Love On The Road: A Contemporary Gay Romance (Love Games Book 3)

by Peter Styles

  “Is your hair invited, too?” He can’t help the question. It’s a late morning, he’s not worried about traveling, and he’s been gifted with the sight of Damian and his bedhead. He feels spoiled.

  “Now you’re just being mean,” Damian snorts, throwing a pillow over Jordan’s face. He’s smiling when he rises, a hand already combing through the mess on top of his head.

  Jordan wants to say I could get used to this. He wants, more than anything, just to kiss Damian. Test his hypothesis, that maybe they could be something special. He doesn’t want to go too fast, though, so instead, he yawns and stretches.

  “I wonder if the others are up.”

  “I guarantee Jace isn’t up,” Damian says automatically, the sound of clacking bottles echoing from the bathroom. “They’re probably laying around. All of you have been going hard for a while, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. It’s been…months. Five, maybe,” Jordan realizes. Five months since they’ve been home. Five months of irregular sleep and even more irregular meals.

  But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Especially not since it led him right to Damian.

  “I thought I was bad,” Damian snorts, emerging with only marginally more controlled hair. “Have you considered getting drivers? Or having people take shifts who aren’t playing? It’s gotta be taxing to perform and do transportation too.”

  Jordan tries to come up with an answer but he finds words are hard to form, especially since Damian is changing. Taking his shirt off casually, as if he’s done it a thousand times, rummaging in a backpack. So those freckles and moles really are everywhere.

  “I…we’re a small group,” Jordan finally says, cursing himself for not being able to come up with anything better.

  “Maybe. But I’m sure some people would be willing to help out. Fans, even. And your safety is just as important as your music.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Damian pauses when he turns, blushing a little and avoiding eye contact. Jordan grins. It’s endearing—the confidence is still there, but there’s an acute awareness of just how much is being said.

  “Well…I mean, it’s just safe, right?” Damian shrugs as if it’s no big deal but his gaze is skating around the room like he’s following some invisible cues for digging himself out of the hole he’s made. Jordan nods, still smiling, cutting him some slack.

  “Yeah. Oh—Damian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your hair is still sticking up in the back.”

  He’s rewarded with a flying bottle of shampoo and halfhearted insults. None of them really stick. By the time he’s done changing, Damian is packed and ready to go. Reality sets in as they head toward the front desk. He’s really coming with us, Jordan realizes. I’m really going to see him every day for the next month. He feels nervous and excited for the possibilities—the chances he’s going to take when they come. The same feeling that’s been telling him Damian is important rests by his heart, warming the spot. He knows that no matter what, he can’t give him up without trying.

  I just have to figure out if he feels the same way.

  7

  Damian

  He feels like he’s toeing a thin line. He’s never been the kind of guy who wakes up in other people’s beds. He’s never been the one having one-night stands. Hell, he’d only had a handful of relationships through high school and college. His romantic history isn’t even a history; it could fit on the band’s setlist. So this—this chance he’s taking—is extreme.

  Damian is still questioning his choice to join the band. He knows pieces of it make sense—he really did have training and he has been wondering whether he should use it. He had no destination in mind when he left his friend’s house; stumbling upon this opportunity was a lot like all his other choices. A series of stumbles. That’s what I’ll call my memoir. As much as it makes sense, though, it also doesn’t because he knows the real reason he had been so immediately ready to join.

  Jordan is it. He was it the second Damian saw him at the bar. Maybe his plan had been to flirt, get a date, stay in Derry for a week while figuring out the handsome stranger. But of course, fate would have it that the person Damian was interested in was just as wandering as him. Damian had been ready to give it up, too, considering that he’d have to trail after the man if he wanted things to go any further.

  So why didn’t I? It’s probably something about chances, he thinks. It’s about taking all that he can get when it comes along. He’s made his life on taking chances, picking up and moving without a plan. Or without much of one, at least. He’s just never done it for a person before. Jordan is different, though. He’s worth waiting for and he’s worth following, even if Damian has no clue what the hell he’s doing pretending to be security for a traveling band.

