Games Boys Play (27 page)

The clown paced the stall, one hand clamped around his wrist, covering the circle tattoo but not the red marks Brian’s fingernails had dug in.

Brian closed his eyes and swallowed, the tape pulling at skin and hair with the movement of his cheeks.

He brought the knee that wasn’t chained to the wall up under him and pushed onto his side, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He moved his arms weakly, not even hoping he could pull them free. His shoulders were sore across the front; a pinching ache pressed between them in back. The bruise on his thigh rested painfully against the edge of the mattress. This scene had turned vicious, and it had been at least as much his doing as Dylan’s. One thing that was missing, that had been there the other nights, was the occasional tenderness—the
shhh
s, the hand on his head, the checking in with his eyes.

This scene was just two guys being assholes.

And one of them being a creep
. Shame crawled through him. He swallowed around a fist of it, clenching it in his throat. This was something he needed to work out, away from all this, instead of not thinking about it like it didn’t really happen, or like it didn’t matter if it had. Like it could just be dropped and forgotten.

Just fucking admit it: you
want
Dylan.

The clown dropped his shoulders against the same wall Brian’s ankle was chained to. His clenched fist beat the wall by his thigh, softly and slowly, over and over.

Brian felt an urge to apologize—for being a pain in the ass, for fucking up Dylan’s plan, even for crossing the line that
other
night. Or maybe he wanted to apologize for yanking himself back to the safe side of that line that night, for what could have been if he hadn’t panicked. The tape forced him into silence.

He shifted his leg to get the bruise off the edge of the mattress and put his temple back against the cool floor.

The clown hung his head, both hands pressed to the wall behind him. One of the latex gloves had a tear in it. Brian was surprised they’d held up even that well.

No one moved for a long minute.

He knew he would have to get in the box, and without any more fuss. It was the only way to salvage it.

He closed his eyes.
Please remember to take the gag off before you close the lid.

Boots scuffed the floor, and then Brian’s arms were lifted, but not to drag him up. Dylan rubbed at the edge of the tape. The rubbing stopped for a second. Brian’s hands dropped against his back. A latex glove landed near his face. After a second, the other one landed. Then his arms were lifted again, and a thumbnail picked at the tape holding his wrists together, peeling it up.

It seemed to take forever to get the tape unwound from his wrists. He made a noise when it ripped at his arm hairs. Then the wadded ball of it bounced off the floor in front of his nose. He pulled his right arm out from behind him and scratched an itch by his eye with the rough edges and creases of the tape that held his hand in a small, tight fist.

His knuckles ached dully from being forced into bending.

The clown sat peeling the tape away from his left hand, exposing his damp skin to air. Slowly he was able to straighten each of those fingers. It felt like heaven. The clown brought his right fist back to free it from the tape too.

He moaned as his fingers popped free. His hand bumped Dylan’s. He closed his fingers around it. Gently Dylan slipped his hand free before feeling for the end of the tape that wrapped around Brian’s face.

He had to lift his head so Dylan could unwrap the tape. He pushed onto his elbows. The tape hadn’t been on long. Sweat hadn’t had time to help loosen the adhesive. It hurt like a bitch, yanking his hair, gripping and pulling his skin. His eyes started to water. His fingernails clung to the mattress. He tried not to make pitiful sounds as Dylan got down to the final layers of tape, but the last of it stung like fire ants. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw.

Then he was free. He rolled so he could get his arms up to rub his face, his body landing against Dylan’s, Dylan’s knee jabbing his back. His face itched and prickled and stung. He scrubbed his cheeks with the heels of his hands.

The clown crooked his finger under Brian’s chin as he leaned over, looking down at Brian, his eyes as ever unreadable in the shadows of the mask’s eyeholes. With the thumb of his other hand, he wiped at the wetness at the corner of one of Brian’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” Brian said, turning away, embarrassed—the wetness was just from the stinging of the tape coming off.

The clown tugged at his shoulder, wanting him to roll back. He must not have believed him about being fine. With a sigh, he flopped against Dylan’s knee, dropping his hands from his face as if to say,
See?
“I’m fine.”

Dylan’s hand was on his chest, Dylan looking down at him through that stupid mask.

His heart beat beneath Dylan’s palm.

