by Jaime Samms
There were a few more rollicking tunes. Len gave the stage over to Jethro and Beks, then Clive joined them, and Beks gave way to Christian. Damian watched it all, and eventually, they convinced Len to go up and play one of their older songs. As far as Firefly numbers went, it was one of their sweeter ones, and it left the mood ripe for Vance to come up and sing a few covers, then before Len knew it, he was alone onstage with his lover, and they sang some of the more rolling, lazy country tunes that brought the evening down to a mellower, calmer note.
When the third song drew to a languid close, Vance glanced over his shoulder at Len, his gaze bright, his expression stern. He didn’t have to say anything. He tipped his head once, and Len knew what he was being told.
Music cured a lot of ills. Opened old wounds, closed them again. It was the elixir of his soul tonight, and Vance had sensed it. He ambled over, kissed Len’s temple, and whispered, “Get him up here.”
Len nodded, lifted his face for a soul-searing kiss, and watched Vance stride off to sit with Stan. Len remained where he was. He strummed a few odd, discordant notes, looking for the right tune, the right rhythm, and when he looked up, it was straight into Damian’s eyes.
“Hey,” Len whispered into the mic. He tried to make it as sultry-sexy as Damian ever had. It fell short. It had to fall short, because no one matched Damian that way. But it got a chuckle from his friends and a wistful smile from Damian. Right up to when he crooked a finger at his friend.
Then Damian’s eyes went round. His lips parted, and he shook his head, a minute fraction of movement.
“Gimme,” Len said, mouth close to the mic, and this time, there was no mistaking the tone: half need, half command.
“Give you what?” Damian called gamely, though to Len’s ear, the confidence was plastered on and thin. Still, Len knew the pull the spotlight had on his friend, and he counted on it to work through his reluctance.
“Come sing with me, Trev.”
To his heart-melting relief, Damian got up and slunk toward the stage, almost as if some part of him had made the choice before his conscious mind could think it through. It didn’t matter. Once he was up there, they could work out the details. He didn’t even stop for Stan who squeezed his hand as he passed.
Then he was onstage and staring at Len from beyond the eyeliner and the spiked hair and collar. Trevor stared at Len through sea-foam-green eyes, terrified, determined, exposed, and Len understood. Trevor never took the stage. This was Damian’s domain, but Damian was nowhere to be seen. It was just them, back where they’d started, nothing between them.
Trevor didn’t even ask what Len wanted to play, and Len didn’t have to tell him. He strummed a few bars into the hush of the room. Trevor gripped the mic, and though Damian’s rings glittered on his fingers and Damian’s black-painted lips caressed the silver mesh of the mic, Trevor stared out into the lights and the gathering of friends and family and remained still. Silent.
Len began to hum. Trevor glanced at him and a faint, grateful expression passed over his face. When the words began, he stumbled over just the first one, and Len carried him through until he had his tongue untied. Trevor didn’t look away from him after that as he sang and Len played the very first song they’d ever written together.
Inside, that great, massive lump of fear coalesced, pushing outward, gumming up Len’s breath, tearing him apart to get out, and he winced, fumbled a note, and Trevor winked at him.
The mass of emotion tore its way out of Len’s chest. Surely they all could see the mess, the utter devastation of this thing crawling out of him to bleed and die on the stage as he played this song that had once been his and Trev’s anthem of rebellion and disgust at the world. He’d heard Damian sing it without him on tour a few times, and it had haunted him then.
Now, it was just the truth. Just the bald, unyielding, ugly truth that they had failed each other. That the thing they had built had crumbled. Everything changed around them. Everything ended. People left. But life never stopped, did it? Len swallowed hard, trying to fill the new void inside with something. Anything to keep up with life so it wouldn’t run him over and leave him behind, bloody, trampled, and empty.
Just don’t say you’ll go
I need you to hold
However little we got say you’ll hold
It’s my heart, it’s life, it’s my love, and it’s yours till the end of us.
Just hold.
