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“I can’t, Kane. I’m on location. I have a five a.m. wake up call. Which is in . . . about three hours. I’ve got two more weeks here.”
“And your ass. Come on, Dave. Not like whatever you’re working on isn’t going to go straight to video.”
“No, you’re not. You’re drunk. And your cock is hard. And you’re thinking you need something besides those soft, pretty fan-girls that surround you. You want something harder. Something rougher. Something that might turn around and fuck you to the floor if you’re not careful.”
“Christ. How fucking drunk are you? I can hear the music. I can hear people talking and you just ordered another beer not three minutes ago.”
Chris closed the cell and slid it back in his pocket. Tried to adjust the crotch of his jeans without looking like that’s exactly what he was doing. fuck. Just talking to Dave made him hard. ‘Course, how long had it been since they were together? A while. A month. Two? Shit. Twenty-four hours was too long where that man was concerned. Huge fucking shoulders. Big hands. Long fingers and strong legs that went on forever and wrapped around Chris’ thighs and waist and back and held him there, those dark, intense eyes that made Chris feel like he was being eaten alive, even before David touched him.
Chris took a drink of his beer, lit a cigarette and tried to concentrate on the music that was being played at the back of the bar. Not bad. Good, bouncy country rock. Nice lyrics. He realized that he hadn’t heard one bad group since he’d been here. Since yesterday morning.
He’d brought his band in from Nashville for the festival. Since the New Year had begun, since the last movie wrapped and he’d signed the contract with the label, everything he’d done had been music related. It wasn’t a band contract. Just song writing, but damn, he’d been doing that since he was a kid and when he devoted himself to it, even he was amazed as the words flowed from him.
Filling tab sheet after tab sheet, notebook after notebook, with riffs and chords and lyrics. Playing his guitar with Steve until the tips of his fingers were aching and his hands ached with pain. Forgetting to eat and to sleep. Not talking to anyone for days.
When he mentioned taking the band to Austin for the three-day festival, Chris thought the P.R. dude from the label was going to give birth right in front of him.
“Great idea, Christian! Fantastic! We’ll fly you guys down there and set you up with some play dates.”
Chris ignored the choice of words. “Great. I can do it if you don’t have time. Used to doing it alone anyhow.”
It was June in Austin. Not hot enough out side to burn you, but getting that way. Chris could feel the humidity in the air, liked the way the moisture seeped into his skin, made everyone move slower. As if walking fast or talking quickly or rushing through something was just too damn much trouble.
Sure, Nashville was considered southern, but Chris found it too corporate, slick and polished and glitzy. Nothing like what he had expected. Austin still retained it’s slow, laid-back, no bullshit southwestern quality. Shit, they probably kicked people out that talked too fast. Chris laughed to himself as the image of Texas Rangers pointing guns at New York businessmen, directing the suits out of town, flashed through his mind.
Chris felt the smile slip off his mouth at the low, accented, gravel voice in his ear. He turned on the stool.
“Yeah. I know who you are.” He shook the Australian movie star’s hand. “Saw you at the press conference this morning.”
“Shiner and a lot of whiskey.” Russell spoke to the bartender, then turned back to Chris. “Saw you there too. Where’s your group?”
Chris shrugged, “Out getting laid, getting drunk, getting stoned. Who the fuck knows? What about yours? You were fucking surrounded by people this morning. Goddamn circus.”
“Yeah,” Russell laughed, a short, humorless sound, “Gets worse every year. Everyone has to know you. Touch you. Talk to you. I can think of about three blokes I want around me 24/7. The rest can just go to hell, as far as I’m concerned.”
“No fucking doubt about that.” Chris nodded, remembering the crowd he’d seen around Russell this morning. Bodyguards, fans, friends, strangers. His own entourage a pale comparison, but still people that he felt compelled to have around him. Most of the time.
They started talking about the business of acting and the business of music. Then just life, in general. Where they came from. Their families. How they grew up. And before Chris knew it, two hours had passed.
