by James, J. P.
“I’m just…I…you know how I always get a little nervous before I perform.” It’s not a lie; it’s just not the truth I should be telling him. “I’ll be fine, though.”
“Alright.” His deep voice rumbles over me. “But promise me you’ll tell me if something is really bothering you. My songbird deserves to be happy, and I’ll do everything in my power to make that happiness possible.”
At his words, I practically melt into the couch. He’s so incredible and always so wonderful to me.
“You make me happy, Neil. You always have.” God, can he hear the longing in my tone? But he merely chuckles.
“I’m glad,” he says in a low growl. “So, we’ll meet up tonight, eat a nice meal together, and then we’ll go home, where I’ll make love to my Milo until he’s too exhausted to do more than scream my name. Right?” His teasing makes me laugh.
“Right,” I say in a delighted whisper.
“Good. I’ll see you tonight.”
Still smiling, I blow him a kiss through the phone and hang up. But as soon as our connection breaks, my smile fades.
God! I want to pepper him with a million questions, but it’s clear that he’s very much into the sex. In fact, so many of our conversations devolve into sex that it’s pretty insane. Is that all he sees when he looks at me? Is that all he wants?
Because inevitably, I’ll grow old. I’ll get saggy, and lose my six pack. My hair will go gray, and my body slack, but will Neil still want me? Hell, will he even be into me next year, much less ten years from now?
My lip feels raw from me nibbling it so much. It’s time for me to pull myself together and tell Neil the truth. It’ll put me out of my misery at the very least.
Okay. So…tonight. I’ll ask him tonight.
If we have the conversation, it’s going to be after my performance because there’s no way I could confront him before the concert starts.
But suddenly, a thought strikes me. If he says he loves me, and we start a family together, will that ruin my career as a pianist? Professional musicians need to travel a lot, and that’s what I’ve wanted to be all of these years.
Will I give up on that dream to have a baby?
But I already know the answer. I’d give up the dream of being a concert pianist in a heartbeat because the real truth of it all is that I’ve always wanted to be a father. But is that what Neil wants? Only the truth will set me free.
19
Milo
“You look amazing, Mr. Barnett.” Neil’s assistant, Janet, stands behind me looking at both me and my reflection in the full-length mirror.
She’s young, probably no older than twenty-two, and still has stars in her eyes from moving to New York City from a small town down south. Neil’s company is a good place for a sweet girl like her to end up.
Janet steps back as I scrutinize myself in front of the mirror one last time. Neil’s assistant brought the tux over less than an hour ago, and it fits me to a tee. Black with notched lapels and long, slim cut trousers, the outfit makes me feel like a movie star. When I walk, my feet look amazing in sleek pair of designer loafers. I’ve never looked better in my life.
Neil knows what I like, and he has incredible taste. Whenever I perform at one of his clubs or restaurants, he makes sure to buy me a new outfit. Sometimes he even has them custom made by a European designer. This tux is as amazing as the rest of the suits have been. With diamond cuff links and my hair styled perfectly, I look in the mirror and see an elegant and accomplished musician. Someone worthy of Neil Woods. Someone worthy of joy and confidence.
“Thank you for everything, Janet.” I feel happy enough to hug the slender girl in her big-city pants suit.
She blushes. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Barnett.”
Soon she leaves, and the limousine arrives. Everything feels fine during the journey as the driver smoothly navigates New York City streets. But after the car drops me off at the five-star venue, all of my sick nerves come rushing back. Doubts about everything I’m doing crowd my mind. All I can think of is my longing for a ring and a family. But what if Neil doesn’t want any of that for his future? What if he laughs before petting my head like some kind of housecat?
Oh god, no. Please, no. But it’s too late and the limo’s arrived. As the car drives off, I take a big breath and slowly walk up the steep steps of the restaurant. I feel Neil’s semen from this morning shift inside me and drip slowly, steadily out of my ass. The feeling of it grounds and centers me.