Len didn’t notice when he stopped playing or hear when the last, pure, sweet notes of Trev’s voice faded away, just became aware of the void. He didn’t resist when Trevor pried the guitar out of his hands and slipped the strap off over his head. He didn’t hesitate when Trev grabbed him up into a hug, and all the flashbulbs and Internet scandal in the world wouldn’t have stopped him from taking that lifeline and hanging on for dear life.
When they parted, the room was still. Silent.
Len sniffed back a harsh breath, and a manic giggle slipped free. “God, did we suck that bad, really?” he blurted, because someone had to say something.
The room erupted with laughter, and Trevor stood there, hand on his shoulder, and looked at him. Maybe he was just as heartbroken under his smile as Len was behind his own. If anyone else noticed it, they didn’t say so.
25
“SO?” VANCE held the door of the car open for Len, and Len crawled in past him.
He didn’t answer the question. He wasn’t sure yet what kind of answer there might be.
Vance didn’t press. He climbed in after Len and wrapped him up in a tight hug. “Where to, darlin’?” he asked when Len didn’t say anything and the car hadn’t pulled away from the curb.
“Wherever you are,” Len whispered.
“Home? Hotel?”
“I don’t care.” And really, he didn’t. He lifted his head from where he’d been resting against Vance’s broad chest. “I can breathe again.”
Vance watched him curiously.
“For the longest time, I thought I was okay, you know?” He settled again, nestling against Vance and watching out the window as people strolled by on the sidewalk and their friends hurried to their cars. “I thought what I was feeling was normal. Just… me.”
“It wasn’t?” Vance was petting him, caressing his back and occasionally tugging lightly at the hair at the back of his neck. It was soothing, and he sighed.
“It was. But it was also… like there was still a choke hold on me. Like I was breathing through all the crap and toxic sludge of Ace and my father and even Trev. Only I thought that was all normal, clean air. I thought I was the broken one because it wasn’t filling me up, wasn’t letting me think or see or really be.”
Vance nodded and kissed the top of his head. “Royal York,” he told their driver when Dennis peered at them through the window between the front and back of the limo.
“Yes, sir.”
The window went up and the car started. A moment later, it rocked gently into motion, and Len closed his eyes to feel the movement as it eased into traffic and wended through the city streets.
“What changed?” Vance asked a few minutes later.
Len pulled in a deep breath and then another, studying the way he could, marveling in all the ways his body, his heart, his soul, let him breathe deep and savor the feel of it.
“Nothing. Everything. Me.” Len leaned away from Vance so he could look up into his eyes. “I realized what Ace did, what I became with him, with Trev, even what I was because of my dad and all that shit. It was big, and it was a lot, but it wasn’t all I was. Not all I am.” He caressed Vance’s cheek and smiled. “For one thing, I’m yours, and I don’t need to be anything else. I can be, but I don’t need to be. I can just be yours, and nothing else I am or was matters. And I can play. Everything I ever wanted to be, better, stronger, more forgiving, it comes out when I play. It’s in the music, and nothing can stop the music. I just have to find a way to express it. Technology, an assistant, whatever. There are ways to do the things I wan
t to do. I just have to find them.” He sighed. “I guess that’s what Lenore has been trying to get me to see all this time.” He settled back against Vance to watch out the window some more. “God, is she going to be thrilled when I go in next week and tell her I finally get it.”
“So you’ll keep seein’ her?”
Len nodded. “Have to. I mean, I get it, but that’s just the start, isn’t it? I’m not cured or anything. I have shit to talk about still.”
Vance kissed the top of his head. “Yeah. S’pose so.”
“But there’s going to be more good sessions than bad ones now, I think.”
“What if….”
Len waited, but aside from the faint sound of Vance’s heartbeat speeding up, there was no indication of what Vance had begun to say. What did he not say that made him so nervous? Len levered himself up enough to look Vance in the face. “What if what?”
“Nah.” Vance shook his head and his gaze flicked away, out the window.
“Vance?”
