by Beth Bolden
He couldn’t get it back, couldn’t seem to re-discover it, and even though there was a smooth delivery to the performance (probably because he’d run through it thirteen times), even Miles wasn’t delusional enough to believe a rehearsed demeanor would be enough to win Reed over.
“This,” Evan said coldly, refusing to rise to Miles’ bait, “is the video we’re doing.”
For better or worse, Evan was determined to stick to his plan, even as he saw it all going down the crapper. Miles didn’t know whether to be angry at Evan for his ridiculous stubborn streak or to feel guilty for letting him down.
Maybe he felt both at the same damn time.
“Just so you know, if you tell me to do it again,” Miles said, and he knew he sounded as tired as he felt, “I’m going to tell you to fuck off.”
Evan looked up. He might be overly stubborn and too determined to stick to the path that wasn’t working, but Miles could tell from the hint of despair in his dark eyes that he knew the score.
“No point,” he said shortly.
Miles raised an eyebrow.
“Reed just texted me,” Evan said by way of explanation, “we’ll film the test tomorrow during one of the Dream Team filming breaks. Ten a.m.”
It was so tempting to lean over, reach into the freezer and grab the bottle of Belvedere that Miles had found the other day. At the time he’d been impressed with the taste of whoever stocked the apartment, but then he’d remembered it was Evan.
It was always fucking Evan.
But they were screwed enough, he was probably going to move his ass back to Napa and beg for his job back. This was no time to be indulging in bad habits and screwing himself over worse. Besides, he’d learned the hard way that sometimes getting drunk only made everything worse.
He didn’t even want to imagine what might have happened if he hadn’t thrown a hissy fit, drank all that faux Kahlua and typed out an email that he’d never even meant to send.
He definitely wouldn’t be standing here, contemplating the end of Pastry by Miles and wondering how much groveling he would have to do to get another job.
“You want a drink?” Evan asked and Miles looked up in surprise, wondering how he’d managed to read his mind yet again.
“No? Why do you ask?”
Evan shrugged. “Alcohol seems to be your crutch when things don’t go your way.”
It wasn’t fair but it was true. That didn’t mean it stung any less. “Things aren’t exactly going your way either.”
“Everything will be fine tomorrow,” Evan said, but Miles didn’t even bother arguing. They both knew the truth of what would probably happen during the test tomorrow. Some things were painfully inevitable, and they’d been on this crash course from the very first moment. “We should both get some rest. We’ll cab over in the morning to the studio.”
Evan’s casual dismissal of Miles and everything they’d shared definitely stung. It might be self-preservation for Evan, but Miles didn’t want to live without regrets and he didn’t want to pretend that he was okay with this. Even with Evan’s cold shoulder of the last two days, he still wanted him. He still wanted the possibility of hope for the future, even if that was at least a little delusional.
It was that thought that gave him the energy to push himself off the counter. He walked over to where Evan was sitting, head buried in his laptop, fingers typing away like it was some kind of barrier that protected him from anything real.
“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment,” Evan said, not even looking up.
Miles stood there, not exactly patient, but waiting because he was saving his pushiness for something that mattered. “You’re not in my hair. I don’t want you to go.”
Evan still didn’t look up. “You just said you didn’t want to go through it again.”
Miles shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t just reach out and take, mussing up Evan’s perfectly styled hair, his still-crisp shirt collar, the omnipresent bow tie. Today’s was a leafy green.
“I don’t.”
Something in Miles’ voice must have gotten through to Evan, because finally, he glanced up. There was apprehension in his buttery-brown eyes. Something like fear, even if he tried to hide it. Miles still saw it because Miles was looking for it.
“We talked about this.” Evan spit it out, and his eyes flickered for a single brief moment to where the list was still hanging from the fridge.
No kissing.
No sex.
No fighting.
No sarcastic retorts.
Of course Miles had started ignoring number four almost immediately. It had been a natural reflex to try to get a reaction out of the suddenly icy Evan. But he hadn’t tried the other three. He’d worked hard to not argue, to not fight back. It had been even harder to resist pushing Evan on the other rules.
He’d been as good as he could possibly be; he was done with it.
“We did,” Miles admitted.
“Then what do you want?” Evan asked, even more defensively than he’d been the last two miserable days.
When Miles had walked over here, crossing the invisible line between kitchen and camera, between chef and producer, he hadn’t understood that this was a watershed moment. It was crystal clear now.
Some things were so simple they didn’t need explanations.
“You.”
Evan’s jaw dropped. “You really don’t,” he argued. “Not after everything.”
“That’s the thing, I want you more after everything. Even after how shitty all these rehearsals have been. Even if I have to go back to Napa and grovel. None of that feels like it matters now.”
Evan shot to his feet, hands shutting his laptop, reaching for his bag. Not the reaction Miles had been hoping for. Everyone always said that if you laid it all on the line, if you were honest and straightforward about what you wanted, you got it.
Everyone were fucking liars. Miles couldn’t hide his disappointment or the pain he felt as he watched Evan try to escape.
