by Lane Hayes
“Are you ready?” I asked in a raspier-than-normal tone.
Adam nodded and adjusted his weight so he leaned forward on his elbows. I gently eased my fingers from him and quickly suited up. I added more lube, then carefully lined myself at his entrance and pushed.
“Fuck! You’re big. I—”
“Shh. It’s okay. Just relax.”
“I’m trying but it’s… hard.”
I chuckled softly as I ran a soothing hand down his spine and along his sides. “Hard is good.”
Adam grunted in response and nodded. “More.”
I complied and oh so slowly made my way inside him, murmuring tender praise as I moved forward. “You’re so hot… so sexy.” When I finally was balls-deep, I trembled and willed myself to stay as still as possible and wait for his signal.
“I think you can move, but I don’t know. I just feel—oh. Wow.”
I pulled almost all the way out and slowly pushed forward again. He was right. It did feel “wow.” It felt incredible. He felt incredible. Tight and hot and perfect. As many times as I’d been in this exact position, with a lover under me, soothing him as I stretched him open, I didn’t remember it feeling this good. I repeated the gentle glide a few times and stopped to rock my hips experimentally to test his readiness. Long, slow strokes accompanied soft-spoken words of encouragement.
“You okay?” I asked in a strained voice.
“Yeah, I—fuck, baby. Fuck me. Do it.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. I swiped at the trickle of sweat on my forehead and began to move. Adam moaned and clutched the blanket with white knuckles when I upped the tempo. I widened my knees and set a moderate pace. I tried not to overwhelm him by going too fast too soon, but my control was slipping. And when he knelt up, impaling himself on my rigid member, I knew I wouldn’t last. I wrapped my arms around his chest and sat back on my heels, inviting him to fuck himself on my dick.
Adam looked over his shoulder at me, but he kept moving. When I reached around to stroke him, his eyes glazed over. I let go when he set his fingers over mine. Then I leaned back and supported myself on my hands before giving in to the pent-up desire coursing through me. My hips flew. I fucked him wildly, pistoning inside him with reckless abandon. Reassuring platitudes wouldn’t come now. I was too far gone. And when he clenched his muscles around me in a vise grip, signaling his imminent release, I knew I wouldn’t last.
I reached for his cock just as he exploded. He roared and shook with the force of his orgasm. I kept moving but slowed my rhythm until the tremors subsided. When I thrust forward, he set his hand on my thigh to stop me.
“Adam, I’m so close. I—”
“I know. Just… I want to see you.”
He disengaged carefully, then lay back on the blanket with his legs spread wide before I could respond. I recovered and dove on top of him and entered him in one fluid motion. I couldn’t slow down, but I didn’t think he minded. When he yanked me against his chest, I bit his shoulder, then buried my chin against his neck.
My spine tingled in warning as I clasped his hands and pulled them over his head. I stared deep into his eyes, mesmerized by the deep blue color and his ever-present humor. And frankly mesmerized by him. I rocked my hips in perfect tempo and let the fever build again until it pushed me over the edge with an orgasm so fierce my eyes stung with tears.
A peaceful quiet floated over us. The stack of blankets we were lying on wasn’t particularly comfortable, but fuck, this felt amazing. Adam gave me a starry-eyed look and patted his chest meaningfully. I scooted closer and laid my head over his heart. I wasn’t the overly talkative type. I didn’t need words to commemorate this moment. I could have used music, but the poignant silence was better. It heralded a fragile beginning that was uniquely ours. It wasn’t a product of decades-old shared memories. It didn’t rely on people we knew or places we had in common. This was a place to call our own.
Chapter 12
WE WERE clumsy with each other in the aftermath. It was as though we recognized the significance of our time in Springville but didn’t know how to quantify it. We struggled to act normally, but something felt different. We stared a little too long, laughed too hard… and we couldn’t stop touching. He massaged the small of my back when we brushed our teeth. My fingers grazed his as I reached across the table and plucked the last slice of bread from his plate. We egged each other on to incite physical contact of any kind. Gentle one moment and rough the next. It was a hyper version of the idiotic pranks my bandmates and I pulled for fun. However, the blazing sexual tension combined with that wordless extra something was a game changer.
