by Neve Wilder
“Your dick has a stronger opinion, I think.” His gaze dropped to the bulge in my jeans.
Yeah, I was hard as a rock, and his T-shirt hung down too far over his shorts for me to determine whether or not he’d had the same reaction. Unfair.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I snapped back at him.
“Touché,” he said, and for some reason we both cracked up, loud laughter that felt good barreling out of my chest, a kind of substitute release for the pressure in my cock, which I didn’t want to think about because, yeah…
Evan turned away, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in. I waved to the reporter as I adjusted myself, then climbed in the passenger seat. For the duration of the ride home, things felt normal again, the way we were before. Back at the beginning.
When you guys are working on an album, what’s your process?
Les: Besides a lot of alcohol?
Evan: Les usually has some words and some kind of gist of the melody or beat and then—
Les: And then Evan organizes it, riffs off it, and makes it about two thousand times better. “Detour” was all you, though, dude.
Evan: No it wasn’t. You figured out the chorus, remember?
Les: So the answer is complex. We don’t have a process, we just sit there and jack around together until it sounds right.
Evan: I’m side-eyeing your word choice there.
Les: We collaborate around together until it sounds right.
Chapter 20
Maybe Les was right. All of it was just a show, and even if he was naturally better at it, I still knew how to perform—I thought I’d proven that well enough in the parking lot. I was doing it long before I met him, though, passing out charming smiles like they were candy as I shoved drinks at strangers, spilling bits and pieces of my history in smoky bars with my guitar over my lap, singing my ass off on street corners in the hopes of one more dollar or the right ear to hear me.
So I’d say I was a good showman, but when I’d leaned in to Les, I’d had a strong expectation that my kiss would be perfectly executed and yet still feel wooden and mechanical. It hadn’t. Not at all. The cadence of my pulse increased with each velvety collision of our tongues, and little pinpoints of pleasure lit up over my shoulders like stars in a cage. When I’d been pressed up against him, a rumble of sound thrummed in his chest and vibrated over his tongue, like pleasure I could taste, and it had felt as natural between us as when we traded riffs back and forth. But this was a different language, and kissing Les should have been nothing, but it wasn’t. It was something else entirely.
Les didn’t know the half of it. No one really did. Sometimes I didn’t think I did. But I’d understood for a long time I was a little different. A random pair of tits didn’t leave me with a slavering erection. Or for that matter, a random cock. Les’s cornucopia of meaningless sex didn’t just seem pointless to me, but unappealing. I took flak—mostly good-natured—left and right for turning down easy lays, but I didn’t want them. I could jerk off to porn in the instances I got horny with the same effect. I wanted connection, the same thing I wanted in my music. A song was just free-floating notes until you grounded it with a story. For a long time I’d thought something was wrong with my libido. At fifteen, every guy around me was popping boners over short skirts while I was more interested in fiddling with my guitar or a keyboard. What few relationships I’d had led me to figure out there wasn’t anything wrong with my libido; it just had a more restrictive admissions policy than what seemed like the other ninety-eight percent of the population. I was cool with that and managed okay, and honestly it was kind of nice to not feel some deep quaking need to be with another person or get off that seemed to make everyone around me act crazy.
And that’s what was dangerous about that fucking kiss setting me on fire. Les was exactly the opposite of me. He was boundless, and nothing and no one would ever be enough for him. Certainly not me.
As I heated water on the stove for some ramen after unloading the groceries, I stood there watching the bubbles begin to rise, silently listing twenty different reasons I was going through with this farce—for the music, for continued financial security, for my mom, for myself—and trying to number them in importance. But it kept shifting around on me, and I found myself looping back to that damn kiss and Les.
Later that night, we tooled around in the basement, not really working together, and not really talking, either. It wasn’t uncomfortable between us, though there was this sense of… carefulness in the air. Maybe it was just me. Les seemed completely immune to the kind of doubt and questioning that kiss had stirred up in me, which in its own way was comforting. He was just being himself. We hadn’t spoken any more about what happened in the parking lot, and I wondered if he was as shell-shocked as I was or if it was just another day at the office for him. We’d both called our parents and explained the situation so they wouldn’t be surprised by whatever headlines might come out. My mom’s reaction had been a measured, thoughtful silence that became a lot of questions I did my best to answer, and then tentative support. She was always supportive, even if she didn’t have a lick of an inclination toward music or any interest in its inner workings.
And then there was Leigh. I glanced at the phone when it lit up on the coffee table where I’d set it and sighed when I saw her name pop up. Briefly, I considered not taking it, because I’d had about enough for one day. But Les was deeply involved with his notebook, and I figured I might as well get it over with. Even after years in the business, it still mystified me sometimes how fast gossip could become a headline. I hadn’t even checked the internet, assuming we’d have a reprieve of at least a couple of days before the photos from the grocery store emerged. That was the only logical reason I could imagine for her call, though.
“Leigh,” I said, waving the phone in Les’s direction as I stood.
Les glanced up with the glaze-eyed look he got when he was wrapped up in something and nodded. “Good luck.”
