by Liv Rancourt
Bo understood his logic, except for one minor detail. “Your dad still needs help.”
“I know!”
Jon’s shout startled him so bad he came close to driving into a parked car.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Jon put a hand on Bo’s knee. “You’re right, and that’s why this sucks so damned bad.”
With a slow blink, Bo covered Jon’s hand with his own. This wasn’t the time to get all whiny about lost opportunities. “Talk to them. You’ll know what to do.”
They reached Montlake Boulevard. Turning right would take them to the restaurant. Left would take them to Bo’s apartment. He flipped the turn signal. “Change of plan, Jon darling. How about we go to my place and call out for pizza?”
Jon squeezed Bo’s thigh so hard, he squeaked. “That sounds fantastic.”
Bo hadn’t specified in what order the events would occur, but once he parked the car, Jon grabbed his hand like he meant it. Bo led the way to his apartment, belly fluttering like a flock of nervous birds. The door to the main entrance was heavy, and it swung shut with a definitive whoosh.
No turning back.
Up the stairs. One floor. Two. On the third floor, Bo led them down the hall, Jon still gripping his hand, hoping none of his neighbors would pop out of their doors to chat.
Unlocking the door to his own apartment one-handed proved too challenging, so he was forced to let go of Jon for a moment. Once inside, though, he reclaimed Jon’s hands. The strength in those long fingers put a hitch in his breath.
He drew Jon through the entryway and into the living room. There, a single lamp with a stained-glass shade gave off a rosy glow without dispersing the shadows.
Jon took a long, slow look around. “It’s like the harem room in a Victorian brothel.”
With a giggle, Bo pulled Jon over to the love seat. “Hush, you. I like my things.” He snuggled in closer. “I could… call Pagliacci’s.”
“Why don’t we, um, do that later.”
Bo barely had time to nod in agreement before Jon swooped in for a kiss. A long, hot, desperation-fueled kiss. This is the only time. Bo opened his lips and invited Jon in.
Jon kissed with deliberate intensity, as if he wanted to memorize Bo’s taste and the rough burn of his evening stubble. Should I have shaved? Maybe I should have shaved.
Hands shaking, Bo undid the smooth, flat buttons on the front of Jon’s winter coat. Underneath Jon wore a dark gray wool turtleneck and jeans. Really, really nice jeans. Trying not to compare his own, Catholic-school-teacher’s-salary-pin-stripe-button-down, Bo tugged at the sweater.
“Come on, doll. Let’s get this neck condom off you.”
Jon froze. “I’ll have you know that’s a Michael Kors neck condom.” The affront in his voice had top notes of laughter.
With a sharp move, Bo pulled the sweater free from his jeans. “And Calvin Klein jeans and your belt probably cost more than my whole outfit, but I want them off.”
“Really?” Jon ducked his head to nuzzle Bo’s ear. “Really?” He found a patch of bare skin and sucked it between his teeth. “Really?” He finished with a nip.
Bo yelped. “Yes.” He dragged the sweater over Jon’s head and went to work on his belt. His progress slowed when Jon pulled his jacket halfway down his arms, trapping him.
“Now stay put,” Jon murmured. He turned his attention to Bo’s neck, and while his hands were busy unbuttoning Bo’s shirt and jeans, he continued sucking and biting all around Bo’s throat.
“You’re going to leave marks.”
Jon released the bit of skin he had trapped between his teeth. “So? Your boyfriend going to complain?”
Bo laughed, wrapping his arms around Jon’s shoulders. “Oh, doll, I’m a one-man man, so if I had a boyfriend, this wouldn’t be happening.”
That seemed to sober Jon up, and the task of getting them both undressed took on more urgency. If Bo gave a passing thought to whether the last few days had added more padding to his tummy, he was soon distracted by Jon’s hand teasing his balls and the delicate way he licked and nipped his nipples.
Bo hung on, letting Jon do most of the work, until the lack of direct pressure on his cock made him crazy. He climbed into Jon’s lap and grasped both cocks, rubbing his thumb through the leaking fluid from the tips.
