Running With Scissors, page 8
Kristy and Richie ribbed him a little for botching that section of “Hold Fast,” but considering it was his first time ever playing in a venue like that, and he’d only been playing at all for the past few days, no one seemed to hold it against him. He didn’t argue—if they were willing to write it off as rusty musicianship, he could swallow his pride and agree. At any other time in his life, he’d have argued fiercely that something had distracted him, but tonight . . . yeah, he could play the rust card.
While Vanessa, Richie, and Connor watched Schadenfreude from backstage, Jude left his bass with a roadie and headed toward the ready room to retrieve the towel and clean shirt he’d left back there.
His legs barely remembered how to walk. All that energy from the stage still tingled through his body. He didn’t know if he wanted to go somewhere and sleep it off, or find someone who wouldn’t mind some quick, wild sex with a sweaty musician, or if he just wanted to laugh and cry and beg someone to tell him they still had another set to play tonight.
He was . . . he didn’t even know. High? Horny? All of the above? His hands were still shaking, his fingers still vibrating from the strings. Sleep? Not anytime soon. He was too spun up. Too dizzy. Too . . . giddy, and crazy, and— He stepped into the ready room, and immediately ran out of breath.
Oh fuck.
A.J. was leaning back against the wall, eyes closed and chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He was drenched now, and it wasn’t just sweat. There was a mostly empty bottle of water in his trembling hand that he must’ve dumped over his head as he’d come off the stage, soaking his bleached blond hair, his bare torso, his jeans.
And below his belt . . .
Jude gulped. It might’ve been a trick of the light or maybe a fold in A.J.’s drenched jeans, but from here, it looked like the denim was clinging to one hell of a hard-on.
Before Jude could turn away and pretend he hadn’t been staring, A.J.’s eyes opened, and he let his head loll to the side. Suddenly, they were looking right at each other.
Jude gulped. A.J. pushed himself off the wall, making a not-very-subtle gesture out of adjusting the front of his jeans. No, that was no trick of the light or fold of fabric.
And the look in his eyes . . . Fuck. It wasn’t just the smeared eyeliner intensifying his gaze. Whatever had come alive in him onstage was still alive now. The hairs on Jude’s neck stood up—the tiny room vibrated with the bass from Schadenfreude playing nearby, but that wasn’t the only thing making the air crackle. As A.J. came toward him, Jude was genuinely surprised electricity didn’t arc from one of them to the other. He held his breath—the closer A.J. came, the more the building energy in this room demanded release, and the drummer’s blue eyes left little to the imagination about how it would be released.
Less than an arm’s-length away, A.J. stopped. He didn’t break eye contact. Neither did Jude. In his mind’s eye, Jude imagined them pressed up against the wall, doing something about their hard-ons, kissing and panting and grinding to the beat of Schadenfreude or their own heartbeats or whatever. He didn’t care. The thought alone was making him breathe harder.
A grin played at A.J.’s lips just like the one that had tripped up Jude onstage. “Nice going out there. Didn’t think you’d really be able to play like that your first time out.”
Jude swallowed. “Likewise. You’re . . . damn good.”
The grin broadened, coming completely to life and turning Jude’s knees to liquid. “It’s a rush, isn’t it? Being out onstage like that?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah. It is.” He swept his tongue across his lips, and A.J. jumped as if that electricity had arced between them.
He quickly cleared his throat and glanced past Jude at the door. “Where’s everybody else?”
“Watching.”
“Right. Forgot. They . . . they always watch Schadenfreude.”
Their eyes met again, and Jude had no idea what to say. For a moment, A.J. seemed to waver between the shy kid he’d been from the start and the balls-to-the-wall drummer he’d been onstage. Then he ran a hand through his damp hair, messing up the spikes and Jude’s blood pressure, and that grin came back to life. “I should go grab a shower before everyone else heads back to the bus.”
