Off Stage

by Jaime Samms

  Eventually, Len’s skin warmed, his muscles flowed into relaxation, his body sank against Vance. His breathing evened out. Vance listened and counted the steady heartbeats against his chest as he drifted toward sleep himself.

  It was going to be okay. They could figure this out. Finally, as he let himself relax too, he believed, as he had way back in Boston, that he could do whatever it took to make this work.

  24

  A TREE branch screed across their bedroom window as the wind picked up. It was that time of year again when wind and rain and drifting snow, according to Vance and Kilmer, made ranching a royal pain in the ass.

  Vance had seemed glad that for most of the weekend, he could leave the place in Kilmer’s capable hands. In fact, Len thought he was glad of that fact for more than just himself. Kilmer needed the distraction. He hadn’t said anything, but Len was pretty sure that it had been a long time, probably since that stupid birthday party, that he hadn’t had much in the way of a home life. His funk hadn’t improved much, though he’d learned to hide it better.

  Neither of them were crass enough to ask, but Len could tell Vance was worried. When he’d talked to Vance about it, all he’d said was that he knew when a sub wasn’t getting what he needed, and he knew even more so when Kilmer wasn’t being looked after. But that it wasn’t their place to interfere. Probably Jacko had given Kilmer some stipulation that Kilmer was being too stubborn to concede to. If the ranch manager was going to get what he wanted, he’d have to comply. Len knew him well enough by now to know such a contest of wills wouldn’t end well.

  In any case, taking care of the ranch for the weekend would give him an excuse to stay away from Jacko, and maybe the separation would do them both some good. Remind them what they loved about each other, even if they were both too damn stubborn to admit to love in the first place.

  Behind Len, Vance let out a sigh as he scowled at his reflection. “You’re sure about this, darlin’,” he said, taking another look at himself in the full-length mirror and frowning.

  Len couldn’t see what there was to frown about. Vance looked, as always, good enough to strip and fuck in his black jeans, button-up shirt, and string tie. How he managed to pull off the übercheesy cowboy look so effortlessly—and successfully—Len hadn’t quite figured out. He only knew that once Vance donned the boots, it was going to take a lot of willpower for Len to keep his admiration in his pants.

  “Len?” Vance looked at him through their reflections.

  “I’m sure.” He was so busy checking out Vance’s ass in those jeans, he wasn’t aware he was being scrutinized until Vance turned with a growl.

  “Look me in the eye, boy,” he snarled.

  Len started and glanced up, stilling his hands on the jeans he had only managed to get half on. “What?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this? You haven’t seen Damian since that talk. Going to this party might not be the best place to—”

  “I’m sure.”

  Vance watched as Len resumed putting on his jeans. They were skintight, and Len had to jump in place to get them up. He could feel Vance’s amusement rolling across the room at him.

  “What?” he asked, trying to sound grumpy.

  “You. You know I’m going to have to help you peel out of those later.”

  Len glanced up and let a bit of sparkle shine through his expression. “You think maybe that’s the point?”

  “I think you’re trying to be a rock star.”

  Len tilted his head and made a face at Vance. “I am a rock star.”

  “And humble.”

  “Fuck humble.” Len buttoned the jeans and wrapped a wholly unnecessary studded belt around his slender hips. Twice. He draped the sapphire-blue tank top he already had on artfully over the belt, and over that, a silk blousy thing that flew so far over the top it came back down on the other side to make him look both sinfully fuckable and completely untouchable at the same time. “I think that should do it.” He glanced at Vance through the mirrors that stood facing each other across the bedroom. “What do you think?”

  “I think we skip the party, and I peel you out of those ridiculous clothes right now,” Vance said, prowling over and taking his chin in his big, rough hand.

  Len melted all over his lover, staring up at him with what he knew were limpid doe eyes. Exactly what they talked about in sappy romance novels.

  “Kneel,” Vance ordered.

  Len did, dropping as gracefully as his suddenly very hard dick inside now regrettably tight jeans would let him.