“Here, let me,” Jon whispered, and he covered Bo’s hand with one of his own. Bo bucked his hips, loving the rub of his sensitive skin against the tightness of Jon’s grip. His inner voice, the one screaming that this wasn’t going to plan, finally shut up, and Bo gave himself over to pleasure.
It didn’t take long.
They hung on to each other, there on Bo’s overstuffed love seat. Bo let the musician set the rhythm, which took all that remained of his self-control. He gripped Jon’s arms, his head resting on his shoulder. Jon tossed his head, his back arching, and the intensity of the moment brought a rush of tears to Bo’s eyes.
Then release—Bo, and then Jon—the warm, slick come driving the sensation past the point where it was bearable. Bo released his grasp, and his cock slid free. This can’t be over. That thought was a needle scratch in the midst of his postcoital lethargy.
“This can’t be over.”
Bo didn’t realize he’d whispered the words until Jon answered back.
“You’re right.”
Desperate, Bo claimed Jon’s lips. They kissed, come smearing across their bellies and wherever their hands touched. This felt way too good, way too natural for a man Bo had only known for a handful of days. Yes, they had the past to draw on, but Bo’s feelings were for the man Jon had become.
Bo broke the kiss, or maybe Jon did, and they still hung on to each other, breathing hard.
“We’re going to need a shower.”
Bo snorted a laugh. “True.” He eased back and met Jon’s gaze. This man, with his tousled hair and his pink, swollen lips, couldn’t have been further from the cool New York musician he’d met. If nothing else, Bo was truly grateful for the chance to see this side of him, the man behind the armor.
They shared a shower and a pizza, and then they both got into Bo’s bed. Jon stretched with a soft whimper. “Not sure I’m going to be able to sleep without rolling into the hole all night.”
Bo curled up next to him, fingertips lightly stroking Jon’s flat belly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jon traced a fingertip down the side of Bo’s face. “So… not to bring the party to a halt, but is it okay if I call you after I talk with my parents?”
Bo caught his hand and drew it to his lips so he could kiss each fingertip. “Sure.” He pulled the index finger into his mouth, holding it lightly in place with his teeth and sucked.
“Shit.”
Bo smiled and kept sucking. They could talk about tomorrow, tomorrow. If this was his only chance to sleep with Jon Cunningham, he was going to make it a memorable night.
Chapter Seven
PART OF Jon—the shitty, selfish part—wanted to sneak out of bed, get dressed, and call an Uber without waking Bo up.
He didn’t. Bo Barone deserved better than that. Hell, he deserved better than anything Jon could give him. With his own shortcomings firmly in mind, Jon rubbed Bo’s shoulder.
“Mm-hmm.” Bo didn’t open his eyes.
“Hey, it’s a little after seven. I should get going in case Mom needs anything.” Jon held his breath. If he’d had to make a bet, he would have said Bo was the type to spring out of bed at the sun’s first light, fully formed and ready for anything.
Bo still hadn’t opened his eyes. Okay, so… not a morning person.
“Look, um, I’m going to grab an Uber, okay? I don’t want you to have to get out of bed.”
Bo inhaled. Exhaled. Cracked one eye open. “Are you sure? I can drive you.” His eye closed before he finished the words.
Jon kissed the tender skin behind his ear. “Sleep, Bo. I’ll talk to you later.”
Bo twitched, bringing his shoulder and ear to
gether to squeeze Jon out of the way. He used the same motion to snuggle deeper in the bed, which Jon took as his cue to leave.
He got dressed as quietly as possible, but right before he left the room, an idea came to him. “Hey, um, Bo?”
Bo grunted something that sounded vaguely like the word “what.” Jon gripped the doorjamb, excitement flooding his body. “I’ve got some miles on my card. What if I got you a ticket to New York in time for New Year’s Eve? I’d love for you to see the concert.” And to see you again, and maybe to have a repeat of last night….
Bo mumbled something indecipherable.
“Well, just think about it, okay?”
Silence from the bed.
“Okay, well, I’m going to take off now. Take care….”