His eyebrows lifted just slightly, and Jude swore there was an unspoken “Care to join me?” written in the gleam in his eyes.
And yes. Yes, he absolutely did.
But . . .
Jude dropped his gaze. “I think I might go watch with everyone else. I’ve never heard Schadenfreude live.” He chanced a look at A.J. again, and though the disappointment was subtle—his grin fading just a little—it was there.
“Okay.” A.J. nodded. “I’ll see you back at the bus, then.” He flashed a brief smile, and then brushed past Jude.
Almost immediately, his footsteps were gone, disappearing into the noise of the band performing onstage.
Are you stupid? You’re passing up an invitation to—
Yes. Yes, he was. Because mixing sex with this band was a bad idea. He’d promised Kristy and the others that he was here to bail them out, not tangle them up any further. As much as he desperately wanted to be pressed up against A.J. while they both rinsed away the concert’s sweat, none of them could afford the inevitable drama.
And yet he still felt like an idiot for letting A.J. walk. That body, that passion—a talented musician in the form of a spike-haired Adonis. If there’d been no potential fallout, he would’ve been hot on A.J.’s heels right then, hurrying to that cramped, barely functional tour bus shower for . . .
He shivered.
Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard. This was insane. He had no business looking at anyone else in this band, especially after the way his relationship with Connor—and Connor’s relationship with Wyatt—had nearly derailed everything.
Besides, A.J. had just piqued his interest because he was the only one in the band who didn’t give Jude the hairy eyeball at every turn. Combine that with his primal, animalistic musical abilities, and the adrenaline of being onstage—which clearly had similar effects on both of them—and he was bound to get Jude’s attention like that. Didn’t mean they needed to act on it. Didn’t mean they should, in a million years, act on it.
But goddamn, he was sure as fuck going to fantasize about it.
Chapter 8
All the way back to the bus, A.J. hoped like hell that Jude would change his mind. Every time he heard footsteps—or thought he heard footsteps—his heart sped up, and he prayed that it was Jude jogging after him.
But when he reached the bus, there was no one in sight except for some roadies and venue employees moving equipment around outside. Sighing, he opened the door and climbed aboard.
In the bathroom, he stripped off his sweaty jeans and boxers and stepped into the shower. The water heater was still temperamental, and tonight it refused to offer anything hotter than lukewarm, but it felt good. And at least they had a shower. Some of the cheaper, shittier tour buses out there didn’t. It was only because Schadenfreude demanded the highest quality, no-expenses-spared buses that Running with Scissors had been lucky enough to score one like this. Compared to the rest of their caravan, it was the runt of the litter—the little bus that sometimes could—but it was better than a limping RV or a 1970s throwback.
And . . . shower.
He stood under the water, eyes closed as it rushed over him and cooled him off. The shower brought the postshow adrenaline down just like it always did, but he couldn’t relax completely. Not with this persistent hard-on.
He’d been imagining that look from Jude. There was no way in hell Jude had been staring at him, mouthwateringly impure thoughts etched all over his face, but A.J. couldn’t shake the certainty that, yes, actually he had been staring at him like that.
A.J. exhaled. He pressed his forearm against the shower wall and leaned forward a bit, stretching his back as the water beat on his exhausted muscles. The buzz from the show was wearing off fast, zapping what little energy he had left, but there was no shaking off his arousal that was intensifying by the second—especially as he let his brain play out every possible thing he and Jude might’ve been able to do in this tiny shower stall.
Maybe they couldn’t have fucked in here—not comfortably anyway—but, hell, who was he kidding? He’d fucked in cars that barely accommodated properly seated passengers, and he’d once had a threesome in his slightly-larger-than-a-futon bed back in LA. He could make this shower work if he wanted to.
And if Jude wanted to.
And if that look on his face had been any indication, he had wanted to.
A.J. swore. His cock hardened and his frustration deepened—what if he could have had Jude in here now to help him take care of this?
