Running With Scissors, page 12
In his mind, he’d taken A.J. up on that silent offer after the first show. The bus’s shower stall was barely big enough for one, but had plenty of space for two bodies pressed close enough together. He couldn’t even hold on to one thought—making out under the water, jerking each other off, fucking A.J. until he cried, A.J. fucking him until he cried—and his head spun as his cock got even harder. He barely remembered where he was or why he had to stay quiet, and damn near let a moan slip free.
He froze, listening, but no one else’s breathing changed. Nobody stirred. Slowly, he started again, and this time, he pressed his lips together and held his breath, using every last scrap of concentration he had left to focus on staying silent. When he absolutely needed air, he forced himself to exhale as silently as possible, and to pull in a slow, stealthy breath.
In his mind, he wasn’t being quiet, and he sure as fuck wasn’t holding his breath. Not while A.J. pounded him against the shower wall, strained groans turning into curses in Jude’s ear. If A.J. fucked like he kissed, Jude wouldn’t be able to walk the next day, especially since he hadn’t been fucked in ages. Taking it as roughly as he imagined A.J. giving it would undoubtedly hurt, and that thought made his spine tingle.
Make it hurt, A.J., just don’t stop . . .
His eyes rolled back, and his toes curled beneath the covers. Still holding his breath, still keeping absolutely silent, he came . . . and nearly fucking passed out from the intensity and the lack of oxygen as hot semen coated his fingers. Everything went white for a few seconds, but somehow—God only knew how—he didn’t make a sound.
As his orgasm tapered, he exhaled as slowly and quietly as he could. Catching his breath was a challenge when he didn’t dare pant, but after a few minutes, his pulse came down, his lungs stopped screaming for oxygen, and his head stopped spinning. He waited another minute or two and then got up to use the communal bathroom—at least that wouldn’t raise any suspicions, since just about everyone got up to take a piss at some point during the night.
In the bathroom, he cleaned himself off and washed his hands. Then he went back to his rack, pulled the covers up, and fell asleep to the sound of A.J. breathing above him.
The next morning, Jude couldn’t even look A.J. in the eye. Or at least, he didn’t imagine he’d be able to—he got up and got the hell off the bus for the first of many cigarettes before A.J. had even stirred.
The nicotine didn’t help, but smoking gave him something to do while he was alone with his thoughts. And alone was the best place for him to be right now, since the place he wanted to be would be disastrous to the band.
The tension was still palpable anytime he was in the room with one of his bandmates. He was getting along with Shiloh and Richie, but he hadn’t made any headway with Vanessa, not to mention Connor.
Which meant he still had to tread carefully. Though he was the one bailing them out, he owed them for the second chance. And above all, he owed it to them not to listen to his impulsive side and sabotage the success they’d busted their asses to achieve. No walking away when emotions ran too hot. No getting involved with bandmates who were too hot to ignore.
Easier said than done, of course. Everyone had called him a musical prodigy since he was in kindergarten, but days like this, he wished he’d been born with mediocre musical talent and prodigy-level skill at relationships. Because goddamn, whatever blessings he had when it came to music had apparently been balanced out by his failures in that department.
He sighed and pulled out another cigarette.
The bus door opened, and Kristy stepped outside. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning,” he muttered.
She watched him smoke for a few seconds. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I’ve seen that look before.” Kristy folded her arms and arched an eyebrow. “You’re about twenty seconds away from booking a ticket home, aren’t you?”
Jude stared at his cigarette, and he was pretty sure the heat in his cheeks was visible. Quitting hadn’t really occurred to him, but now that she mentioned it, the idea had a certain appeal. He wouldn’t do it, but . . . “Well, I doubt anyone on the bus would mind if I did.” And it sure would get him away from that blond-haired temptation who was probably taking a shower at this very moment, naked under the water and—
He cleared his throat and then took a deep drag. You’re insane. You know that, right?
“Jude. Honey.” She stepped closer. “What’s going on? Seems like you and everyone have been getting along lately. Better than I expected you to. I mean, you and Connor have been staying out of each other’s way, the shows have been great, and—what gives?”
“I . . . yeah, we’ve all been getting along, but . . .” But I want to get along even better with the drummer, and we all know that’d be a fucking disaster. He turned his head and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Then he faced her again. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been wondering if it was a mistake to come back.”
“A mistake?” She laughed. “Are you insane? You guys are doing great onstage, and you’re not killing each other backstage. It’s less of a catastrophe than I expected.”
He sucked in some more smoke, but didn’t speak.
“Look,” she said. “I know this is an adjustment for everyone. And even when you guys aren’t fighting, I know it’s hard being around Connor.”
“Isn’t just Connor.”
“You’ve gotten along pretty well with the band since you came back, especially considering how and why you left.” She added just enough emphasis to that last part to make it clear the barb was absolutely intentional.
He stared at the ground. “I know. And you’re right.” He shook his head. “I’m just overthinking everything, that’s all.”
“Good. Because if you up and leave this time—”
“I won’t. I promise.”
She eyed him skeptically. “From anyone else, I’d believe that.”
He took another drag. “So I fucked up before, and now I’m a liar?”
