by Liv Rancourt
Skip’s brow wrinkled. “So you were going to marry Susie to make your mother happy.”
“No.” Russell sagged onto his back, dragging Skip with him. “I was going to marry Susie because that’s what a man does, but”—he shrugged, honesty forcing the words from him—“it would make my parents happy too.”
Skip rose onto his hands and knees, crawling on top of Russell. “I can show you one or two other things a man can do to find happiness.” His grin glowed through the semidarkness.
Russell ran his hand through Skip’s hair, pulling the curls away from his face. “You’ve got till Wednesday.”
Chapter 17
Parker’s on a Monday night. There weren’t many cars in the lot, but Skip had spent the whole drive over explaining how he’d talked the manager into giving them a shot. If Ryker and his drumsticks didn’t show up, they might not get another chance.
Skip put his hand on the club’s front door and blew out a deep breath, as close to nervous as Russell had ever seen him. “Knock, knock.”
Russell reached over him to push the door open. “Who’s there?”
“Anita.”
“Anita who?” A couple approached, and Russell took a step to the side, holding the door for the woman.
With a lewd snicker, Skip grabbed his arm. “Anita dick in me.” He spoke low, aimed right at Russell’s ear, and his grin was full of the devil.
Suddenly sweating from far more than the late-August heat, Russell stumbled, trying hard not to laugh. His rational mind knew no one had heard Skip’s outrageous joke. The irrational part of him was torn between embarrassment, lust, and a grudging admiration. Russell himself would never be able to joke about his perversion.
Maybe the laugh helped Skip shake off his nerves, because he moved like a thoroughbred, with confidence, grace, and control. After a day of playing house, Russell didn’t see Skip’s boxy jacket and slacks. He saw tight, toned biceps and the dimples at the small of his back. Following Skip across the room, he didn’t see a slick, styled pompadour, he saw loose, sweat-drenched curls. He sidestepped a chair at the last second and swore he’d pay more attention to the scene around him and not carry on like some besotted schoolgirl.
The lounge was still mostly empty, the rows of round cafe tables covered in white linen lit by teardrop tapers. Two guys from Skip’s combo were already on stage. Russell gave the room a cursory glance, but Ryker and Susie hadn’t arrived. He chose a table to the right of the stage, near the front but not close enough to look desperate. A lone waiter dawdled at the long black bar, wrapping sets of silverware with snow-white napkins.
Customers filtered in. A man in a suit cornered Skip, who talked fast, acting much more confident than he had in the car. The other band members fiddled with their instruments, little snippets of melody rising above the crowd’s chatter. Russell’s nerves tightened with every stop and start. The band was supposed to go on at nine, but Ryker still wasn’t there.
At three minutes till, Ryker and Susie walked in. Russell’s heart slammed in his chest, and Skip watched his drummer cross the room with an unreadable expression.
Ryker wore black, his hair slicked in a greasy ducktail, his chin raised like he’d take the punch if Skip threw it. Russell cracked his knuckles, half tempted to throw one himself. Then he got a look at Susie’s dress, a deep blue sleeveless number that showed off every one of her petite curves, and the fighting urge got stronger.
To distract himself, Russell looked around for a waiter. A shot of whiskey would calm him.
If it doesn’t fuel my anger.
Susie surveyed the room with a movie star’s air of boredom. The light haze of cigarette smoke shone in the stage lights, and some of the tables were still empty. She could have sat anywhere, but she strode over to Russell’s table, a tiny princess in stiletto heels. After a pause, she brushed a kiss on his cheek and pulled up the chair next to him.
“I’m not getting on that train.” She was made of sparkle and shine; her eyes glittered, her smiled glowed, and the huge diamond on her left hand played with the light like it was a pinball.
Russell plastered a smile over the dismay brought on by her statement.
Susie waved her petal-pink nails in Ryker’s direction. “His mother’s a Channing from Rhode Island.” Her grin caught a calculating edge. “When Mom found out, the marriage was on, but she made us promise to wait till she could find us a church.” For the first time all evening, she looked Russell full in the face. “So telling my mother won’t do you any good. Mother talked to your Aunt Maude, and I’m skipping the Detroit shows because I’m getting married.”
