Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
He pulled me aside to tell me he liked our set. I didn’t know he’d been in the audience, but T had a way of sticking to the shadows. I sipped the beer he bought me and reveled in his attention. I couldn’t get enough. We talked about music and the few people we still had in common. When he finished his beer and said he was heading home, I asked for a ride. And I invited him inside.
So yeah, I initiated…everything. I was the one who leaned in and brushed my mouth over his. I was the one who slid my fingers under his shirt to feel the smooth planes of his stomach. I thrust my tongue between his lips, unbuckled his belt, and pushed him flat on his back, writhing over him like a ho. And when he responded, rolling over me, pulling my hands above my head, asking me if I was sure…the answer was so fucking easy. Yes. Yes. Yes.
We stretched one night into a month and tried to make it something more, but that old familiarity worked against us. We knew too much about each other. I lived in LA, he lived in Long Beach. I wasn’t out of the closet.…Hell, I thought my bi-ness was confined to occasional same-sex kissing until Tegan’s dick was in my ass. It was hot and we were very, very good at sex, but long story short…we weren’t ready to be more than friends.
And friendship was tricky too. But it was probably our best bet for now.
“So…friends?”
Tegan narrowed his eyes, then smiled. And damn, he had a nice smile. It was warm and sweet. “You’re thinking too hard. C’mon. I’ll make you an omelet and take you home.”
“That’s a very friendly offer,” I replied with a grin.
“When you’re off my shit list, I’m literally the friendliest guy you know.”
I chuckled softly and followed him into the galley-style kitchen. We stood side by side, drinking beer, listening to a bluesy playlist on Spotify while we chopped veggies and chatted about random things, like Halloween candy and scary movies.
We’d done enough reminiscing for one night anyway. I had a lot of regrets. Maybe T did too. But we couldn’t undo anything by looking backward.
6
Tegan
Friends. Okay. Not gonna lie, that sounded daunting. Declan had been my rival for so long, it almost felt strange to lower my defenses.
I stewed about it all weekend. The quick trip to Long Beach to visit my mom didn’t settle my nerves at all. She’d lost her hair and was experiencing some side effects to the chemo. I left feeling helpless and melancholy, wishing I could do something besides make tea and watch reality TV with her. But when I thought about Declan, I felt…confused. Nothing made sense or seemed safe in my world at the moment.
Thank God for music.
I threw myself into the beat with gusto at practice Monday morning. The guys gave me curious glances but didn’t question my intensity. My frenetic pace left no room for conversation. On purpose. I didn’t want to talk about my mom, and I definitely didn’t want to talk about that fucking party at The London. There was no way I’d share any part of the aftermath with my bandmates. I didn’t want to explain Declan and me to anyone. Geez, I couldn’t explain us to myself.
The key was to put “past Declan” in a neatly labeled box in my head, so I could make room for this present “friend” version. Which meant I had to get Dec’s visit with my mom over with as soon as possible.
Like today or tomorrow, I mused, dropping my sticks and stretching my arms above my head. I’d practiced so hard this morning that my hands actually felt numb. If I were smart, I’d step out of the studio for a while. To do that, I’d have to pass the impromptu jam session taking place in the lounge area. And yeah, talk to Dec. I wasn’t ready for that. See? Total head case.
“Everyone is so…nice. I don’t know if I like it,” Justin commented idly as he tuned his guitar.
“Quit complaining,” I chided, wincing when the string he was tightening broke. “You’re doing that wrong.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You do it.” He thrust his acoustic guitar at me and handed over a packet of strings. He settled on a stool in front of me, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And no, I’m not complaining. I’m observing. We were aiming for a truce and got three new best friends. Weird.”
“It’s not really that weird. Everyone is pretty chill. Ky and Gill get along with everyone, and Bobby J and Johnny bond over guitar licks and metal rock they listened to when they were teenagers. And we have Charlie cheering on the troops. It’s kinda cool.” I wound the string at the base, threaded it over the fret, winding it around the peg, and tightening it. “Here you go.”