Always Theirs: A Male/Male/Male Menage Rockstar Romance (The Always Series Book 6)

by J. P. James

  Images flash through my mind. A whirlwind party, dancing bodies, flashing lights. I don’t know why, but in my mind, someone like Fyre Connell puts on lavish affairs. Who knows what his after-party looks like, but now that I have the chance to find out, I feel a desperate itch gather in my chest.

  I look at Jordan, who steals a glance at me before facing Julian.

  “We’d like that,” he says confidently.

  Finally. Jordan’s going with his gut again. This version of my brother, I know very well.

  Jordan trusts his heart better than I ever can. I’m the one that hesitates. I always need to take my time, consider every option, and then make my choices carefully. Maybe I’m too cautious, but I’ve always been this way.

  Still, I want to know more about Fyre Connell. I haven’t felt this curious in a while. I overthink everything, but I don’t want to overthink this tonight. Tonight’s been chaotic, and I just want a strong drink and the chance to meet this mysterious man.

  “Thanks, Julian,” I tell him as I clasp his shoulder.

  He gives us the simple directions to the Big Screen Plaza, and twenty minutes later, we’re standing at the aforementioned bar nursing our second drinks.

  Apparently, Fyre Connell is a singer. His label is hosting the party to celebrate another successful performance. There’s a bunch of important-looking industry professionals here, along with a healthy crowd of fame-hungry social climbers. It’s an open-air patio, but this place is packed.

  “Do you feel like a fish out of water?” Jordan asks me, taking a sip of his whiskey.

  I chuckle, looking around at the crowd again. “I’d feel safer running into a house fire in my underwear,” I joke.

  Being dressed in black isn’t helping our case. We stand out against the sea of fashionistas. Everyone’s in the latest trends, from men in skirts to gold eyeliner. It’s a lot to take in. I do a once-over for Jordan and myself.

  “What?” he says, crinkling his eyebrows.

  “We look plain,” I tell him, looking out over the crowd.

  It’s then that I notice a young guy walking right for us. He winks at me as he descends on the bar, flagging a guy down for a cosmopolitan.

  “With extra lime,” he snaps, and then looks towards me, and winks.

  I ignore him, but it only makes Jordan snort and catches the guy’s attention even more.

  “I’m Caleb,” he purrs, leaning closer to me.

  I hold back a groan, and instead nod. “Jameson.”

  He hums like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night, and leans even closer once the bartender sets down his cocktail.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “You and your brother are way hot.”

  This time, I really do groan. It’s a noise to voice my disinterest, but Caleb doesn’t take the hint.

  “Thanks,” Jordan says, sounding as uninterested as I feel.

  “My friend has a VIP booth. Would you join us?” Caleb’s arm reaches behind me and grips Jordan’s shoulder, causing Caleb to lean impossibly closer to my side.

  “No thanks,” I tell him. “My brother and I have had long nights.”

  Caleb lets go of Jordan and leans back, but he doesn’t leave. If anything, he adjusts like he’s going to try this from a different angle.

  “It’s Fyre Connell’s VIP booth,” Caleb flaunts.

  The name sounds greasy on his lips, but it still piques my curiosity.

  “You know Fyre Connell?” Jordan steals the words out of my mouth, and I catch his gaze quickly before turning back to our uninvited guest.

  “Of course I do,” he says too eagerly. “He’s a close friend.”

  “Really?” I wonder.

  I see the façade crack. It’s small, but Caleb’s smile falters just enough.

  “Ok, fine. I’m not a friend per se,” Caleb tries to save himself, “but Fyre doesn’t have friends. There’s the people that he works for, and people that work for him. I’m the latter.”

  Caleb’s voice teeters between hope and exacerbation, trying to figure out if my hunky brother and I are ensnared in his promise of a good night.

  “Everyone has friends,” Jordan tries.

  Caleb laughs, and it’s jarring.

  “Trust me, not Fyre,” he says condescendingly. “All he cares about is his music and his image. That’s it,” Caleb says as he preens his shirt and pushes his hair to the side.