Bo lay still, his face buried by the blanket. Jon took a minute to enjoy the view, the way the raspberry-colored sheets contrasted with the warm-orange walls, surrounded by piles of multicolored pillows they’d knocked to the floor. Bo had crafted himself a haven, and Jon was pretty damned sure this wouldn’t be goodbye. Despite the most inconvenient gig on record, it wouldn’t be goodbye.
It couldn’t be.
He’d almost made it to the front door when Bo stopped him.
“I really suck.” Bo stood in the bedroom doorway, wearing only his rumpled boxers and a frown.
Jon strode across the room between one breath and the next. “No, you don’t.” He cupped Bo’s face with his hands. “You couldn’t suck even if you tried.”
“Well….” Bo gave a halfhearted eyebrow wiggle that made Jon snort.
“Okay, so maybe under the right circumstances you could, but not now.”
“I didn’t want to make a scene.”
Jon pulled him in for a kiss. “Then let’s not. I’ll check in with you later, and we’ll make plans.” Because this isn’t over. Not yet.
Bo sighed and they kissed again, slowly, exploring each other as if they really did have all day.
But Jon needed to get home. He slid his hands down to Bo’s shoulders and took a step back. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Bo’s smile still carried too much sadness. For an instant Jon thought about staying, doing whatever he could to convince Bo they still had time.
But keeping his word—calling him later and getting him a ticket to New York, for example—was the best way to prove that Jon meant what he said. He and Bo were not finished.
The Uber driver didn’t speak much English, so even though the ride was short, Jon had time to evaluate his options. He googled the Othello Chamber Ensemble’s holiday concert to get an idea of what they had programmed, because he’d cut Willy off before she could tell him.
Scarlatti’s “Harpsichord Concerto No. 3.” Handel’s “Water Music.” Mozart’s “Piano Quartet in E Flat Major.” The program was a fantastic mix of challenge and artistry. The director could have planned the concert with Jon in mind. Any other time, and he’d have been racing to the airport. This time, though… this time was different.
The Uber driver pulled to a stop in front of his parents’ house; Jon no longer thought of it as his home. The windows were dark, something he’d come to expect. Any residual warmth from the night in Bo’s bed had faded, and he was left facing a cold, hard choice. Did he take the gig and risk this thing he had with Bo?
Equally urgent, how was Mom going to manage without him?
Laid out like that, the answer was obvious, except….
Except.
The piano was his first love, his most passionate mistress. From the time he was twelve or so, he had sacrificed everything—everything—on the altar of the keyboard. He’d had an instructor at Juilliard who’d docked points from his grade after he sat in with a jazz ensemble for some extra money, because if he wasn’t wholly dedicated to his art, he’d fail. School, sports, relationships, he’d missed them all. Music demanded the most from those who would play. The most discipline, the most focus, the most commitment.
Everything.
He couldn’t just decline an invitation from an ensemble like the Othello. Not if he ever wanted to make their rotation in the future. No excuse was acceptable, even though if his father fell, Mom would have to call 9-1-1, and most especially not because of something as superficial as a lover.
Jon let himself in the front door, hoping Mom was awake. She’d always been his sounding board, and right now he needed her advice. The kitchen lights were on, and the scent of coffee traveled down the hall. He’d lay it all out for her, and while the final decision would be his, he was unlikely to go against whatever she recommended.
“Mom?”
She sat at the counter, stirring her cup of coffee. “Good morning, sweetie. You’re up early.”
He should have gone straight upstairs to shower and change. Idiot. “Yeah, um, I have something I wanted to talk to you about.”
After slipping off his coat, he tossed it over the chair his father had occupied the night Bo fixed them dinner. While pouring himself some coffee, he told her about Willy’s call, about the program, about his indecision.
“That’s fantastic, Jon. There’s no question; you should go.” Mom looked at him like he’d grown another head. “This is too big an opportunity to pass up.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you in a lurch.”
“We’ll manage.”
Would they? He hated seeing his parents struggle. What had Bo said? You couldn’t repair a relationship from across the country? “So you think I should go?”
She reached over and took his hand in a firm grip. “Absolutely.” The glow of pride in her eyes bolstered him more than her words.