  Vance had his own erection free in seconds and was shoving it at Len’s lips without even so much as a whispered request.

  Len opened his mouth and took him in, sucking hard, clasping his hands behind his back to resist the temptation to palm himself through his jeans. Dammit, they were way too tight now. He was in real pain, but he kept his gaze on Vance and licked and sucked and swallowed as Vance fucked him. Because the pain didn’t matter much. Giving Vance what he wanted mattered. Swallowing cock and come, that mattered, because that was what Vance wanted.

  “Fuck, you’re a good boy,” Vance muttered as he tipped his head back and thrust a little faster, fingers gripping and combing through Len’s hair by turns.

  Len watched his lover’s throat work as he breathed and muttered small encouragements under his breath. This was one of those times Vance was going to take because he could. Not that Len was just a hole. Vance wasn’t that kind of man. But Len had dressed the part of sex in skinny jeans, and the only person for whom he was not untouchable was Vance. So Vance was touching. Taking. And Len gave because he could. Because ever since that night in the Toronto hotel when Vance had been human and fallible and so achingly real, Len had been able to give things he’d never thought he’d want to again.

  One of those things came now as Vance swore at him, gripped frantically, thrust deep, and buried himself in Len’s throat. Len’s eyes watered, and his gag reflex engaged, hard. Vance held him in place, and the agony of not being able to expel the cock from his throat made his eyes sting and his hands come up to press on Vance’s thighs. Not that it mattered. He was in Vance’s hands now, and Vance wanted release. Grounded in what he could give, panic loomed, but just as quickly, it receded. He held to this new, undeniable truth about who he was. Who he wanted to be. That choice he’d made, and would keep making, to be better.

  Len whimpered.

  Methodically, Vance pulled out just far enough for Len to take a breath before he deliberately cut off his air again. Len gazed up through his tears and searched Vance’s face, peering through the veil to see him.

  “Breathe,” Vance ordered, pulling back again, and Len did. “Good boy.”

  Vance petted his cheek and proceeded to manipulate his air supply. It wasn’t a new game. It wasn’t Len’s favorite, but then, this wasn’t about Len so much.

  He closed his eyes and returned his hands to behind his back. His erection was gone, and the temptation now was to push Vance away. He struggled against the desire to get away and reminded himself where he was, whom he was with.

  “There you go.” Vance cupped his chin, and Len managed to force his eyes open long enough to see the appraising look on his Dom’s face. He wanted so much for the final verdict to be in his favor.

  “Suck me,” Vance said, finally backing off enough for Len to have some freedom of movement. “Make it good, boy.”

  Len moaned his acceptance and once more began to suck and lick, plying Vance’s cock until the guttural sounds from his lover were all about approval and need.

  All in all, the entire job was over in five minutes, though it had, in the moment when he couldn’t draw breath, felt like a lifetime. As Vance held his head still and came in his open mouth, Len allowed himself a small inner sigh of victory.

  “You deserve your own now,” Vance said, leaning to plant a firm kiss on Len’s mouth.

  Len shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “You are that, darlin’. Now c
lean it all off and button me back up.”

  Len did as he was told, licking every inch of Vance’s cock and balls, searching out the last drop of his seed. Once he was done, he carefully tucked him away again and fastened up his clothing.

  “You still want to go?”

  “I still want to go.”

  “Get up, then. Fetch your cuffs.”

  Len hesitated over the cuffs a moment, unsure which he should choose. The pretty, decorative set he wore most of the time, especially out of the house, or the heavy-duty pair that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but what they were. He waffled, going back and forth over what people would think. What he wanted them to think. What Vance would think of him if he chose….

  “Fuck it.” He chose the ones he wanted tonight, the ones that left no doubt in his or anyone’s mind who he was. Whom he belonged to. He picked up the heavy cuffs and brought them to Vance.

  Vance smiled softly and fastened them into place around Len’s wrists without comment. “You ready?” he asked when he was done.

