by Sidney Bell
“What’s that?” Zac asks suspiciously.
Cal looks at the bag in fake surprise, as if shocked by its presence. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery. We should check.” He glances inside, frowns, and then says to Zac, “It looks like it’s a bag full of none of your business.”
Anya busts up laughing, maybe as much because of Zac’s stunned face as Cal’s joke, and Cal can’t help laughing too.
“I see how it is.” Zac slings an arm around Cal’s shoulders and drives him outside, where it’s safe to wrestle without breaking something that’ll cost them a few thousand dollars. Cal only barely manages to shove the box at Anya before Zac’s climbing on him like a monkey. PJ laughs too, in great whooping burbles, and Anya says, “Aren’t these boys silly, PJ? Aren’t they silly?” Zac smells like autumn and warmth and his arms are strong around Cal, his breath puffing against Cal’s throat as they pretend to fight, and Cal thinks, This, I want this, I want to keep this, please.
* * *
That’s when Cal starts noticing that Anya and Zac are getting restless.
Zac impulsively cancels a burgeoning marketing deal that Cal has to plead with their agent to set up again. Anya joins a yoga guru’s gym-club-thing and then promptly quits two sessions later because the tinkling sound of the water fountain in the back of the room makes her need to pee all the time. Zac signs up for a Cheese-of-the-Month club despite none of them being people who like anything more exotic than parmesan; the boxes of San Joaquin Gold and Devonshire Cream pile up in the fridge and front hallway until Zac and Cal are forced to start passing them out to studio execs at label meetings. Anya starts talking about tattoos and piercings.
They’re both half-wild by nature. They’re not tamed by having a child, nor by having Cal here, and he would probably be more concerned about it if his long friendship with Zac didn’t prove it’s a feature, not a bug. He’s unsurprised to find that Anya’s similar in this respect.
He doesn’t think too hard about why he feels the need to take action before it tips over into actual reckless behavior; instead he just concentrates on finding an outlet. Cal considers the various small rebellions he could arrange, weighs which one will be most likely to provide a maximum of relief with the least amount of pain or consequences.
Then, with a heavy sigh, he resigns himself to going clubbing with them.
* * *
The suggestion alone gets Anya to make a rare girly squeal. Zac grins and gives Cal a grope on the ass. They pepper him with kisses and Anya rushes off to find a babysitter for Saturday, and for all his reluctance to participate in this sort of date, the knowledge that he’s making them so happy compensates for a lot of it.
He lets Anya dress him and do his hair, because apparently baggy jeans and a flannel stopped being rock star cool in the ’90s, a charge he disagrees with but isn’t willing to bicker about. He doesn’t have a problem with the designer white T-shirt she chooses. It’s one of Zac’s, and it strains at every seam over Cal’s bigger frame, although not as much as it would’ve if he hadn’t dropped a few pounds over the last couple of months. He hasn’t been using his weights since he started staying with them. Hell, he hasn’t been by his own place for more than his mail since this whole thing started. He wishes he had his weight set, but that’s not a subject he feels comfortable broaching. It’s not like he lives here.
At her direction he slides into tight denim and his battered old Docs, then buckles one of Zac’s worn leather cuffs around his wrist. He kind of wants to whine, but the urge disappears when he sees Zac in skintight, low-slung leather and smudged eyeliner. Cal feels a little silly in his own getup, regardless of the gleam of desire in Anya’s gaze when she looked at him, but he wants to bite Zac.
Not a new feeling, but one he’s not used to thinking he might be allowed to indulge, if he were only brave enough.
And that’s nothing compared to the punch in the gut he gets when Anya comes out of the bathroom in something short and slinky and red and glittery that barely contains her hips or the curve of her breasts, and if she’s wearing a bra under that, God knows Cal can’t tell.
“Holy fuck, woman,” Zac says hoarsely, and Cal pats him on the arm for being smart enough to find words. His own brain is still very much stuck on stupid.
