Chapter 17 #3
He hits play on a Guns N’ Roses album. Whistles arise when sharp guitar riffs pour out of the speakers as “Welcome to the Jungle” begins to play. He grabs Caleb by the hand and pulls him out the door, strutting through the smoke that curls around their ankles.
Once he starts, it’s impossible to stop. He’s shameless, Magic Mike dancing in front of the twins as “sha-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n knees, knees” echoes around the room. Peals of laughter and wolf whistles erupt from the crowd, Bailey and Alexei running up to stuff dollar bills into his waistband.
The second chorus hits, and he plops down on Thea’s lap, grinding with a self-satisfied smirk. Bailey is beside herself, rolling on the floor with tears streaming down her face.
“I’m too gay for this!” Thea’s shriek is so piercing that it may generate seismic activity and cause global tsunamis. “Oh my god, I’m gonna hurl.” She shoves him off with an ungodly strength and Asher is going to lose his entire mind laughing.
When he gets to his knees, his eyes flick upward and lock with Caleb’s, still clad in skimpy little booty shorts, a sheen of sweat and Kahlúa across his forehead, his jaw a little slack. He stares at Asher like he’s hung the goddamn moon.
Later, when the last remaining stragglers have either passed out or crawled back to their rooms with glitter and confetti in their hair, Asher darts down the hall to Caleb’s room, where, when he pushes the door open, Caleb is already waiting.
Caleb seeks purchase in the hem of Asher’s hastily shrugged on shirt, his fingers curling around his hip and pressing warmth into the skin as Asher’s fingers dance up Caleb’s shoulders, wrap around his neck, and drag him impossibly closer.
They don’t stop kissing through it all—their drunken waltz, the reverberation of Caleb's low chuckle when Asher whines for more, the inhale that catches in Asher's throat when Caleb sucks a bruise onto his collarbone, or when Asher hip-checks the door shut.
Through the glass, the city is alive—gleaming bridges, sloping roofs of high-rise building capped with pinpricks of red, thousands of glittering, golden squares for as far as the eye can see. If only there is some way he gets to have all of this: this view and these people, this dream and this man.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Asher drums his fingers on the outer shell of the helmet jiggling up and down on his lap.
Early yesterday morning, he’d flown home from Sacramento to Los Angeles. Now he waits, straddling his motorcycle outside LAX, wishing they could’ve taken a flight together, and thinking about how stupid it is that he can’t even head to the arrival hall to pick Caleb up.
It’s ridiculous that, even on holidays and days off, they have to keep up the charade.
Here, away from the lights and cameras, being seen together will raise speculation, and the chairman won’t have that.
He appreciates the point of kayfabe—to make each storyline as real and immersive as possible—but in this day and age, when it’s no secret that wrestling is performance art, it seems like an unnecessarily strict rule.
Asher wants to forge a name for himself, make waves in the business, and be remembered for his skills and wins, not just as a checkmark based on the color of his skin or who he loves.
He wants to be with Caleb without shame or the threat of losing everything he’s worked his ass off for.
But perhaps he isn’t allowed to ask for anything.
Perhaps he is supposed to bow his head and be grateful for every meager scrap the company tosses his way, and leave it at that.
Here's a crumb: three days alone with Caleb, hiding. It’s not much, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything, grasping at whatever moments they can steal back for themselves. Three days later, they’ll fake it for the airwaves again.
The familiar tap tap tap of sneakers against asphalt alerts him to Caleb’s arrival. Tugging his helmet on, he watches Caleb dart across the street with a backpack in tow, baseball cap pulled down low. Sunlight glints off the aviator sunglasses perched on his nose.
Grinding to a halt, Caleb glares at the motorcycle.
“Oh, no way in hell. Not again.”
“Don’t be rude. Sephiroth has feelings.”
“What the fuck is a Sephiroth?”
“He’s—never mind. Hop on.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Barely,” Caleb hisses. He hikes his bag further up his shoulders and continues down the road. “I’m walking.”
Asher follows behind, doing an awkward waddle with the bike still straddled between his legs. “It’s a three-hour walk.”
“Fine. Uber it is.”
Asher glares at Caleb’s back. “This is not as funny as the movies make it seem.”
“Aw, you poor thing.”
“Think of how good you’ll feel against my ass.”
Caleb stills.
“You know, roads in LA are notoriously bumpy . . .”
Caleb audibly exhales before stomping back. He grabs the helmet dangling from Asher’s outstretched hand and swings a leg over the seat. “You’re a menace and I hate you,” he tells Asher.
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”