His Ex-Boyfriend Page 2

  Jason hadn't cared that Rafe was male. The guitarist didn't have a girlfriend at the time, and Rafe was--convenient.

  Fucking at leisure the rest of that day, then the next. Waking up in his apartment on the second morning, sore, slimy, fucked out as hell, and wanting more. Condition, no longer single. He had a boyfriend.

  Embarrassed, feeling an unwelcome sexual stir, Jason ate some popcorn and tried to think of a safe topic. "Doesn't it weird you out to have all these toys around?"

  "Spoken like a man who doesn't realize he's about to be hit by a tornado of them. When's the baby due? Amanda forgot to mention it to me."

  "Oh God," Jason groaned. "A week ago, supposedly. The strain is awful, and I'm not even the one who's pregnant. Wait. You talked to her?"

  "Sure. She stopped by yesterday."

  Jason's mind went blank. His wife was hanging out with his ex-boyfriend? "Wha--what did you talk about?"

  "The usual stuff. I grew up with her, remember. Jason, you're looking weird. Oh, you're thinking about that." He grinned as Jason blushed. "No, I've never told her. Have you?"

  Jason shook his head no. "But what did--I mean--" The guitarist smacked his temple, trying to jar his brain back into function mode. "What did you--"

  "--talk about?" Rafe completed. "Lexi says a freakout is best treated with a root beer float. Want me to prescribe?"

  "Go ahead," the guitarist croaked. Rafe stuffed balls of vanilla ice cream in a soda glass and filled it with a spray of root beer from the tap. He even added a squirt of whipped cream, a maraschino cherry, and a wafer cookie. Jason watched the whole process in a daze. "Alexis just wanted you for your soda-making skills," he observed as Rafe stuck a straw and a spoon inside the glass. The guitarist tasted the concoction. It was very good. "You didn't answer my question."

  "For one thing, she's thinking of having a C-section."

  "Hey! She hasn't even discussed that with me, and I'm her husband, dammit!"

  A sardonic smile appeared on Rafe's face. "But I've known her all her life. Sometimes it's easier to discuss things with a guy who's not your husband. Anyway, Amanda wanted to have one of those, 'Would it be a turnoff if your spouse had a long scar down her abdomen' discussions? She thought you might be supportive beforehand, but have second thoughts later."

  "Oh."

  "And she wanted to talk about the baby. She let me feel it move and everything."

  "Dammit, if you tried to make a pass at her, I'll kill you."

  "Hey, I've told you before, I'm not attracted to Amanda. Even if her breasts are getting bigger. Readying for the milk, you know."

  "How the--"

  "She pulled up her bra to show me. She was really quite proud of them. Hey, quit doing that with your forehead. You'll knock a dent in the counter."

  "My God," the guitarist whimpered. He raised his head and felt the lump he'd given himself. He thought of his wife, prim, pretty, petite, suddenly whipping her shirt off and baring her olive skin like a stripper, and his mind boggled.

  "Calm down. It's no big deal."

  "No big deal?" Jason bellowed.

  "Well, I think the important point about the breast thing was that I was supposed to say to Lang, boy, her chest is just huge now. My brother was always rather cruel to her about her bra size when she was younger."

  "Great. This is just fucking great. My wife is gossiping with my ex-boyfriend about the most private details of her life and taking her clothes off in front of him."

  Rafe shrugged. "Don't you know Amanda's always treated me like a little sister?"

  "That explains everything," Jason replied bitingly. "She girl-talked you so long that she turned you gay." The guitarist's face smacked the counter again.

  "Your soda's melting," Rafe prompted.

  Why did I break up with him? Jason wondered. Of course, I was in love with Amanda.

  "Well, hey, if you're not going to finish it." Rafe swiped the glass and began to spoon up ice cream.

  Oh yeah, he was a jerk, that's why. But that's not what prompted the actual breakup--

  "How are things going between you?" Rafe asked.

  Instantly, Jason was suspicious. "Why do you want to know?"

  "I'm curious. Amanda said you two weren't having much sex lately, and it bothered her."

  Jason squeezed his eyes shut. "Was there nothing she didn't tell you?"

  "Probably not." Rafe laughed. "So what's your problem?"

