Chapter 8
APRIL - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Now playing: Heaven - Julia Michaels
The hotel suite was ridiculous. It wasn’t a room; it was a compound in the sky.
Management had put the Wrestle Empire talent up in a luxury high-rise in downtown Los Angeles, but because of the “New Blood vs. Legacy” angle, they wanted to keep Cal and me separate from the main roster. So, they stuck us in the penthouse.
Marble floors that echoed when you walked. Floor to ceiling windows that looked out over a city of smog and dreams. A living room bigger than the entire first floor of my grandfather’s house.
It was Friday afternoon. We had just touched down, escaped the swarm of paparazzi at LAX, and had a three-hour window before the media junket started.
I stood in the center of the room, staring at my suitcase. Buried deep in the side pocket, tucked inside my toiletry bag between my deodorant and my toothbrush, was a box of condoms and a bottle of water based lube.
For the last two weeks, since the night in Chicago, we had been playing a sick, dangerous game. A game of chicken. Who would snap first? Who would cross the line from “messing around” to “all the way”?
We’d kissed, frantic, bruising sessions in rental cars and locker rooms, but we hadn’t gone further.
But I knew it was coming. I could feel it in the way he looked at me across the ring, the way his hand lingered on my neck.
And I had been… researching.
I’m a technician. I’m a strategist. I don’t go into a match without knowing the holds, the counters, and the risks.
So, I applied the same logic to this. I had spent late nights on Reddit threads, scrolling through incognito tabs on my phone, reading about mechanics, prep, and sensations.
I had watched videos, gay porn that made my face heat up and my stomach swoop, trying to understand the logistics of how two men fit together.
I had even practiced. In the shower, slick with soap, using my fingers just to see if I could handle it. To see if I liked it.
I didn’t know if Cal had experience with guys. He said he was bi, and I assumed he had been with men before, but I didn’t ask. The thought of him with someone else made my chest tight, a jealousy I couldn’t justify, so I pushed it away.
I walked over to the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony.
It was private, shielded from the neighboring rooms by high concrete dividers.
We were so high up that the noise of the city was just a hum.
The LA skyline stretched out before me, a grid of endless potential.
It felt fake. It felt consuming. In forty-eight hours, I would be climbing a ladder in front of seventy thousand people, putting my body on the line to prove I belonged to that skyline.
A gust of wind whipped around the building. I shivered instantly. The California sun was deceptive; the air up here was biting.
“Oh, fuck me,” I groaned, realizing my mistake.
Cal peeked over the back of the white leather couch where he was lounging. I couldn’t really see him, just his long, muscular legs clad in black denim hanging over the armrest, and his hand extending a phone into the air as he scrolled.
“You good?” he asked, his voice lazy, amused.
“I think I left my hoodie at the damn airport,” I said, frustration spiking. “The charcoal one.”
I loved that hoodie. It was broken in, soft, perfect for sleeping in. I was more mad that I wouldn’t have it for tonight than anything else.
“Here.”
Cal hopped up, phone sliding into his pocket. He walked over to his duffel bag near the door, rummaged for a second, and pulled out a black zip up. He tossed it to me.
I caught it, unfolding the fabric.
It was merch. His merch.
The creative team had designed gear for us to launch at Wrestle Empire. Mine was classic, black and gold, stylized text that said TIMELESS.
Cal’s was edgy. It looked like a band tee. Scrawled across the back in jagged, scratchy font was the phrase NO ONE LIKE US. On the front left chest, a small American Traditional style lock with DEADLOCK arced around it. It looked exactly like the ink covering his skin.
I rolled my eyes. We weren’t supposed to wear this stuff yet.
“Really?” I laughed, looking at him.
Cal looked excited, like a kid showing off a drawing. “Yeah. I snagged one to keep in my bag. Put it on.”
I shook my head, but I slid my arms into the sleeves. It was big on me; Cal had broader shoulders, and it smelled like him. Detergent, stale airplane air, and that faint, spicy cologne he wore. I zipped it up, the warmth settling over me instantly.
I walked back out onto the balcony, leaning over the rail to look at the traffic far below.
I didn’t hear him follow me.
One second I was alone, and the next, strong hands grabbed my waist. Cal spun me around, pressing me back against the glass railing. He didn’t say a word; he just crashed his mouth onto mine.
I kissed him back instinctively, melting into the heat of him, but the exposure hit me.
I pulled away, breathless.
“What was that for?”
