But Howie was wrong.
Tired and disheveled, A.J. let himself into his room and flopped on his bed. The room was dark; the bed was partially turned down. His head rested on the sharp square of a chocolate that room services had put there and his hand swiped it to the floor.
It had been another long night, filled with the usual drinking, the usual party, the usual everything that the road had to offer. He wasn’t having fun on this tour. Nothing about it was fun at all. The show was heavily scripted and demanding. The set list hadn’t been to his liking. Everybody seemed to be on edge, including Kevin and Howie, who had always been rocks of sanity in the turbulent sea of a tour. And he was completely, utterly alone.
It was ‘the Amanda thing’. At least that’s what everyone was referring to it as. Hushed voices, whispers any time he was feeling more low than usual. “It’s the Amanda thing.” Jesus. The first time he’d overheard that phrase coming out of a tech’s mouth, he was so mortified he’d slunk back to his room and wiped out the mini-bar. It hadn’t really helped the problem, and the hangover had been incredible, but it had made him forget about ‘the Amanda thing’, at least for one night. Seeing as how effective drinking had been, he’d kept it up, sloshing his way from city to city, not caring that Management, the group, that everyone was furious with him, his behavior and his attitude, that had degenerated to flipping people off at any given moment.
So tonight wasn’t any different. He rolled onto his back and let the room do a little spin. He looked at the phone that was dark; no messages, no blinking lights, nothing. Then he stared up at the ceiling and tried very hard not to cry. Because it wasn’t ‘the Amanda thing’. It was ‘the Brian thing’.
Across the room, sitting in a chair that was hidden in shadows, Brian watched the whole scene in silence. Waiting. He’d sat there in the dark, waiting for hours. He really hadn’t known how he was going to go about approaching A.J. A.J. was completely hands-off in private these days. Oh, in public he put on a good show. There was no press on him acting strangely, or rather, no press on him acting more strangely than he did on any given day. It seemed that Aje was saving up the moods and the standoffishness and the problems and the attitude just for the insular group of one hundred and thirty-two people on the road this time out.
But to Brian, all of it seemed intended for him and him alone; a penance for his hidden desires.
And now he sat in the dark, watching the tossing form on the bed. He got up and picked up the discarded chocolate. It was white chocolate, creamy and rich with cocoa butter, and Brian opened it, licked it with the tip of his tongue and tested its sweetness, then slid the confection into his mouth. Only after that did he lower himself to the bed, to hover over the slim, dark form stretched out there and press his mouth to the lips he craved for so long.
Whiskey and white chocolate. Brian slipped his coated tongue into A.J.’s mouth, slipped his strong arms around the languorous body beneath his and held on for dear life, hoping, praying, that A.J. wouldn’t push him away.
In his drunken haze, A.J. gratefully accepted the unexpected human contact. Yes. Let there be arms, tongue and lips, let it be a man, any man, so that he could close his eyes and imagine the man he wanted was that man. Let the fine curls that his fingers played with be the fine, reddish curls he dreamed about. Yes. And as their lips parted out of necessity to breathe, his voice whispered, “Brian.”
And Brian whispered back, “Yes.”
Discarded clothes and bedding found itself heaped on the floor. It was dawn, the first hint of light seeping into the bedroom. The morning chill didn’t invade this space, heated by the two bodies that twined together again and again, shifting, moving.
Ultimately, it was Brian who found himself the aggressor, the protagonist in their little drama, but it was A.J., the more experienced of the two, who directed, who led Brian through the tender, but somewhat brutal act of love. And it was Brian who found himself arched and thrusting into a submissive, moaning A.J., not quite believing that it was happening, not quite believing that it was A.J.’s legs and arms that held him, his mouth that devoured his. The incredulity made it last, made the physical act prolong itself into a shattering spiral of pleasure that left the both of them spent in every way.
And that was how Nick found them, tangled on A.J.’s sheets, dozing, sleepy hands still caressing and exploring moist skin.
Blinded by bitter tears and anger, Nick left the room where he’d spied the lovers and went in search of the only solace he could ever count on.....