Day 23 Allentown, PA
MAX
“MAX, YOU’RE GONNA MAKE ME drop the keys — dude, we still have a whole pile of gear to bring in — oh my god, you’re insane —”
Somehow, Sam manages to get the door open despite my best efforts to shove my hands down his pants, and we tumble into our apartment like a couple of puppies.
I know that there’s a lot of shit to do, that we have a pile of luggage in the hall and a huge bag of laundry to wash, and just a couple of hours before we have to get back into Sam’s hatchback to meet Roxie and Blake in Allentown for our last gig.
But all I can think about is the fact that we’re home, that I’m back in the apartment that I share with Sam, that everything looks just the way we left it, except that nothing about the two of us is ever going to be the same.
So I box him up against the wall just inside the door, my forearms on either side of his head, and I crush our mouths together, grinding my hips against the front of him as we kiss.
He’s giggling, shoving his hands up under my shirt, kissing me back with as much fervor as I’m kissing him. But he’s also squawking in protest, trying to force a few words out every time I give him a chance to breathe.
“Max — we have to — come on, dude — I’m not leaving my guitars on the landing —”
“Fine,” I grumble, stepping back just enough to set Sam free, and he scoots past me, not quite fast enough to escape me palming his ass.
We have four guitars, two amps, two big duffel bags, two smaller overnight bags, and a bag of laundry, and we make short work of bringing them into the apartment.
We pile everything in the middle of our tiny living room, and as soon as the last bag is placed and the door firmly shut, I grab Sam once more, crowding him down the short hallway.
“Whose room?” I gasp, stopping to nibble his neck.
“Yeah, I’m still not fucking you in that loft bed,” Sam shoots back, and I cackle, throwing open the door to his room and shoving him inside.
We’re both kicking off our shoes, tearing shirts off as we stumble towards the bed. Sam goes down on his back, and I fall on top of him, the metal frame of his futon groaning in protest.
“Fuck, this mattress is lumpy,” I groan, pinning his hands above his head. “You sleep on this thing every night?”
“Oh my god, shut up —”
He’s gripping me with his knees, and I let go of his wrists so that he can wrap his arms around my neck. I can feel how hard he is, and I’m right there with him, panting into his mouth as I throw my whole weight on top of him. I want — I fucking need —
“Are we good to go — I mean, are you ready?” I whisper. I’m still learning how all of this stuff works, but even after a few days I know that I need to ask.
He screws up his face, considering the question. “We should be okay,” he says finally. “Maybe put a towel down just in case.”
“Hold that thought —”
I dash to the bathroom, finding the black towel that we use whenever we dye our hair. When I return, Sam is stripped down to his briefs, laying a condom and a bottle of lube on the bed beside him.
“You’re so goddamn sexy,” I groan, and fall into his arms.
Somehow, we’re settling in, the pace less frantic but more intentional as we melt into each other. He reaches for my waistband, undoing my jeans, and I wriggle out of them as he chuckles. But then he’s kissing me again, and I can’t concentrate on anything but this, because he’s the entire world.
Sam kisses me with his whole body, like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done, like I’m the best lover he’s ever had.
And it’s easy to lose myself, to let him break down every one of my defenses.
That’s probably why I almost lost my head last night and told him everything, when he was sitting in my lap and chewing his lip and looking at me with his eyes big as saucers.
And it’s certainly why I blurt out the thing I say next.
“Let’s get a real bed.”
I’m dragging my lips along Sam’s clavicle, leaving little nips in my wake, and he tightens his fingers in my hair, lifting my head and peering up at me. “What?”
I ease my weight over him, knocking his knees apart. “You keep saying you hate my bed. So whatever, I’ll get rid of it. We can use this thing as a couch and have one office and one bedroom. Why do we need two, anyway?”
“Max —” he breathes. And then he’s dragging me down, peppering kisses over my face. “You crazy — confounding — beautiful —”
“Is that a yes?” I chuckle.
“Yes!” Sam cries. “But um — I’m getting a little — I need — can we save the furniture talk?”
“Duh, of course —”
It has to mean something, how well we fit together, how naturally this comes to us.
As we kiss, Sam makes a move for the lube, but this time I take it out of his hand.
