by Sidney Bell
“Come here,” Anya says. “Hey. Come here.”
Cal realizes she’s talking to him. She’s stopped moving, one hand pressed lightly against Zac’s throat, holding him in place, although he’s still giving compulsive jerks with his hips. He whines in protest at having to wait.
“I’m fine.” Cal’s a little embarrassed at how rough his voice is.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” Anya says, and it would be matter-of-fact except that she’s out of breath. “I asked you to come here.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“If you were intruding, I would say so.”
He can’t get up. How can he go over there? She’s so beautiful, and he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch her, and that’s nothing compared to how they look together, to the love that suffuses the very air between them. The living room might as well be miles long.
Anya says, “I’m not going to let him come until you’re kissing me.”
“Fuck, Cal, get over here,” Zac grunts out, and Cal couldn’t resist that if he wanted to. His feet move of their own volition. He pauses beside the couch, not knowing how to—where to—but then Anya takes his hand and tugs him to sit down beside Zac. They’re all suddenly touching: Cal’s thigh burns where Anya’s calf is pressed alongside it, and Zac’s shoulder is against his, warm and sturdy.
Cal carefully only looks at Anya, and she bends over to kiss him. Her mouth is sweet. He wonders if Zac would taste as good. Quickly he tries to turn his thoughts away. He doesn’t have permission for that. If Zac wanted him like that, he’d do more than watch, wouldn’t he? He’d do more than let Anya invite Cal to sit beside them. Cal doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, and besides.
This is already more than he thought he’d ever get.
Anya’s mouth slips away from his as she begins to move.
“Fuck,” Zac groans again, low and fervent, like a prayer. It makes Cal shudder. He can feel the muscles in Zac’s arm bunching and flexing as he helps Anya rock in his lap. Her oversized T-shirt keeps catching on the button of his jeans. Cal reaches over to tug it loose, and the shift of his weight makes him bump Anya’s leg. Zac’s right hand slips and lands on Cal’s knee. Cal’s fingers turn stupid; they can’t seem to figure out how to free Anya’s T-shirt, and Zac’s hand hasn’t moved. It’s still resting, light as a butterfly, on Cal’s knee.
Cal finally gets Anya’s T-shirt free and sits back. She looks somnolent and pleasure-drunk, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her cheeks riotously flushed. She doesn’t seem to care that her husband’s hand is on Cal’s knee. That Zac’s hand is slowly beginning to creep up Cal’s leg. That’s his thigh. Definitely his thigh.
He steals a small glance at Zac. Zac’s head is tipped back against the sofa cushion, his eyes on Anya’s face, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his collarbones peeking out from his shirt collar, the hollow at the base of his throat gleaming with sweat. Cal wants to taste him there. Cal can’t see much beyond little glimpses of the smooth skin of her pussy where the leg of her shorts is tugged to one side. The elastic of her underwear looks drawn painfully tight, but she doesn’t seem to mind it.
Cal asks, “Would you take your shirt off for me, Anya? Please?”
She whips it off over her head. She’s got a red bra on underneath, lacy against her creamy skin.
“God, you’re pretty.” Cal reaches over, strokes his thumb along the soft curve of one breast, gentle and slow, the polar opposite of Zac, and she arches her back, chasing his touch. She grinds down onto Zac at the same time.
“Yeah,” Zac mutters, gritty, and Cal loves the edge in his voice. He can’t help making a helpless sound in return, something shamefully needy.
Zac seems to think turnabout is fair play. He trails his hand higher on Cal’s leg, pausing only when his pinky finger brushes the bulge of Cal’s dick. Cal flexes his hips without meaning to. He can’t stop watching them, and so he sees the exact moment that Zac’s eyes open and flick toward his.
They’re looking at each other when Zac puts his hand on him. All of Cal’s breath jerks out of him at once, his hand falling back to his side, digging into the couch cushion, and Zac presses harder. It’s a groping touch, just like he’d used on Anya, and that should be off-putting maybe, but it isn’t. It’s so Zac, to reach out like it never occurred to him that he shouldn’t, to take so eagerly, so happily, and Cal lets his own head fall back, lets Zac grab him and work him through his jeans. Cal bucks up into it, gaze flickering between Zac and Anya. They’re both watching him now, and it’s overwhelming, even more so than it was last night when they’d gone even further. It hadn’t been both of them then, not the same way. He feels selfish and greedy and pinned to the sofa, trapped by their expectations, and it’s—God, how can he need it so bad?