  “San Rita is about eleven hours away,” Jace says, interrupting Damian’s thoughts. He’s driving—the others are rearranging things, making space for their snacks and Damian’s one bag. The small trailer with equipment houses his bike, now—he’d been careful to help load it, hoping the attempt wouldn’t end in the need for him to leave it behind. It’s the one thing he’s always had with him.

  “Eleven? Okay. I’ll say three-hour shifts. Each of the road crew and me. From now on, I think we should be the ones driving. If we need extra help, we’ll try and have you go first, so you get more rest closer to the gig.”

  “That’s a plan,” Jace grins, “but good luck keeping Jordan away from the wheel. It’s like an addiction.”

  “Remind me who’s hoarding tubs of Nutella,” Jordan calls from somewhere in the back where he’s making the beds. Damian snorts.

  Derry is disappearing in the rearview. He feels the usual nerves that come with leaving a place—the small piece of the town he takes with him and the uncertain future that lies before him. It’s a little less uncertain now, the band and crew providing him with constants. He knows he’ll get used to their mannerisms soon enough, figuring out how to work with and around them. Finding a way to fit into a place that’s already complete without him is something Damian has become adept at, especially considering his history of moving around.

  “I don’t remember the last time I travelled with someone else,” Damian realizes, slouched in the passenger’s seat. Jace glances at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Really? You always travel alone?”

  “I do. Usually not far and always carefully—especially since I’m on the bike. But yeah. I don’t think I’ve traveled with anyone else since…jeez. Maybe since middle school?”

  “Wow. You never went on trips in high school? Over the summers?”

  “Nah. I had a single father,” Damian explains, smiling a little. He can remember everything about his father. He calls regularly; once a month, sometimes more when he feels like he’s forgetting the sound of his voice. “We didn’t get out of town much. And he was sheriff.”

  “That must have been hard,” Jordan says, carefully moving closer to the two. Damian doesn’t miss the way he cautiously enters the conversation, like he’s trying to make sure he’s welcome. It’s nice. Especially since most of the time, people don’t give a passing thought about it.

  “Yeah. It was, I think, for him. And I was a handful.”

  “No kidding,” Jace laughs.

  “Oh, yeah,” Damian grins, feeling excitement rise in his chest, “This one time, I tried to surprise my best friend on his birthday—I climbed a tree by his window and walked onto his roof. Gave his mom a heart attack when she saw me.”

  The entire bus is laughing at that point. Jordan shakes his head fondly, as if he’s imagining the scene. It was pretty great, Damian thinks. He remembers his father showing up, exasperated, trying not to laugh even as he assured the woman that Damian would be fine and not pulling a stunt like that again. Of course, Damian had done the exact same thing a year later when trying to convince his friend to go out to a concert after hours.

  Jordan moves a little closer, passing Damian a water bottle
. Their fingers brush for a moment and Damian fights the pounding in his chest. I wonder if he’ll ever remember. Jordan looks hesitant, like he’s not sure whether he wants to speak. Damian turns towards him, hoping to encourage him. He gets the feeling alone time isn’t really an option, not on the bus anyway.

  “Where did you live? In Tower Valley?”

  “Fox Grove,” Damian says. He can see the neighborhood in his mind—little townhouses, tall and thin, shoved up against each other like the teeth of a comb. Most of the houses were filled with adults and young couples; it wasn’t a place where there were many kids. Other than Ellis, Damian never really had any other friends his age. Well, Ellis and Jordan.

  “We lived across town, by the limits,” Jordan says. “It was nice being surrounded by trees, but we were so far from anyone else.”

  “There weren’t really any kids in my neighborhood, other than Ellis,” Damian hedges. I wonder if I can get him to remember? “I spent a lot of time on my own.”

  “We have a big family,” Jordan says, smiling crookedly, “I had the opposite problem—there were always so many people around the house that I’d take off most days.”

  “Take off? A kid? Were you allowed to do that, or were you a little troublemaker?”

