Chasing Death Metal Dreams (9 page)

Before he could ask, his body took over, his balls drawing up tight. “Gonna come,” he gritted out.

Carlos froze, damn him, up on his knees with Nate barely inside him. He looked back over his shoulder and grinned. That was the face of a fallen angel, dark and wicked and smiling. “Want to change position?”

Nate panted, tugging downward against the strength of Carlos’s thighs. “No. Fuck! Finish it. Do me.”

Carlos resisted a second longer, braced against the pull of Nate’s hands, then gave in and slid down. He altered the rhythm to something low and fast and urgent, little twisting motions that made Nate crazy. Carlos had one hand on Nate’s thigh, and the other slipped down between them, rubbing against Nate’s balls, pressing, moving urgently, bumping against his sac. Nate’s vision darkened around the edges and he tipped his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, slamming up into Carlos with jumbled sounds of need.
More. Please. God, hot, yeah, more, fuck, yeah.
Half the words never made it through his open mouth, past his rasping breaths.

His climax hit in a rush of molten relief. He spilled over, spilled out, eyes closed, neck arched, mouth a rictus scream that echoed in his ears. Carlos kept going, riding him hard and fast, and just as Nate thought he was going to have to beg him to stop, Carlos shouted and stilled, seated deep over Nate’s hips, shaking enough for Nate to feel the tremors.

Nate unlocked his fingers and slid his hands up and down Carlos’s back as far as he could reach. The skin under his palms was damp and smooth, the muscles still twitching and shuddering at his touch. Carlos grunted, “Hold the rubber,” and as soon as Nate had his fingers in place, he lifted up and off. With his back still to Nate, he fumbled on the bed for his discarded shorts and pulled them on.

Nate patted the bed beside him with a flap of one hand. “C’mere.”

Carlos didn’t look at him. Instead he got out of bed and bent to pick up his jeans. “I should go.”

“You should lie down here and hang out.” Nate rolled up onto one hip and reached for tissues to deal with the condom. He wrapped it and dropped it into his bedside trash. “Come on. It’s not that late.”

“I guess.” Carlos hesitated, his jeans already halfway on, then shrugged and pulled them up. But instead of buttoning them, he turned to the bed, walked around, and slid in behind Nate. “This okay?”

“Sure.” Nate leaned back against Carlos’s chest, then wriggled sideways so he could see his face. He tried a wry smile. “That was the best sex I’ve had in months.”

Carlos grunted. “The only sex you’ve had in months?”

“Well, other than that time with you, yeah.”

Carlos kicked his ankle lightly with bare toes, his eyes amused. “
Pendejo
.”

Nate could guess well enough what that meant. He grinned back, but then had to ask, “You had fun too?”

“Sure.”

“You ever top?” He wanted to take the question back the moment he saw Carlos’s face go stone-still. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be nosy. Forget I asked.”

After a moment Carlos said, “Yeah. I have. It’s not, um, quite as simple though.”

“Well, this was great,” Nate said, eager to get back to an easier place. “I’m available to fuck you any time.”

Carlos’s lips curved up. “Such a sacrifice.”

“Not even.” Nate gave one denim-clad thigh a squeeze. “You’re hot.”

“Thanks.”

When Nate had actually been with a boyfriend, at least early on before things went sour, he’d liked to snuggle. Those moments after sex, letting his body reboot while lying soft against his man, had been some of his favorites. It wasn’t quite the same with someone he didn’t know, though. He fidgeted, sliding his foot against Carlos’s ankle, rubbing a hand over the “Death” dagger tattoo. “When did you get this?”

“When I was eighteen. Trying to look tough.”

“They do that, I guess.” Nate traced the wavy outline of the blade, then the flat-looking drops of blood that were scattered around it. On Carlos’s wrist there was a row of black block gothic letters. Nate took his arm and turned it to see them better. Carlos resisted for a moment, then let him. The letters said, “DON’T”.

“Don’t what?” he asked, running his fingers over them too. The fine, straight ridge of a scar along the upstroke of the N made him freeze and pull his hand away.

Carlos shrugged with almost convincing nonchalance. “Don’t
that
, obviously. And don’t worry because I won’t. That was
really
long ago.”

Nate bit his lip and decided that Carlos could have stopped this conversation already, if he hadn’t wanted Nate to know. “When?”