  “So you work for Fyre,” I try to redirect the conversation.

  “Sometimes. I’m a stylist. I’ve done a few photoshoots with the guy. You’d think he’d be used to it by now, but he’s horrible about style,” Caleb comments.

  I furrow my brow, tapping my fingernails against the bar in an effort to not object. I know nothing about Fyre, but I get the feeling this guy knows little more than I do.

  “Why is he horrible about style?” Jordan asks. This, I’m even more shocked by. Jordan has never cared about fashion … ever.

  “He asks too many questions, about the set and the clothes and production. He’s nosy, and if he doesn’t like something, he tells us.”

  Caleb tells us like it’s the worst thing in the world. Maybe in Caleb’s world it is the worst thing, but then his world seems pretty damn small to me.

  “Makes sense, if the guy cares about his image, that he asks a lot of questions,” I try to reason.

  Caleb huffs, and this time, leans farther away.

  “Look, are you coming to the VIP booth or not?” Caleb growls.

  Jordan leans over me, closing the gap yet again.

  “If you’re wondering if we’re going to fuck you,” Jordan says, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s a hard no. Have a good night, Caleb.”

  Caleb gasps, but relents. He grips his Cosmo and turns on his heel away from us, likely towards this illustrious VIP booth.

  “Good riddance,” I heave, letting my forehead rest momentarily against the bar.

  “Why do I get the feeling that Caleb doesn’t really know Fyre?” Jordan jokes, rolling his eyes in turn.

  I lift my head, roll my shoulders, and let a laugh bubble out of my chest. It’s a welcome feeling after the shit storm that is tonight.

  “I doubt Fyre is as bad as anyone says he is,” I say absently.

  “I bet no one knows the real him,” Jordan continues. “I don’t blame the guy. If I had to work with tools like Caleb, I’d keep the real me buried deep down.”

  I nod, considering every word Jordan said. It’s crazy, but there’s no doubt in my mind that my brother’s right. There’s got to be hundreds of people here right now, and I bet none of them know the real Fyre Connell. Not Percy, not Caleb … no one.

  Jordan takes a look at the crowd, and I follow his eye line. Speaking of hundreds of people … there’s definitely a handful of cute guys here.

  “See anyone you like?” Jordan asks half-heartedly.

  I know what Jordan really means. Of course, I see guys I like, cute guys who are definitely worth a second glance. This isn’t what Jordan’s asking though.

  I’m looking for sparks. My life is fast-paced and unpredictable. My brother and I put ourselves in danger on a regular basis. Despite the constant uncertainty, I want someone I can rely on. I know Jordan feels the same way, because he hasn’t hooked up with anyone in just as long. I can’t remember the last time he met someone at a bar. I can’t remember the last time I met someone either.

  Maybe I’m getting older and feeling the itch to settle down, but hook-ups aren’t doing it for me anymore. I want someone who’s there for me. I have a fierce need to protect the people I love, but I haven’t trusted anyone with my heart before. I’d like to try though, before I get too old to know love when it’s standing right in front of my face.

  Somehow, I don’t think Mr. Right is here tonight.

  I sigh, and clasp Jordan’s shoulder. “Not tonight, buddy.”

  Jordan nods knowingly. In unison, we stand and walk towards the exit.


  As we cross the doors, Jordan’s hand comes down on my shoulder and stops me in my tracks. I turn abruptly, the alcohol making itself known as it hits my brain.

  “I know we’ve had a hard night, and I shouldn’t have had that double whiskey,” Jordan starts, causing me to snort in my throat.

  “But?”

  “But,” he says with a wicked smirk, “I’m starting to feeling like I could use some companionship.”

  He savors the word as his hands digs in his pocket and unearths Damon’s business card. He holds it between us, like a secret, or maybe a prized possession.

  “What do you say?”

  Blame the alcohol, or the crazy night, but my brain isn’t working like normal.

  “Let’s do it,” I don’t hesitate to answer.