  “Just about.” Len hurried to the bathroom, dug out his makeup, and quickly applied eyeliner, then gloss. On the way back past the bedside table, he snatched up the blue carabiner and slipped it into Vance’s hip pocket.

  “Thought we talked about you topping from the bottom, darlin’,” Vance said, fishing the metal ring out and holding it up as he followed Len down the stairs.

  “We did. It isn’t about who’s on top.” Len abruptly stopped and slid his hand into Vance’s other pocket, fishing out a gold-toned carabiner. “It’s about what matches my outfit.”

  Vance’s eyes narrowed. “You are a rock diva.”

  Len grinned and skipped down the rest of the steps, tossing the gold carabiner over his shoulder. He didn’t have to look back to know Vance caught it. The sound of metal tinkling against metal told him both rings had made it into Vance’s jeans.

  “YOU GONNA play the new song?” Len asked as he practically bounced on the limo seat opposite Vance. His enthusiasm pushed the boundary of believability. Half that energy had to be nerves, Vance thought.

  “Not the new one. Not yet.”

  For a heartbeat, Len looked as though he might argue, but he glanced at Vance and something in his face must have dissuaded him because he took a different tack. Thank God, because Vance wasn’t quite ready for that much soul baring. Although they had worked out an agreement with Firefly to use the music Len had written—both acts would release their version as a single and donate the proceeds to various domestic abuse charities—Vance wasn’t ready to reveal his interpretation. Not yet. That song was an aching one. While Vance knew Len believed they were well past the uncertainty that had birthed it, maybe Vance wasn’t ready to show the world how raw they had both been for so long.

  “Okay,” Len conceded instead. “How about you play those ones you recorded last week?”

  Vance chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll play the honky-tonk one.”

  After that fateful night when Len and Trevor had talked, Vance had spent a lot of the time Len was away recording with Firefly working in his studio. He had a number of songs ready to record; he’d just put it off longer than he should have. Now that he’d spent the last few months in his studio, he realized how much he’d missed it. The honky-tonk song he’d referred to was one he’d banged out in a day and a half in the studio. It had come from all the pent-up need to create and sing and put his mark on something that had nothing to do with the real heartbreak he’d been living for the last year.

  It was a dumb, fluffy, meaningless piece of flotsam Stan had pegged for the new album’s first single the instant he’d heard it. The fans ate up that kind of rollicking, pointless crap. It sold copies, and ultimately, that was certainly the point.

  Len grinned at Vance. “Because that’ll go over with the grunge crowd for sure.”

  “You want me to play anything else, you gotta get up there with me.”

  Len sank back into the luxury of white leather. “Nope.” Silence settled, and after a few moments, Len said, “Nobody’ll be playing anyway. This is about being done playing for a while. Time for a break. It’ll just be dinner, and then some visiting and we’ll go home.”

  Vance lifted one eyebrow, and Len turned to look out the window. No point arguing with him; they both knew a room full of musicians didn’t sit around shooting the shit when there was a perfectly good stage and microphone ten feet away. And there would be a full setup. The party they were headed to was Firefly’s celebration for finishing the album. All the tracks had been laid down and the songs mastered. It was done, and soon enough, the first single would blast out over the Internet and the radio stations, and in another month, they’d be hauling ass back onto the road.

  Tonight, though, they’d chill at their home dive, the Evangeline, where they’d begun, eat some good food, play some mellow music, and hang out and just be glad of the short reprieve.

  Len had been invited because he’d played on the album. Vance was going as his date, his partner, and his backup. He’d keep a close eye on the proceedings and make sure nothing happened to upset the steadily strengthening balance Len seemed to have achieved over the past little while.

  “You’re thinking so damn loud,” Len complained from across the car. “Nothing is going to happen.”

  “Okay.” Vance held out a hand, and Len reached to take it, slid off his seat, and joined Vance, curling against him, feet up and head balanced on Vance’s shoulder.