“Ah, hell, I was fourteen, I guess?”

“You
guess
?”

A tinge of red rose in Carlos’s cheeks. “Yeah, fourteen. But you know, I’m nothing like the person I was then.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-five. Almost. You?”

“A year older.” He touched Carlos’s arm, not where the scar was. “I remember when I was fourteen, though. God that sucked. I was dealing with being gay, trying to figure out how the hell I could be when my twin brother wasn’t.”
Fourteen, oh yeah.
Lying awake with Eli snoring the sleep of the righteous across the hall, and wondering what he’d ever done to pull all the losing cards. That was a long,
long
time ago. Thank God.

“You’re not identical twins though, right?”

That startled a laugh out of Nate. “Um, you
have
seen us together, right? He’s five inches taller, to start with.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“But still, it was weird, because we were kind of joined at the hip when we were little. Only he was the beauty and I was the brains.”

Carlos reached out to touch Nate’s jaw. “You’re just as good looking as he is, only in a different way.”

Nate snorted. “You don’t need to flatter me. I’m a sure thing, remember?”

“That wasn’t flattery. Sure, he’s got those angel-of-death cheekbones and eyes and all, but it’s almost too much. I like how you look.”

“Thanks.” Nate pushed the little warm flutter in his belly away, to think about later. “Anyway, he was really into girls by fourteen and I was all like, ‘Ooooh, yeah, she’s so hot. Oooh, bare boobs, yay.’” He kept his voice flat and was rewarded by Carlos’s laugh.

“When did you tell him?”

“Not for another year. Fourteen… sucked dead rats.”

“Mm.” Carlos leaned into him, just enough for their shoulders to press together. But after a moment he pulled back and sat up. “So, where are those etchings, huh? You lured me up here to see your art. So where is it?”

“I what
when
?” Nate sat up too, reluctantly glancing around for his jeans.
Oh, there, by the door.

“Okay, maybe you lured me with sex. But I still want to see.”

He hesitated.

Carlos swung his feet over to sit on the side of the bed and smile winningly at him. “Come on. You heard me sing, I get to see your stuff.”

“Half the town heard you sing. You were loud.” But he got up reluctantly and picked up his jeans. “Okay. Give me a minute.”

“Gonna run to the can anyway,” Carlos said. “Back in a second.”

Nate was just as glad to have a moment to think it through. Despite his earlier resolve, when it came down to actually doing it, he felt reluctant to let Carlos see his art. He went out of the bedroom, and opened the door to his studio, flipping on the light.

A quick glance confirmed that there was a cover over the half-finished piece on the easel, and the nude portrait thing that hadn’t worked out was turned to the wall. He glanced at the walls, second-guessing the drawings he’d chosen to display. Some of them were old, from four years ago, even five. He’d gotten better since then. He really should put newer stuff up. He realized he truly cared what Carlos would think.

Behind him, Carlos said, “This is a nice space.”

“Yeah. It’s the reason I’m still living over my parents’ old garage.” The lofted space had been split up, creating the living area at the front with the kitchenette, and two bedrooms at the back with the bathroom between them. Originally, his folks had meant it to be for Eli and him, as they started college, but Eli had gone up to U Dub and the dorms. Nate had leaped on the chance to finally have a room just to paint. With the angled ceiling, clean white walls, and the skylight his dad had helped him install, this second bedroom was perfect. There was no way he could have afforded anything half as good anywhere else.

“You’re lucky.” Carlos stepped in further and turned in a circle, surveying the artwork on the walls. “And good. Fuck. Why aren’t you a full-time artist?”

“Why are you stuck playing music for beer money?” Nate returned with a hint of bitterness.

Carlos raised a dark eyebrow at him. “People don’t know talent when it hits them in the face?”

“Yeah. That.”

Carlos went over to look closer at a series of ink drawings on the far wall. They were studies of Eli in full cry, hair whipping, his back and hips moving, his guitar an extension of his hands. Nate had kept the face low on detail, going for the action feel. Carlos reached out as if to touch the last one, his finger hovering an inch off the glass. “Damn. Even with what— four lines for eyes and a squiggle for his mouth? —you can tell he’s a good-looking bastard.”

Nate felt a twinge of something odd, pride and jealousy mixed, maybe. “You think?”