“What if I had never sent you that email?” he demanded. He was so tempted to just show Evan how much he wanted him, but he knew that wouldn’t work. Evan had to know he wanted it too, even if they both knew he did. He had to acknowledge it to himself, and to Miles. And shoving everything he’d brought into his bag so he could escape was the exact opposite of that.
Evan looked up. Maybe it would’ve helped that Miles saw the same echo of frustration and pain in his eyes, but it didn’t. It made it worse. Like this was their chance, and they were just passing it by.
At least Miles was fucking putting his ass out there. Evan was just running away.
“It doesn’t matter. Because you did. And you can’t change that.” Evan’s voice was hard, so hard it sounded like it might crack at any moment.
“I’m sorry I sent it,” Miles said, and he knew he sounded desperate. He was desperate. “I’ve never been sorrier about anything in my whole life.” He meant it. All of it. And it meant nothing.
“Me too,” Evan said, and then he was walking out of the kitchen and Miles heard the front door shut behind him.
This time it didn’t feel like a bad idea to reach for the bottle of vodka in the freezer and take a gulp, feeling it burn all the way down his throat.
Chapter Eleven
Evan didn’t know who he was angrier at; Miles for making him want to believe him, or himself for nearly doing it.
He couldn’t sleep. Since he’d left Miles’ place, he felt like he’d been half a rationalization away from going back. To telling Miles that he wanted him too, screw how much he might regret it later.
But then he’d probably regret it either way, he thought, as he restlessly switched sides, staring at the bright neon-green numbers of the clock on his bedside table. He’d regret sleeping with Miles, and he’d definitely regret not sleeping with him.
The question was which regret was larger and more life-ruining in the grand scheme of things.
It turned out th
at the answer was shockingly simple; Evan wanted Miles. He’d tried very hard to fight against it, he’d actively attempted to stifle it, to pretend it didn’t exist, and part of the exhaustion of the last few days was how much energy it took to deny such an obvious truth.
He was up and out of bed before he’d even thought it through—probably because if he let himself, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere anytime soon, and he was done overthinking. It was easy enough to slip on a pair of shoes and scoot down the hallway to Miles’ door.
The difficult part was standing in front of Miles’ door, waiting for him to open it. It took every ounce of Evan’s self-possession to knock, then knock again, and then knock again, the whole time praying that Miles hadn’t taken Evan’s rejection and gone looking someplace else.
After the third prolonged knock, the only thing keeping him rooted in place at Miles’ doorstep was a stubborn belief that he couldn’t have come all this way, through all this shit, and then at the end, Miles had given up on Evan before Evan could give up on himself.
Finally, the door opened. Miles didn’t look happy to see him, in fact, he looked pissed off.
Evan couldn’t really blame him for that.
An apology was right there, but at the last second, his dick just took over, and said what he’d been so reluctant to acknowledge: “I want you, I do.”
A frown creased Miles’ handsome features. “Now? You’re going to get me up in the middle of the night, and tell me that now you’ve finally decided you want me?”
Evan hadn’t considered that this wouldn’t be easy. That Miles would expect some sort of groveling after all the overtures that Evan had rejected.
“Yes.” Evan usually didn’t do groveling. Pride was a hard-won possession, and he wasn’t about to give it up, even for Miles.
Miles must have realized this, because after a long, heart-stopping moment, he pulled the door the rest of the way open, and Evan didn’t move because he couldn’t.
The reason why it had taken Miles so long to come to the door was because he’d already started without Evan. Probably because he’d never imagined that Evan would show up, interested in the bulge he was packing in those tight black briefs.
That was where he had been very wrong; Evan was more than interested. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and looked his fill. Miles’ solid, slim chest, the tenseness in his biceps, the sweat beaded around his hairline, the mussed curls, how his fingers kept clenching and unclenching. The tautness of his abs as he held himself still and refused to cover up.
Evan approved because he shouldn’t ever. He was gorgeous, a barely contained storm in that laid-back body.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Miles said, voice calm but with a tense edge.
Evan wasn’t going to argue when there were so many better things he could be doing with his mouth.
Urgency propelled him forward, through the doorway, almost falling against Miles. Before he could, Miles reached out and caught him. Evan lifted his head towards his, and a long, eternal stare passed between them. Miles’ eyes were smoky in the dim light, and Evan couldn’t help but wonder if his own were darker. Intense. If everything he felt was reflected in them. The desperation. The desire. How hopeless he was against the two together; hopeless against Miles.
Evan could feel just how much Miles wanted him, hard against his stomach, pushing against the thin fabric covering his crotch, but Miles didn’t move.
It was hard enough to take the first step here, it should feel easier to take the last. It wasn’t. But nobody had ever considered Evan a coward, and he wouldn’t act cowardly now.
Lifting his head, Evan fitted his mouth against Miles’, and their lips moved against each other for a moment, uncoordinated and unsure, but then everything slid into place.
Evan had spent his entire life avoiding fantasy. He was practical and prosaic—all by necessity. But now, he had a sudden thought that this kiss wasn’t just a physical manifestation of a deeply physical need, but that it was locking them together, two out-of-sync tumblers clicking uselessly, until one perfect moment when they clicked.
