His whole body shuddered at once. A single little "fuck" escaped his lips. He came spectacularly into my shirt, in my hand, against my tongue.
I licked his asshole a few times for good measure, though he'd already collapsed, his head on his arm against the back of the couch. Then I sat back, wiped my mouth, and enjoyed the picture spent and worn-out Brady made from behind.
Amazing. No other word, no other feeling for it.
"Fuck," he said again, muffled by the cushions. The T-shirt moved in his hand, an obvious attempt to collect the mess and save my couch.
As if I cared. For this feeling, I'd buy a new couch every week.
I stood, head reeling dangerously—so much so I wasn't even sure I could pin him down and screw him right there even if I thought it was a good idea. If my dick got anywhere near him right then, it was over.
I needed a minute. My first attempt at being stern had come off…well, okay. I didn't want it to turn into an embarrassment.
I smacked his ass, then retrieved the key from the table.
He was breathing hard, looking over his shoulder, and laughing. "Unh, I can't feel my legs. That was epic."
"Happy birthday." I somehow managed to crawl onto the couch beside him and made to unlock him.
"But—"
"I got what I wanted." My hand was shaking, but I got the key into the lock, and it opened with a click. "You did good, baby. Might be trainable yet."
When he pulled his hand free, I took his arm and pressed the inside of his wrist to my lips. The pulse beat faintly. I licked at it.
His eyes flashed, though he was still in almost the exact same position, holding a messy shirt to his cock and leaning against the back of the couch on his knees. He smirked. "You better take those goddamn shorts off right quick. If I have to do it, they're getting torn in half."
*~*~*
So he asked me to distract him with moderately kinky sex and certainly distracted me. Being familiar with manipulation, I knew that wasn't what this was. Manipulation is covert—or attempts to be—by nature. Brady was honest about what he wanted. Always.
I was more than happy myself. If I couldn't have answers, I at least wanted to have him near. Maybe I was pretending I could have answers someday. Maybe it didn't really matter, because I wanted him so bad I would've put up with any amount of unreasonable confusion.
In fact, he made much more sense to me that night than he ever had before. The pseudo-superhero thing was daunting, I admit. But it seemed to explain things too—things about the past he was so reluctant to discuss, things about his forced flippancy, things about the hateful people dogging him.
Whatever they wanted, it had to be about this frosty thing of his. Whoever they were, they clearly meant something to him. I couldn't forget that look on his face when I'd asked, the one that spoke of some emotion I'd never seen in him before. But what could I do if I couldn't convince him to stay with me?
These new revelations, of course, only led to more questions. It all seemed so impossible. Impossible but undeniable. It existed; so did he. I knew what had happened, what I'd seen. It was. He was.
And I wanted more.
So, yes, maybe I wanted him that bad. Maybe I was too fascinated, too addicted to stop. Maybe I thought I could help him. Protect him. Hell, I don't know, love him. He needed all three, obviously.
I wanted it. He wanted it. What else mattered?
Some restless movement of his woke me in the night. I'd gotten used to sleeping alone quickly; it was strange—though not in a bad way—to have someone sharing my bed again. I opened my eyes, and he was watching me.
"You ever sleep, Brady?"
He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, in, like, three-hour shifts."
"Sounds irritating."
"It's miserable."
"You're contemplating again?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
He asked, "How come you never fuck me?"
I laughed. If I'd been more awake, I probably would've been alarmed or at least a little perplexed by the question. "How is twice never?"
"You're such a nice boy, Etienne."
"No. I'm a cruel fuck in training." I pulled him close.
He laughed, and his face burrowed between my neck and the pillow, naked body pressed to mine. My dick stirred but without urgency. I took a deep breath into his hair, petted his side, stopping at the good spots on the way down to the arc of his hip, then back up. A thought occurred. "If I fuck you now, you won't need to come back."
"I'm already addicted to your cock. Stick it in me, and I'll be hanging around like a damn junkie. But, uh, you want to, right?"