Then Dylan was helping him sit up, his body close enough that Brian could smell the mask: rubber and paint, fresh sweat and stale cigarette smoke. Before Dylan started to pull away, Brian put his fingers behind the mask, grasping loose latex. Dylan’s touch was light against his ribs. This close, he could see Dylan inside the shadowed eyes, a familiar look, one he’d turn Brian’s way when they were working on a song, Dylan gauging what he was doing so he could add his own thing.

He rose onto his knees and starting pulling the mask up. Dylan tipped his head forward to make it easier.

The clown slipped free, an empty skin sagging in Brian’s fingers. Dylan’s hair was soaked, tendrils sticking to his forehead, his cheeks. Droplets of sweat clung to his sideburns. Sitting back, pulling away from Brian, he swiped his shirtsleeve across his face.

“There’s more water under the road case,” Brian said.

Dylan let out a long exhale. Then, “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

He raked his hair back from his face, the red half-moons on his forearm angry in the fluorescent light. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said quietly. “Though, could you do me a favor and not play unconscious again? I about had a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry. It was a dumb idea.”

“I’ll live.” He stripped out of his hoodie, revealing a black T-shirt underneath, as dark with sweat as it might have been after a two-hour set on a hot stage. “How are you doing?”

“A little banged up, but I’ll live.”

“Was I too rough?”

Brian laughed, looking away, ducking his face into the crook of his arm as if he too needed to wipe sweat off. “Close,” he said finally. “Close but not over the line. No permanent damage, so you’re good. Just bruises.”

“Sorry.” Dylan closed his eyes, bracing himself with a hand on the floor behind him. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling slowly in the damp T-shirt. His other wrist rested on his knee, his fingers hanging in the air, a dark scab beside his thumbnail where he must have bitten a hangnail off recently.

Brian’s gaze traveled up Dylan’s forearm, lean and tanned from his days working in the sun. His bicep seemed swollen, probably from grappling with Brian. Sweat shone on his neck. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and Brian had a visceral recollection of the rasp of that stubble against his chin when they’d kissed.

It had been
such
a good kiss.

Dylan’s eyes opened, half-hooded, watching.

This was the moment to go get that bottle of water from under the road case.

This was the moment to pick up the chain and the locks and climb in the van.

“Are
you
okay?” Brian asked him.

“Huh?” Dylan sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just sweaty. Man, I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.” He tapped his cheek, indicating the bruise he’d put on Brian’s.

Brian had forgotten about it. He touched it with the tips of two fingers. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve hit myself harder with my bass.”

“You got me a couple good times when we were wrestling in the van,” Dylan said, peeling up a corner of his shirt. “Nothing that shows, though, I don’t think.” They both looked at his ribs moving in and out as he breathed. “Nope, no battle scars.”

“That was pretty intense,” Brian said. He could only half remember everything that had happened, though—his head was buzzing from the smell of Dylan’s sweat, Dylan’s sweat right here and now. He ran his tongue across his lip, tasting his own.

“You ready to get out of here?” Dylan asked, holding out a hand so they could both haul themselves to their feet. Brian grasped the offered wrist, closing his fingers around the circle tattooed there, but he didn’t get up. Instead he tugged Dylan back down. Onto his knees. In front of him.

“Hey,” Dylan said softly. “You sure you’re okay?”

Brian pulled on his arm, then let go altogether so he could clasp his arms around Dylan and bury his face against Dylan’s neck.

“Hey,” Dylan said, even softer this time, rubbing Brian’s nape.

God.

Dylan.

He breathed deeply, filling himself—sweat and cotton and the fading traces of latex and cigarette smoke. The rough fabric of Dylan’s shirt grazed his cheek. At their chests, Dylan’s heartbeat. His own heartbeat. He couldn’t tell one from the other.

And what he wanted right now, more than anything, was Dylan. Dylan, who had his arms around him, who was whispering, “Shh,” in his ear. “Shh.”

He turned his head, his eyes squeezed shut. He pressed his face into Dylan’s hair. Sweat and shampoo and Dylan. His hands roamed downward, drawing Dylan’s hips against him.

And what Dylan was whispering now was “It’s okay.”

Hugging him tighter, clutching his shoulder with one hand, his waist with the other, Dylan whispered, “It’s okay.”