“I’m gonna make you come,” Zac mutters, and Cal can’t—he can’t—Jesus. Anya’s moving faster, her breath getting louder as she works, and she’s slid a hand down into her shorts, touching herself.
“Yeah.” Zac whispers it, sounding hoarse. “Yeah, baby, come on.” Cal thinks he’s talking to Anya, but maybe not. It doesn’t much matter, because just the sound of Zac’s voice is enough to get him closer. Cal hasn’t come in his jeans since high school, but Zac’s hand is big and hard, so different from Anya’s, and it’s—it’s rude, the way Zac touches him, it’s ignoring any polite boundary, it’s possessive, and it’s too much pressure, but Cal doesn’t care. Zac’s hand is a million degrees and it’s sneaking down now to press—more lightly—against Cal’s balls, and Cal blurts, “No, please, please, I need—”
“Okay,” Zac replies, low and hoarse. “Okay, baby, I’ll give you what you need.”
There’s something humiliating about that sweetness, that pet name, and it shouldn’t make it hotter, but it kind of does, and Cal reaches down and holds Zac’s hand in place, bucking up into it, faster and harder.
Anya goes first, crying out and falling forward, catching herself on Zac’s shoulder, a wave of strawberry scent moving through the air as she does, and Zac grips harder, the heel of his hand almost shoving against Cal’s cock, and it’s way too much friction, too much pressure, and Cal arches and comes, eyes squeezed shut. The second the pleasure stops roiling through him, Zac abruptly pulls away. He’s got both hands on Anya’s hips now, and he’s fucking up into her hard enough that she makes a little whimpering sound.
Zac comes with a strangled groan, jaw clenched, and then he sags back into the couch. Anya slumps down against him, but her hand strays over to Cal’s shoulder, nails digging into his flesh through the fabric of his T-shirt.
She’s watching him through slitted eyes. Zac’s watching him too, more openly. Cal wants to get up, wants to leave, anything but feeling this picked apart and hot. His jeans are sticky and uncomfortable as his come starts to cool, and his damn cheeks are turning red yet again. He maybe would go, if he thought his legs would hold him. He’s not sure he’s sturdy enough to withstand what they’re asking of him. What they’re doing to him.
“Cal,” Zac says, a question and a statement at the same time, though Cal’s not sure how that’s possible.
Cal works up his nerve and looks at him. “Yeah?”
Zac lunges forward and kisses him. It’s awkward and messy, a railroad job, all tongue and lips and spit, and Cal shudders under Zac’s mouth, opening his own because Zac’s not really giving him a choice. This kiss, like everything about Zac, is something you either submit wholly to going along with, or you prepare yourself for a power struggle, because he’s not giving in quietly or easily. Cal couldn’t fight if he wanted to. Zac makes this hungry, almost angry noise, and grips his head, and kisses him harder. It’s the kind of kiss that should come before or even during sex, not after, but Zac doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t seem to care about what’s proper or good or right as long as he gets access, and Cal’s brain just—stops.
Zac finally pulls away, gaze slumberous and dazed, and his thumb strokes a stray bit of wetness away from Cal’s lip, and Cal shivers under the touch.
“What are we doing?” Cal asks stupidly. “I don’t know how—what do we do next?”
Zac seems every bit as stunned. He doesn’t say anything. They sit there staring at each other for a long minute.
“Let’s make cookies,” Anya says.
* * *
It’s a bizarrely normal Sunday after that.
They have to clean up first, and it’s so weird how not-weird it is, showering and dressing together. Anya wants to do something to her hair after, so they leave her to the steamy bathroom and head for the kitchen. Cal washes his hands (ignoring their trembling), and then turns to find Zac standing in front of the open pantry door. He’s staring at Cal rather than searching for ingredients, though. It makes Cal’s skin too tight. Cal knows where they keep their pans, and he pulls out a cookie sheet in self-defense, anything to distract himself from what’s happening inside him.