“This old thing?” Anya plucks at the skirt, her tone innocent, her eyes wide enough that Bambi would look butch in contrast. She breaks the illusion then by grinning wolfishly, pleased by their gaping, and they all troop downstairs to let Marina know they’re leaving and to kiss PJ good-bye.
“You’re sure being around so much booze won’t be a problem?” Anya asks, for probably the dozenth time, straightening Cal’s sleeve as they pause to let Zac run back in for his ID. “We don’t have to drink.”
Oh, yes you do, Cal thinks. You two are getting this out of your systems if I have to throw a temper tantrum in public. I want both of you drunk enough that the hangover chills you the hell out for the next six months.
All he says is “It won’t be a problem. And I have my backup plan if it gets tight.” The backup plan, as they all agreed, is that he’ll take the car alone if he needs to escape quickly and Zac and Anya will get a taxi. He’s not worried about it, though. It’s been weeks since his near-slip—he’s back on the kind of keel that means he doesn’t think about it that much outside of his routine in the morning. This was the rationale behind his tequila ritual back in the beginning, after all. His career in the music industry meant he would be around substances frequently. If he couldn’t control his environment, he would have to control himself.
By the time they get out the door, it’s ten p.m., and Cal thinks it’s pretty noble of him not to point out wistfully that they’re usually all in bed by this time.
The club is one of Zac and Anya’s favorites, a big two-story revamped warehouse that plays a blend of industrial and hard rock. The music is good enough and loud enough that Cal can feel some of the tension leak from his spine. He wants to close his eyes and soak it in, just exist in the throbbing beat, but Zac’s hauling him forward by the hand, and they’re working their way through a crush of people. He feels mildly claustrophobic until they reach a long, steep staircase, where Cal is motioned past a red velvet rope by a huge man in a suit.
The VIP area is blocked off into several small, high-walled booths. Not quite rooms, but shadowy and deep enough that there’s an illusion of privacy from the other VIPs. Cal hasn’t gone clubbing with Zac since they were still in their early twenties and there was no danger that they’d be recognized back then. He’s never known the joy of a VIP area before, and the knowledge that he has a refuge from fans if he needs it makes the rest of his discomfort evaporate. They even have their own waiter so they don’t have to brave the clusterfuck that is the bar.
Cal has water, not wanting to risk that the bartender will interpret iced tea as a beverage that should hail from Long Island. Anya and Zac order rum—the one spirit Cal actively loathes the taste of—and are very clear with the waiter that if they’re not there to immediately drink anything put in front of them, he’s not to leave anything on the table at all.
Cal wants to tell them that it’s all unnecessary—he’s okay, he’s stable again, he’s used to it—but there’s a warm flush of pleasure in his chest at their concern.
Even so, they don’t get trashed, not the way they would’ve if Cal wasn’t with them. They stop after a couple of shots each, and Cal has to work hard to convince them to have another round. Yes, it sometimes unsettles him to see other people getting drunk, but he’d rather they get this out of their systems now, while he’s available to take care of them, than on their own, when they might be tempted to do...well, whatever it usually is they would do.
Zac’s always laid-back and filthy when he’s drinking, loose and languid, his long limbs draped over anything that’ll stand still. He’s warm and inviting and his heavy-lidded gaze has a soft buzz of
electricity humming through Cal’s body. Cal’s used to that. By contrast, Anya is bouncy, loud and giggly, her long tawny hair going every which way, hiking her skirt up to show him a bruise on her thigh where she banged her leg on a drawer the other day. Cal’s not remotely used to that, and his cock is half-hard long before she climbs into his lap to whisper something in his ear that he can’t make out over the music. She bursts into laughter when he gives her a confused look.
Finally she resorts to yelling: “Dance with me!”