His eyes were dark, scanning me from the hood of the jacket down.
“I think I like my merch on you,” he murmured.
I let out a laugh, rolling my eyes, though my pulse was hammering against my throat. “Seriously?”
Cal examined me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Is this how guys feel when chicks wear their jerseys when they fuck?”
I glared at him. “Did you just call me a girl?”
“No,” Cal said, stepping closer, his hips pressing into mine. “I equated my wrestling merch to a jersey.”
Ownership. That’s what he meant. He liked seeing his name on me.
I nudged him backward. He let me. I walked him back toward the sliding glass door until his back hit the glass. I pressed my body against his, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive spot right behind his ear.
My hand slid down his chest, over the buckle of his belt, and rested on the fly of his jeans.
Cal let out a low groan, his hips bucking slightly into my hand.
I dropped to my knees.
Cal’s eyes blew wide. He looked around frantically. “We’re outside.”
“Nobody can see onto the balcony,” I said, looking up at him. “I checked. We’re literally on a high enough floor we’re in the clouds. Nobody is seeing shit.”
I was being bold. Bolder than I ever was. Usually, Cal led. Cal set the pace. But right now, surrounded by the smog and the sky, I wanted this. I wanted to make him feel good.
“Si, you don’t need to—” Cal started, his voice strained.
“I want to,” I interrupted. My voice dropped, the words falling from my lips like a plea. “If you want to.”
Cal looked down at me. He saw the need in my eyes. He saw that this wasn’t just about getting off; it was about submission. It was about trust.
“Fuck, yes,” Cal breathed. “I want to.”
I nodded. I lifted his T shirt, and he took the hint, pulling it up and over his head, discarding it on the concrete. Muscles rippled under his tattooed skin as he shivered in the cool air.
I trailed open-mouthed kisses across his waistband, tasting the salt on his skin. My hands worked his belt, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet air. I undid the button, the zipper rasping down.
I pulled his jeans and boxer briefs down to his thighs, letting them pool around his ankles.
He sprang free, and I paused, just for a second.
He was beautiful. Thick, heavy, and twitching with anticipation. I wrapped my hand around his cock, giving him a slow, firm stroke.
Cal moaned, his head falling back against the glass.
I did it again, slower. I leaned in, teasing the head with my tongue, feeling the large, prominent vein run across the underside. Cal hissed, his fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tight.
He didn’t push. He guided.
I opened my mouth and took him in.
I went down, much further than I thought I could. My hand and mouth met to bridge the gap, engulfing him completely. The taste of him hit my tongue, and it drove me insane.
Cal set the pace. His hips moved in a slow, rhythmic thrust that matched the bob of my head.
“Jesus—Fuck—you’re so good at this,” Cal praised, his voice a wrecked growl above me.
I looked up, locking eyes with him. I kept going, picking up the rhythm. I swirled my tongue around the head, listening to the wet, sloppy sounds of my own mouth on him. I wanted him to hear it. I wanted him to know exactly how deep I was taking him.
Cal was losing it. His hips started to snap forward, harder, deeper.
“Fuck—Baby—” he groaned.
Baby.
The word hit me like a physical blow.
My own cock leaked, throbbing so painfully against the fabric confines that I couldn’t take it. I shoved my hand down my sweatpants, wrapping my fingers around myself.
I didn’t know why being called that sent me into overdrive, but it did. Cal’s eyes were on me, watching me take him, watching me jerk myself off. I could imagine the sight, me on my knees in his hoodie, tears in my eyes, spit running down my chin, stroking myself while I pleasured him.
“God—Si—I’m gonna cum,” Cal warned, his voice tight with panic. He tried to nudge my head back, to save me from the mess.
I didn’t let go.
I gripped his thighs. I went faster. I sucked harder, tightening my throat.
He shouted, a raw, wordless sound, and bucked hard.
I felt the warm, sticky spurts hit the back of my throat. I gagged for a split second, tears spilling over onto my cheeks, but I swallowed. I swallowed every drop, draining him dry.
I pulled back, gasping for air, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.
Cal stared down at me, chest heaving, looking completely destroyed.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathed.
Saturday was a blur of flashes and fake smiles.
Press. Photoshoots. Training. Gear checks. We didn’t have a single second to see our families, who had flown across the country to watch us.
We were in the middle of a photoshoot for the program guide. Creative wanted shots of us in our debut gear, the gear we’d be wearing Monday night on Showdown, assuming we could still walk after Sunday.