“Wax paper,” Zac mutters, handing over the roll, and then he leans in and kisses Cal. It’s every bit as bossy and demanding and sloppy as the kiss in the living room. Cal fucking loves it, and he finds himself meeting Zac head on, putting his arms around Zac, clinging, getting hard again. He hasn’t come three times in one day since he discovered what his dick was for. He isn’t sure he could manage it, but his libido is more than willing to give it a shot. It’s bewildering, this heat, this need. It’s like his body’s become a stranger. They kiss and Zac presses him against the counter, grinding against him. Cal has his hands on the bare skin of Zac’s back now, finds muscle and sweat and the vulnerable curve of a spine under his T-shirt and it’s ridiculous how hot that gets him. Cal has always found the idea of kitchen sex vaguely off-putting and unhygienic, but he’s not sure he cares right now. He might let Zac do anything, and from the way Zac’s kissing him, he thinks Zac might want to do any number of things.
At least, until the sound of PJ crying splits them up. Zac pulls away gasping. “Shit. Naptime’s over.”
“Yeah.” Cal can’t make his fingers unwind from Zac’s shirt, so Zac eases them free with a knowing grin before stepping away.
“I gotta—” Zac jerks a thumb toward the stairs. “You should make me some cookies, motherfucker.”
“Rude,” Cal manages, but Zac only grins wider and turns to go. He pauses in the doorway to adjust himself, and Cal thinks, I did that, I got him hard.
He washes his hands again (ignoring their trembling again) and starts searching for a mixing bowl.
Zac’s back with PJ in only a minute, the baby red-faced and in tiny footie pajamas with a skull on the front. He stops crying when he sees Cal, which does wonderful things to his heart, and Zac passes PJ over with a smile.
“Hey, little man,” Cal says, and PJ grabs his hair in hello.
They make cookies like that, stealing tiny kisses that can’t go anywhere with their toddler chaperone there between them. Anya joins them after a while and adds way too many chocolate chips to the batter, arguing with Zac about how many chips there should be and why it won’t ruin the cookies and could he please stop backseat cookie-making? Cal sides with Anya about the chips, and Zac glares at them in openmouthed outrage for violating some arcane rule about the ratio of dough to chip that only he knows. Zac ends up wiping dough on her face and she kicks at him and he kisses her throat loudly, giving her a raspberry that makes her squeal, and when Cal laughs, Zac throws a handful of chocolate chips at him, making PJ laugh too and it’s...
It’s everything he hadn’t realized he was missing.
They eat steaming cookies standing at the counter, burning their fingers, soothing their sore tongues on glasses of milk, talking about a million different things, all of it the sort of boring, everyday stuff that people talk about when they share lives.
And for a little while, Cal forgets that eventually it’s going to end.
* * *
Cal doesn’t leave. For the first week, it makes sense. It’s important to his recovery. He needs his routine, but he doesn’t trust that he can maintain it without supervision. So he sleeps in the big bed with Anya in the middle, and gets up to run with the morning dark still painting the drowsy neighborhood streets. Zac and Anya are both heavy sleepers; the soft chime of his phone never makes them so much as stir. Zac’s lazy about exercise, rarely doing more than is required to stay in shape for long hours spent strutting around a stage under hot lights. Anya is much more rigorous, but she prefers afternoon Pilates to pre-dawn running and has zero motivation to get up early to work out with Cal. He’s relieved to still have his quiet time alone in the mornings to brace himself for the day. One of them is usually up with PJ by the time he returns, but he doesn’t mind actual noise by then.
Whichever one of them is awake pours him his shot in the morning and then puts the tequila back in its hiding spot. Zac likes to sit on the far side of the table out of Cal’s way, offering silent support while he fiddles on his phone and knuckles sleep out of his eyes. Anya will plunk the baby down right next to him and Cal likes that too, likes that she doesn’t feel like Cal and his complicated recovery processes are things that should be shamefully avoided or hidden. And there’s something reassuring about looking up from the shot glass into PJ’s chubby face. PJ doesn’t care about his messy humanity; he loves Cal just as he is and sometimes, on the hardest mornings, that love is the main reason why the tequila goes down the drain.