  "It's her--oh, dammit. It's her stomach. I shouldn't even be telling you this. It's so big, things are sort of impractical for sex. It's like a freaky game where you have to fuck each other around a beach ball. Amanda would murder me if I laughed at her, but I tell you I'd never realized what a lust-killer the urge to laugh out loud during sex can be--and how suicidal. Even worse, I can't get this bizarre notion out of my head that we're having a threesome. Me, her, and the squishy little amniotic voyeur. I keep obsessing over how much babies can actually hear in the womb. I can't help worrying about what's going to happen when the kid's fifteen and is trying to extort the car keys from me. 'Cough up, Daddy, because I heard you having sex when I was an embryo.'"

  Rafe snickered.

  "And Amanda's feet are swollen," Jason continued, shifting his empty beer can from hand to hand, "and her back hurts. It's true her breasts are nicer than they used to be, but--"

  "But what?"

  "She's definitely one of those women who doesn't look better when she's pregnant."

  Rafe shrugged. "The stomach problem should cure itself soon, as should the amniotic voyeur."

  The phone rang. "Just a moment," said Rafe. "Hello? Yes, he's back. Everything's fine. I even put his Sailor Moon outfit on. He's waiting for you to come home."

  The caller must be Alexis. As Rafe spoke, the guitarist pondered the mystery of Alexis Mellor. Though he'd done session work for the singer, Jason wasn't sure what to make of him. The singer seemed nice enough. Usually. But once in a while, he turned weird. The day Jason had broken up with Rafe had been one of those days.

  Two young men were standing next to a car in an underground parking lot beneath a concert hall. Mullerin was opening for Boxkite Airscrew, and Jason was dressed in his stage costume of red bandana and Jackson Pollock shirt. The concert was starting in half an hour, but the guitarist had something else on his mind. He'd trapped Rafe against the car borrowed from Lang and was feeling him up.

  "Quit pawing me, man."

  "You shouldn't have worn that black velvet shirt," Jason replied, running his hands over Rafe's flanks. Rafe looked amazing. Lustfully, the guitarist studied the parking lot for a handy niche.

  "Yeah, but you're destroying the nap. I look like a cat that's been petted backwards, so knock it off. This shirt's expensive."

  Jason ignored him, his fingertips digging into the enticing softness of Rafe's back.

  "Hey, you're going to leave bruises."

  "Like that's the first time," Jason retorted. He wondered, as he sometimes did, what it was about Rafe that made him horny as hell. "Fuck all niches. Let's do it on the hood of the car."

  "As much as I want to give my dear brother the world's most interesting car wash, don't you have a concert soon?" Rafe asked, lolling on top of the Mercedes.

  "We've got time." Jason began a slow ride against Rafe's crotch. For a second, he thought he heard a slight grating noise, like the sound of someone turning around, but he didn't see anyone else in the underground lot. He scarcely cared. He was so damned horny, he was going to come just from the feel of that velvet. Fuck all bystanders. Let 'em watch. He wanted to stain the velvet with his own juices. He began to undo his belt and pulled Rafe's shirt out of the other's waistband.

  "If you're thinking of doing what I think you are, you're dead meat. Spunk does not come out of velvet, and I'm not walking into the dry cleaners asking, 'Excuse me miss, what removes this sort of stain?' Bugger off."

  "I'm trying to."

  "Oh, for God's sake. Let me give you a hand job. Here."

&
nbsp; "AAAAAAGH!" Jason danced backwards, clutching himself.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Christ, I forgot you were holding a soft drink just a moment ago," Jason gasped. Man, what an erection killer. Rafe's hands were freezing.

  "Oh, sorry. I didn't think they were that cold." Rafe sniggered. "Too bad. At least you'll make the concert on time." He jumped off the hood and headed for the stage door. "Maybe you'll land some sleazy chick afterwards."

  Sulking, the guitarist followed. He wanted his dose of Rafe, and didn't want to wait. "Yeah, but that chick had better be wearing black velvet." He caught Rafe's sleeve. "Hey."

  "What?"

  "Give me a kiss. You never kiss me before I go on stage."

  "You think we have that sort of relationship?" The tone was mocking. "Ours is only about sex."

  "I mean it. You never kiss me. Like it was poison or something."

  "You never kiss me, either. You've never acted as though it was any duty of yours."