“No, but I know you.” Her voice was oddly gentle. “I don’t think you’re a liar, but I think you get scared and frustrated, and when you do, you run. That has always been how you handle things, Jude, and it’s going to keep blowing up in your face every fucking time. I promise you that.”
He couldn’t argue. His impulse to run for the hills had never served him well beyond the short term. Sighing, he nodded. “I know. And you’re right. I . . . Sometimes I don’t know what else to do.”
“The same thing the rest of us do, sweetie.” She grimaced. “You face the music, no matter how much you don’t want to.”
Jude nodded, but didn’t speak.
“I’m going to get some coffee.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the row of shops and restaurants at the other end of the parking lot. “You want to come?”
He dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel. “Sure. Why not?”
Together, they headed across the parking lot, chatting about the previous night’s show and tomorrow night’s. All the while, though, Jude’s mind stayed firmly in that smoky space beside the bus where they’d had their conversation.
Kristy was right. When he was backed into a corner or pushed to his limit, he did stupid shit without thinking about it. Cheating on Connor. Walking away from the band. Quitting his job to join the tour. And hadn’t it always blown up in his face?
Walking away wasn’t an option this time. What little money he had was already dwindling, and there’d be no more coming in if he dropped this gig. Right now he was being paid like a contractor—a set amount per show, and not a penny more. It wasn’t much, either, just what the band could cobble together from what little they’d actually made from their record deal. Hell, the band was actually in debt to the record company—what band wasn’t?—so God knew where the money was even coming from. All he knew was that it might as well have been a per diem to keep him stocked with food, smokes, and Band-Aids for his healing fingers.
If he walked, though, there would be nothing else. He’d screwed himself out of finding a job in Los Angeles. Employers weren’t exactly hurting for applicants, and answering yes to the “have you ever left a job without giving two weeks’ notice” question would virtually guarantee he couldn’t score so much as an interview for anything outside of a sweat shop or one of the more dehumanizing gigs on a shady porn set.
Jude shuddered as he followed Kristy into a coffee shop. Okay, maybe the job market wasn’t that bad. He could probably find some form of employment out there that didn’t involve mopping up cum or coaxing hard-ons out of exhausted porn stars, but he was pretty sure he’d screwed himself out of anything as cushy as his last job. As miserable as that place had been, at least it’d had halfway decent benefits and paid above minimum wage.
Way to burn that bridge, genius.
What was done was done, though, and he was out of second chances. He had to focus on the music this time. Not on Connor. Not on A.J. The music, the music, and nothing but the music.
As hard as it was, he needed to keep everyone—including A.J.—at arm’s length.
Chapter 14
Show after show, city after city, A.J. kept his hands to himself—but damn, it wasn’t easy. Jude was the closest thing to a friend he’d made since joining the band. He wanted to keep that going since it beat the hell out of feeling like an outsider, but getting closer to Jude didn’t bode well for staying away from Jude.
Not that it was easy to stay away from anyone on this tour. They were, for all intents and purposes, half a dozen roommates living in an overcrowded rolling studio apartment with a semifunctional shower and a temperamental coffeepot. Though things had been peaceful—as peaceful as they ever were with Connor around—everyone was wearing thin, itching to have some space and be in a familiar town. Rumor had it, even Schadenfreude’s members were at each other’s throats. It was definitely time to go home.
Eventually the band made its way back to LA, and after one hell of a final show at the Hollywood Bowl—one of the places A.J. had dreamed of playing—the tour came to an end.
Now it was time to get to work. They had two weeks to polish the edges off their new songs, and then start recording.
But first, they had a much-needed week-long break. Jude made a comment about spending time with his family in Sherman Oaks, and the band had barely finished the Hollywood Bowl show before he disappeared. Connor took off to Florida to visit his parents. Shiloh vowed to spend every waking hour on a beach. Vanessa and Richie joked about hitting up a dealer and spending the whole week stoned—A.J. wasn’t sure if that was entirely a joke, and he couldn’t say he blamed them either way.
A.J. went back to his studio apartment in one of the shadier areas of Culver City.
The tour had stretched his finances almost to a breaking point, and several times he’d considered dropping the apartment, but he’d hung on to it. The rent wasn’t that bad by LA standards, and having his own place meant he wouldn’t have to crash at his mom’s or dad’s house—and face the inevitable bitching over whose house he’d chosen—when he returned.
He keyed himself into the little shoebox, and as soon as he’d stepped inside and closed the door he was glad he’d kept the place. He let his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the floor with a heavy thud, and he sagged against the door. This apartment had seemed obscenely tiny when he first rented it, but now, it might as well have been a stadium. All this . . . space. Vast, empty space occupied only by his few possessions and cheap furniture, with no one to leave empty soda cans on his milk-crate table or stuff empty potato chip bags between his mismatched couch cushions.
For a solid five minutes he just stood there, taking in the silence and the elbow room, breathing in familiar air that he didn’t have to share with anyone else. It was peaceful in here, and there was no one around to fuck that up. If any of his bandmates wanted to argue with each other over the next week, they were welcome to do so—it wasn’t his problem. For seven whole days, he would be nobody’s peacekeeper.