All around, Manhattan glitters like it’s covered in jewels. Other limos and fancy cars pull up to and away from the building in a constant stream. The people going in and out are incredible. Just ahead of me, a well-known actress walks out of the restaurant. The over-sized sunglasses on her face don’t do a thing to disguise who she is, and paparazzi appear out of nowhere, rushing her before bodyguards push them away with their massive muscles and stone faces.
I slink into the restaurant unnoticed. On the way, I spot other, lesser-known celebrities who aren’t being assaulted by the rabid press. But instead of being relieved, they stare at the well-known actress with unconcealed jealousy. The life if B-list stars is so bizarre.
Even more amazing is the fact that they all come to Neil’s restaurant, along with powerful politicians and quite a few internationally famous pop stars. The first time I mentioned my awe to Neil, he said something about running a clean and profitable business being the key to attracting the best clientele. It made me think about Playing Desires and all the horrible things that had happened once that Don Hunt person started coming around.
A shudder runs through me at the reminder of Milton and Jimmy’s murders. Those guys didn’t deserve to die like that, no matter what questionable business practices they’d been involved in. I keep meaning to ask Neil more about it, but with our hectic sex life and passionate love, it keeps slipping my mind.
Suddenly, a small French man in a penguin suit materializes.
“Good evening, Mr. Barnett,” the host of the restaurant greets me with a smile in his smooth accent. “We’re very happy to have you with us tonight.”
“Thank you, Marcel.” I try to get to know a little bit about each restaurant before I come to perform. When I reached out to Marcel, he’d been very kind to me.
“Everything is ready for you,” he says, bowing again.
I want to tell him to stop because it’s just me, Milo Barnett. But then I swallow my nerves and try to act suave.
“Thank you.”
The maître d’ guides me to the center of the room, where there’s a small stage with a gorgeous piano. It’s a set-up that I love. This way, everyone can see me and hear the music without any trouble. From what Marcel told me, the stage slowly turns so that, at some point in the evening, I get to see every part of the large dining room, and the guests get to see me too. Intimidating, but also awe-inspiring.
“It’s good, yes?” Marcel asks.
“It’s perfect.” A wave of nausea moves through my stomach, and I wince. “Um, can you point me toward the restroom?”
With a smile of thanks, I rush off in the right direction. On my dash across the restaurant, careful not to make it seem like I’m actually running, the smell of the food makes the nausea churn higher in my belly.
Oh God. There’s no way I can eat dinner tonight. Absolutely none. From what the reviews say, the food here is amazing. But with my sick fear of Neil’s potential rejection, I can’t imagine putting any food in my mouth.
In the bathroom, I rush to the nearest empty stall and violently empty out my stomach, heaving into the toilet. When I’m done, I’m trembling, and I look pale and weak in the mirror.
But I pull myself together, rinse out my mouth, mop up the sweat on my face, and re-comb my hair. Thank God no one came in while I was hurling my guts into the toilet.
“Okay. You can do this, Milo.” In the mirror, a calm, put-together man faces me once again. My hair is perfect. My smile gives no indication of the uncertainty in my mind. The onl
y sign of what’s going on with me is the flicker of doubt that momentarily shows itself in my eyes.
“Tonight will be perfect,” I tell myself out loud. “Relax.”
Concert pianists have to work through stress all of the time, so I doubt I’m the first man or the first pianist to deal with the unexpected. Nonetheless, I still have to perform as if everything is completely normal.
I square my shoulders and walk out of the bathroom. A few of the people in the restaurant watch me as I walk past. I nod politely at them, smile, and keep moving like the consummate professional.
For the program tonight, people are expected to come in at nine, but there are already a about a dozen or so already here. They’re seated at their tables and having drinks, laughing and chatting, until the main part of the evening starts. Then I perform as they’re served their dinner prepared by a chef from a Michelin-Star restaurant in France someplace. It’s a special evening that Neil plans at his various restaurants from time to time to shake things up. It doesn’t hurt that these events bring in loads of money each time, and I feel privileged that he asked me to perform because it’s such a wonderful launching pad for my career.