The weeks following my getaway with Adam passed in a flurry of manic activity. The police had done an extensive background check on Brian and hadn’t found any cause for suspicion. I conceded I might have gotten caught up in the moment. After all, the logistics of the postmarked letter made no sense, and I was hard-pressed to explain a gut feeling when I had nothing to back it up. I had the same queasy feeling about Tara, but that smacked of serious paranoia. I honestly didn’t think Brian was a bad guy. He just rubbed me the wrong way. The police agreed that was probably the case. If anything, they were more curious about my roommate, which drove me nuts. They questioned Adam’s manager and work associates at Jock’s, his instructors at culinary school, and even Mrs. Hanson. On one hand, I understood the reasoning, but it was aggravating.
However, between the holidays, concerts, traveling, and practices, I was busier than ever. These were sink-or-swim moments for Spiral. The pressure was so intense at times that each of us experienced a point or two of near breakdown where we would gladly have thrown in the towel and walked away. It didn’t help that a good portion of the spotlight was fixated on Adam and me now. We’d unwittingly become the hot new “couple to watch.”
The minute we returned to Manhattan, Adam was suddenly on the front line, learning firsthand what it meant to be the live-in boyfriend of a guy in a popular rock band. Paparazzi followed him wherever he went. They posted pictures of him doing anything from walking dogs to shaking a martini behind the bar at Jock’s. If he spoke to anyone other than me, man or woman, you could bet there’d be a photo with a caption attached questioning “the divorcé’s” loyalty. Adam took it all in stride. He laughed off the ridiculous headlines and urged me to do the same.
The only time I sensed disenchantment with the constant pressure was when he talked to his family. I believed him when he said they only wanted him to be happy and that their concern at seeing his name in the news wasn’t personal. They didn’t seem to care that I was a guy. The problem was… they didn’t like my job. At all. And they didn’t like seeing Adam associated with salacious headlines. Our return to Manhattan set off a weird free-for-all, and I didn’t blame Ned for calling to ask what the hell was going on.
I frowned as I leaned against the wall in the hallway at the Suite Dog Studio. “What do you mean?”
“I love you like a brother, but Adam is my brother, and… we’re worried about him.”
“He’s fine, Ned. He’s kind of amazing, actually,” I gushed.
“I’m sure, but you’re a public figure now, man. You hang out with an entourage and move undercover in shadows to avoid being hounded by the press. That’s so not Adam. He’s… normal.”
“I’m normal too,” I insisted, aware that my forehead was creased so hard it was giving me a headache.
“Right. I was watching hockey last night and some commercial comes on. ‘Join us tonight after the game. We’ve got hot footage of Isaac Dalton’s new boy toy walking a dog in Central fucking Park.’”
“Did they say ‘fucking’?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. I waved at Tim when he popped his head around the door and signaled they were ready to start.
“It was implied,” Ned deadpanned before giving an exasperated huff. “Because who gives a shit? Jesus, Ize, his whole life story is up for grabs on TMZ. Everything. They’re dissecting his high school football career
, the classes he took in community college, his relationship with his high school sweetheart, their marriage, their divorce, her broken heart, and her pissed-off family. I don’t believe everything I read, but the difference is you’re used to this crap. He’s not.”
“I know, but give him some credit, Ned. He’s pretty tough.”
“Yes, but he’s also human.” Ned let out a deep sigh. “If you were just you, Isaac Dalton, the guy we grew up with… I wouldn’t say a word. I don’t care if you’re gay and I certainly don’t care if Adam swings both ways, but it isn’t that simple. You aren’t just you anymore.”