That was a moot point, though, and when he was less turned on, he’d remember why it was just as well they weren’t hooking up. All he could think of at this moment was this erection that needed attention. His hands were practically numb and his arms ached from the shoulders down, but he closed his fingers around his cock and pumped it.
He pressed his forehead against his other arm. Eyes squeezed shut, he fucked into his fist and bit down on a groan just in case somebody else had come back. Just what he needed—Jude walking onto the bus, hearing him jerking off in the shower, and . . .
Joining him. Brazenly stepping into the bathroom, stripping off his clothes, and wedging himself into the stall with A.J. Pushing A.J.’s hand out of the way. Jerking his cock. Maybe rubbing both of their cocks together.
And kissing.
Fuck. He stroked himself faster. His spine tingled as he pictured himself pinned up against the wall, finally finding out what Jude’s mouth tasted like and if he was the kind of kisser who’d take the lead, or if he’d turn to putty in A.J.’s arms and let him take over. Jesus. The thought of Jude surrendering, letting himself be pinned, kissed, fucked—
A moan slipped through his lips, and he no longer gave a damn if anyone heard him. His arm burned with fatigue. His knees trembled beneath him. He leaned harder against the wall, gripped himself tighter, stroked harder . . .
His orgasm knocked him off-balance as he imagined himself fucking Jude’s mouth with his pulsing dick, watching Jude swallow every drop while his eyes begged for more.
He shuddered once again, and relaxed. Jesus.
After he’d rinsed off his hand and arm, he had just enough presence of mind to shut off the shower—no sense hogging all the hot water before his bandmates returned—and then stood there, trembling, panting, dripping, until his vision cleared.
His hands were shaking badly, as much from drumming as from jerking off, and toweling himself down proved to be a challenge, but he managed. He put on the clean boxers and T-shirt he’d brought into the bathroom with him, and stepped out.
No one else had returned yet. The whole world still thumped with the bass from Schadenfreude’s show, so the rest of Running with Scissors was likely still watching from backstage.
Which meant he still had the bus to himself. He could breathe. Maybe read for a while. Maybe fantasize a bit more about Jude.
He climbed onto his bunk and lay back.
Read. Fantasize. His eyelids drooped. Sleep, maybe. Heavy muscles. Heavy eyelids.
Schadenfreude’s bass faded away. So did his thoughts. And without the postshow adrenaline to keep him going through the postorgasm lethargy, he gave in and drifted off.
He awoke to the sounds of his bandmates riffling through duffel bags, wandering in and out of the bathroom, and chatting casually over the sounds of activity outside. Jesus. This late at night, and the roadies were still working? And the band—who were usually considerate as hell after hours—were being this noisy?
He swore and rubbed his eyes. Bright lights too.
The scent of coffee made it to his bunk. Seriously? They had all the lights on and were drinking coffee this late? Jerks.
Wait. He fumbled for his phone, which he kept between his mattress and the wall, and winced when the screen came to life. As his eyes focused, he squinted.
Well, shit. No, they weren’t working and making noise after hours—it was almost eight in the morning.
He stumbled out of his rack, stretched, and shuffled into the living area. Vanessa and Richie were goofing off on their phones, some empty McDonald’s wrappers crumpled on the table between them. Connor and Kristy were nowhere in sight, and a wisp of smoke outside the window zeroed him in on exactly where Jude was.
From one of the armchairs, Shiloh smiled over her Starbucks cup. “Morning, sunshine. I was starting to wonder if you’d gone into a coma or something.”
He laughed sleepily. “Nah, I’m good. Just needed some sleep, I guess.”
“Apparently so.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, grab coffee if you’re going to. The bus is rolling out in like twenty.”
“Shit. Already?”
“Says the guy who slept in.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He went back to the sleeping area, quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and headed out.
Near the door, Jude was finishing up his cigarette. A.J. paused, and their eyes met.
Was I imagining what I saw last night?
Jude slowly exhaled some smoke, drawing A.J.’s attention right to his lips. Fuck.
