Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Ray stared at Zavier. “Now?” God, he hoped so. He’d been high and low and strung out, then Zavier had kissed him and the world had fallen away. But then he’d had to tell Zavier his desires. It was almost too much.
Zavier nodded. “As I said.”
“What do I do?” Anything. All Ray wanted was for Zavier to touch him or give him an order or—fuck him. He needed to be fucked. Wanted that so badly. He didn’t want to think anymore.
“You do whatever I tell you to.”
“This is bullshit.” He turned, pushed aside the privacy curtain and marched into the main part of the bus. He understood the whole submission idea, didn’t need Zavier coddling him.
He heard Zavier grunt, then rise. “Do you want this?” No accusations, no anger. So typically Zavier.
“Yes!” He whirled around and found Zavier standing at the entrance to the lounge. “Yes—just—” He ran his hands through his hair. “Tell me what to do!”
Zavier returned to his seat on the couch in the lounge. From there, he uttered one word. “Strip.”
The order was smooth and gentle and exactly what Ray had wanted, yet he struggled against it.
He needed what Zavier offered. Craved it.
But both the high from one of their best performances and the low of Carl’s dismissive and cruel words swam through his blood.
Every bit of his body tingled and tensed.
He stood in the middle of the space, staring but not seeing the bunks in front of him.
The palms of his hands hurt from where his nails dug into his flesh.
“Ray.” Zavier relaxed on the couch, arms outstretched on the couch back and his long legs open enough that Ray could kneel between them. God, he was so beautiful. “Stop.”
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.” No malice, only simple fact.
He gritted his teeth. “What the hell do you want from me?”
A cock of the head and a raised eyebrow. “I’m not sure how ‘strip’ is in any way ambiguous.”
It wasn’t. Not at all. Ray unclenched his hands and forced himself to do what he so wanted to do: he toed off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head.
The AC of the bus cooled his overheated skin and he tossed the shirt onto his bunk.
His hands shook, but he managed his belt, and the button and zipper on his jeans. Each move felt like fire and heaven.
He’d no idea why Zavier made him feel this way, made him want so much more than the friendship they’d finally managed.
Control and surrender. He couldn’t stop thinking about Carl’s words.
The energy of the crowd. Ray bit his lip and pushed both his jeans and underwear down.
They pooled around his ankles and he kicked them out of the way, then removed his socks.
“That’s better.”
Zavier’s approval washed over him, etching into his bones and calming his nerves. Maybe if he did as told, his life might be better. Make more sense. At least for a little while. He was tired of the chaos that flowed around him.
“Come here.” Zavier pointed to a spot in front of him. “And kneel.”
Too far away for a blowjob. Still, Ray did as told, shedding the part of him that chafed, that wanted to rebel. He walked back into the lounge area and dropped to his knees exactly where Zavier had pointed.
“Have you ever done yoga?”
Odd question, but he answered, “Yeah. Not seriously, but yeah.”
“Do you remember child’s pose?”
He did. It was simple and relaxing. “Of course.”
“Put your forehead on my shoes, and stretch your arms behind you.” Zavier closed his legs.
God. Humiliation flooded Ray. This wasn’t sex. It was subservience. He searched Zavier’s face.
He found laughter dancing in Zavier’s eyes, and an emotion he couldn’t identify. “Do you trust me, Ray?” he asked.
Yes. No. He nodded slowly. In the end, the answer was yes.
Zavier leaned forward and cupped Ray’s face, his palm warm. “Then do as I ask.”
He closed his eyes and did as told, folding forward and pressing his forehead against the leather of Zavier’s shoes. It was exactly as humiliating as he thought it would be. Naked and prone. There was nothing sexy or hot about Zavier’s order.
The bus lumbered on and the rumble of the wheels on tarmac vibrated through every inch of Ray’s bones.
His muscles clenched and unclenched, and seconds dragged by.
Zavier said nothing, though beneath Ray’s forehead and the leather on which he rested, toes moved, enough to remind him exactly where he was.
On a bus, stripped and bowing to Zavier Demos.
He hated it, but not enough to move. Do you trust me? Yes. Plus, he wanted to see where this friendship with benefits went. What Zavier meant to do with him and to him. His flesh warmed at that thought even as he squirmed against it.
But the seconds and minutes ticked by without so much as a word from on high.
Hell, he couldn’t even hear Zavier breathe over the deep throb of the bus on the road.
Infuriating. This was so damn dumb. What the hell did Zavier want?
What was Ray supposed to do? Just bow here forever?