Chris slid off the barstool carefully, making sure the room wasn’t still turning. “Not ‘til 8. Probably won’t start until 9 or so.”
“Want to go for a ride? A shop here in town lets me borrow a bike when I’m in town. I mean,” Russell hesitated, looking at the bar, at the liquor bottles, then finally back to Chris’ face. “Unless you have plans.”
Chris knew, at that moment, he should have said no. Should have said yes, he did have plans. Should have shook Russell’s hand and pimped his band and asked for Russ to remember him when he was casting whatever next movie he was planning. Should have gotten the hell out of there.
Because when Russell looked at him, clear, warm blue eyes meeting blue . . . when Russell’s voice got just that much lower . . . when Russell asked, “Wanna go for a ride?” and Chris felt his dick twitch? He knew. He should’ve said Fuck No.
The next morning, well, the next afternoon, Chris stumbled down to the hotel restaurant. Smiling blearily at his buds and listening to the stories of the previous night’s adventures. Chris didn’t say anything at all and no one asked him. They knew better. Chris talked when he wanted and when he didn’t they stayed out of his way. Especially when he ordered beer with his breakfast.
Chris caught Steve’s concerned glance and flipped his friend off. Didn’t matter how many times they played together and how many times Chris got fucked up the day before, the night before, the afternoon before, shit, the hour before; Steve always worried. And Chris always came through.
He was well past his third beer and finishing his second glass of whiskey when Russell showed up at the table. Blue flannel shirt hanging open over a white T-shirt, worn blue jeans with boots, his jaw unshaven, messy, long hair tied back, and a cigarette hanging out of his lips. Chris smirked to himself; they could have been separated at birth.
“Ready, mate?” He asked, nodding to Chris’ friends, ignoring the looks. Russell was too used to that to care anymore.
“Ready.” Chris slammed back the last of his drink and pushed away from the table. “Be back later guys.”
“Chris, we have to be on stage by eight.” Steve didn’t ask where Chris was going, did not want to know. He just wanted Christian in the stage wings, holding his guitar and ready to do the job when it was time.
The hotel concierge stood beside a shining, monster, chrome and black leather Harley Davidson motorcycle and handed the keys to Russell, as reverently as if he was giving him another Oscar. Chris squinted against the glare until he found his sunglasses on the top of his head, slipping them down over his eyes. He watched as Russell tipped the man, then climbed on the bike, turned to Chris, the edges of his lips curling up.
Chris shrugged, “Sure, only live once.” He slid on the back of the bike, feeling the burn of the heated leather through the denim of his jeans.
Chris felt the vibrations beneath him increase as Russell gunned the engine and reached forward. He had meant to grab hold of the seat between them. Really. He wasn’t quite sure how his hands automatically found Russell’s hips, fingers sliding through the belt loops of his jeans. His grip tightening as Russell pulled out of the circular drive of the hotel, cutting off oncoming traffic. Chris could hear him laugh, felt Russell’s chest shake as he threw his head back and sped down the street.
The wind cooled their sweat, made the heat seem temperate and tangled through Chris’ hair. He watched the city slide by at an almost frightening pace, then they were out in the country. Flat land, fields and fields of nothing surrounding them. The sky a pale blue above them. As devoid of clouds as the world around them was of trees. The big motorcycle cruised smoothly down the two lane highways and country roads, Russell passing cars and trucks and tractors as if he owned the world.
“There’s whiskey in the saddle bag.” Russell shouted back and Chris reached under the leather. Pulled out a bottle of Jack, opened it and took a long drink. He handed it up to Russell, took it back when he was done. Another swallow, biting his tongue at the burn, then capping it and returning it to the bag.
They rode for what seemed endless hours and the flash of just a few minutes. When Russell finally slowed, turned off the road near a lone stand of trees, Chris’ head felt like he’d just been on stage. His ears ringing from the roar of the air and the engine, his skin tight over his body, senses tingling. He slid off the back of the bike, pulling his cigarettes and lighter out of the pocket of his shirt. The rasp of his Zippo sounded dull and faint to him as he lit up and took a deep drag, moving into the shade. Russell walked behind him, holding the half-empty bottle of whiskey and lighting his own cigarette.