“But don’t you need help here?” he asked.
“We qualify for home nursing help. We’ll be fine.”
“All right. I’ll call Willy.” Just like that, decision made. He should have felt relief.
He didn’t.
He called Willy anyway. The unsettled feeling faded some over the time it took him to shower and dress. It returned, redoubled, when he sent Bo a text.
Bo didn’t respond.
Jon sent a second message after arranging Bo’s ticket to New York. After a tortuously long pause, Bo responded.
I’ll miss you, and I’ll think about the trip.
Since the ticket was made out in his name, Jon hoped he’d do more than think. New Year’s Day was on a Wednesday, and Bo’s return trip was on Thursday. School wouldn’t start till the next week.
It would all be okay.
Jon still hadn’t convinced himself of that when Mom ran to the store. Dad was awake and grumpy, and it was time for the exercises his physical therapist had taught them.
The hospital bed sat in the center of the dining room and a straight-backed chair had been shoved in the corner near the head of the bed. With his good hand gripping Jon’s arm, Dad managed to stand beside the bed and pivot so he could sit in the chair.
“Start with leg lifts?” Jon asked. He smoothed the bedspread over the foot of the bed and perched on the end.
With a lopsided scowl, Dad extended his good leg until his knee was straight. He held it for a moment, then lowered it to the floor.
“Now the other leg.” Jon hoped his coaching counted as encouragement.
Dad’s left leg moved more slowly, and he couldn’t make the leg quite straight. “Damn it.”
“Better than yesterday, though.”
“Don’t you have something else to do?”
Jon shrugged in the face of his father’s annoyance. “Mom told me to see that you did your exercises.” Also, he wanted an excuse to talk to his father about the concert.
Dad repeated the move with his right leg. “There. Tell her I did them.”
“One more.”
His only response was a grunt.
“Dad?”
“Fine.” He slowly lifted his left leg and lowered it, then repeated the process, alternating sides until he’d completed half a dozen on each. “Satisfied?”
&nbs
p; “That was great.” Now or never. “And, uh, I have news. I’m catching a red-eye tonight.” Jon’s enthusiasm was mostly faked. “I got asked to play a New Year’s Eve concert with the Othello Chamber Ensemble.”
Though saying the words out loud gave him a thrill, the residual guilt squashed it.
“I thought you were here to help your mother.”
The guilt grew even heavier. “She said she’d arrange for a home nurse.” He hated sounding defensive. “She was excited for me.”
“She would be.”
“What?”
Dad closed his eyes. “Nothing. Help me back to bed.”
Feeling like shit, Jon stood next to the chair and held out both hands. His father grabbed ahold of one and hoisted himself up. Together they turned so his father’s back was to the bed, just the way the staff at the hospital had taught him. With a couple of shuffle-steps backward, his father was able to sit down. Dad pointed sharply at the bed control; Jon pushed the button to raise the head, and working together, they got Dad settled.
Throughout the whole maneuver, Jon moved too fast or too slow or he had his hands wrong or his feet and I’m not psychic, dammit.
“So can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll be packing if you need anything.”
He’d almost made it through the door when his father spoke again. “You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think these days.”
Jon stopped, glancing at his father, scared of whatever was coming next. “Yeah?”
“Your mother and I don’t always agree.” Weariness infused his words. “She’s always been so damned proud of your accomplishments.” He picked at the bedspread. “And she didn’t listen when I said you should go to high school like a normal kid.”
“But you never….” The truth weighed in Jon’s gut.
“There’s more to life than art, son. Take that young man, Bo. It’d be good for you to be around someone ordinary, and he sure seems to like you.”
“I like Bo too.” When his dad didn’t say anything else, Jon gave him a weak smile. “I’ll think about it.”
The feeling of things left unresolved dogged him until he buckled himself into his seat on the Delta flight. The moment the plane left the runway, Jon exhaled. Again he’d left town with his mother’s encouragement, and again he’d disappointed his father. The new wrinkle this time was Bo. The last thing he’d put in his suitcase was the short-armed teddy bear, the one tangible proof he had of their short-lived… thing.