The waiter took their order, the band started a tune, and the empty tables filled with customers. Anything Russell said after Susie’s announcement would come off as an argument, so he kept his mouth shut. He waved the waiter over and ordered them both a cocktail, giving them something innocuous to talk about. With a drink in his hand, he settled in to listen to the music.
Might have been a mistake. Skip owned the stage, his horn moving easily from plaintive sweetness to jubilation. He played raunchy too, his phrases sending shots of heat to Russell’s groin.
“So Ryker tells me you’re staying with Skip.” Susie finally broke the silence.
Russell fought the telltale blush he could never control. “For now.” Anyone who guessed what they’d been up to would cause trouble, but if Susie knew, he was done for.
“Does he have a house?”
Shit. “No, it’s an apartment.”
Susie toyed with her ring, twirling a spray of fractured light across the tablecloth. The heat and the clouds of cigarette smoke bore down on him. “Ryker says Skip’s place is so tiny, you could fit it in a postage stamp. You must be sleeping in the bathtub.”
Russell spread his fingers out over the linen table to keep himself from making a fist. She knows. Or she guessed. “I’ll be leaving on Wednesday.” As if the shortness of his stay could excuse his depravity.
As if Susie’s forgiveness would excuse his shame.
Skip played the opening phrase of “Black Coffee,” giving the tune more heat than Peggy Lee. Russell couldn’t watch the band and couldn’t think of anything to say, so he stared at his whiskey, humming along until the warmth of Susie’s hand on his brought him to a stop.
“I hate Red Wing, Russ, and I’m never going to live there again.” Her words were defiant, but there was an apology in her eyes. “I thought if I married you, we’d move to Chicago, or maybe even New York City.”
“New York?” Flummoxed, Russell set down his glass. He had certainly never planned on such a big move.
“Well, I was wrong, I guess.” She pulled her hand away.
Russell didn’t know what to feel. He’d cared about Susie, sure, though if he were honest, Skip had him a lot more bothered. A glistening horn solo drew his attention. Skip reached him in a way Susie never had, even if he didn’t want to give that feeling a name.
“Ryker and I get along, you know?” The prettiness of her porcelain skin left him cold. “His parents are going to buy us a house on the north end of the city.”
Her prim little smirk almost tipped him over into anger, but then he had to laugh. He’d spent the last day in bed with another man. How could he stand in the way of her happiness? It didn’t matter whether he wanted to be gracious. He had to be.
“Congratulations are in order, then.” He raised his glass in toast. “I wish you all the very best.”
She clinked her glass against his. “We used to be friends, Russ, before all this. Can we be friends again?”
Russell met her gaze. He would have given this woman everything. Then Skip laughed into the microphone, sending a shiver down Russell’s spine. Almost everything. “I’d be happy to be your friend, Susie.”
***
Skip grinned into the mouthpiece of his horn. Couldn’t help himself. During his last solo lick, Russell’s gaze had promised him something hot. Paddy’s alto sax took the band through the cho
rd changes one last time. Ryker got his big drum roll finish. Cymbals crashed. The song ended. The gig was done.
Time to pack the gear, pay the band, and go home with the best-looking guy in the bar.
Hard to keep the smile off his face.
“Man, I’m buzzin’. We’ve got to go out.” Ryker hooted from behind his pile of disassembled drum parts.
Skip snapped his horn case shut, frustration dampening his excitement like fog rolling in off the Sound. Now would be a good time to scold Ryker for showing up late, but Skip didn’t want to ruin his good mood. “Take your pretty girl home and blow off some steam.”
Ryker slid his big crash cymbals into their black leather pouch. “I’ll do that.” He sounded down, as if he’d realized he might be in trouble. For a minute, Skip thought he might actually apologize.
“I’ll see you at practice next week, then.”
“Better be on time.”
“Of course.”