He shows me how to touch him, how to press my finger inside him, hot and tight, his breathing ragged, his hazel eyes focusing indistinctly on my face.
And when I enter him, feeling the give of his body as he grips me, he presses his forehead against mine, and we’re both shaking, and everything else falls away.
I know it’s never been this good. That I’ve had partners I was attracted to, partners who excited me, partners I thought I loved — but that no one has ever made me feel like Sam does.
Nobody but Sam has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me right now.
Nobody but Sam knows everything about me, every part of my history, every one of my secrets — well, except for the one I’m waiting to tell him, as soon as the time is right.
And maybe there’s a version of me that would have made fun of me for thinking the way I am right now.
But that version of me can fuck right off, because the truth is that I’m in love with Sam Dove, that I want to spend the rest of my life making love to him the way I’m making love to him right now, deep and smooth and steady, counting each one of his breaths as my heart shatters inside me.
We’re both close, locked into each other, Sam’s fingers digging into my shoulders, my hand around his cock. And when the edge of the cliff comes, we tumble over it together, down and down until we’re both completely spent, collapsing in each other’s arms.
Sam stirs first, pressing his lips against my sweaty cheek. “I don’t ever want to get out of this bed,” he whispers.
I chuckle, nuzzling against his shoulder. “Roxie will kill us if we don’t show up.”
“Blake knows all our songs,” Sam counters. “He can play them on the kazoo.”
I lift my head to look at him, and at first he tries to keep a straight face, cocking an eyebrow at me. But then he bursts into giggles, and I blow a raspberry into the side of his neck, and we’re both shrieking, tickling each other until our mouths come together once more.
And I don’t say the words I want to say, the words that are hovering in the air, so bright they’re almost visible. But I will — soon.
BLAKE
“Dude, do you have any more of those T-shirts left?” the young man asks, leaning across my table to shout over the music.
“We need to order more, but we have a couple of larges and extra larges left,” I shout back.
He settles on a large T-shirt, a pin, and one of my zines. As he disappears back into the crowd, I settle into my chair, turning my attention towards the low stage.
Roxie, Max, and Sam sound great tonight.
You can tell that they’ve spent a lot of time together recently, that they’re playing as if they can read each other’s minds.
The audience is going wild, dancing along with the music, and I’m so glad it’s all working so well.
After the past few weeks on the road, they deserve a celebration.
Home has never felt so good. When Roxie and I walked into our apartment this afternoon, we went straight to bed and napped for a few hours.
When we woke up, we made love, then ordered some Chinese takeout for dinner.
I have to be back at work on Monday, and I know it’s going to be a rude awakening after spending nearly every minute with Roxie since the end of May.
But at least I can watch her now, pounding on her drums like the queen she is.
There are a lot of familiar faces in this crowd. Local fans who come to all of Clever Girl’s shows. Students from Roxie and Max’s IT classes and Sam’s nursing program. Even a few of my work colleagues. And —
Oh. Oh, no. This can’t be good.
She’s changed her hair, from bright fire-engine red to a darker wine shade, shaved on one side and cascading over her shoulder on the other.
But I’d recognize Krista anywhere. She’s standing over by the bar, arms crossed over her skimpy tank top, wearing a miniskirt and Doc Martens laced up to her knees.
And it’s hard to read her expression in the dark room, but she has her eyes fixed on the stage, where Max is shouting into the microphone, grinning over at Sam whenever he takes a breath.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, but then I remember that there’s no way Roxie is going to read a message from me in time to do anything to warn Max.
I’m just going to have to sit here and hope it all works out for the best.
KRISTA
Okay, I guess Max is pretty cute, in a pathetic lost puppy sort of way, wet nose and chocolate brown eyes just begging for a treat.
He was out of line the last time I saw him.
Way out of line. As if he isn’t lucky that I even gave him the time of day.
As if he shouldn’t be getting down on his knees to thank me for letting him put his mouth anywhere near my perfect tits.
I gave him so many chances. I put up with his shitty band and his limp dick and the gay best friend who is so obviously in love with him that it’s just sad at this point.
And how does he repay me? By screaming in my face. Men, I swear to god. I’d quit and become a lesbian if the thought of eating pussy didn’t make me want to barf.