  “I wasn’t a troublemaker,” Jordan snorts, “and I wouldn’t go further into the woods. I’d stay kind of close, but far enough to get out of earshot. It was nice, being out in nature. I kind of miss it.”

  He doesn’t say anything about meeting someone in the woods. Damian feels it sting his chest. You can’t expect him to remember, he tells himself. Even Jace mentioned Jordan is bad with faces and names. Still, some romantic part of him wishes it were true. As if somehow, that would justify him running off with Jordan’s band to places unknown. As if it would explain why he’s still so attracted to him—although in a very different way, now.

  They spend most of the next few hours in relative silence, the radio humming lowly to fill up the silence. Damian can’t help but think about his childhood in that space, wondering how he can try drawing the memories from Jordan. If it’s even worth it. If he doesn’t remember, maybe I just wasn’t important to him. He knows it shouldn’t affect their relationship now, but he can’t help wishing things were different. That somehow, this could be the thing his wandering life has been leading up to. That all his travel has been guiding him to Jordan. Instead, he’s left with the uncertainty he’s always carried around with him—am I doing the right thing?

  He’s jolted awake when something bumps. His hands fly to the door and dashboard, bracing, and for a breathless moment, he thinks they’ve hit something. Panic floods his body and statistics fly through his mind.

  “I think we have a problem.” One of the road crew is driving—David, Damian thinks—and he’s glancing in the mirrors.

  “What was that?”

  “Flat, probably,” David says, slowing. “Good thing we’re at our stop. This isn’t going to be fun.”

  Most of the band is asleep, Damian notices. The only conscious person, in fact, is Jace. He’s sitting at the tiny table on the left side of the bus, earbuds in as he bobs his head to some music. It looks like he’s writing. Lyrics? Damian leaves his seat carefully, moving back to talk to him.

  “Hey,” he says carefully, slipping into the seat across from Jace.

  “Hm? What’s up?” Jace pulls an earbud out, letting it dangle over his shoulder. The faint sounds of music drift from it.

  “David thinks we have a flat. We’ll have to check it out at the gas station.”

  “Great,” Jace sighs. “Jordan’s going to have a heart attack. Just watch—he’ll say something about the schedule.”

  “I’m sure it won’t take long to fix,” Damian says, fighting a grin. “Anyway, we’re ahead of schedule.”

  “Tell him that.”

  They lapse into a comfortable silence and Damian watches Jace scratch out a few words, jotting more onto his notebook. It’s a mess of bluish black ink. There are words written in cursive, crammed into the edges as if they’re the bank for some word search puzzle. Damian wants to ask questions—who writes the lyrics? How do you come up with them? Even more than that, he wants to ask about Jordan.

  “Are you writing something new?” It’s not what he planned, but it’s the question that comes out of his mouth.

  “Yeah—we usually work on new stuff during the months we’re not touring. I sometimes pick up on ideas on the road, though. Or in diners. Or between songs on stage.”

  “Do you write all the lyrics, then?”

  “Most of them. Sometimes the others do, though—Sam gets choruses sometimes. Jordan rarely volunteers anything, but when he does, it’s hopelessly sappy,” Jace grins.

  “Sappy? Jordan?”

  “I know,” Jace laughs. He looks like a kid when he does, bright-eyed and unabashed. “He’s pretty good, though. His dad’s an English professor.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. Dan’s a great teacher, too. He’s really patient.”

  For someone with an English professor for a parent, Jordan doesn’t talk much. Or in many words. Damian can imagine it, though—a house filled with books and Jordan playing his music, reading Tennyson and Whitman and Romantics. It raises a question, though—one that he’s not sure how to phrase.

  “Does your family…I mean, how did they…what do they think about the band?” He winces as he stumbles, trying to figure out whether he’s overstepped. Jace seems unworried, though, so he takes it as a good sign.

  “They’re all pretty supportive. My parents are always trying to ask if we need money for anything. Dan—Jordan’s dad—he loves it. He plays some of our music to his classes. It’s hilarious; sometimes, when we go back home, we’ll run into his kids and they’ll get really excited.”