  “Okay,” Len whispered, and Vance snuck an arm around him for the rest of the ride.

  THE EVANGELINE hadn’t changed a lot. Sure, she sported a little more bling, a little more tack, but nothing, not even the spiffy new paint and facelifted bar could disguise the tramp she really was.

  Len couldn’t help the huge grin that crossed his face as he walked in. It wasn’t teeming with wild crowds of fans and drinkers tonight. It was just Firefly and family and a few friends. Not even enough to fill the place. But it was still the Evange, and Len felt as though he’d walked into his living room, or better, walked into one of the only places on Earth where he could just be what the music made him.

  “Lenny!” Across the room, Jethro raised a long arm to wave, and Clive handed his daughter over to Alice so he could have his arms free for the crushing hug he offered. Len greeted them all, including Damian, giving his friend a soft squeeze of his shoulder and a light peck between the spikes of his hair.

  Damian smiled up at him and punched his arm.

  Len moved on to sit at the table where Stan had reserved a seat for him and Vance. Food came out soon after, and booze flowed freely, though Len had only half a glass of wine with his meal and switched to water. He noticed Damian didn’t drink either, nor did Stan. Vance, of course, began and ended with expensive bottled water that he guzzled as though it was the elixir of life.

  The dishes had barely been cleared away before the music began, and the band flitted on and off the stage in various pairs and trios, dashing off a few songs here and there until finally, Len could no longer ignore their entreaties to go play.

  He did, coercing Christian to join him, and for a long time, the two of them tried to outdo each other with guitar licks, famous solos they’d learned in high school, and complicated trails of music where they led each other along in an attempt to leave the other behind. Occasionally, Jethro’s bass or Clive’s drums backed one or the other or both of them up, but for the most part, they played out their rivalry for their friends.

  It was cathartic, in a way. Len hadn’t realized how much resentment he’d held on to, even though logically, he’d accepted that Christian was the best person to take his place beside Damian. Not the least reason was that Christian was Trevor’s cousin, and the three of them had been playing together since childhood. He knew Firefly, knew their music, and he’d been able to step in and take over on short notice when Len had crapped out on them. Plus, he was damn good. He played like a fiend and had a work ethic that rival
ed even Kilmer’s. He was good for the band, and the music was good for him. Len knew all those things.

  And a part of him still wanted to hate the other man.

  So the duel, while friendly and entertaining, was also a chance for him to get the last of his ill feelings out. Through the music, where it was safe. No one could get hurt if he played all the anger away. No one could fault him for wanting to prove to them all he could outplay his replacement, and Christian gave him a serious run for his money. He didn’t indulge Len, even a little bit, but played hard and aggressively, meeting him chord for chord, beat for beat, lick for lick, until they were both breathing hard, laughing and ready to concede that maybe, there could be no winner.

  “You got that out of your system?” Christian asked as they rocketed to the end of yet another intricate solo.

  Len slammed a resonant chord through his guitar and encouraged it along with a bit of finessing, but he did meet the other guitar player’s eyes.

  “I think. Yeah.”

  Christian riffed off another long progression of notes, and Len groaned and threw up his hands. “I give!”

  Everyone laughed, including Damian, and Christian swung an arm over the back of Len’s neck, hauled him close, and rubbed his knuckles against Len’s head. “Remember it, kid!” he shouted over the dying strains, and Len hugged him around his waist.

  He would. He could, because all of the anger and fear and resentment he’d harbored for the man had bled away in the music. He was free of a few more messy bits of his old self. Christian could probably feel him shaking, and maybe that was why he held on a little longer, a little tighter. Len forced himself to straighten and let the bloody bit drop away. More baggage he didn’t need. More scar tissue to heal over the raw wounds. More new self to figure out how to keep safe.

  And it was an amazing thing, but he found it easier to breathe now. With every rotten piece of his soul he carved away, he could draw breath, deeper, cleaner, and purer, into himself and no way could that be bad.