He almost wanted Miles to ask him if he was going to leave again, just so he could tell him that he wasn’t, that he couldn’t. But Miles seemed very uninterested in any more talking, hands moving down Evan’s chest, only breaking apart to pull his shirt off, to pant unevenly into the damp skin of his neck.
It helped that Evan knew exactly where the bedroom was, and so exactly where to steer them, Evan shedding his shoes, then his sweatpants as they stumbled down the hallway, lips fused together.
When they reached the bed, Evan shoved Miles onto the edge, and placed a very possessive hand against the cock throbbing in his briefs.
Miles groaned into his mouth. Something insensible. Something very much like begging.
And Evan was perfectly happy to give him exactly what he wanted. He pulled the fabric down, watching as Miles’ cock sprung from its confines, landing wetly against his abs.
Evan knew many people considered sucking cock to be a demeaning activity, like dropping to your knees somehow made you subservient, but he’d always gotten a power rush from it. Miles’ shocked, pleased expression rushed through him as he lowered himself, flicking his tongue just briefly against the reddened head.
“Please,” Miles said, and he sounded wrecked.
Probably Evan always felt a power rush because he liked making a big production out of a blowjob. Liked to tease. Liked to drive the man above him to barely wrung-out pleas. Some people wrote symphonies, some painted art, some sculpted out of clay and marble. Evan really liked to give a perfect blowjob.
He took his time about it now, wondering how far he could drive Miles with little teasing licks, fingers digging purposefully into the meat of his thighs, a counterpoint to the delicacy of what his mouth was doing to his cock.
Miles quickly fell to a litany of nonsense and moans. He seemed to understand that Evan didn’t want his hands on him, and he kept them fisted in the comforter, knuckles white as he clenched the cotton.
But he must have gotten close before Evan even arrived, because it was too soon and he’d already reached a fevered point of begging. Evan tongued the slit, tasted the rush of salt, and knew he must be close, even though he’d barely given him anything to sink his teeth into.
As far as Evan was concerned, what made him really good at sucking cock wasn’t a preplanned attack, but the ability to improvise in the middle. So he abandoned the delicate teasing abruptly, mouth sliding down Miles’ cock, sucking with all the force he dared.
Miles’ yelp was very rewarding and so was the flood of come on his tongue. He swallowed, taking his time about cleaning up every inch of Miles’ prick as it softened in his mouth.
Finally Miles pushed him off, and there was only the sound of heavy breathing in the dim room. Evan suddenly was acutely aware of his own arousal, pressing against his thigh, sticky and hot.
“Give me a second,” Miles breathed out, voice unsteady, “you might have killed me.”
“But what a way to go,” Evan said, feeling very satisfied—but not nearly as satisfied as he could be.
“If you’d believe it, you were doing the exact same thing in my head when you knocked on my door.”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” Miles corrected with a silly little grin that shouldn’t have made both Evan’s heart and dick flex, but it did, anyway, “not quite the exact same thing. I don’t have the same perverse imagination you apparently do.”
“I’m about to get a lot more perverse,” Evan threatened, the thrum of blood in his cock becoming more and more insistent.
“I’ve got you,” Miles said, and the hand he extended to lift him up was gentle and so was his voice.
His hand however, was the right amount of rough friction that Evan didn’t even know he needed as Miles fisted around his length and pumped him hard and reckless. Evan might have been ashamed at how quickly it ended, but then he had a feeling they both
knew he hadn’t only been teasing Miles.
Miles wiped his hand on the sheet and rolled over in the bed. Evan hesitated on the edge, not sure if he should stay or go. All of his hookups had always been only sex. Once orgasms were had, it was over, and Evan usually left, because he never liked letting strangers into his personal space. He’d spent too many years doing that.
But Miles was looking at him expectantly, like he expected Evan to roll over and go to sleep.
Evan almost said no. He almost said he was tired and he was going to walk the few yards back to his own place, and go to sleep in his own bed. But then he remembered the way their mouths had fit together, the eerie sensation of two people locking into each other, and though he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay, he didn’t really want to leave either.
So he lay on the bed in the warm spot Miles had vacated and watched as Miles reached over and flicked the light off. “Night,” he said, and hated how uncertain he sounded.
“Night,” Miles returned, all lazy satisfaction, like he’d gotten everything he’d wanted.
They both had; that much was clearly obvious from the way they’d both gone up in flames from the first moment they’d touched. Evan knew he should be feeling more resolved. But tomorrow’s screen test still loomed over them, and there was too much ambiguity about the future for him to relax.
He rolled over and willed sleep to overtake him. It still didn’t come. Even when Miles fell into a gentle patter of snores, too quiet to be annoying, and also too quiet to drown out his uneasy brain.
He told himself that he was making the right decision when he silently slid out of bed and locked Miles’ door behind him with the key he still had on his ring. It was just a night of sleep, and in the grand scheme of things, it really shouldn’t mean anything.
* * *
Was it fair of Miles to be pissed that he’d woken this morning and Evan had already been gone? Probably. Was it surprising that he’d opened his eyes to nothing but empty sheets? Not really.