Ryker’s indignation was almost comical. Skip stared out over the remains of the crowd so the drummer wouldn’t see him smile. Russell caught his gaze, and one eye twitched. Either he had an allergy or he was a real subtle winker. The rising color in the big guy’s cheeks matched the heat building in Skip’s belly. Time to go home.
“See ya later, alligator.” Skip hopped down off the stage. “I’m going to go find the manager so we can get paid.”
Once they hit the car, exhaustion tried to drag him down. Skip had worked all day, and he’d been real keyed up for the gig. Russell’s presence, though, acted as a tonic, and he couldn’t wait to get the other man alone.
Walking into the building, he kept a fair distance between them. No use setting him off by accidentally bumping his shoulder. Excitement twisted his gut, shortened his breath, and numbed his fingers. They’d been working with their hands and mouths to find satisfaction, and it had been good.
Tonight, Skip wanted more. That knock-knock joke hadn’t been all kidding. He needed Russell deep inside.
The apartment door closed with a soft click, then silence, as if the room itself was drawing a breath. They fell together, tumbling onto the bed. Skip rocked his head back, his hands roaming over dense muscle and warm skin. So good. He jammed his dick against Russell’s thigh and dove in for a kiss.
He’d had been waiting all night for the taste of Russell’s lips and the warmth of his tongue. Leftover excitement from the gig carbonated his blood, making him light-headed. Russell smelled of cedar, of growing things, of life, and Skip tore his shirt free of the waistband of his slacks. His needy hands stroked bare skin, though instead of relaxing, the sensation left him with more trouble breathing.
Russell licked along Skip’s jaw, down to the tender place behind his ear, setting off flares of pleasure as he went. Skip thrust his hips, rubbing his dick against the other man’s thigh.
“Take your clothes off,” Russell said, his voice a husky whisper.
With the lights turned off and the blinds half-drawn, the room was too dark for Skip to read his expression. He reached down to unzip his fly, only to have Russell brush his hands away and take over the job. In return, Skip grabbed his shirt and dragged it over his head, then did the same with Russell’s, making his strong, broad chest available to his hands and to his tongue.
When they were both nude except for Russell’s boxers, Skip paused, one hand wrapped around the other man’s dick through the thin cotton of his shorts. “I want you”—he gripped Russell’s cock—“inside.” He stroked, smearing moisture across the tip with his thumb hard enough so he’d feel the texture of the fabric. “Tonight.”
Russell’s dick pulsed, the only answer he seemed willing to give.
Skip curled his fingers, stroked, leaned in, and tasted salty skin. “You won’t hurt me.”
Still no response. In his frustration, Skip clutched harder, gave his dick a yank, and bit down on the closest chunk of flesh.
“Hey now.” Russell rolled to the side. “You don’t have to go wild.”
“But I want to.” Skip wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled him so close, they could have been carved from one piece of stone.
The night air was humid, heated, sweaty. In the gray light, moisture gleamed on Russell’s brow. His eyes were dark, his expression walled off.
“I like it,” Skip said, trying real hard not to beg. “I like being held and having a man inside me.”
Finally, Russell spoke. “I don’t know if I can.”
Why not? “Try.”
Another pause. Russell’s eyes closed. Skip’s heart went into suspended animation.
“Okay.”
Skip exhaled from somewhere south of his balls. “Okay.” He cradled Russell’s head in his hands and kissed him, gently, thoroughly, filling in the blanks, explaining how much he needed this.
He broke the kiss and gave Russell a little shove. “Strip. I’ll be right back.” He ducked into the bathroom and moments later returned with a silver foil tube and a smile. Russell leaned back on his elbows, his erection pressed against his belly. Skip stumbled, overcome by the perfect breadth of his shoulders, the feverish greed in his gaze. Before either of them could lose their nerve, he climbed on the bed.
“You’ve done this before.” Russell muttered the words without adding a lift at the end to make it a question.
Skip let his smile grow, squirting clear gel into the palm of his hand. “Yeah, but not with someone I...”