  Jordan leans back, looking at me like I may be a body snatcher.

  “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother? Jameson Jones always considers his options.”

  Instead of arguing my point, I snatch the card out of his hands as I pull my cellphone out. I dial the number and press send, my mind in a daze of surety.

  “Damon?” I ask when the line clicks to life. “It’s Jameson. You met my brother Jordan and me at the event tonight.”

  I listen … and listen … and listen.

  Jordan watches as my face contorts, scrunching and crinkling as Damon recounts his own night’s events. It isn’t until Jordan grabs my arm that I realize I’m shaking.

  I hang up, dropping the business card on the floor.

  “What is it?” Jordan asks, shaking me out of my haze of anger and shame.

  “Julian didn’t tell us everything.”

  I take a few calming breaths, trying to assuage the fire building in my chest.

  “Fyre is Damon’s client. Damon has a new job offer for us.”

  5

  Fyre

  Damon wraps his arms tighter around me, squeezing slightly for comfort.

  He’s trying to help, but I just want to burrow farther into myself. I pull my legs tighter against myself in fetal position on the couch, trying not to replay the attack, but failing.

  “Sir?” one of the hotel’s security guards asks Damon.

  Damon nods towards the front door, but squeezes me harder for a moment.

  “I’ll be right back,” he whispers.

  “Please. Don’t leave,” I tell him, loud enough for only Damon to hear.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Fyre. Not tonight,” he promises, before he unwraps himself, and heads towards the guys.

  I pull one of the cushions up and clutch it to my chest. It’s the smallest comfort considering my night has fallen apart so spectacularly.

  How could I be so stupid? I shouldn’t have answered the door. I should have stayed on the couch, came in my hand, and gone right to bed. It would have been a relatively normal night if I hadn’t opened the door.

  I try to focus on the sea of voices coming from the doorway. Damon’s is the only one I can recognize, but even his words sound more like garbled nonsense than coherent thoughts. There are at least three guards with him, or maybe one is a police officer. I stopped paying attention once they got me back safely to my room.

  I focus instead on the sound of their voices. Gruff, angry, concerned pitches bleed into the hallway. Some dip down into whispers, and every now and then rise back up to shouting. Inevitably, someone hushes them back down, and I wonder if they look towards my sad state as confirmation to keep quiet.

  It helps, strangely. Focusing on their voices keeps my mind from wandering too far. From wondering … what if.

  What if the security guards hadn’t showed up? What if Percy got me in my room alone? What if I had stayed at the party?

  “Fyre,” Damon says next to me, and jolt from the shock.

  He bends down and places both hands on my back.

  “Hey, you’re still okay,” he tells me, trying to calm me back down.

  The What If’s consumed me yet again.

  I sit upright, shifting the pillow on my lap and pinching the fabric. The thread between my fingers feels real, and reminds me that I’m here, and no one’s going to hurt me.

  “Sorry,” I state, though it sounds silly the second it comes out. I was attacked, and I’m the one apologizing.

  “None of that,” Damon says hoarsely. “The security guards are leaving. Did you want to talk to them before they go?”

  I shake my head, keeping my gaze fixed on the cushion in my lap. I watch the cushion as, one by one, teardrops drip onto the fabric.

  Damon thanks the officers a final time before he closes the door. Maybe he’s being rough, or maybe my ears are trained for it, but it sounds like he locks the door with more vigor than is necessary. It sounds like he’s trying to barricade us away from the world, and I’m thankful for it.

  He sits next to me on the free cushion and leans the length of his side into me. He doesn’t say anything for a while, so we sit there. I stare at the cushion, trying to breathe steadily in and out, while Damon matches me. The silence envelops us.

  I wish the silence felt as comfortable as it did earlier. I had wished to get away from the party, from the people who care more about my career than my well-being, and from my own racing thoughts. But now, the stillness is suffocating. There’s nothing safe about the quiet, at least not tonight. And tomorrow?

