Running with Scissors (12 page)

shake the certainty that, yes, actually he
had
been staring at him like that.

A.J. exhaled. He pressed his forearm against the shower

wall and leaned forward a bit, stretching his back as the water beat on his exhausted muscles. The buzz from the show was

wearing off fast, zapping what little energy he had left, but

there was no shaking off his arousal that was intensifying

by the second—especially as he let his brain play out every

possible thing he and Jude might’ve been able to do in this

tiny shower stal .

Maybe they couldn’t have fucked in here—not

comfortably anyway—but, hell, who was he kidding?

He’d fucked in cars that barely accommodated properly

seated passengers, and he’d once had a threesome in his

slightly-larger-than-a-futon bed back in LA. He could make

this shower work if he wanted to.

And if Jude wanted to.

And if that look on his face had been any indication, he

had wanted to.

A.J. swore. His cock hardened and his frustration

deepened—what if he could have had Jude in here now to

help him take care of this?

That was a moot point, though, and when he was less

turned on, he’d remember why it was just as well they weren’t

hooking up. All he could think of at
this
moment was this erection that needed attention. His hands were practically

87

numb and his arms ached from the shoulders down, but he

closed his fingers around his cock and pumped it.

He pressed his forehead against his other arm. Eyes

squeezed shut, he fucked into his fist and bit down on a

groan just in case somebody else had come back. Just what he

needed—Jude walking onto the bus, hearing him jerking off

in the shower, and . . .

Joining him. Brazenly stepping into the bathroom,

stripping off his clothes, and wedging himself into the stall

with A.J. Pushing A.J.’s hand out of the way. Jerking his cock.

Maybe rubbing both of their cocks together.

And kissing.

Fuck. He stroked himself faster. His spine tingled as he

pictured himself pinned up against the wal , finally finding

out what Jude’s mouth tasted like and if he was the kind of

kisser who’d take the lead, or if he’d turn to putty in A.J.’s arms and let him take over. Jesus. The thought of Jude surrendering, letting himself be pinned, kissed, fucked—

A moan slipped through his lips, and he no longer gave

a damn if anyone heard him. His arm burned with fatigue.

His knees trembled beneath him. He leaned harder against

the wal , gripped himself tighter, stroked harder . . .

His orgasm knocked him off-balance as he imagined

himself fucking Jude’s mouth with his pulsing dick, watching

Jude swallow every drop while his eyes begged for more.

He shuddered once again, and relaxed. Jesus.

After he’d rinsed off his hand and arm, he had just enough

presence of mind to shut off the shower—no sense hogging

all the hot water before his bandmates returned—and then

stood there, trembling, panting, dripping, until his vision

cleared.

His hands were shaking badly, as much from drumming

as from jerking off, and toweling himself down proved to

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be a challenge, but he managed. He put on the clean boxers

and T-shirt he’d brought into the bathroom with him, and

stepped out.

No one else had returned yet. The whole world still

thumped with the bass from Schadenfreude’s show, so the

rest of Running with Scissors was likely still watching from

backstage.

Which meant he still had the bus to himself. He could

breathe. Maybe read for a while. Maybe fantasize a bit more

about Jude.

He climbed onto his bunk and lay back.

Read. Fantasize. His eyelids drooped. Sleep, maybe.

Heavy muscles. Heavy eyelids.

Schadenfreude’s bass faded away. So did his thoughts.

And without the postshow adrenaline to keep him going

through the postorgasm lethargy, he gave in and drifted off.

He awoke to the sounds of his bandmates riffling through

duffel bags, wandering in and out of the bathroom, and

chatting casually over the sounds of activity outside. Jesus.

This late at night, and the roadies were still working? And

the band—who were usually considerate as hell after hours—

were being this noisy?

He swore and rubbed his eyes. Bright lights too.

The scent of coffee made it to his bunk. Seriously? They

had all the lights on and were drinking coffee this late?
Jerks.

Wait. He fumbled for his phone, which he kept between

his mattress and the wal , and winced when the screen came

to life. As his eyes focused, he squinted.

Well, shit. No, they weren’t working and making noise

after hours—it was almost eight in the morning.

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He stumbled out of his rack, stretched, and shuffled into

the living area. Vanessa and Richie were goofing off on their

phones, some empty McDonald’s wrappers crumpled on the

table between them. Connor and Kristy were nowhere in

sight, and a wisp of smoke outside the window zeroed him

in on exactly where Jude was.

From one of the armchairs, Shiloh smiled over her

Starbucks cup. “Morning, sunshine. I was starting to wonder

if you’d gone into a coma or something.”

He laughed sleepily. “Nah, I’m good. Just needed some

sleep, I guess.”

“Apparently so.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, grab

coffee if you’re going to. The bus is rol ing out in like twenty.”

“Shit. Already?”

“Says the guy who slept in.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He went back to the sleeping area, quickly

changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and headed out.

Near the door, Jude was finishing up his cigarette. A.J.

paused, and their eyes met.

Was I imagining what I saw last night?

Jude slowly exhaled some smoke, drawing A.J.’s attention

right to his lips.
Fuck
.

“We’re hitting the road soon,” Jude said. “If you’re getting

coffee—”

“Right. Right.” A.J. shook himself. “I’ll . . . I’ll be back in a few.” He was thankful for the urgency of his coffee mission—

anything to distract him from staring at Jude like an idiot.

Before he went too far, though, he found the bus driver

checking the tire pressure.

“Hey, Bob.” When the driver turned, A.J. gestured over

his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m just going to grab some

coffee. Ten minutes, max. Don’t leave without me, okay?” 90

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Bob gave him a good-natured

salute. “Holler when you’re back, and we’ll pull up anchor.”

“Will do.”