I was more rattled by the conversation than I cared to admit. I pocketed my cell and took a deep breath. I didn’t see the point in arguing that Ned was wrong. I was surrounded by framed magazine covers featuring Spiral and could see my new bodyguard, Omar, a six-foot-six former Marine, chatting with Tara and another assistant about security detail for our upcoming radio appearances in the city. I hadn’t received any new fan mail of note, but if I did, I now had a giant bodyguard to kick ass if needed. My life wasn’t simple.
The madness would soon be over. We had one more local show and a handful of radio appearances. Then Adam and I could go somewhere quiet and talk about what came next. Though honestly conversations about the future frightened me. Part of me was hopeful, but I was a realist too. It was one thing to live as temporary roomies and quite another to talk about building a life together. One was fun and the other was scary as hell.
THE MINUTE we exited the limo in front of the radio station, we were greeted by screaming fans chanting our names. This was a publicity stop, so we were obliged to pause for photos and sign autographs. The energy was electric. It made me want to look around to see who was causing such a stir, because surely it couldn’t be Rand, Cory, Tim, and me. Before we could ponder the absurdity of anyone waiting since dawn to catch a glimpse of us, we were whisked inside to a private studio where we’d been asked to play a couple of songs acoustically and then do a quick interview and take a few phone calls from listeners.
We’d done this dozens of times. It was relatively painless, and usually it was fun. The major difference this time was timing. Spiral’s final show was tonight in the city that had given us our start. We owed it to our fans to give our last-for-now official tour day in the spotlight our all. And we were willing to go off script to keep things fresh.
“Do you mind playing a couple requests from the callers? If we budget our chat time with the set you start with, I think we can fit in three impromptu songs,” our bubbly host enthused.
Kendra Lee was a pint-size Asian American with long black hair she alternately twisted into a bun and then released in a cascade. I was sure it was nerves, but she didn’t seem shy otherwise. She was peppy and sweet, and gushed for a few minutes about how much she loved the band, before issuing instructions and reminding us not to use profanity.
“Us?” Rand asked in faux confusion. “We’re practically choirboys. At least I am. Watch out for Isaac. That dude has a fucking dirty mouth.”
“Ha fucking ha,” I singsonged, flipping him the bird.
Kendra chuckled as she adjusted her headphones and motioned for us to do the same. “Are we ready?”
We sat in a semicircle in the soundproof studio and performed to the radio deejays and, of course, their thousands of listeners. We kept the repartee humorous as we shared silly stories about life on the road. The hour went by fast. We played, talked to a few callers, and answered questions that ranged from serious to ridiculous. We were still laughing at the last question, who was the most likely among us to run for president, when Kendra gestured that she was ready to wrap up.
“Hey, gang, it looks like we have time for one last caller before we let Spiral go. Who do we have on the line?”
Kendra glanced with an expectant look toward the engineer on the other side of the glass. The young man shrugged.
“I’m calling for Isaac.”
It was a five-way “what the fuck?” moment. The caller sounded male, but I could have been wrong, because the voice was disguised as though he or she was speaking through a distorter. My first thought was maybe he was at work and couldn’t be caught calling in to a radio show.
I cocked my head and leaned into the microphone. “Hey there.” My friends gave me a collective eye roll and signaled for me to speed the call up. We had places to go.
Silence.
“Did you have a question for Isaac?” Kendra prodded.
“No. I have a message. You are the brightest star and I am your biggest fan.”
The click on the line was audible. It reverberated in my head like a gong. My mouth went dry, my palms were slick, and I honestly thought there was a decent chance I could lose my lunch. Especially when I glanced at my bandmates, who looked as freaked-out as I felt.
Kendra was a professional. She joked about ending with a little New York weirdness before thanking us profusely for coming by the station and wishing us luck. The second she took us off the air, we simultaneously sprang into action.
“We need to know who that caller was. Can you trace it?” Rand asked, pacing from one end of the small room to the other.
“I don’t know, but—”
“I’m calling Ed. Cor, call the police.” Tim pulled out his cell as he stepped out of the studio.
“I got it. Hey, did the guy give a name? Usually you don’t pass calls on to guests until you know who they are and where they’re from,” Cory commented.
“I’ll ask Greg. Hang on.”
