Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
Felix
Staring up at Duncan McKay, I am aware of two things.
One, he’s a lot bigger up close, and his Old Spice scent is practically suffocating me.
Two... I’m more than grateful my guitar is between us right now; otherwise I’d be displaying my massive fucking boner to my bandmates and the tall, towering asshole who smells like the men’s body wash section at Target.
What the fuck?
I blink furiously, the effects of my alcohol-soaked brain making it hard to focus, hard to breathe.
Yeah, it’s got nothing to do with the drummer’s deep brown eyes, or his spicy scent that’s doing weird things to me.
It’s got to be the fucking vodka.
It takes more concentration than I want to admit, to tear my gaze away from him, and try to remain calm.
The beginning clicks of drumsticks ring out, and Corpse dives right in with his screaming guitar. Eddie picks up immediately, as I wait for my cue, fighting the urge to turn around and look at Duncan.
Resistance is futile, though, as I move around with my guitar, trying to be discreet. I glance at Corpse, then to Duncan, noticing the muscles in his arms thick with tension as he bangs away on the drums. I look from Duncan to Eddie, and back at Duncan, at the wet spot forming on his rustic, red-faded-to orange vintage shirt, watching his gaze as he tunes out the rest of the world around him, keeping in time with the music, for the most part.
When Corpse shreds his guitar for the bridge, Duncan slips.
But he catches up pretty quickly, and I can’t say I’m not impressed.
Maybe I’ll have to check out some more of his discography. You know, for research.
His dark gaze flashes up to me, catching me in my stare.
I turn around before anyone can see the weird flush in my cheeks, and my cock twitches against my tight jeans, poking the back of my guitar.
Fuck, I need to concentrate.
Think unsexy thoughts!
Just as we finish up Paradise , Lou instructs us to keep going into the next four of our biggest hits. Bitten , Road To Hell , Solar Flare , and Black Sea .
My cock throbs behind my guitar, and I curse internally. Four fucking songs. Surely, I can get through four songs...
The concentration it takes to fight the haze of alcohol and my raging boner through four fucking songs should land me a gold medal.
Seriously, this has to be a record, even for me.
When Corpse plays the last chord of Black Sea , I’m practically jumping out of my skin. I drop the guitar by the door, not bothering to say anything as I head for my dressing room, Lou’s voice touting behind me to take five and grab something to eat in the lounge.
I’m barely in my dressing room before my pants are off and I’ve collapsed on the couch.
The kiss of cool air against my cockhead is a welcome relief, despite the fact the alcohol has dissipated.
When I’m drunk or high, I don’t have to think when it comes to sex.
Sully understood that.
I can just... be. I can do what I want to do, be the person I am without giving a shit.
When I’m sober, I have to constantly pretend to be someone I’m not.
I’ve been under the label’s microscope so long, I don’t know how to be me consciously.
You’re Felix Hart, start fucking acting like it.
The way Duncan stared me down, for a moment, it was like he understood me.
Not the me that the label shows to the world; but the real me.
The one only very few people know.
“Fuck,” I growl as I pump my shaft, all of my muscles tightening as I arch my back from the couch.
I screw my eyes shut as I chase my orgasm, my breath catching in my throat.
I imagine large, calloused hands grabbing me by my shirt collar, throwing me over their shoulder like a ragdoll.
Dark and stacked like a brick wall, he towers over me, that dark look in his eye telling me to behave, like I’m a child.
Fuck, why is that so hot?
I groan as I come, hard and fast without warning. I cover my cockhead as warm, thick cum collects in my palm, slipping through my fingers as the world around me starts to spin.
My abs clench as my grip tightens and I hurriedly pump my shaft as I ride out the wave.
I stare at the ceiling, waiting for my breath to even out, waiting for the geyser of cum to stop spewing from my dick.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this good after masturbating, especially sober.
And alone.
When I finally start to soften, my heartbeat evens out. A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. It’s Lou.
“Five minute warning, Felix.”
I close my eyes once more nodding, even though he can’t see me.