He shifted and flexed. He should sit up, tell Zavier to fuck off, and go curl up in his berth.
Do you trust me?
No. He didn’t. Zavier wasn’t any different than that asshole dickwad Carl, always on his back, always griping about something.
Not good enough? Hell, the concert tonight had been perfect.
Their best yet! He hadn’t been out of tune.
He knew he hadn’t. And the fans had responded, screaming and dancing and singing along with Ray.
The light in their eyes when he ran into the crowd.
The signs. Mish leaping and twirling across the stage. Dom shredding every chord. Zavier—
Ray’s breath caught.
Zavier had played as if his very soul were in the music, his arms flying, his body soaked in sweat, ecstasy in his face. He’d played exactly like they all had, with love and passion and an intensity that made Ray ache to reclaim. They’d been a band. Twisted Wishes at their finest.
Afterward, Zavier had clapped Ray on the back, and his grin and the shine in his eyes speaking the words they could hear over the thunder of the audience clapping and screaming.
They’d all done so fucking well. That had carried straight to backstage.
The rest of the night had been a whirlwind of autographs and slaps on the back.
Then Carl had pulled Ray aside and dumped a verbal bucket of ice water all over everything.
Ray needed to up his game.
Except he didn’t know how. If tonight hadn’t been good enough for Carl and if the execs had been lying like Carl said...then they were fucked.
He sighed down into Zavier’s shoes. Maybe what the band needed was a different vocalist, because obviously he wasn’t cutting it despite doing his best. But that would mean leaving behind the very thing he’d spent years creating.
God, he was so tired. He pressed his forehead against Zavier’s shoes and let the rest of his body melt toward the floor until his skin hummed with the sound of the motor and his tears slid down onto the leather.
They were fucked. He didn’t know how to fix it. He couldn’t fix it. They were done.
The couch creaked and fingers stroked his hair. “Oh, Ray.” Zavier’s voice was a murmur of warmth and kindness. “What did that shitbag say to you?”
Carl’s words flittered to the surface of Ray’s thoughts, and he spoke into the floor of the bus. “That our performance tonight was barely adequate. That I needed to do better. I’m barely pulling my own weight in the band.” He paused. “My singing was sharp.”
Zavier stiffened, even to his toes. Those pressed up against Ray’s forehead. A moment later, his hand cupped Ray’s neck. “Sit up, please.”
Ray did, moving slowly. The tiny world of the tour bus swam like he’d been drinking Kevin’s Jack Daniels. When he settled onto his heels, Zavier was before him, kneeling on the same floor. For a second time, Ray’s breath caught.
Zavier cupped each side of Ray’s face with his warm, rough hands. His beautiful drummer’s hands. Ray closed his eyes.
A thumb swept over his cheek, and coolness followed. His tears. God, what did Zavier think of that? Weak. Pathetic.
“Look at me.” Soft, soft words, but a command nonetheless.
Ray peeled open his eyes and met Zavier’s earnest gaze.
“Where did I go to school?”
“Juilliard.”
Zavier nodded. “That makes me a Juilliard-trained professional musician, right?”
Fucking asshole. Ray ground his teeth and tried to nod.
A faint, sad smile, and Zavier’s thumb brushed Ray’s cheek again. “I’m not saying this out of hubris. I want you to understand—I’ve spent years having music theory crammed into my skull. I’ve been trained by the best in the world and I’ve played with the best in the world, Ray.”
“Yeah?” He couldn’t keep the cocky snarl out of his voice. “Must be nice.”
“Sometimes it was. Other times it was absolute hell.” He paused. “You’re the most talented musician I’ve ever known. You’re certainly one of the hardest working. And you have never, ever sung sharp in any of our concerts.”
The bus swam around Ray and his lungs burned. “Fuck you.” He threw the words out like a shield, something to block the openness in Zavier’s expression, the honesty.
Those damn thumbs again, smoothing over flesh. Soothing his pain away along with his tears. “You know I’m not lying.”
Ray pressed his lips closed. He wanted to shake his head, but Zavier held him, like a soft, velvet vise. Hands, words, and looks. He was, both literally and figuratively, naked before the man.
“This was supposed to be sex,” Ray croaked.
Zavier chucked. “Oh, we’ll get to that, but I need to know you’re okay first.”
“I’m okay.”
Another chuckle. “There’s something else I know, besides the fact that you’re a damned excellent vocalist and songwriter. Do you know what it is?”
Couldn’t shake his head, so he glared at Zavier. “No.”