Cal’s better at waltzing than he is at grinding, but he agrees. She’s all over him on the dance floor, hands in his hair, her hips rubbing against his own. He’s practically granite in his pants but he can’t relax, too worried about cell phones that might be taking grainy video of Hyde’s bassist rubbing his dick against his bandmate’s wife. Anya releases him with a teasing pout when the song ends, and Cal turns to see Zac approaching, shaking his head knowingly as he eases into the space Cal leaves behind. Cal retreats upstairs to their private alcove and drinks his ice water. The song playing is a good one; he closes his eyes and lets himself relax into the music.
It’s not so bad. He can do this. He isn’t exactly comfortable, because he didn’t like clubbing even when he was young and drinking heavily. He doesn’t dare let his guard down—he refuses to acknowledge that the empty shot glasses on the table even exist—but it’s fine. He’s not going to break, and seeing them enjoy themselves even makes it a little bit fun.
When he feels steadier, he leaves the booth and goes to stand at the metal banister overlooking the dance floor. He leans on the railing, watching Anya twist in Zac’s arms to the beat, her shiny red dress reflecting the strobe lights so that Cal never loses track of them. For all the shit they give Zac about dancing like he’s fucking ghosts, in the right time and place, it’s hot. He can do things with his hips that are obscene, and Cal keeps thinking about Zac’s body moving the same way as he fucks his wife.
What it would feel like to have Zac move like that against him? Inside him, even. Maybe. Cal’s never done that, never realized he might want to. His mouth goes dry. He can’t stop watching them. Not like a creepy stalker. He’s just watching them because they’re beautiful, and so he sees it when both Zac and Anya cue in on the same man: a lean blond dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket. Cal can’t make out much of his face from up here, but he’s definitely looking back. He tips his head to one side, a question. An invitation.
There’s a hiccup of time, a stalled-out half motion of hesitation. Cal’s heart clenches like a fist, and then Anya and Zac turn, virtually as one, and start toward the edge of the dance floor even though the song hasn’t ended. They make their way to the stairs and start climbing.
Cal fades back into the shadows of the VIP area, his throat tight, some strange mixture of jealousy and trust and gratification tied up in a knot in his chest. They’re taking care of him, giving him what he needs even when they think he won’t see, and that’s so—hell, that makes him warm all over. But he also knows they need it, that saying yes to a man like that blond is as intrinsic to them as their need to party like this, to get lost in the whirl of alcohol and strobe lights and the crush of unfamiliar bodies all moving to the same music.
He doesn’t know what to do; he can’t extinguish that restlessness with a club.
Zac settles onto the couch beside him while Anya climbs back into Cal’s lap, sitting sideways. Her ass is round and soft, and when she wriggles a little—possibly to get comfortable, more likely to tease him, judging from the smirk on her face—he can’t help pressing his cock up against her. Her long legs are extended, propped up on Zac’s thighs, her slim ankles cupped in Zac’s big hands, and Cal can smell both of them, sweat and perfume and cologne and the scents of their bodies, familiar to him now. He’s so hard, both from watching them rub up on each other on the dance floor and from their nearness now. Anya’s breath is on his throat. Her lips brush his ear. He shivers.
Cal can imagine a different world in which he’s a different version of himself, the kind of man who would take her hand and lead her to the VIP bathroom, where he’d help her onto the counter and fuck her there, pushing her back against the mirror, capturing her soft cries with his kisses, holding her in place for his thrusts, getting her wet and needy until she clenches around him as she comes. Or maybe he’d take Zac into the bathroom and suck him off. That other version of Cal wouldn’t think twice about it—that version of Cal would’ve fucked Zac weeks ago, never would’ve fallen into this bizarre will-they-or-won’t-they with Zac in the first place.
He wishes he could be that Cal. But even when he used to drink, he was only ever himself. And this Cal has no excuse when he asks, “So how would it work?”
“How would what work?” Anya asks, and licks his earlobe into her mouth.
He shudders. “Taking home a stranger. How would you do that?”