“No, maybe it’s horseshit.”
“What is?” Len cupped a hand over Vance’s cheek to get his attention. “Talk to me. Please.”
“I just thought.” He let out an explosive breath. “If you wanted, I mean. If there was things we maybe needed to talk about together, she gets our dynamic, right? If we had things to work out, she might be able to help.” He shook his head, freeing himself of Len’s hand on his face. “Never mind. She’s your therapist. I don’t want to intrude—”
“I’ll ask her.” Len couldn’t help the grin that flashed over his face. “If not her, maybe she knows someone.” He settled back into his place against Vance. “It’s a good idea. We might need advice.”
“You’d really be okay with it?” Vance asked. “I mean, it means I don’t always know or have the answers.”
“Yeah. I’m okay with it. Gives you a place to be safe too,” he whispered. “It’s like a promise that you’ll never just give up or walk off because you don’t know what to do. ’Course I’m okay with that.”
“Whole world’s full of promise tonight, huh, darlin’?” Vance said, smiling.
“Yeah, well.” Len snuggled, letting Vance keep him close and safe. “I guess promise is a good word. It won’t always be roses. I know that. But I can see it now. I can see the truth of what was, and I can see how I can be something else. Something better. You’ll see.”
“I always have seen, darlin’,” Vance promised. “I’ve always seen the real you there in the wings.” He kissed Len’s hair again, and Len could feel his confidence and love through the simple touch. “Time to take the stage, yeah?”
Len nodded. “Fuck yeah.”
Exclusive Excerpt
Off Stage: Beyond the Footlights
Off Stage: Set Three
By Jaime Samms
Kilmer and Jacko’s relationship has been foundering for a long time. With the end in sight and despairing that he might never find a Dom who suits him, Kilmer heads to a local bar to drown his sorrows—and meets country singer Tanner.
Tanner feels oddly protective of the broken man and eventually convinces Kilmer to hire him to help remodel the small, sad house Kilmer once shared with Jacko. As Tanner and Kilmer get to know each other, Kilmer regains his lost independence and Tanner’s dominant streak rises to the surface. But will it be a help or a hindrance to the trust they’re trying to build?
The answer might lie in the music Kilmer gave up not long after he met Jacko. Music always granted him solace, clarity, and an outlet for his emotions, and with Tanner’s encouragement, he picks up where he left off. Playing together eases them into honest communication, and though a happily ever after will still take patience and work, taking a chance on each other sounds sweeter with every note.
Coming Soon to
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Prologue
A SPLASH of light on the front lawn greeted Kilmer as he drove up to the house. Jacko must be there. At least he wasn’t returning to an empty house.
Since his friend Len’s birthday party a few weeks ago, when Kilmer had spoken out against Jacko’s opinion on how Len’s boyfriend was behaving, he’d pretty literally been in the doghouse. His Dom had sent him to sleep in the spare room, in the spare single bed. Alone. He wasn’t chained to the bed or anything—that would be dangerous. But their interactions had been limited to perfunctory greetings if they crossed paths, and Kilmer eating whatever meal Jacko had prepared for him, alone in his room. Chained or not, it made little difference. He wasn’t welcome in Jacko’s presence, and trying to force the issue had only prolonged the isolation.
At least his lover still came home every night. Small consolation when he was so often out into the wee hours with no explanation.
Kilmer parked, took a moment to steady his breathing, then emerged from the car to clump up the front steps and let himself in. The kitchen was mostly dark. The lamp glowing at the entrance to the hallway that led to the bedrooms cast a shadowy splash over the faded linoleum. Jacko’s dog, a huge, hairy beast that didn’t like Kilmer much, was curled in his usual spot on a mat beside the stove. After dropping his boots and sweaty socks by the door, Kilmer followed the light. His bare feet made little sound on the worn carpet of the living room and hallway.