With Neil’s seed still shifting slightly inside of me, I stride up to the high platform with the grand concert piano already illuminated in special lights. It looks like a stage but also like a display case. With my diamond cufflinks glinting and my perfectly fitted tux, I feel like I’m on display too. But this is what the performing life is about.
I sit at the piano and take a deep and calming breath. Nerves later. Now, I have to work.
My fingers settle over the keys and play a few notes to warm up. The music feels light but powerful at the same time. With it flowing like water from under my fingers, it’s easy to leave my other worries behind. The music is beautiful, and I’m part of it. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing at this moment, and my eyes drift closed as I’m carried away.
Suddenly, my reverie is interrupted. “That’s a beautiful piece you’re playing. I’ve never heard classical music sound so interesting, shall we say.”
I jump at the sound of a male voice suddenly close to me, and my eyes snap open to see a stranger standing on the stage with me.
What’s he doing up here? The customers should be at their tables, not standing under the spotlights with me. But the stranger doesn’t care. He’s wearing a dark suit that vaguely reminds me of something Neil would wear. But Neil always looks put together, like a custom-made wet dream, whereas this man looks like he’s playing dress-up.
“Thank you,” I say to him politely, still moving my hands over the piano and making it sing. “I’m just warming up, if you’ll excuse me. I need to get ready for my concert.”
I’m actually playing a piece that I wrote as part of my coming exams, but this guy doesn’t need to know that. Neil’s the only one I’ve told, and he was so impressed that he made a quick video and posted it on his Twitter account. What a dreamboat. I love that my man supports me like this.
The stranger grins evilly.
“Well, it sounds special. You’re very talented.” He leans on the piano to watch me, looking like he’s settling in for a long conversation despite my obvious attempt to get rid of him.
A frown creases between my eyes, and I half-heartedly thank him again. What does this guy want? Can’t he see that I’m working?
The few people gathered in the restaurant don’t seem to be paying him any attention, thank god. They’re here to listen to me play, not watch some creep try to hit on me.
Just to give him another hint, I continue playing without looking his way. As my hands move over the black and white keys, I shift against the bench. More of Neil’s come trickles from me. My asshole clenches, and the delightful feeling gives me confidence. I can handle this.
But the stranger’s still here, and I feel his eyes intensely watching me like he’s searching for something. I do my best to ignore him.
“A talented man like you deserves the best,” he says. Then he pauses like he expects me to make some type of comment. When I don’t say anything, he keeps going. “Neil Woods isn’t going to do anything to help your career or to help you personally. In fact, he’ll only damage your career in the long run. He might even get you hurt.”
How does he even know Neil? How does he know Neil and I are together? How dare he say these things?
My frown gets deeper, but I don’t reply. Despite his words, he doesn’t know Neil, and he certainly doesn’t know me. So I settle for saying nothing at all. Eventually, after giving me a vaguely intimate smile, the stranger gives up and wanders away, carefully stepping off the stage and disappearing into the growing crowd of dinner guests.
Then, the lights dim and the dinner party officially begins. I’m impressed that the people only speak in hushed tones. Even the sound of their eating is muted, like they want to actually listen to the music, and not just enjoy a very expensive meal.
After the brief introduction, the spotlight shines and my fingers begin to play. It’s a wonderful experience, and it makes me feel like I belong up here on a stage, glittering before an appreciative audience. I lose myself to my song, swaying in time to the rhythm as my fingers dance over the keys.
It’s only about twenty minutes into the program that I realize something’s wrong. People are eating and chatting softly to one another, even as I perform. That’s okay. But where’s Neil? He should be here, but as my eyes scan the crowd discreetly, I don’t see my dashing lover.