Rand put his arm around my shoulders. His worried expression didn’t help my growing unease. I felt claustrophobic and anxious. As soon as this show was over, I wanted to get out of town again. I should call Adam and tell him I was booking us a trip. Fuck Springville. It was freezing there. We could go to the Bahamas or—
“Just get through the night, man. We’re in this together,” Rand assured me.
“Thanks. I’m—”
“He said his name was Brock,” the young man from behind the glass said as he hurried into the room. “He didn’t sound like he was in the Witness Protection Program hiding from the mob when he first called in. He sounded normal. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have put him on if I’d known he was going to be a whack job. We get them sometimes. The only thing we can do is cut them off.”
“It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” I offered him my hand and moved toward the door. “It’s probably nothing.”
ADAM PACED from one end of the dressing room to the other later that night. He was highly agitated and had been since he’d heard about the radio caller.
“Are you fucking kidding? What do you mean ‘it’s nothing’? Is Omar going to be onstage with you? If he’s not, maybe I should be. I could sit on the side next to the backup singers.”
“We don’t have backup singers. Haven’t you ever been to a Spiral show?”
“No. This is my first. I want to be excited about seeing you in action, but I can’t relax. This doesn’t feel right, you know?”
“Adam, this is my job. I’m in showbiz and the show must go on. It was a phone call—a creepy one, but it’s not a good reason to cancel a concert our fans have spent hard-earned cash to see. Try to relax and here—” I turned toward the mirror and pointed at the zipper on my side. “—help me with this.”
He did as I asked, then slipped his arm around my chest and pulled me against him so we stood back to chest, gazing at our reflection. “I have something to say and I don’t care if you say it back, but—”
“No. Don’t say it.” I put my hand over his mouth and shook my head vehemently. “I feel it too, but I—” I covered his hand and squeezed it.
“Shh. It’s okay. Let it go for now. I—most of the time it feels amazing, but it’s hurting my chest right now. That’s all.” He stepped aside before I could respond. “Break a leg, baby.”
SPIRAL’S STAGE productions were much more sophisticated now than they were in the beginning. The flashing li
ghts, panoramic backdrops, and special effects were first-class. Hell, even our opening acts featured the best new talent on the scene. Every detail was well planned and executed, with no room for error. We were cognizant of balancing innovation with charm and sex appeal. Every performance mattered, but if I did say so myself, our final on the tour was sheer perfection.
Screaming fans chanted our names, sang to every song, and danced in the aisles for two and a half solid hours. We jazzed up our encores by switching up instruments. I sat in for Tim on the drums when he moved behind the grand piano to play and sing one of Spiral’s biggest hits, “Surrender.” Rand sang backup and strummed his acoustic guitar while the audience cheered, with tears streaming down their faces. When we returned to our usual places and finished the night with a rocking song, all twenty-thousand-plus fans were on their feet. We all agreed it was one of our best.
I threw guitar picks into the cheering audience and then stood beside my bandmates to take a final bow. We’d given three encores already. This was it: our final good-bye until our next release and tour. After a full couple of minutes, Rand gave a subtle nod, and we all raised our arms as one, soaking in the outpouring of love from our fans before exiting the stage as a group.
I was pretty sure I’d never felt this emotional at the end of a tour. I wanted to blame it on exhaustion, but I knew there was more to it. And when I saw Adam waiting for me at the end of the corridor with his arms outstretched, I was so choked up I could hardly speak.
“Baby, you were amazing,” he gushed, pulling me into a fierce bear hug.
Cameras clicked, champagne bottles popped, and countless people patted my back or squeezed my shoulder, and congratulated me. It was nice, but I had everything I really needed here. I buried my head in Adam’s shirt and held on tight.
THE AFTER-PARTY was an epic homage to a job well done. We celebrated like the rock stars we were until dawn. Unfortunately the hangover the following morning was equally as epic. I stumbled into the kitchen, grunted a greeting in Adam’s general direction, and pointed at the coffee before falling into the nearest barstool.