“Hell, yeah.” Carlos flashed him a grin. “And he has that voice. But you know what he doesn’t have?”

“What?”

Carlos came back, stalking, smooth and powerful strides. He reached out and grabbed Nate’s chin, and Nate let him. “This, you sexy bastard. The poor guy dates girls.” He kissed Nate hard. “Plus, you know, no real creative talent. You do art. He does covers.”

Nate pulled free, his emotions more mixed than ever. “He has a shot at making it big. He had a producer come by a couple months ago— the guy who’s going to be at Sparkfest in two weeks, watching for talent. He personally invited Eli.”

“Really?” Carlos’s voice was neutral, but something in the flatness of his eyes caught Nate’s attention.

“Are you, um, going to be there too?”

“Yup.” Carlos smiled but his eyes remained watchful and cool. “Not that he’s likely to look at us.”

“Why not? You have great songs!”

“Well, maybe. Whatever.” Carlos ran a hand over his hair, and managed a better smile, reaching out to touch Nate’s hip. “So, another round? Or another time? Interested?”

“Sure, although not now. I think you got all I have tonight.” Nate hadn’t come that hard in a long time.

“That was the plan.”

“You know,” he said slowly. “What I’d really like to do is draw you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Why not? You’re hot, you have that great mouth, eyes.” Carlos’s eyes looked like he had secrets, dark ones and smoldering ones, but Nate didn’t want to say so. Anyone with that scar on his wrist probably had secrets he didn’t want grubby hands to touch. Plus he was sure there were challenges about being trans that Carlos might never tell him about, but it all combined to give him a depth Nate itched to capture in ink.

Carlos shrugged. “A picture of me? Doing what?”

“It doesn’t have to be tonight. And nothing in particular. I mean, I would like to do a series of you like those ones of Eli. It’s interesting. You’re both musicians, you even cover some of the same songs, but you have a different energy on stage. I’d love to see if I can capture it.”

“You could check out a band practice if you want.”

“No. Well, I’d love to, but there’s a different feel to a practice. Not that I don’t like that too. Here, look.” He went to his shelves and found the right sketchbook. “This is practice.” He opened it, passed it over.

Carlos looked at the pages, turning them respectfully by the corners. This book was an ink sketch series of Eli and the band down in the old garage, on a day when things weren’t going well. There was the drummer, flinging his stick across the room; Eli, his hair standing untidily on end from running his fingers through it, glaring at the music on his stand; the bass player shaking out his hand after the hundredth run at the same piece. At the end was a page of them together, Eli’s arm draped over the bassist’s shoulder, all of them sweaty and tired and in that place where you call it quits and try again the next day.

“Not a good practice,” Carlos muttered. “A tight band, though.”

“Yeah, they’ve been together a long time. Since high school.”

“That’s cool.” Carlos closed the sketchbook and handed it back. “I don’t know if I want you to draw me now, though.”

“What? Why?”

“Those ones go deep, huh? You see things.”

“I still see them even when I don’t draw them.”

“Mm. I guess.” Carlos stared off into space for a while, eyes unfocused like he wasn’t even seeing the artwork on the wall. His frozen features gave no clue to what he was thinking. Then he shook himself and turned back. “Hey, it’s getting kind of late. Can I get a ride back to my car?”

“Sure.” Nate wasn’t sure why the distance had opened up between them, but he could feel the coolness of it against his skin. For sure, they were done tonight. “Let me finish dressing and I’ll drive you.”

The trip back to the coffee shop was silent, though not strained. Carlos stared out the windshield, slouched in his seat, tapping his fingers on his knee in intricate rhythms. As they pulled in next to the only car left, an ancient gray and rust Pinto, he straightened up.

Just for something to say, Nate muttered, “Aren’t those the kind where the gas tanks explode?”

“Hasn’t happened yet.” Carlos’s voice was warmer than Nate expected. “So, you think I could maybe come by again sometime?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Carlos looked down. “Don’t you?”

“Anytime,” Nate said strongly. “I mean, as long as my brother’s band isn’t jamming under our feet.”

“Works for me.” Carlos stretched in the cramped front seat and then reached to hold Nate’s chin for a kiss. It was odd how that gesture, which Nate had never liked, felt right coming from this man. Nate opened his mouth for Carlos and grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of his head to hold him longer. They both came up breathless.