I chuckled and kissed his forehead, eyes drifting closed, cock swelling hot against his leg. "You have no idea."
He rubbed against it eagerly. "Yeah?"
"Mmm-hmm."
He kissed me, then vanished under the covers. By the time his mouth found my erection, I had figured out where he was going, but it was still a bit of a surprise, all things considered.
Yes, maybe we should've been having more critical conversations. But at that moment, he was more than I needed and everything I wanted. Important conversations would have to wait until Brady was goddamn good and ready.
Or at least in a better position to speak, anyhow.
CHAPTER SIX
Of course, Brady was gone before I woke. I saw him a few more times that week. He turned up at work again, looking a little sheepish, no doubt because he thought things might be weird. After all, he'd had a frost-versus-fire war with a couple of stalkers right in front of me. Understandable concern, but I convinced him to relax as we sat up on Mt. Washington, chain-smoking and watching the city darken, then light up: the Duquesne incline crawling up and down the fire-colored hillside below, Heinz Field and PNC Park coming to life, the fountain at the Point changing colors, the parapeted skyline transforming into something magic. Falling in love with the city—I saw it in his eyes that he felt it too, and probably not for the first time.
Then Friday night at the Flowers—they weren't playing, but some friends were. I sat with Melissa, the nympho drummer, and Brady, talking music and slamming beers until we were too drunk to screw.
We made up for it Saturday afternoon when we finally came to, though. While we were eating incredible take-out pierogis and watching old Poirot episodes to recover, I did manage to ask him if he'd heard from the stalkers again.
"Nah, they must've gone home." He paused, chewed at his lip, and then offered, "Virginia."
"Wondered where you picked up that accent."
"Glass houses, honey. You should hear yourself sometime."
I smiled but wasn't prepared to let it drop. "So, what's up in Virginia?"
"It's family bullshit. No big deal, just a pain in my ass."
That explained, well, a lot, actually. Factoring in the way he avoided my eyes, the downturn at the corners of his mouth, and that look creeping into his eyes again…
I had a better grasp on his body language and facial expressions by then. It wasn't anger. It wasn't fear. It almost had to be sadness.
He went on, slow and thoughtful. "I been thinking about it, and I think they wanted you to see what I am. They probably would've liked the whole damn town to see, but you were enough."
"Why?"
"They want me to have to leave."
My throat tightened. "Any particular reason?"
"How much did you hear?"
"Something about open arms," I admitted.
"There you go, then, huh?"
I supposed I saw his point. Of course, I wasn't satisfied; it was enough to know that those waters ran deep—at least as deep as I'd imagined they might. I'd backed him into confessing that much, but I didn't want to back him into a panic. On the one hand, I couldn't help him if I didn't know what he was dealing with. On the other, who said he wanted my help? No, all that mattered was that he knew I cared, that he could tell me anything if he decided he needed to.
And so I left it the
re.
Otherwise, apart from a new eagerness to frost my beer mug when it had gone warmish or run a freezing finger down my spine to give me chills, not a lot changed with him.
I looked for information on these awakened types the whole week, of course, which turned up a lot of crank conspiracy theory sites, almost entirely devoted to decrying the evil inherent in those who manipulate energy. Theories ranging from alien origins to demonic heritage to their being plain old serial killers appeared across the world, it seemed—no more or less supportable or supported than those on extraterrestrials in ancient Egypt. Hard to take anything I read on the topic seriously, but I could understand Brady's point about flying under the radar, at least.
Thursday I went to Mom and Dad's for the Steelers game, as was the family ritual when it wasn't Susanne's weekend to use the season tickets she split with another officer and her husband. To my shock and amazement, she didn't ask about Brady until halftime, when Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. I'd been sure she'd want to get Mom involved in her Campaign Against Brady Sinclair too, but both parents seemed blessedly unaware of his existence.
"Come out with us tomorrow night," she said.
"Got plans," I replied.