  Silently, the two young men regarded one another. "We could start," Jason said. Our relationship is just about sex? Is that what Rafe thinks?

  "Good God." Rafe made a face. "You want us to get all serious and icky about each other? That's scary."

  Jason shook the sleeve. "So kiss me."

  With an exasperated sigh, Rafe leaned forward. But one inch from Jason's lips, he stopped. Shifting his aim, he gave the guitarist a slight buss on the forehead, exactly as though kissing a fretful child.

  "Hey. That wasn't a real kiss."

  "It's all you're getting for now. I'm going in."

  What the hell was that? He acts like he thinks there's something wrong with me.

  They climbed the loading ramp up to the stage doors and beyond them found harsh lights mingled with cave-like darkness, plus the usual chaos of sound men, stage hands, diva wranglers, photographers, and assorted hangers-on. Despite the confusion, Jason found his bandmates in the wings.

  "Hurry up and join us!" Denny called to him. "Underground Scene needs a band photo. Say 'Boxkite Airscrew sucks,' everybody."

  “Remember I play drums for them, too,” Sam protested.

  While the photographer positioned the band, Rafe, who was watching from a distance, noticed a commotion. A crowd of media people were walking backwards, shouting questions and running to keep in front of their quarry. They were mobbing three persons. The rest of Boxkite Airscrew had emerged from their dressing rooms. Carmen drew most of the initial flashbulbs, of course, with her dyed blonde hair, black leather skirt, and halter top. Malcolm, her husband, smiled affably at all the photographers, scraggly, unshaven, and suited up as if for a board meeting. Then came a slender and beautiful form, vanishing and reappearing in the flashes of photo-taking. The bulbs began to go off like strobe lights. Alexis had donned a dark suitcoat and wore a loosely knotted tie over his white shirt, oddly formal for him, but Alexis made any outfit look good. The singer stopped to watch Mullerin as they posed for their photo, and made a motion visible only to his then-manager, Carl Kilburn.

  "Gotcha," said Carl. "I'll get rid of the photographer."

  The singer spotted Rafe peeking out from behind Carl's muscles. Alexis cocked his head in curiosity, and Rafe slipped behind Carl again. Alexis stepped to the other side. Caught, Rafe shuffled back into the shadows.

  Kilburn glanced over his shoulder. "You need to leave, kid. You're in the way."

  "I want to talk to him," said Alexis.

  "Lexi, the concert's starting in five minutes," Carl replied. “You said you wanted to watch Mullerin play.”

  The two left, unveiling Rafe, who smacked himself in the head. "Fool! Mellor said he wanted to talk to you, and you just stood there like an idiot! Banzai! GO, moron, GO."

  The photographer was just finishing when Jason felt a nudge. "Good luck," said Alexis. "You'll need it. Could you manage to play better than some tenth-rate high school warm-up band for once?"

  Jason gaped. "We--always do our best," Denny replied, taken aback.

  Lang, however, was not easily daunted. "We promise to play our best as long as you promise to sing something better than those cheap-ass jingles you've been peppering your solo albums with. You didn't used to cater to the preschool market."

  Alexis's smile was pleasant and cool. "We're playing a set of our classic hits. I don't suppose you know them, because you were too busy sucking on a pacifier instead of sucking on the bass."

  "I'm surprised any of you can still play with those painful, arthritic fingers," Lang replied. His own smile was vicious.

  "Oh, WOW, this is soooo cool. My favorite singer is standing here together with my favorite band! I mean, Boxkite Airscrew's my favorite band, and so is Mullerin!" Rafe was glowing, not at all embarrassed by his own lack of logic.

  "Rafe," said Jason with a wince, "would you not fangirl so obviously?" It was painful to watch his oh-so-cool lover morph into a squealing eight-year-old.

  "Do you know these people?" Alexis asked Rafe.

  "Yeah," replied Rafe with a dismissive wave, as if Mullerin could now throw themselves off a cliff.

  Jason wanted to kill him.

  Mellor's behavior changed, maybe because Rafe was watching. "You're on in two minutes. Tie your shoelaces, kids," he added, but without cattiness.

  As Mullerin headed for the stage, Alexis's smile vanished. "Weren't you in the parking lot a moment ago?"

