30. Chapter 22
Wherever You Will Go
Dallas
Cohen doesn’t even notice where I led him until the freezing water hits him in the goddamn face.
For two fucking days I’ve tried to talk to him, explain exactly how I ended up spooning Rain and why she needed comfort, and the stubborn childish asshole wouldn’t listen.
Short of telling him that I’ve been in love with his stupid face for the better part of twenty years, I said everything I could to convince him I wasn’t trying to sleep with Rain.
Then again, I guess seeing is believing.
And hearing Trey say that shit to Rain, about Rain, was some kind of wake-up call for him.
Seeing my best friend transform into some kind of feral animal was a wake-up for me too.
He can say what he wants, curse her presence every second of every day; he can even pretend she isn’t there, but Cohen Brady is still completely in love with Rain Gamble.
And he’s either too stupid or too deep in denial to realize it.
Which leaves my pathetic ass right where I predicted I would be, in goddamn emotional hell.
The cold snaps him out of his wild state enough for his eyes to finally focus. He scans the dressing room behind me before his green eyes drill into me.
“Where’s Rain?”
Of course, that’s his first question. I sigh, “No idea. She took off during the fight.”
One part of me is ashamed that, unlike my brother and Cohen, I didn’t do a damn thing to stop what was happening. The other half of my brain reminds me that thanks to years of on-again, off-again drug use, I can’t even fight my own battles, let alone someone else’s.
Cohen’s next question is equally predictable. “Where’s your brother?”
“He went after her.”
I hold my breath after that little revelation. Cohen is a jealous person, and there is almost no one he’s more jealous of than Dutch. I often think that if it wasn’t for Rain and me between them, their friendship would have ended a long time ago.
Hence, why it catches me off guard when his only response is the smallest tic in his angular jaw and a low hum; it’s as if he’s weighing my statement and taking time to consider his options.
Something he doesn’t often do when it comes to Rain because he’s usually too busy flying off the handle about every little thing she does.
Whatever his thoughts, they bring his attention to me.
His gaze starts at my Converse-clad shoes and works its way back up to my face.
Every second of it sears through me. Having Cohen’s full attention is as addicting as any drug.
Trust me, I would know. Normally, it hits like the first rays of warm summer sun landing on you after months of cold winter.
But with the cold water continuing to bounce off his curls, and his clothes that are now so wet they cling to the lines of his chest, I am doing everything I can not to shiver.
After a full minute of silence, he finally asks, “But you stayed?” The question is quiet enough that it’s hard to hear him over the pounding water. “You didn’t go after your brother or Rain?” He frames it as a question, but I’m confused by what he’s asking, so I simply shrug. “You always stay.”
This time, it’s not a question but a statement of fact. One that’s not true, as I remind him.
“Not always, Co. Not the one time it really counted.”
He shakes his head, and the small rivers of water that fly from his curls are so precious they make me want to open my mouth and drink those tiny tastes of him.
“That wasn’t your fault.”
That’s a lie. Yet, I let it stand, because there’s been enough fighting today.
However, that statement makes it nearly impossible to look at him any longer.
The temptation to reach out and touch him, to kneel at his feet, is too strong, so I shove my hands in my pockets and pretend to kick away the water pooling around us.
“You’re my best friend,” is all I mumble by way of explanation.
“You’re mine too, you know.”
It’s because I can’t look at him that I don’t see his arms until they are wrapping around me. Cohen hugs me so tightly that his sopping wet body soaks right through the thin, sweat-soaked T-shirt I wore on stage tonight. Still, thanks to his arms, I don’t even register the cold.
All I see, smell, and feel is Cohen, and as if it’s the most natural thing in the world—which, for anyone else who doesn’t have my fucking damage, it would be—I hug him back. I think it’s the first time I’ve hugged someone in years. Years.
We stand there, locked together, cold water hitting us both now, for a few seconds. He is the one to pull away, and though I hate it, I let him go. Immediately, I miss his warmth. I shiver a little, and he chuckles. “Yeah, I think that’s enough cold water.”
He flicks the tap and the water starts to heat up almost instantly. Once he deems it hot enough, he reaches for the hem of his shirt. My heart thunders the same way it always does at the sight of his bare, unscarred, perfect skin.