“Where are we?” Chris asked, looking around them. Except for this tiny patch of tall trees, the small brook that burbled beside them, there was nothing but yellow fields and the forever shimmer of cracked asphalt they’d been following.
“Haven’t got a fuckin’ clue.” Russell pulled his flannel shirt off and sat down on the ground, leaning against the bark of a tree.
“Cool.” Chris laughed, taking the bottle from Russell, drinking and sitting down beside him. Back against the tree, feeling the sweat starting. They sat for a few minutes in silence. Smoking, drinking, letting the vibrations of the motorcycle finish reverberating through their bodies.
“Watched you yesterday mornin’. At the conference.” Russell’s voice was low gravel again. The accent dulled in the intensity.
“Did you?” Chris was buzzing on J.D. and the heat of the afternoon. He looked over at Russell, smiling.
“Yeah. That smirk. That mouth.” Russell turned to him, his hand coming up, fingers running over Chris’ face, “Your tongue kept poking out, licking your lips when you answered questions. And all I could think about was how you would taste. How your tongue would feel licking around my cock.”
“Shouldn’t be doing this.” Chris mumbled, caught in the web Russell’s eyes were throwing over him. “I’ve got somebody.”
Chris could feel Russell’s rough, callused thumb stroking over his face, opening his lips and he sucked it inside. Wind and dirt, leather and salty skin, Russell’s thumb running over the edge of his teeth. Pressing against his tongue, his jaw and the bottom of his mouth.
Russell turned his shoulders, pulled Chris closer. Took his finger out of Christian’s mouth, replacing it with his tongue.
First kisses. Christian was lost. First kisses and first touches and first fucks. Nothing like them. Hadn’t had one of any of them in such a long time. Shouldn’t be having this one, new lips and different fingers and skin. A body that was not mapped and memorized.
This was not David. This was not David’s mouth on his. Not David’s hands sliding down his chest. Not David’s fingers moving up under his shirt over sweat slick skin. And yet there was no fumbling, no anxiousness, nothing awkward and no hesitation. As if Russell already knew him, as if his fingers knew just where they were going and what they were doing. Chris’ back arched when Russell pinched his nipple hard and bit down on his tongue.
And Chris had one moment of clarity. One brief second where he knew he should stop this. But he never was good with those tough moral decisions. Never had been. The time had passed for No, it was gone and he was pulling Russell down on him. Laying in the shade of the big trees, soft dirt and grass, grinding his groin against Russell’s, moaning like a bitch in heat. Russell eating on his mouth, whiskey and cigarettes and something different. Something Chris couldn’t define and it didn’t matter. He wanted that big man pounding in him. Wanted to feel something real and close and now, even if it was just for an afternoon. Tired of jerking off to memories.
“Then fuck me.” Chris sighed, his hands moving down Russell’s back. His thoughts surfacing slow and incomplete, steeped in alcohol and heat. Eyes closed against the glare of the sun and the reality.
Russell’s fingers on his jeans, popping the buttons and reaching inside. Chris groaned at the unfamiliar touch on his cock. Only his hand had been there for so long. And Russell wasn’t gentle, wasn’t nice or careful. His hand grabbed and pulled and twisted and Christian almost came on the spot, biting his bottom lip and digging his fingers into Russell’s biceps.
Chris could feel Russell’s cock through denim. Hard and hot, smashed down and as he pressed his palm against it, Russell’s lips were back on his, tongue pushing inside. Exploring his mouth, fucking his mouth. Chris pulled on the buckle of Russell jeans, his fingers sweaty, and Russell got up on his knees. Unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down. Stroked his cock for a moment, then grabbed the waistband of Chris’ jeans and pulled them to Chris’ ankles. Chris kicked them off, reaching for Russell again. Needing that contact, skin on skin. Needing Russell close, on him, in him, before those thoughts could return. Before he could second-guess himself.