Whoever didn’t get up with the baby eventually migrates into the kitchen and the real morning begins—breakfasts cooked and consumed, coffee made, PJ fed and cleaned up, the nanny arriving, all of them jostling in the bathroom to brush teeth before they run out to meetings or disappear into their own corners of the house—Anya to her darkroom or a shoot, maybe, and Cal and Zac to Zac’s studio.
That’s another thing that makes sense: the time that Zac and Cal share in the studio.
The thing is, while they’ve grown closer in countless ways over the years, in one way, they’ve actually grown apart. Once they were no longer roommates, the synchronous magic of songwriting became a more isolated event, with Cal giving Zac assignments about solos here and there but doing everything else alone. It’s not until they’re together in the studio once again that it all floods back, those early days when Zac lived in Cal’s pocket, lifting his eyebrows, pursing his lips, wrinkling his nose, always pushing Cal to dig deeper, to be better.
Maybe this is why Zac began thinking he’s only a front man. Maybe this accidental exclusion made him think he didn’t have anything else to offer.
It feels like the old days now, sitting side by side, Cal with his bass in his lap, Zac with his guitar in his, both of them picking out riffs and arguing and making faces when their fingers can’t reproduce what they hear in their heads. A memory suddenly hits Cal hard: the way Zac would stand at Cal’s counter at the old house in Boyle Heights, making sandwiches on cheap bread with cheaper mayo, pushing pieces of cheese and deli meat into his mouth while humming the notes they’d written that morning, one skinny hip dipping to the beat, laughing with his mouth full and wide open when Cal told him to put his dishes in the sink instead of on the floor.
Cal has forgotten about Zac’s unconscious talent for making this part of the creative process seem less like preparation for trial by jury. He’s forgotten how safe Zac could make it feel.
Cal came to LA with stars in his eyes, fresh off the bus at eighteen with hopes of meeting musicians who’d take his dream as seriously as he did. He lived off his college fund—to his parents’ distin
ct disapproval—and slept at a hostel to save money until he found a day job as a waiter and could afford to get a place of his own. He went to small local clubs every night, wrote down his impressions of the bands he liked, the things he’d improve for the bands he didn’t like, and listened to anyone who’d talk to him. He wasn’t just a sponge, he was a sinkhole, taking in everything in his vicinity. He politely badgered people into letting him pick their brains, devouring introductions and connections and advice.
Later, when a few intrepid reporters bothered to look past Zac in order to do spotlight pieces on Cal, virtually all of those stories included quotes from industry insiders who laughingly complained about how annoying Cal had been when he was starting out. “I gave him what he wanted to make him go away,” someone said once. Cal was embarrassed to read that at the time, but he couldn’t regret it. Those connections eventually led him to an as-yet-unattached musician with a lot of promise but enough drawbacks that the professionals in the industry hesitated to work with him. As one of those connections explained: “Zacary Trevor’s an asshole and he can’t play guitar for shit, but he’s got one hell of a voice, man. He’ll make you cry it’s so gorgeous. And then you’ll want to punch him in the nose.”
Cal didn’t have a lot of options at the time. Pros weren’t interested in the rambling, half-formed songs of a newbie, and the other guys were all already either attached to projects, or—frankly—not good enough for Cal’s high standards. So he tracked Zac down.
He met Zac backstage at an after-party for a not-very-good indie band. Zac was trashed, sprawled on a couch and nodding with earnest enthusiasm as Cal introduced himself and explained that he was starting a band. The conversation was a mess—frequently interrupted by other partiers, waylaid by Zac’s wandering, drunk thoughts, and complicated by Cal’s growing frustration at the whole thing. Cal doesn’t remember much of the specifics that they talked about, which is unsurprising because it was useless, but he still remembers every detail of Zac, from the shaggy mohawk to the smeared black eyeliner to the sloppy kiss at the end of the night that missed Cal’s mouth and landed on his chin. Cal was uncomfortable, offended and painfully aroused. Even more so when Zac slurred, “Ya wanna?” and made a jerking off motion with one hand. Cal said no thanks as politely as he could while speaking through his teeth and put Zac in a cab, disgusted. He couldn’t imagine how that guy could possibly have a voice capable of making someone cry.