Russell gave him a puzzled look, though again he didn’t push Skip to finish.
Smearing the gel over Russell’s dick, Skip hummed the opening lick of “I’ve Got the World on a String.” The memory of the jam session when Russell sang made him smile. He could have done this then. Hell, he could have done it every night since. The man spread out underneath him touched a nerve, and not just the one pushing his dick into overdrive.
“This’ll feel so good.” Skip stroked and stroked, Russell’s dick pulsing and jumping in response. “I promise it will.”
Russell grabbed his wrist hard, fingers digging in and pulling, jaw tight. “That’s the problem. I know you’re right.”
Skip was too far gone to give much thought to what Russell said. He squirted more gel on two fingers, reached around, and spread it over himself. “Please, Russ. I’ll drive. You just lie back and enjoy the ride.”
Taking hold of Russell’s shaft, Skip positioned himself so he could slide the head back and forth across his opening. Russell gasped, biting down so hard, he turned his lower lip white. Skip preferred being underneath his lover, but for Russell’s first time, he took charge. Cupping Russell’s cheek with his free hand, he lowered himself.
They both groaned, relief hitting Skip so hard, he doubled over. Russell was thick, and the initial breach stung, so he gave himself a moment to relax before sliding down. Then up, thighs quivering. Down farther, the stretch and burn filling him. When he’d worked all of Russell in, the other man quivered, shuddered, gasped.
Still hunched over, Skip rose, taking things slow, still letting himself adjust. Russell lay propped on his elbows, head dropped back, mouth open. Leaning in, Skip licked his chin, traced a long salty line down his throat, and latched on to a nipple, licking and sucking till Russell gripped his thighs so hard, the nails cut into his flesh.
This was what he’d wanted, his big bull of a lover undone, the two of them forming a closed circle of need, sharing strength to create something whole. Russell’s formal reserve shattered, and his lock-jawed grimace meant release was near. Skip picked up his pace and Russell matched it, his grunts rising in pitch, more whine than guttural groans, half-formed words. “Good. Good. This is good.”
Hands sticky from the gel, Skip took hold of himself, stroking in rhythm. With every thrust, Russell hit his spot, intensifying the pressure. He wanted to get there right after Russell did, to give his lover pleasure before taking his own.
To share this central part of himself, the place the music came from, without the intercessi
on of a horn.
“Ah Jesus,” Russell gasped, his thrusts going from powerful to jet-propelled. He hollered, words too tangled to understand, and arched his back, fingers grinding into Skip’s forearms. They hung suspended, one long moment of balance, then Russell slowly relaxed. Skip smiled, enjoying the random pulse of Russell’s cock, the shuddering tremble working its way across his body.
Still stroking himself, Skip waited till the other man’s eyes opened again before he spoke. “You okay?”
Russell stroked his cheek with so much tenderness, Skip had to blink away a burst of moisture.
“Sure. But if you ever say ‘I told you so,’ I’m going to cream you,” Russell said.
Skip lurched, laughed, gave in to the sweetness. Russell wrapped both hands around Skip’s dick, thumbs flexed to catch the tip with every stroke. Three pulls, four, and Skip let go, crying out his release and flying over the edge, shooting come across Russell’s belly and chest.
He folded forward, rubbing himself on Russell, smearing warm come into his chest hair and skin. He jerked when Russell’s softening prick slid out of his body, shivered at the brush of his lover’s breath against his neck.
Once he had his breath back, he propped himself on his elbows.
“I know you’ll be leaving soon,” Skip said, measuring his words, trying hard to let his rational mind guide his emotions. He sure didn’t want to care this much for a guy who’d be getting on a train. Care this much? Hell. How ’bout falling in love with him instead. “But if you ever—”
“I don’t know if I want to leave.”
Skip’s heart dropped over a waterfall of emotion, then rose up, hopeful and happy. Russell spoke with deliberate defiance, and he wrapped a hand around the back of Skip’s neck, tugging him down for a fierce kiss. “I mean, I know I can’t stay, but I don’t know if I can leave you either.”