Eventually he pushed himself off the door and shuffled across the room to the kitchenette. Of course the fridge was empty. So were the cupboards. The takeout menus on the freezer door were probably still good; maybe he’d order something. Somehow that seemed like more work than it was worth, though.
Instead, he wandered from the kitchenette to the twin bed pushed up against the wall a few feet away. He toed off his shoes and pulled off his shirt, intending to take a shower, but suddenly that bed looked awfully tempting. It was barely bigger than a futon but, compared to his rack on the bus, might as well have been a California king.
So he lay back across it, limbs stretched out in all directions, and passed the fuck out.
When he opened his eyes again, daylight was pouring in through the windows.
There were voices outside. Neighbors, he guessed. He didn’t recognize any of them, though. This complex had a revolving door of tenants, so he was probably surrounded by strangers now. Fine. As long as they stayed out there and he stayed in here, he didn’t care.
He stumbled out of bed and into a bathroom that he didn’t have to share with anyone. If California hadn’t been ass-deep in a drought, he’d have taken the longest, hottest shower in the history of mankind just to savor the fact that no one was waiting impatiently outside the door.
After a brief shower, he dressed and tried to figure out what to do next. The mere thought of settling into his routine was weird. Not that he’d had much of a routine before, but whatever it was, it hadn’t involved living in close confines with several other people, dividing his time between the road and the stage, and . . .
Jude.
He shivered. It was definitely weird to feel any kind of relief over being this far away from Jude, but damn it, he needed to catch his breath. For the last few weeks, he hadn’t been able to turn around without bumping into the man he desperately wanted, and now he could finally chill.
In fact, there wasn’t a whole lot else to do. When this week was over, they’d start rehearsing again, playing the new music they’d all been practicing when time and space had permitted. Then they’d start recording, and once that was done, they’d be rehearsing for the tour. The headlining tour. The real thing. Holy shit.
But that was next week. He couldn’t exactly practice here in his thin-walled studio apartment. That was probably a good thing—his joints and muscles had been getting achier after each show. A week wouldn’t make him rusty, and it would do wonders on the fatigue.
No bus. No shows. No drums. One week of blissful solitude and breathing room. And now that he had some time and space to himself, there were two things he wanted more than anything: a damn good meal and a damn good lay.
The first one was easy. There was a grocery store up the street, and he had money in his checking account for once in his life.
The second . . .
He hadn’t set foot in a club in ages unless it was to perform. He was terrible at approaching guys, even online. And the more he thought about it, the less he was sure that a random guy could scratch this itch. Then again, maybe they would. Something casual with someone who wouldn’t stick around might just be the distraction he needed. That wasn’t usually his cup of tea—he’d never been particularly promiscuous, and usually only slept with boyfriends—but after sleeping right above a man he really wanted to fool around with, the idea of jumping into bed with anyone sounded pretty damn good. He couldn’t have Jude, but he could find someone to distract him for a night.
Yeah, right. Jude could melt him with a kiss. A.J. could find the hottest single gay man in Los Angeles, grab a second one for good measure, and have a four-alarm threesome, and he’d still be thinking about Jude the whole time.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. There was only one man in all of Southern California who was going to satisfy him.
More than that, though, while he had felt like an outsider since the start, and had fully expected a turf war with Jude, it was Jude who’d made him feel like a permanent part of the band. It was hardly Jude’s decision whether A.J. stayed, but he seemed to accept A.J.’s presence without question.
Slowly, the pieces fell into place. Jude had given him what no one else in the band had—the feeling that he belonged. That he was wanted.
He sighed. That was all it was. Yeah, Jude would be attractive to any red-blooded gay man, but that wasn’t why A.J. was this hung up on him. The road was a lonely place, and he was clinging hard to the one person who hadn’t made him feel like they wouldn’t notice if the bus left without him.
It wasn’t infatuation, it was insecurity. Plain and simple.
He rolled his tense, tired shoulders.
It was disappointing, realizing that what he’d called chemistry was really something else, but a relief in its own right too. Now that it had a name, and that name wasn’t “uncontrollable lust,” he stood a better chance of ignoring it.
And now he had a full week to sell himself that oceanfront property in Arizona.
After their one-week reprieve, the band came together again in a producer’s studio. Recording wouldn’t start quite yet, not until they’d had a chance to iron out the kinks in the new songs. This was their rehearsal space until then.
Shiloh was tanned and smiling, so she must’ve made good on her plan to stay at the beach all week. Connor looked more refreshed and relaxed than A.J. had ever seen him. The ever-present tension in his lips and between his eyebrows was gone, and he and Kristy were chatting and laughing as they sipped their coffee. Richie and Vanessa were both extra mellow as they set up their amps and tuned their guitars, so they probably hadn’t been joking about their plans for the week. Seemed like it had done them both some good—like Connor, they were in good spirits. Vanessa’s cheekbones were a little smoother, the shadows beneath them not quite so heavy, so she must’ve had a decent meal or two. Maybe the munchies, maybe just enjoying the opportunity to eat something that didn’t come from a convenience store, but either way, she looked healthier already.