I didn’t need luck. I needed a time machine that would transport me back to that night six months ago where I would have, instead of taking Ella’s hand, walked off to my bedroom.
I took the phone out onto the porch where a light rain had started falling. Raindrops pinged off the railing, creating a soothing white-noise backdrop as I accepted the call.
“If this is true, it means you were cheating on me,” she said after my cautious greeting.
“I’ve never cheated on you. You know I wouldn’t do that.” The tone of her voice had me wincing as I stood under the overhang of the roof, leaning against the sliding door and already regretting answering.
“So this is all just made up, then? Even the threesome thing? Like a publicity stunt?”
“The threesome is true. But—” I raised my voice when she started to interject. “It happened before you and I ever got together. And I regret the hell out of it, in case you’re wondering. It was a stupid, stupid fucking idea.”
A long silence followed. What I’d always liked about Leigh was that she wasn’t impulsive. She was reliable and even-keeled like me. Maybe that had been the problem with us, I didn’t know. We were so similar that after a while it felt like we were just… partners or something. I couldn’t honestly say I knew for sure what love was supposed to feel like, but I was pretty sure what I felt for Leigh was caring, not love, and the only reason I’d been so upset about her breaking up with me was that it was just one more reminder of something I’d attempted and fucked up.
“That’s so unlike you, though.” Her voice was soft, and she sounded hurt, which sent an unmitigated pang of sadness through me. I’d never wanted to hurt her.
“It is. Or it was, which is just one of the many reasons why I told you I regretted it. But I’m telling you I wasn’t screwing around on you.”
“So this picture of you and Les sucking face in the parking lot this afternoon is bullshit?” I could imagine her on the other end of the line, the tremor of anger in her voice drawin
g her mouth down. The entire time we’d dated, we’d never even argued once.
“Yeah. Our publicist thinks it’ll be a good lead in to our next album.” I gritted my teeth and thumped my head back against the glass door a couple of times.
She choked out a laugh. “God, you’re becoming part of the machine.”
I had no defense, so I didn’t say anything.
“It looks so… real.” Her voice had taken on that soft, small tone again that settled in my chest like a weight and made me sigh.
“It’s not.” I’d never thought I was a good liar, which was why I didn’t do it often. And I wasn’t sure that was what I was doing now, exactly, because Les and I were faking a relationship, but the feelings that kiss stirred up inside me were too raw to ignore, and there was no way I could explain something I hadn’t figured out for myself yet.
Maybe she could tell, because there was a note of doubt in her voice when she spoke next. “Are you sure? Because I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve sometimes wondered if Les has a thing for you.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Les has a thing for anything that’s remotely attractive and alive.”
“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced, but I was ready to get off this topic and wrap up the conversation before it spiraled.
“Listen, I’m sorry about everything, Leigh. I was a shitty boyfriend, and you deserve much better.”
“No, you were a great boyfriend, Ev—you just weren’t into me the way I was you. I don’t know if you ever were.”
I went back downstairs and found Les on the couch, leaned back deep into the cushions that had long since lost their shape, his legs kicked up on the coffee table and his guitar slung loosely across his lap while he stared at the ceiling, strumming a few aimless chords. I carried my laptop with me and set it up on the coffee table, pushing his feet aside to make room.
“She pissed?” he asked, without looking over at me.
“She’s hurt, I think, and thinks this whole stunt is dumb, but she’s… fuck, she’s just a nice person, and I feel like an asshole.” I groaned. I’d failed to really consider how she would be affected, and now I felt like a dick for thinking she wouldn’t care at all.
“You should’ve just told her it was my fault.”
“Why? I agreed to go along with this.” Once the computer had hummed to life, I googled our name and clicked on the top result that read, “Just Like Us.”
“Because it is. That whole threesome. I egged you on.”
I took a long breath and dropped to the edge of the couch near Les, raking my hands through my hair. “Nah. It just happened. I could’ve said no. And you’re right. People do that shit all the time and it’s not a big deal, yeah?” I sounded like I was trying to convince myself, which I absolutely was.
“But you never would’ve done it left to your own devices.” Les grabbed the neck of his guitar and straightened, resting it against the side of the couch as he angled into the cushions so he could see me. It seemed like he was settling in for a long come-to-Jesus and I wasn’t in the mood for a come-to-Jesus, or for revisiting that night with Ella. It had already happened. It was done. Now I just had to ride the wave as best I could.
I glanced back at the screen where the page displayed an array of celebrities doing ordinary things, like picking up laundry or, in our case, grocery shopping. Les turned his attention to the screen at the same time I did, swearing softly, “They didn’t even show the best part. Dipshits.”
It was true. That scorching kiss I’d planted on Les against the side of the car? Nowhere to be found. What was shown instead was the awkward first attempt captured at the moment where I was ducking Les’s advance to plant my more chaste version on his cheek. My eyes were wide open, my lips puckered, and I looked like a squirrel who’d suddenly realized he was caught in the middle lane during rush hour. Les, meanwhile, looked great, every ounce the affectionate lover, complete with a hint of a goofy, adoring smile. Fantastic.
“Why didn’t they post the other one?”