  Rafe nodded. Alexis moved in closer, backing the student into the darkest shadows. "You were with a man. I'm not sure who he was, but he was all over you," said the singer, his voice low. "I stopped to watch, because it was so sensuous. You looked very aroused."

  Rafe's mouth fell open.

  "But it all turned into low comedy. I was sorry about that. You were such a beautiful sight." One of Mellor's hands stroked the student's cheek, while the other fingered along the front seam of Rafe's pants, slowly tracing every dip and rise.

  Rafe stopped breathing. “What are--”

  “Be quiet.” The hand on Rafe's face shifted, all gentleness disappearing, to clamp down firmly over the student's mouth. Alexis started to knead harder with his other hand, fingers digging in with spasmatic jerks. He watched Rafe's face expressionlessly, taking his time. No one noticed the molestation, half-hidden in the shadow. Rafe shuddered, breathing faster. His eyes began to dilate as orgasm approached, and he looked around in helpless desperation, as if unable to believe this was happening to him, and wanting to be saved from it, yet--not. Finally the student's head fell backwards, eyes shut, mouth still clamped by Alexis, almost on the verge of completion--and then the singer's motions stopped. Cruelly, his hands disappeared. Rafe let out a brutal sob of need, and bit into his own shoulder to stifle the noise. Alexis smiled, and pulled something out of his pants pocket. "Open your hand," he commanded.

  Still panting, Rafe obeyed, shaking. When he could focus his eyes, he realized he was holding two items. One was a white capsule and the other a hand-rolled joint. "Swallow the capsule," Alexis whispered, “now. Go to your car after the concert and smoke this. Wait there for me with your shirt open to show that you want me.” He fondled the velvet shirt front.

  "But this isn't tobacco," Rafe stuttered. "And this capsule--I didn't think you took drugs."

  "I don't. You have to prove to me how badly you want me."

  Rafe blinked at him, stunned. "But what's in the capsule?"

  Alexis only smiled. "You'll have to trust me. Take it, and maybe I'll join you out in that car."

  "Good evening, Los Angeles!" Denny's amplified voice rolled out from the stage. "We are Mullerin, and Boxkite Airscrew has issued us a challenge. Who's going to be the best band you see tonight? Mullerin! When we finish, Boxkite Airscrew is going to have to roll off in their wheelchairs!"

  The first notes of Jason's guitar burst out with percussive thunder. Startled, Mellor hurried off to the wings to watch his rivals. The band began to play maniacally, and Alexis's eyes narrowed.

  Rafe stared at his joint. Slowly, on
e of his hands crept upwards, and he swallowed the capsule in one convulsive gulp. Then he began to thumb open his shirt buttons.

  Chapter 3

  Sweating, Mullerin left the stage. They had just played their best concert. From the tightness around Alexis's mouth, the Boxkite singer agreed. Mellor nodded meaningfully at his bandmates and led them out to join Sam. Two minutes later, Denny groaned. "We're beaten. I can't sing like that."

  Privately, Jason agreed. They had done their best, but it wasn't enough.

  Lang glowered. "Is it too late to unplug the mains?" he asked.

  "Carl's guarding them," sighed Denny. "I already looked. I guess Alexis was alert to treachery. Besides, we can't do that to Sam no matter what we feel about Boxkite."

  Jason shook his head and watched for awhile, then looked around for Rafe. His boyfriend was lounging against the parking lot doors, holding an unlit cigarette between his fingers. His velvet shirt was hanging open over his collarbones, showing every hollow of smooth skin from his throat to his navel. The shock of sexual hunger went all the way to Jason's toes. Fuck Boxkite Airscrew. He wanted Rafe, now. He approached his boyfriend and said two words. "The car."

  "No."

  "What the hell? You want time for a smoke? Do it later."

  "Boxkite's on. I want to hear them finish."

  "For God's sake," said Jason in disgust. He couldn't believe it. Alexis Mellor was not only winning the battle of the bands, he was interfering with Jason's love life, too.

  Lang and Denny were chanting, "Suck! Suck! Suck!" and beating the air with their fists. Rafe gave them a venomous look. "Assholes. Boxkite Airscrew is still the greatest."

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" the guitarist asked, exasperated.

  Rafe glanced down at the cigarette that lay across his palm. Jason's eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. That's not a cigarette." He tried to take it, but Rafe made a fist.