Russell’s hands in his hair, pushing Chris’ head down that hard chest. And Chris drown himself in the smell of Russell, the taste of his cock. Licking up from the base to the end, closing his eyes and opening up. Letting Russell fuck his mouth, feeling the burn on his mouth. The flavor of unfamiliar precome on the buds of his tongue. Scraping his teeth and tightening his lips and Russell was pulling his hair. Low, gruff moans coming from above Chris’ head.
And for a moment, Chris almost gagged. Paused and took a deep breath and went back to what he was doing. Because that’s what he was good at doing. Sucking cock. Spreading his legs. Drinking whiskey, growling though a song, turning on the girls and looking pretty. Been called ‘boy’ more times than he could count. More times than he knew he should’ve allowed.
David never called him ‘boy’ when Chris was between his legs. Might call him fucker and dumbshit and red neck cowboy most all the time, but when Chris sucked his cock, David said ‘ Chris . . . oh God, please . . . Chris . . . . yes, Chris . . .’.
Chris bit back those fucking traitorous thoughts and sucked Russell’s cock in further, breathing slow. Letting it hit the back of his throat and the grip on his skull increased.
Chris pulled his head back, let Russell’s dick drop from his lips. Biting back the retort that wanted to be said,
Suddenly Chris was on his back again his ass cradled in the soft dirt as Russell knelt over him. Wetting two fingers in his mouth, then sliding them past Chris’ dick and behind his balls. Pushing inside of him and Chris arched his back, spreading his legs. Wanting more. Needing that burn, that pain, that breathless, mind blanking heat and desire overtake him. Drown him. Make him forget who he was and what the fuck he was doing. Russell’s fingers twisted inside, curving. Made Chris gasp and moan, move his hips in the dirt.
“Stop talking about it, Goddamn it. Just do it.” Chris answered, closing his eyes. Feeling Russell’s knees push his thighs impossibly further apart and pull his fingers out. The hot, wet head of Russell’s cock moving behind his balls, pressing into him slowly, then a pause, a drawn breath and fuck, Russell was buried inside of Chris in a rush of pain and hurt and damn that felt good. Chris bit into his bottom lip, tasted blood in his mouth. Russell’s head between his shoulder and neck, his breath hot and fast on Chris’ skin. Coming out, to the tight ring of muscle, then thrusting back and Chris raised his hips. Met each new push with a groan and a whimper, digging his fingers into Russell’s back, pulling on his shirt and feeling it tear. Feeling the crush of Russell’s body on his cock, Chris’ heart pounding in his ears, sweat running from his hair, dripping down his neck.
“Harder.” Chris whispered as Russell’s hands moved down his back, dug into the cheeks of his ass. Chris tangled his fingers in Russell’s hair and pulled his head up and back. “Kiss me.” Pressing his lips to Russell’s, opening his mouth. Jaws scraping each other’s, stubble rasping, breathing harsh and loud.
Standing on the stage that night, his head still buzzing with JD and pot and the crowd dancing in front of him. Lights shining in his eyes and the whine of feedback blaring in his ears. The air heated, wet and warm, a cigarette in his fingers and his guitar hanging from a strap around his neck, Chris didn’t think about what he’d done this afternoon. Couldn’t. Not about the way his lower back twinged as he danced, not about his ass hurting. Or the bite marks on his chest and the finger shaped bruises on his hips or the way the shower water had run brown with dirt as he had stood under the hard spray for an hour when they returned.
And he didn’t smile at Russell when he saw him in the wings of the stage, surrounded by his entourage. Ignored the twitch of his cock and the heat in his groin. Chris gave himself over to the music and the crowd and when he looked back, Russell was gone.
Two weeks later, back in Nashville, back in his rented condo, tab sheets and fast food wrappers cluttered around him . . .
“No. Think I can handle getting pounded by the girls.” David smiled, inhaled the scent of the man pressed close to him in the quiet of his set trailer.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d be jealous. All those marks on you and none of them mine.” Chris growled and David gasped as a finger slipped and grips tightened.
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