She sits back abruptly. He feels stupid and wishes he hadn’t said anything, but at the same time, there’s an antagonistic heat building in him that he can’t ignore. He wants to know.
Anya peers around him at Zac, who has a pissy look on his face.
“Really, man?” Zac asks.
“I’m not going to be a dick about it.” Cal hopes he’s not lying. “I’m curious. If I wasn’t here, you’d do it, right? You’d pick someone up? Like that blond guy downstairs?”
Anya and Zac are doing that thing again, the married-people thing where they have a whole goddamn conversation in a single look, and they might as well be speaking in a foreign language right in front of him for all the accessibility it gives him.
After a long pause in which only the club music assaults his ears, Anya finally says, “Yes. We probably would’ve. If he played his cards right.”
Cal tries to make himself breathe. “Because you want him.”
“There’s different kinds of wanting.” Her eyebrows pinch together.
“Come on,” he says. “We both know what it means when you want someone other than—”
“You mean it different than we do.” She digs her nails into his arm briefly to emphasize her point. He jerks under the tiny sting. Her blue eyes are impatient and demanding. “You think only wanting one body is a sign of love. But to say so is a polite fiction meant to spare insecurities. That’s not real. I’ve wanted men before Zac, before you, and I will continue to do so. That’s...fuck, that’s biology. That’s not me giving that desire any weight, it’s just flesh. It’s a drop in the bucket compared to what my heart, my mind and my will have decided. My body might crave any number of things that I might indulge in, but everything important that makes me Anya wants very specific things.” She thumps the heel of her hand against her chest. “Yes, I’d fuck that man, and I’d get off on it, and then I’d fuck my husband too, and the difference between being with that stranger and being with Zac is light years apart. One is living pornography that nets you an orgasm and a friendly wave good-bye because that’s all that stranger wants too. And the other is the fucking other half of my soul in another body. You can’t compare the two.”
Which one am I? But he doesn’t ask it, because he already knows.
Anya said it herself back on Zac’s birthday. She’s as much as said it here again. At the end of the night, it’s always her and Zac and PJ. They’re a family. Cal might be exclusive for now, might be the most serious addendum to that family that they’ve ever taken on, but serious isn’t forever. He had serious with Sharon back in high school, and they turned out to want very different things. He didn’t have the life experience or romantic experience then to know that the things that don’t line up easy are the things that inevitably drive you apart.
He knows better now.
Anya turns to straddle him, hiking her skirt up in the process. She cups his face and forces him to make eye contact with her. “You have to listen to me. You have to hear me. Even if I’d fucked him,
chances are I wouldn’t remember his name three months from now. But I’ll always know yours, okay? You’re not that man down on the dance floor, Cal. Not to me.”
“Not to me either,” Zac says. “Dumbass.”
“We know what you need. It’s—I won’t say it’s not alien to us, doing this the way you need it, but we understand why you need it, and it’s not—It’s fine. I think you think it’s hard for us to give up the other men, but it’s not—not the way it would hurt me to give up Zac. Do you see? It’s okay. We’re okay. You’re worth it.” She’s so fervent that her grip on his jaw is a little painful. Anya doesn’t lie. She says what she wants. It’s one of his favorite things about her—he never has to guess.
Cal nods, tries to pull the last tatters of his confidence back together. “Okay.”
All right. He’s not the man on the dance floor. He’s serious. To them, he’s always going to matter, enough that while he’s with them, they’ll let the other men go. That’s something, to know he’s important enough for that sacrifice. He’s maybe not soul-in-another-body important, but that’s a rare thing even in married couples. He can’t begrudge Anya and Zac that kind of bond. He might wish that there was room for him in there, but it’s not anyone’s fault that there isn’t. It’s the nature of the thing. They’re married.
He takes Anya’s hand, lifts it and kisses the palm. “Okay. Sorry. I don’t—I’m not trying to drive you crazy.”
“You’re not.” She brushes her thumb across his mouth. “You’re enough. I promise.”