He was on his way back with a triple-shot espresso when

he saw Connor going the same direction, struggling to carry

two boxes that were apparently heavier than they looked.

“Hey, Connor. You need a hand?”

“Oh, thank God.” Connor groaned and set the boxes

down with a
thud
on the pavement. As he stood, he shook out his hands. “I thought I could carry both, but . . . not so much.”

“No problem.” A.J. took one of the boxes and carefully

balanced his coffee cup on top. “Where did these come from?”

Connor flexed his fingers gingerly, then picked up the

remaining box. “The ticket office. They wanted some flyers to

hand out at the door, and this is what’s left.”

“Nice of them to give them back and not toss them.”

“Right?” Connor nodded in the direction of the bus. As

they started walking, he said, “You disappeared last night.

You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” A.J. adjusted his grip on the box. “Just

needed to crash and burn, I guess.”

Connor grimaced sympathetically and nodded. “Happens

to everyone. This touring shit is brutal.”

“No kidding.”

Connor shifted the box onto one arm and let the other

fall to his side. “How are you holding up otherwise, though?”

“I’m okay. It’s draining, but it beats the hell out of a

regular job.”

Connor laughed. “You can say that again.”

A.J. hesitated. Then, “How are
you
doing?”

Connor sobered. His gait slowed, and then he stopped.

“I’m . . .” Sighing, he set the box down again. “It’s weird.” 91

“I can imagine.” A.J. set the other box at his feet. “Are you

okay?”

“Does it really matter?” Connor rubbed his eyes with his

thumb and forefinger. “I never should’ve fucked things up

with Wyatt.”

A.J. chewed his lip. “Do you think he’d ever reconsider

quitting?”

“No.” Connor shook his head. “I tried cal ing him last

night after the show, but as soon as he realized it was me . . .”

That wasn’t surprising. Those two had been prone to

shouting matches at the slightest provocation. Wyatt hadn’t

been at all above walking out before Connor could even finish

screaming at him. Nothing had been more fun for the whole

group than the two of them being trapped on a moving bus

together when things got really ugly.

He shook himself. “What do you think we should do? As

a band?”

“I don’t know.” Connor rubbed the back of his neck with

both hands. “Shiloh seems to think everything will be fine. I

guess I need to talk to Vanessa and Richie. And Kristy. Figure

out if there’s any possibility of auditioning someone else,

or . . .” He waved his hand. “I don’t know.”

A.J. gritted his teeth.
Thanks for including me in that list.

“Anyway.” Connor rolled his shoulders and crouched to

pick up the box. “We should get back.”

“Right. Yeah.” A.J. picked his up too, and they continued

toward the bus. He quickly changed the subject, and they

shot the shit about last night’s show. This was the Connor

everyone liked. When he was mellow, everyone could

breathe. His short-tempered side was missing in action, and if

he’d just stay like this all the time, there’d be a hell of a lot less tension on the bus. But like everyone in the band, the touring

92

and the close confines took its toll on Connor, so A.J. could

understand why his temper was so threadbare sometimes.

Especially with Jude around.

That thought smacked him in the face. He chewed the

inside of his cheek. Jude drove Connor insane just by being

there, and he distracted the hell out of A.J. But how much

worse would it be if he and A.J. indulged in temptation and

then had to face each other the next day? And what if people

found out? Or what if things went to shit? All they’d done last night was have a short, tense staring contest backstage, and

they’d barely been able to look at each other this morning.

Taking that staring contest any further would be a recipe for

disaster.

He followed Connor onto the bus and quickly zeroed in

on Jude, who was parked in a chair with his bass across his lap and the brim of his baseball cap casting a shadow over his eyes.

Connor brushed past Jude, whose head turned slightly as he

apparently followed him with his gaze.

Then he looked at A.J. Despite the tinted lenses, A.J. was

pretty sure they’d made eye contact, and he broke it almost

immediately, ostensibly to continue after Connor and stow

the boxes of flyers.

If things were this weird after exchanging a look, and after

A.J.’d jerked off to thoughts of Jude that no one knew about

but him, then actually doing anything was the mother of all

bad ideas.

And hopefully he’d remember that next time he and Jude

were alone together.

93

he bus stopped somewhere in . . . New Mexico? Jude

t couldn’t remember where they were, or where they were

heading. Every time he dozed off, he woke up to more scrubby

desert or farm country. Sometimes a truck stop, sometimes a

town he couldn’t identify.

They weren’t performing tonight or tomorrow, so that

meant two easy nights in a row. The vocalists could rest their

voices. The instrumentalists could rest their hands. Thank

God for that—his fingers were still painfully raw. The roadies

were probably all comatose on their buses. Jude swore they’d

been running themselves ragged nonstop ever since he’d

arrived in Omaha.

At a truck stop off Interstate 40, he stepped outside to

stretch his legs and his lungs. He’d barely taken his first drag before Richie joined him.

“Hey.” He gestured at Jude’s cigarette. “I’m out—can I

bum one?”

“Yeah, sure.” Jude handed him the pack.

Richie slid one free, used Jude’s lighter, and the two of

them smoked quietly for a moment before Richie spoke.

“So, you and Connor.” He inclined his head, exhaling

smoke through his nose. “It’s still pretty weird, huh?”

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Jude cringed. Since that confrontation in Omaha, he

and Connor had barely said more than two words to each

other, and he’d hoped like hell that no one but him noticed

the tension, though that had obviously been wishful thinking

from the start. “I’ll bet it will be for a while. Not surprising, but . . . Guess I made that bed, so now I get to lie in it.”

Richie studied him. Then he shook his head. “I’m never

going to get why you guys can’t just let that shit go and move

on. You dated. Now you’re not dating, but you still can’t put