  Damon’s hand comes down on my shoulder, gripping me in the same gentle squeeze as before. It should feel comforting, but his touch sets off a memory. I can see us, sitting at the bar, Damon making promises he should have never made.

  “How could you!” I yell as I shove his hand away.

  I face him, tears stinging my eyes. I watch him as he watches me, and I can see his face harden.

  “How could I what, Fyre?” he asks.

  His voice is hurt, broken, and barely above a whisper, but I don’t back down. How can he act so hurt, when he’s the one that put us in this situation?

  I remember us sitting at the bar, looking at Eddie. I remember the glint in Damon’s eyes as he left me to complete his mission.

  “Don’t give me this crap, Damon,” I hiss. “You sent Percy here.”

  Damon’s hands fly up, gesturing wildly. His eyes search my face for the joke, but when they find none, his brows collapse.

  “What are you talking about?” His voice is thick with emotion. “I did no such thing.”

  I push off him, backing into the corner of the couch.

  “You paid a guy to take care of my needs, remember? You told me to relax, but you send me him,” I sob.

  My throat constricts, and I let my body tremble as the fear washes over me again.

  “Fyre, look at me. I need you to understand, but you have to see it on my face.”

  Against my better judgment, I pull my eyes off my legs, off the spinning ground below me, and fix my watery eyes on Damon.

  He looks shocked, and he can barely contain the tears behind red-rimmed eyes.

  “I am telling you the honest truth. I did not send Percy up here. I promise you that,” he swears.

  He lifts one shaky hand, and slowly reaches for me. He isn’t demanding. It’s an invitation, and an apology, as he lets a tear fall onto his lap.

  I lean forward, cupping my cheek against the open palm of his hand.

  “You promise?”

  He rubs his hand against my cheek, smiling as he huffs out a breath of relief. “I promise. I’ve never seen Percy in my entire life, and I hope I never see him again. If we ever cross paths, trust me when I say that I’ll beat the living daylights out of him.”

  Damon lifts his other arm as I push off the arm of the couch. Damon holds me for a moment, letting me bury my face against his shoulder.

  “You’re like a brother to me,” he swears, squeezing me so tight I feel the air leave my body, “and no one messes with my family.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. “I guess I just have bad luck,” I attempt to jo
ke.

  Damon laughs, rough and unpolished, and releases me from his bear hug. “I think bad luck is the biggest understatement of the century. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I shrug meekly as a small snort gathers in my nose. It’s all the agreement Damon needs to hear.

  Damon pulls my phone from his jacket pocket, and hands it back to me. “This was in the hallway.”

  I take it from him, looking at the Fyre app that’s still open on the device. I feel like I’m looking at a black hole.

  “I should post something,” I muse.

  Damon cuts me off before I say anything else. He throws his head back and cackles. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  I close the app, and move to the camera. I look around the room for something to snap, but come up short.

  “Maybe I can post a throwback. I already sent a photo of this room.”

  Damon takes the phone back the next instant.

  “Hey!” I tell him, but his hand stills on my chest, as he holds the phone away.

  “Fyre Connell, you were assaulted an hour ago. You need to rest, not post TBTs.”

  “After the night I’ve had, Damon, I want to post something happy.”

  “Not tonight,” he firms up his conviction. “You need rest. You have an early flight tomorrow.”

  Shit. I forgot.

  “Nothing like a touring schedule to keep the ball rolling,” I attempt to joke. “My schedule’s so packed that I won’t be able to worry about tonight’s mishap.”

  I want to sound funny, but the joke bites a little too hard. Damon watches me, concern written in the crinkles at his eyes.

  Tonight shook us to our core, and we both know it even if we just want to forget and move on. And to think, I thought I was going to jerk off and go to sleep. Speaking of which …

  I hesitate. I bite my lip for a dose of confidence. “You didn’t find anyone to, you know, hang out with me tonight?”

  Damon’s whole body stills. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, but I can see thoughts swimming in his mind. For a second his brows furrow, and it looks like something comes to mind, but it leaves just as quickly.