The bedroom door was half-closed, and Kilmer made an effort to be quiet so as not to wake Jacko. He’d hoped to get home before Jacko went to bed, thinking maybe they would talk today. On the other hand, maybe he’d taken his time over his last chores to avoid the conversation. He didn’t know anymore if he dared have it. If he dared… anything.
Gently he pushed the door open to catch a glimpse of Jacko in his bed. He was there, naked and hard, but not in his bed. He sat in his chair by the dresser.
He wasn’t alone.
Kilmer had a great view of a stranger’s broad back, tight ass, and heavily muscled thighs that straddled Jacko’s lap. He had an equally perfect view of Jacko’s erection as it slid smoothly into the guy’s body. The man’s head went back, his mouth gaping slightly as he took Jacko’s girth.
Kilmer clamped his lips tight to hold back the groan, then the anguish. Again.
Both men were silent as they fucked. Jacko watched the guy’s face, intent on seeing the pleasure wash over the younger man. One big hand clamped lightly at the man’s throat; the other clasped his thigh, leaving half circles of white under his fingers.
Kilmer should leave. He should.
He watched. Because what else was he supposed to do when his lover was there fucking some other guy, using another man for the things that he should have been using Kilmer for? It was Kilmer’s place to do and be what Jacko required. His place to accept what he couldn’t be.
So he watched.
He felt more than saw Jacko’s attention switch to him, and he met his Dom’s gaze for a split second before dropping his attention back to the place the two men connected.
Jacko slipped rough, demanding hands over the guy’s backside, parting his cheeks, offering Kilmer a better view of cock and ass joining.
Kilmer swallowed and took a small step forward. Infinitesimal, because he didn’t want to leave the room or leave this guy to Jacko. But he hadn’t been given permission to get any closer. Definitely hadn’t been offered a place in the action.
He could practically feel that rough touch on his own body, his memory of it was that strong. Jacko’s hands were calloused in all the right ways, strong and never compromising.
“Deeper, boy,” Jacko growled. “Come on.”
The guy obliged, driving himself down hard. He hissed as he did it, grappling with the pain, digging his fingers into Jacko’s shoulders as he took more.
“That’s it. Work it,” Jacko ordered, and the guy gamely rose again, drove down, rose, fucked himself frantically. His grunts lost the edge of pain and took on a deeper growl of pleasure.
One of Jacko’s hands disappeared from Kilmer’s view.
“Oh fuck!” The guy moaned and shud
dered. “So… fucking… close.”
“You want to come?” Jacko asked.
His companion hissed sharply and jerked, his entire body stiffening. The room filled with leaden silence before the man bled out a thin “Please, Sir. Please.”
Jacko chuckled softly, almost kindly, and moved his arm as though he was stroking the man.
“Too much!” The man groaned. “It’s too… I can’t….”
“Yes,” Jacko soothed, “you can, boy. Let me see.”
“Oh! God.” The guy slumped and then jerked upright, crying out some shamble of sounds as he came, splashing Jacko’s chest and stomach with his jizz.
Kilmer bit his tongue and backed out the door.
“Come here, Boy,” Jacko said louder. “Don’t leave. You’ve come this far.” Jacko waved Kilmer into the room. “No point backing out now. Come here.”
Kilmer supposed he could be glad he’d at least earned an uppercase Boy. He shuffled into the room.
“You’re home,” Jacko said softly.
More from Jaime Samms
With so many fences between them and happily ever after, two men wonder if it’s worth opening the gate.
Ten years ago Eddie Crane, an actor on the rise, loved his costar and dreamed of the day they could be together. But his love, with his submissive nature, couldn’t handle fame, and before Eddie could help him, he died in a car accident—with Eddie at the wheel.
Now, guilt-ridden, Eddie buries himself in bad decisions and prays that a stunt—on or off camera—will go wrong.
Teenaged fantasies about the actor on his wall distracted Arthur Pike from real life—his dead father, runaway mother, gruff grandparents, and his unrequited love for his cousin’s straight husband. Now grown and off the farm, Pike is a horse stuntman hired to teach a reluctant Eddie to ride.