Lucy shot me a sharp look. Then she got up, ostensibly to refill the veggie dip but really to avoid a Fletcher family argument.
"Not with the thief." Suse leaned back, folding her arms over her Polamalu jersey.
"That'd offend me more if it wasn't true. Yes, with Brady."
"If that's even his name." She pulled the dreaded Mom Face more and more these days.
But the Steelers were winning, and I wasn't in the mood to argue. After my week of fruitless searching, I couldn't help but think her background-check idea might actually be a good one in his case, on a personal-safety level. I wasn't any closer to telling her his birthday, but that I'd even entertained the thought told me that I was more than a little worried. No matter what he said, family doesn't stalk family or threaten to set restaurants on fire over some harmless spat. That was restraining-order territory.
Maybe I was overreacting, though. I'd had a friend in junior high who used to get into bloody-knuckled fights with his brothers over the remote, so maybe indoor conflagrations really were the usual family bullshit for Brady. Maybe the way he shut down whenever they came up, the way he couldn't talk about it, really was because the whole thing depressed him. For whatever reason, he didn't want to live with his family anymore. That'd depress anyone, no matter how justified. But especially someone like Brady, someone who wanted so badly to be loved—by a nameless crowd or in bed. It was the first thing I'd discovered about him. The cornerstone of his personality.
The thought was particularly resonant as I sat in the living room where I'd watched Saturday-morning cartoons with Marcel and Susanne growing up. Hell, I still watched them out of a sense of nostalgia as much as a genuine fondness for SpongeBob. Whenever Marcel brought the family up for a visit, we brought his kids in on the action. What kind of fucked-up thing would have to happen to ruin this, our little world, our family?
My thoughtful silence softened Susanne, incredibly enough. She frowned and slumped into the couch. "I'm sorry, kid. I love you. And you haven't said much since, er, Paul. I keep thinking this is some weird self-destructive rebound fantasy or an attempt to regain your free-and-easy teenage years. Or both."
"I wasn't that easy." Then I remembered who I was talking to. "Right, never mind. Why don't you come with me tomorrow night?"
It was an impulse decision. She was a good cop for a reason: instinct. And what could it hurt, letting her meet him? Maybe it was cheesy and pathetic, but I was sure Brady—whoever he was and whatever he was into—was a good guy. I'd seen enough of him to know.
I wanted her to see him too.
She made a face. "On your date?"
"His band's playing at the Flowers at midnight."
"That's a late start, even on a Friday."
"Come on. You can relive your free-and-easy teenage years."
"Okay, I was easy."
I winced. "Brought that on myself. But I want you to meet him."
She made a face. She clearly didn't like what that implied, but I knew she couldn't resist. "Honestly?"
"You'll like him. And even if you don't, you'll like the band."
She sighed. "Don't ever say I don't love you."
*~*~*
Susanne grimaced over her beer. "Willoughby Spit." That pretty much said it all.
Lucy snerked and kicked me under the table. She was tarted up again and looking great. Suse had on a Penguins T-shirt this time, but it was a fitted girly blue one, so it set off her eyes. She only wore that color when she wanted to make a good impression, but since I liked my limbs intact, I kept the observation to myself. Lucy wasn't complaining, either.
"They're good, I promise," I said.
"So you say." Lucy winked and looked over my shoulder. Her mouth fell open, and then she laughed. "Oh, God."
Before I could investigate, there were arms twined around my neck and lips against my ear. A kiss, then Brady said, "Hey, sweetheart."
As he pulled away, I turned, grinning ear to ear. "Hey, Brady—"
I halted when I saw his shirt, mostly because I was laughing too hard to continue. My face went hot, from 98.6 to 200 degrees in a second flat. It wasn't the only part of my anatomy to react, either.
The shirt was white and clinging, hot as hell on him, of course. But stenciled in spray paint across the chest in the usual blocky lettering were the words FUCK ME, ETIENNE.
"Tried to convince the band to change our name, but they didn't go for it. I settled for the shirt." He smirked, slipping into the chair next to me. He reached across the table for Suse's hand. "You must be Susanne."