  “So, you’re celebrities,” Damian laughs. “That’s good, though. It’s nice to have the support of family.”

  “It is. Whatever happens, we always have home.”

  That’s true. The bus turns onto the exit and Damian thinks about his hometown. A small place, with only one high school and a library opened in the sixties. Small enough for most people to know each other, but big enough that no one really gossips. Forest and fields, low fog in the mornings and golden sun in the daytime, the sky always so clear that stars feel like they’re within arm’s reach.

  Now that I think about it, I miss it. Not just his father, who he always misses a little, but the place itself. All the places he can remember loving. I wonder what Jordan loves about it, other than the woods. Where were his favorite places to eat? Did he ever go to soccer games?

  “I’m going to check the tire,” David announces. They’re slowing, pulling into a gas station.

  “I’ll help,” Damian says quickly, hopping up from his seat. Jace follows close behind, drawing his arms over his body in the cold night air. Oh. He still has my jacket, Damian realizes. How did I forget that?

  “Good thing we have a spare,” David says, crouching to look at the tire. “Probably a nail or something—there was construction a few hours back.”

  “Well, stretch break,” Damian says happily. “I’ll help with the tire.”

  “I’ve done this a few times,” Jace says, already opening a side compartment, “Why don’t you grab some coffee, David?”

  “Magic words,” David says. He leaves them to it, heading into the tiny convenience store.

  “I can’t believe no one’s woken up,” Damian muses, letting Jace set up by the tire.

  “We’ve been on the road for a while,” Jace says, rolling the new tire up to the side of the bus. “I think it would take a bomb. Help me with this?”

  It’s dirty work and by the end of it, they’re both covered in dirt and grime. The tire is changed, though, and Damian is relatively sure it’s not going to come off in the middle of driving. It feels good to help, he thinks. Even if Jace did most of the work.

  Someone moves inside the bus. Damian rolls the bad tire
into a compartment, wondering who’s rising from the dead inside. It’s four in the morning and most of the group stayed up until midnight. He has his answer when the doors open and Jordan steps out, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing his leather jacket over his sweatpants and t-shirt, which makes Damian smile a little. Even in pajamas, he has to look like a serious, tough guy.

  “What’s up?”

  “Tire,” Jace explains, barely glancing at his cousin as he pulls himself up from the ground.

  “Oh. You could have woken me up.”

  “You shouldn’t be awake,” Damian says, raising an eyebrow. “You have a gig in five hours.”

  “Why do we have a show at nine in the morning?” Jace interrupts, frowning.

  “City music festival,” Jordan explains, leaning against the bus. “It’s a big enough city for it to be covered by media but small enough that they don’t have big names coming in.”

  “Other than us.”

  “Other than us,” Jordan agrees, smiling sleepily.

  Jordan looks…softer, somehow. He’s almost stripped down like this, only his leather jacket familiar. In sweatpants and with messy hair, he seems like any other man in the world. But he’s not. At least, not to me. Jace climbs back onto the bus, leaving them alone, and Damian considers his choices. For all he knows, these early morning moments will be the only ones he gets alone with Jordan.

  “Hey…are you…that guy? From that band?” Damian imitates a breathless voice, waving a hand in the air. Jordan looks confused for a brief moment, sleep slowing his reaction, and then he’s fighting a grin.

  “Oh…you listen to our music?”

  “Oh my god, yes. Wow. Oh my gosh—I can’t believe I’m talking to you. The bass player! I think you’re the best. My friends all talk about your drummer and singer but I told them, have you heard the bass?”

  Jordan laughs, unguarded and joyful, and Damian feels his heart rate rise. He has dimples. Jordan has dimples and his hazel eyes are beautiful and at the moment, Damian wants nothing more than to kiss him. In the empty parking lot, the rest of the band asleep and David somewhere inside the store, he decides there’s no time like the present. Maybe it’s a short kiss and maybe Jordan is half-asleep, but it’s still the best thing he’s had in a long time. It occurs to him as he’s moving away that this is it—this moment is what he’s been waiting for since his childhood, even if he never knew how to put it into words. Or action.