like in Seattle and Vancouver, Soren’s right there, waiting for me. Only tonight, he looks unamused.

  “Are you okay?” His frown is deep.

  I try to shake off the encounter with Harley. “I’m fine. Just … taken off guard. Let’s get out of here.”

  Luce appears out of nowhere like he always does. “Jay, there are reporters who want to talk to you about the impromptu duet.”

  “Damn it.”

  “They’re in your dressing room.”

  We move as a group and meet two journalists waiting for us.

  “Y’all are gonna miss Eleven’s opening song.”

  “I just want a quick quote,” one of them says. “Did you know Harley was going to do that, or was it spontaneous?”

  “Definitely spontaneous, but that’s Harley for you. He was probably bored backstage waiting for his turn.”

  “You sing amazingly together,” the other says.

  “We’ve become friends being on the road together for two tours now. We jam sometimes.” Even I’m impressed with my casual tone.

  “So, the rumors of a rift between you and Eleven aren’t true?”

  I huff. “I know not to bite the hand that feeds me. I don’t have a problem with anyone from Eleven.”

  “But they have a problem with you?”

  Ugh. Reporters.

  Luce makes a slashing motion at his neck.

  “If y’all will excuse me, my boyfriend needs me.”

  Luce pushes Soren closer to me, and the reporters turn and stare. Soren does this adorably awkward wave. It takes all my strength not to laugh at him.

  “I’ll let you guys get back to the concert.” I take Soren’s hand and walk out before they get a chance to ask any more questions.

  Luce has a car waiting for us outside the arena. As soon as I’m through the door, I sprawl out on the back seat.

  Soren slides in beside me. “Are you guys going to get in trouble from the label for the duet?”

  “Harley might. It was out of my hands.”

  “It was kinda ballsy.”

  “It was a hissy fit. I’m surprised it took three cities for him to do it.”

  “You all right?” Soren’s eyes are soft.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You looked like you wanted to kill him.” It makes me feel guilty for letting Harley get to me the way he did during that song.

  “Let’s just say, he’s lucky my mind isn’t powerful enough to kill anyone, or he would’ve dropped dead onstage tonight.”

  I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. Then he smiles.

  “Seriously, though. Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m not happy about it, no, but there was nothing else you could do. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It’s annoying,” I say. “It’s stuff I expected, you know? You’ve been helpful in keeping him away.”

  “He’s made the first move. Do you think he’ll keep trying?”

  Ugh. “Probably.”

  “What about the interview back there? Will you get in trouble for that?”

  “I’m always getting in trouble with what I say to the media. The label’s used to it by now. I hate when they take everything out of context and twist it and then I look like the asshole. It’s happened more times than I can count.”

  “It’s happened to me too. The team actually has media training for all of us.”

  Just like when I’d complain to Harley about journalists, I prepare myself for Soren to turn this around to be about him.

  “There’s only so many times you can say ‘we worked well as a team tonight. Pratt was on fire and carried us to the win’ only for the media to print ‘Sorensen says Morgan isn’t a team player.’ All because I mentioned Pratt. But you know what the biggest lesson I’ve learned is?”

  “What?”

  Soren puts his arm around me. “Fuck reporters.”

  I smile. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting him to maybe say it’s part of my job or that I
have to suck it up and deal with it like he does.

  “Hey, Lennon’s not that bad,” I point out.

  “You’re right. He’s not. And I’m sure there are other Lennons out there who don’t spin things to sell articles, but I’m talking about the bloodsuckers. All they’re trying to do is make money off your fame. You’re amazing. Your music is amazing. You’re bigger than them and bigger than life. Anytime one of these leeches come after you, just remember your worth. It’ll save you so much resentment.”

  This is the reason I’m so drawn to Soren.

  He’s what a partner should be.

  There’s a difference between being there with someone and being there for someone.

  Soren came on this tour for me and no other reason.

  All those nights with Harley where he filled the loneliness were just that—a temporary fix for a bigger problem.

  It was never about me or him or even us.

  It was filling a void with superficial feelings that were easily confused as more.

  Harley and I might have lit up that stage tonight and put on an epic show, but it’s the here and now that matters.

  When I need support, Soren gives it. He doesn’t make everything about himself.

  He’s here for me in ways I wish he could be long-term, even if I know it’s an impossibility.

  “Why are you looking at me weird?” he asks.

  I’m looking at him weird? Must be all the awe. “You’re good at giving me perspective. That’s all.”

  And I’m not talking about the reporters.

  Soren keeps me focused by taking up most of my thoughts, keeps me professional by being stage-side for me every show, and keeps my insane thoughts at bay by fucking me until I can’t think.

  He’s even great at scaring Harley off. There hasn’t been an onstage or offstage attack since Salt Lake City.

  Denver, Dallas, and Houston go smoothly.

  In the very few instances when we’ve been in the same room, Harley has pretended I don’t exist, and I’ve kept my eyes trained on Soren.

  Not like it’s been hard to do that. Soren lights me up just by fucking looking in my direction.

  It takes seven days and three more venues to get here. Kansas City.