The wet cotton hits the shower floor with a thwack. Cohen looks up at me while his thumbs dance over the button of his jeans and asks with one raised eyebrow, “You going to let me shower? Or stay and watch?”
My breath catches at the suggestion. Yet, the way he’s half-laughing reminds me that even if Cohen might have developed an interest in men recently, I’m not one of them.
I wave him off and leave him in to use my dressing room however he sees fit. This is our hometown, so in theory I could just leave, go back to the apartment I share with Dutch and shower there, but instead I opt to head back to the bus.
There’s no sign of either my brother or Rain on the vehicle.
Only Kitten, who is mewing. Rain fed her before the show.
She always makes a point of letting me know when Kitten has eaten.
Probably because she knows I’m a sucker for that cat and would definitely give her double dinner.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from pulling out some of the cat treats I bought during our stop in Watosk.
She chows down, comes over for precisely two belly rubs, and then skitters off to Rain’s room where I’m sure she’s about to nestle up on her pillow.
I’m about ready to be done with this day too, so even though I know sleep is unlikely, I toss my ass into my bunk and pull the curtain closed.
I’m still staring at the ceiling ten minutes later when the bus door opens again.
There’s no way of knowing which of my bandmates it is, at least not until Cohen calls out softly, “Goodnight, Dax.”
There’s the slight rustling sound of fabric as he closes himself into his own little bunk directly across from mine. There’s almost zero personal space in here, so there’s no way I can avoid overhearing as Cohen sheds his clothes a second time tonight.
My brain doesn’t have to work too hard to picture it.
His shirt first, revealing that bare chest, then broad shoulders and wiry arms, defined from years of guitar.
Then the jeans, dropped easily to the floor because they aren’t the skinny ones I always wear, leaving him in tight boxer briefs that hug his ass and do fuck all to conceal the outline of his dick.
The image is so vivid, so real, and I’m so on edge from every second of tonight that my hands move of their own accord, undoing my own jeans and peeling them down my thighs. My own boxers are already straining to hold back my rapidly hardening cock.
Just like every time I’ve ever done this, I lie to myself; I tell myself that it’ll just be this once, that I’ll just indulge in the fantasy this one time. Even though I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve told that lie.
I wrap my hand around the base of my shaft and give a few slow strokes, but it’s not enough.
It’s not what I long for. Rolling sideways so I face the wall of the bus rather than its interior, I sink even deeper into the depths of my craving.
It’s a freedom I rarely allow, because it makes returning to reality that much crueller, but tonight I simply can’t help myself.
I shove the fingers of my left hand into my mouth.
Not so deep that I gag; Cohen might hear that, but deep enough that my lips have to stretch to accommodate it.
I imagine it’s Cohen’s hand, not my own, as my tongue laps at each digit and saliva pools on my tongue.
Only when I’m sure my fingers are coated do I remove them and return that hand to my dick, which is now harder than steel and throbbing.
This time when I move, jerking my hand up and down, the movements are rougher, harsher.
The bead of pre-cum at my tip spills over, adding to the slick from my spit.
Again, my mind conjures images of Cohen.
I’ve sat on the other side of the door enough times to know exactly how that man fucks.
He’s domineering, dominating, borderline cruel.
He’s the only person I know capable of using me in all the ways I need.
I revel in the fantasy of him shoving me into the mattress, of my body being forced down, while his strong hands part my cheeks, of him taking me all while he tells me I’m nothing but his good little slut.
Something I’ve heard him say to Rain many times right before her wails of pleasure drowned him out.
Just thinking the words, whether said to Rain or to me, is enough. My balls tighten, sparks climb up my spine, and cum coats my hand. So much that I grab yesterday’s T-shirt from the corner of the bunk to avoid making an embarrassing mess.
It takes ages for my orgasm to subside. Minutes pass where I stifle my every breath; I bite my lip to keep a groan from escaping, even as the last shudders ripple through me. Despite those efforts, I wonder if he can hear me. I wonder if he’ll ever know how brutally he affects me.
Except, there’s no way he could. Right?