Not that it would matter if he could, Lou’s seen me in a hell of a lot more compromising positions than with my own hand around my cock.
“Okay,” I call back shakily, but he doesn’t answer.
I force myself up, if only because I need to clean myself up, lest I want my hand to be stuck to my dick for the rest of rehearsal.
When I finally finish washing my hands, cock sated and tucked away once more, I let out a deep breath.
I look at my own reflection in the mirror, noticing the man staring back at me.
Familiar blue eyes and disheveled blond hair glow in the LED light in the bathroom. My irises have those LED sheen, a circle of light that makes me look possessed, but it’s not the eyes that scare me.
It’s the circles beneath them, the paleness of my own skin. The evidence of my stress, my pain.
I look fucking tired as hell, and I know Sully’s not the only reason.
“You’re fucking Felix Hart. Start acting like it,” I tell my reflection, but he only looks at me like I’m trying to raise the dead.
Maybe I am.
Maybe I’ve been six feet under for so long I forgot who Felix Hart really is.
I shut the water off, heading out the door before Lou can come back and yell at me again.
I turn the corner, slamming into a hard body that nearly knocks me on my ass.
Just as I’m about to yell at whoever isn’t looking where they are fucking going, I notice a familiar rust-colored wet spot, and I look up immediately.
Duncan steadies my arms, the heat from his palms warm and moist.
Up close like this, after everything that’s happened this morning, I’m not one hundred percent certain I’m not going to pop another fucking boner right here.
I look around him at the sound booth, noting it’s empty.
“Hey... uh... Corpse and Eddie left to grab some food, and they are stuck in traffic, so looks like we’re going to be a little behind on schedule.”
My body relaxes as I focus on his words. Guess there was no need to rush...
“I mean, we can get a few songs in while we wait. Get you to learn some more of the material,” I say nonchalantly, if only because I need to do something with my hands.
I need to channel all this fucked up weird energy into something other than my cock.
“Actually, I have to head out in about an hour, so I’ll have to reconvene with you guys tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointment ripping through me.
Duncan’s deep gaze softens and he twists his lips, the motion making his beard dance.
My gaze falls over him, and he looks like a sore thumb against the rest of the band.
I know we’re just rehearsing, but when it comes time for show time, he’s going to need to match the vibe of the band to uphold consistent imagery.
I’ll have to talk to Lou about getting him some digs for the show.
Not because I like the guy or anything, I barely even know him. It’s just pure business.
Duncan must sense my disappointment like a psychic can sense ghosts, because his gaze and his voice softens.
“I probably have time for one more song, if it’s a quick one.”
I fight to relax, to show any sign of relief. I want to say yes.
Yes, we can go jam for a bit, and maybe I’ll feel better.
But I also get the sense that something else is on his mind other than performing.
Normally, I’d bust his balls and make him do what he was hired to do, but I’m feeling too out of sorts because of my orgasmic bliss.
I shrug. “It’s fine. I’m sure Lou gave you the set list, and if he didn’t, you can grab it on your way out,” I say as I brush past him.
Duncan calls my name, and I stop dead in my tracks.
“You sure?” he asks, almost as if he doesn’t trust me.
Why should he?
I’ve been a dick to him since he showed up.
I turn, my hand on the handle of the door as I look at him square in the eye. “I’m sure,” I say solidly and he nods.
Just as he turns to leave, I call his name, stopping him in his tracks.
He looks at me from beneath the ceiling light, which lights him up like an old 80’s music video.
For a moment, he looks younger, and I can almost imagine him playing sold out crowds and fucking shit up. Almost.
“Thanks, for... earlier,” I say softly.
In a candid burst of genuine shock, he nods, his own voice heavy with the weight of a lifetime.
“I get it, you know. I’ve been where you are,” he says, and I sigh. But before I can speak, tell him to save his Golden Globes pep talk for someone who cares, he continues. “I know how this business can be. But you don’t have to let it ruin you. That’s your choice. You want to stop feeling like a piece of shit? Stop treating yourself like a piece of shit.”
And with that, Duncan McKay leaves me standing, alone in the chilled hallway once more.