“We’re hitting the road soon,” Jude said. “If you’re getting coffee—”
“Right. Right.” A.J. shook himself. “I’ll . . . I’ll be back in a few.” He was thankful for the urgency of his coffee mission—anything to distract him from staring at Jude like an idiot.
Before he went too far, though, he found the bus driver checking the tire pressure.
“Hey, Bob.” When the driver turned, A.J. gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m just going to grab some coffee. Ten minutes, max. Don’t leave without me, okay?”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” Bob gave him a good-natured salute. “Holler when you’re back, and we’ll pull up anchor.”
“Will do.”
He was on his way back with a triple-shot espresso when he saw Connor going the same direction, struggling to carry two boxes that were apparently heavier than they looked.
“Hey, Connor. You need a hand?”
“Oh, thank God.” Connor groaned and set the boxes down with a thud on the pavement. As he stood, he shook out his hands. “I thought I could carry both, but . . . not so much.”
“No problem.” A.J. took one of the boxes and carefully balanced his coffee cup on top. “Where did these come from?”
Connor flexed his fingers gingerly, then picked up the remaining box. “The ticket office. They wanted some flyers to hand out at the door, and this is what’s left.”
“Nice of them to give them back and not toss them.”
“Right?” Connor nodded in the direction of the bus. As they started walking, he said, “You disappeared last night. You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” A.J. adjusted his grip on the box. “Just needed to crash and burn, I guess.”
Connor grimaced sympathetically and nodded. “Happens to everyone. This touring shit is brutal.”
“No kidding.”
Connor shifted the box onto one arm and let the other fall to his side. “How are you holding up otherwise, though?”
“I’m okay. It’s draining, but it beats the hell out of a regular job.”
Connor laughed. “You can say that again.”
A.J. hesitated. Then, “How are you doing?”
Connor sobered. His gait slowed, and then he stopped. “I’m . . .” Sighing, he set the box down again. “It’s weird.”
“I can imagine.” A.J. set the other box at his feet. “Are you okay?”
“Does it really matter?” Connor rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I never should’ve fucked things up with Wyatt.”
A.J. chewed his lip. “Do you think he’d ever reconsider quitting?”
“No.” Connor shook his head. “I tried calling him last night after the show, but as soon as he realized it was me . . .”
That wasn’t surprising. Those two had been prone to shouting matches at the slightest provocation. Wyatt hadn’t been at all above walking out before Connor could even finish screaming at him. Nothing had been more fun for the whole group than the two of them being trapped on a moving bus together when things got really ugly.
He shook himself. “What do you think we should do? As a band?”
“I don’t know.” Connor rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. “Shiloh seems to think everything will be fine. I guess I need to talk to Vanessa and Richie. And Kristy. Figure out if there’s any possibility of auditioning someone else, or . . .” He waved his hand. “I don’t know.”
A.J. gritted his teeth. Thanks for including me in that list.
“Anyway.” Connor rolled his shoulders and crouched to pick up the box. “We should get back.”
“Right. Yeah.” A.J. picked his up too, and they continued toward the bus. He quickly changed the subject, and they shot the shit about last night’s show. This was the Connor everyone liked. When he was mellow, everyone could breathe. His short-tempered side was missing in action, and if he’d just stay like this all the time, there’d be a hell of a lot less tension on the bus. But like everyone in the band, the touring and the close confines took its toll on Connor, so A.J. could understand why his temper was so threadbare sometimes. Especially with Jude around.
That thought smacked him in the face. He chewed the inside of his cheek. Jude drove Connor insane just by being there, and he distracted the hell out of A.J. But how much worse would it be if he and A.J. indulged in temptation and then had to face each other the next day? And what if people found out? Or what if things went to shit? All they’d done last night was have a short, tense staring contest backstage, and they’d barely been able to look at each other this morning. Taking that staring contest any further would be a recipe for disaster.