Brian drew his hands back up Dylan’s shirt, all the way to the back of his head, Dylan’s hair damp in his fingers. He scraped his cheek against Dylan’s, turned his head. Turned both their heads.

And kissed him.

Their mouths pushed against each other. Opening. Hungry. Salty sweat—his or Dylan’s—dissolved against the tip of his tongue. Dylan pushed into his mouth like he belonged there, consuming him, making him dizzy as Dylan held him tight with an arm across his back.

He clutched Dylan’s shirt, hanging on, opening his mouth wider. Pushing his hips against Dylan’s.

Drawing back, Dylan dragged his gaze from Brian’s lips to his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“No. Yes. Yes.” He pulled Dylan’s face back to his, his fingers in Dylan’s hair, tangled and sweaty, his tongue tumbling into Dylan’s mouth, but just for a moment. He tipped his face down, his lips against Dylan’s chin, and asked, “What about you?”

The impression of a quick smile passed across the corner of Dylan’s mouth before Dylan’s lips were at his jaw, his teeth scraping his skin, making him tip his chin up and tighten his grip in Dylan’s hair. His eyes closed. This was a terrible, shitty disaster of an idea—but how was it different from the other stuff they’d been doing? The other stuff got them hard. This got them off. The other stuff left them wanting, sent them on their separate ways consumed with need. Wasn’t the
wanting
the dangerous thing?
Just take care of the fucking
wanting.

Take care of the fucking
wanting.

He pushed his other hand between them and found the bulge in Dylan’s jeans, palming it.

Dylan whispered, “Shit,” in a good way, digging his fingers into Brian’s back.

He loosened Dylan’s belt buckle, popped Dylan’s fly. Dylan’s teeth on his neck made his breath rush out of him. He got Dylan’s zipper halfway down, as far as he could reach without shouldering Dylan off his throat. He pushed his fingers inside Dylan’s jeans just as Dylan’s mouth found the way back to his, the rasp of stubble against stubble leaving a trail of lit-up nerves along Brian’s jaw, a sharp contrast to the heat and softness of Dylan’s mouth. He pulled Dylan’s breath deep into his lungs, savoring it, filling his chest with it as he circled his thumb over the head of Dylan’s cock, trapped in his underwear.

Dylan’s cock.

He’d seen it before—they’d changed in the same room, walked in on one another showering. He couldn’t recall having seen it hard. If he had, he hadn’t been paying attention. And he’d
never
had his hand on it.

As if Dylan knew what he was thinking about, he pressed his hips forward, trapping Brian’s hand between Dylan’s heat and his own hip.

He couldn’t breathe for a second. His senses were full of Dylan—Dylan pushing his tongue deep into his mouth, Dylan’s cock against his hand, Dylan’s whole being trying, it seemed, to close every gap between them.

When Dylan pushed his fingers between their hips, when Dylan’s thumb slid slowly, with pressure, along the hard ridge in Brian’s jeans, Brian pushed back just as hard against Dylan’s mouth, groaning against it.

Dylan’s knuckles dug into Brian’s stomach as his fingers tugged the button on Brian’s jeans free. And Brian worked his own fingers into the waistband of Dylan’s underwear.

So hot in there.

And then he touched bare cock with the tips of his fingers.

His head swam.

He wanted to
taste
it. Like the salt of Dylan’s sweat. He wanted to feel it pushing into his mouth like the intruder’s gloved fingers.

He pulled away, pushing Dylan back by the hips.

Dylan’s fingertips rested against his stomach, eyes questioning.

“Get up,” Brian said, the words coming out rough, half lodged in his chest. He tugged at Dylan’s belt loops and tried again, breaking the words loose from deep inside him. “Get up before I lose my nerve.”

Using Brian’s shoulder, Dylan pushed to his feet.

Brian placed his palms against the front of Dylan’s jeans, his thumbs in the V of the open fly.

His face was hot, almost throbbing. He took a deep breath, then another, the evidence of the effect the night had had on Dylan right in front of him. He rubbed his thumb against the stretched cotton. All those innocent times they’d shared rooms, bathrooms, beds, and he’d never. It hadn’t even occurred to him. A cock in his hand, rigid and insistent, leaking with desire—there’d only been his own.