Les edged closer to the screen, squinting at it. “Maybe she couldn’t see it.” He pointed. “We were on the other side. Maybe she couldn’t get over there before you had to pull away or risk exploding from the sheer eroticism of my kiss.”
I turned to look at him, giving him a slow blink. “That’s what you think happened, huh?”
He grinned and shrugged. “More or less.”
“Les, your mouth is basically a Dollar Store. Lots of traffic for shit that falls apart in a week.” Except I actually liked the Dollar Store because their prices on paper goods near where I lived were unbeatable. And I’d liked Les’s kiss, too. A lot.
“That’s so oddly specific and nonsensical, it doesn’t even hurt my feelings.” He smirked at me and picked up his guitar again. “That photographer missed out. Now—” He played a few bars of something that must have been new. “You want to see what you’ve got for this or you want to kiss me some more? I’m open to either.”
I rolled my eyes and closed the laptop.
An hour later, I’d migrated to the floor and Les had taken over the whole couch. He had his guitar lying lengthwise over the top of his body and plucked idly at the strings like he was playing a harp while I rewrote some of his lyrics into legible English and jotted down the chord patterns and progressions we’d assembled so far. After he hit the C string hard for the fifth time in a row, I was just about ready to throw something at him when he said, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah? Does it hurt?”
He snorted. “Har har, Dadjoke. About us, I mean.” I twisted around to look at him. His profile was to me, and I couldn’t really read his expression, but he seemed awfully intent on his study of the foam-lined ceiling. “What we’re doing. I know I convinced you to go along with this thing, but I don’t want to do it if you’re not all in.”
“What’s that mean?” A cold spike worked its way through my stomach as I set down my pen.
“This last tour has been hell, Porter. Everything is different between us, and I can’t do another tour like that.” He slid off the side of the couch and leaned his back against it, dangling his hands between his bent knees. The gaze he fixed on me was cautious, but there was something else in it, too, that I couldn’t decode.
I prodded the inside of my cheek with the tip of my tongue, thinking. I didn’t disagree with him at all, but I was struggling to figure out why a twinge of anger ran through me. What I wanted to tell him was to stop fucking around so much, but he was just doing the same things he’d always done. I was the one who’d changed. So was it fair to suddenly hold him to these new expectations? And now there was the additional confusion of that kiss and the impression it had left on me. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
“Me either,” I agreed at last, feeling like that was a lame response. But it was the best I had at the moment.
Les wet his lips slowly, the arch of his brows telling me that, yep, he’d been dissatisfied with that succinct answer. “So we have options. We commit to this stupid scheme, sell the hell out of it, and write some good songs. Or we don’t and we still write some good songs and see where we land afterward. But either way, I want to feel like we’re on the same side again.”
He was looking at me so intently now it sent a shiver racing through me; the words he’d spoken danced around bigger-picture implications, and we both knew it.
I nodded, trying to ignore the erratic pounding of my heart and the panic inspired by the idea of losing him as a partner. “We’re already committed. I’m in. But I need something from you, too.”
He arched a brow again in question, and I had to resist the defensive urge to fold my arms over my chest.
“I don’t want to be picking you up off the floors and trying to put you back together again while we’re here.”
A muscle at his jaw twitched, but he nodded. “Deal.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated, thinking about my phone
call with Leigh.
“Leigh seemed to think—you’re not… this is fake, right? There’s not some kind of desire for more on your end, is there?”
“No.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then tipped his chin up and met my gaze directly. “You’re right, what you’ve always said: I’m not very discriminating. And sure I’d be into hooking up with you because I’ve always thought you’re hot, which you know. But I’m not a relationship guy, which you also know so… yeah, you can lay that worry to rest.”
I rubbed at my chest, as if doing so would erase the disquiet that spread through it.
Chapter 21
Since I’d known him, Evan had maintained the same morning routine. He got up, went for a forty-five minute run, then did another half hour of body weight exercises. Rain or shine, 365 days a year. The one time we stayed in a hotel without a gym and it stormed, he’d gone to a hotel a few streets over and convinced them to let him use their treadmill. It showed. He was fit as hell, and I used to think it was a vanity thing—because why the hell would someone go to all that trouble, otherwise?—but Evan didn’t seem to care much about vanity or getting laid. So finally one day I asked him, and he gave me this vague spiel about it clearing his mind and boosting endorphins, but I didn’t buy that, either. He had other obsessive tendencies, like making sure his clothes for a show were properly laid out an hour before call time or his guitar strings were changed after every other performance. He’d had the same suitcase since I’d known him, and he packed it exactly the same way, layering things in a specific system. I’d decided a big part of his running habit was a way for him to feel grounded in the constant change of our lifestyle—and maybe it was rooted deeper, in his childhood, because I knew he and his mom had moved from place to place a lot. But as long as he could find pavement or a strip of revolving rubber, his day started the same way no matter where we were. When I’d told him that, his eyes had widened and his mouth opened like he was going to protest, like the idea that he was that transparent or maybe neurotic was disagreeable to him. Then he’d closed his mouth and cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, and said, “I guess you’re probably right. I’m just surprised you even noticed.”