Suddenly, insecurity hits me, and a cold trickle of sweat trails down the middle of my back. Being in front of all of these wealthy New Yorkers makes my skin prickle with nervousness. You’re being melodramatic, Milo, the voice in my head says. Man up.
But at the same time, I can’t help it. Where is Neil? Is he even going to show up? Suddenly, up here on the stage, I feel exposed, like a canary in a birdcage forced to sing for its supper.
Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of the billionaire and relief floods my body. He’s over there, in the front but way over to the side. The grand piano was blocking him slightly, but now that I know where to look, everything’s okay.
As usual, my lover looks mouthwatering. He’s wearing one of his favorite Armani suits, a deep blue that almost looks black. It’s cut close to his body, custom-fitted like a uniform or an extension of his own natural power and elegance. That stranger who came up on the stage to talk to me earlier can’t compete with Neil, not even a little bit.
Looking at the billionaire, my heart melts a little. Every part of me clenches slightly, and I become even more aware of his warm and milky seed inside of my bottom. In a rush, I remember how it got there this morning. The feel of him big and solid inside of me, his hot mouth on the back of my neck as he gushed his satisfaction into my ass. Oh yes. A blush scorches me from head to toe even as my fingers continue to dance over the keys.
But then the music almost falters a bit when I see who’s next to him. A hot blonde with killer curves and a smile that’s pointed right at my man. The woman is breathtakingly beautiful. She can’t seem to stop laughing at whatever Neil is talking about, and the high-pitched sound of her giggle cuts through the room like a knife. What? I mean, I know Neil is bi, but he’s never acted on anything thus far, male or female. Is he flirting with her? The way his blue eyes sweep over her voluptuous frame make me sick with jealousy. What in the world is going on?
Plus, the way she keeps touching Neil’s arm makes it obvious that she’s into him. And the way that Neil keeps whispering into her ear makes it equally obvious that they’re attracted to one another.
My Neil is flirting with a woman. Right in front of my nose. What is this? Some sick joke? He’s never been hesitant about being seen with a man before, so why is he putting himself on display right now with this flashy, voluptuous blonde?
And what does this mean for me? As I hear the tinkle of her laughter again, his semen literally drips again from my ass, wetting my boxers. How can he do t
his, knowing that he deposited a load in my bottom earlier today?
My cheeks burn with color for quite another reason now. Sickness chokes me as jealousy bubbles up inside me like a poison. It feels like I swallowed something toxic, and a bit of bile rushes up the back of my throat. Is Neil cheating on me with this woman? In public, no less? How can this be happening? Suddenly, I just want the night to be over.
20
Neil
It’s late, just a few minutes past one in the morning. The moon is big and shining in the sky, and success flows through my blood, invigorating and sweet, like the incredible music Milo plays for me when we’re alone.
The night didn’t go quite like I planned, but that’s okay because I have my man at my side. And now, we’re waiting for the valet to bring the car around.
“You’re a little quiet tonight, baby. Everything good?” I shoot him a confident grin, but he only makes a low noise that sounds vaguely like “Yes.”
Hmm, he’s distracted. Probably because of how well the night went. My lover played that piano like an angel, and people kept coming up to him between sets, practically begging to be added to his mailing list. He’ll have a lot more gigs in the upcoming months.
With a gentle movement, I pull him closer to me and press a light kiss to his forehead. Milo and I are expressive with one another, even in public. But is it my imagination, or does he pull away a bit? I shake my head and chalk it up to my imagination because Milo and I are in love.
Of course, my plans are a little off course right now. I have the ring for him in my pocket but haven’t presented it to him yet. The dinner I’d planned for us after the concert was nixed because my handsome songbird didn’t feel like eating after the long night. That’s okay, I get it. He’s tired after being on stage for two hours straight. Besides, there will be another time when I can give him the ring and ask him to be mine. No rush. After all, a patient man always wins the long game. Besides, my handsome songbird and I have forever, so there’s no need to panic.