Her eyebrows had just about disappeared into her hairline, but she laughed and took his hand. "You expecting us?"
"No, but you're too gorgeous not to be Et's sister. Nice to meet you," he said. When Suse relinquished her grip on his hand, he held it out to her girlfriend. "That makes you Lucy."
"Hello, Brady," she said, smirking right back at him. "I've heard all about you."
"Bad stuff?"
She grinned.
"It's all true," he said.
I coughed to clear my throat, cheeks still blazing. "Are you supposed to be out here?"
"You're gonna hurt my feelings," he said. "Yeah. Tyler's pissed, but screw him. I wanted to warn you that Eddie won't let you pay for drinks. Don't argue, 'cause he's a right hellcat when he puts his mind to it."
"Brady—"
He kissed me to shut me up. "If it was just you, it'd be okay. But these two"—he pointed to Suse and Lucy—"are guests, and that wouldn't be polite. I gotta go before Tyler's head explodes. See you after?"
"Oh, yes," Lucy agreed. "We'll be here."
Brady stood, ran his fingers through my hair to muss it, and left.
My cheeks still hadn't cooled. When Suse and Lucy focused on me again, I even started to squirm.
"He's cuter than I expected," Susanne admitted.
"I like him," Lucy announced.
"Shut up," Susanne said.
Lucy ignored her, as usual. "Et, I've never seen you grin like that."
Susanne snorted. "Doesn't have anything to do with that shirt, does it?"
"I like his shirt too," said Lucy.
"That makes two of us." And I took a long, cold drink of my beer to try to calm myself the hell down.
Naturally, he worked his magic on them. First by being in a decent band, then by spending the evening getting them free drinks and making them howl with stories of his neurotic bandmates. They left in a taxi, drunk and giggling and hanging all over each other, and Brady dragged me into the back to "get his shit together." Apparently there was going to be a late-night after-show band meeting, so it was the closest we could get to a few minutes alone for a while.
What passed for a dressing room was more like a large walk-in closet or perhaps a dorm r
oom. It didn't have much to recommend it but a ragged couch passed down from the seventies puking up its own guts, a vanity groaning under the weight of ancient makeup, a bunch of overstuffed clothing racks, a changing screen in the corner, and a long, cluttered counter along one wall. There must have been a door at one time, but not even the hinges remained.
He fell back into the couch and started taking off his boots. I noticed his little stuffed fox and scooped it up, then hugged it in the crook of my arm.
He said, "Behold the secret life of a suburban rock star."
"What happened to the door?"
"Dunno, never seen it." He nodded at the fox. "That's George."
I squeezed George once more before respectfully returning him to his perch.
"Think your sister liked the show?" he asked.
"Yeah. I think she liked you."
"In spite of my shirt." He stuck the tip of his tongue through his teeth.
"Lucy liked the shirt. Not as much as me, but she liked it."
He'd kicked off his boots by that time. The moment he stood, I kissed him, then backed him up against the counter. As usual, he acquiesced to perfection, licking at my teeth and pulling me against him hard.
I said, "Can't be a real groupie till you've made out in the dressing room, right?"
He replied by hopping up onto the counter so he could wrap his legs around me. I assisted, then laid one hand on his thigh and brought the other up to his face. Our mouths found each other again quickly. At first it was just kissing, kind of slow and hot, like usual. His fingertips, artificially cold, toyed with the hair at the nape of my neck and slipped downward to tickle my spine. His ass scooted forward until he was wrapped around me tight, his bare feet hooked behind my back. I was thinking how lonely it would be that night—tasting his tongue and knowing I'd miss it later—when his fingers started pulling at the button of my fly.
I laughed into his lips and moved off enough to say, "The door doesn't even exist, let alone lock."
"Fuck it. I need this." In case I was wondering what, exactly, his hand snaked down the front of my jeans and rubbed my swelling cock.
Riot Boy Page 7