The Gift (24 page)

"Nice?"

August gasped his attempt to respond. He swallowed, he breathed, and when a spoken reply failed the second time, he merely nodded.

"More?" Doren took pause for acceptance and cautiously slipped another finger beside the two already in place.

"Jesu—" August cut off his own response, clamping his teeth together. It wasn't pain that made his body shake. It was the more, more, more inside his head; the oh-my-God-I-want-him-to-fuck-me-so-bad chant that both cock and ass were singing in harmony.

Doren didn't give him time to let the plea slip out, "Aug, I'm going to cum." Doren twisted his fingers, squeezed August's cock almost painfully, and a million nerves sang Doren's praises. Wet warmth hit August's mid-section seemingly from everywhere: from his own straining dick, from Doren's trembling one, in random spatters and streams that met in the middle and painted relief on August's abs and chest.

Exhaustion threatened to drown him. Even Doren slumped forward, leaning his full weight on August's legs, his chest heaving in the same way August knew his had to be. "Doren?" August asked, waiting for Doren to find himself and look up. "We seem to cum on me a lot."

Doren eased his fingers out of August's body, a slight smirk forming on his face. "Yeah, well. It's a good look for you."

August watched Doren walk into the bathroom with a detached, dreamy smile. He swiped cum off his chest with his t-shirt and was asleep before the water from the sink shut off.

He moved away from the bed slowly, regretfully. He would have loved nothing better than to climb back in and rest beside August all afternoon. He couldn't though. No matter how peaceful the regular draws of August's breath as his chest rose and fell. No matter how soothing the relaxed beats of August's heart.

No, there was music to be played and stories to be heard. Songs were being whispered into Doren's head that he hadn't heard before. Someone had sent him an army. And he had to find out why.

He sat and tuned his bass while they waited, humming to an old rock tune that rolled out of the radio in a growly yet somehow still soothing hum. It was a great day—finally. The sun was back in all its righteous glory, burning away the dreariness of the rainy past, promising redemption with a host of happy birds and buzzing bees. Dawson and Geoff were in the corner, joking about Doren's retreat, but they were just jealous. Or they weren't. Maybe they actually had an issue with the fact that Doren liked to swing both ways. Who knew? Who cared, really? Cooper had his own opinion of that. And that opinion was: get it where it's offered, and give it where it's wanted; luckier still if you happened to stumble on somebody as gracious as August seemed to be.

Not that such a thing would happen to him. For some reason the only hopefuls he seemed to turn the heads of were the crazy groupies that only touched his dick with the hopes that they'd make it past him and into someone else's bed. Such was the life of a mere instrumental musician: always second or third along the ladder. Could be worse though. He was still better off than the roadies.

Cooper was just debating the possibility of sparking up another mood enhancer when Doren came back through the door and shut it behind him. And if the delay had got everyone wondering, the look on Doren's face confirmed it. Cooper smiled at him, pleased as punch that Doren appeared not only relaxed but also pleased, and coaxed a long, mournful pull from his bass. "Ready, boss?"

Doren returned the smile and cocked an eyebrow. "Do you need a couple of minutes first?"

Cooper's expression twisted into a full grin. What? Could the bugger read minds, too? "Nah," he said. "I'm good for now. Playing gets the blood flowing just as well as the weed does."

Doren sat beside him and pulled out the folded paper.

"So, Coop," Doren said, his voice low, the words obviously meant for them and them alone. "You smoke a lot?"

Cooper shrugged, dropping his eyes to the guitar. "No more than the next guy."

Doren waited until Cooper looked at him. "Not this guy."

Cooper chuckled, strumming the strings. "Why would you? What do you got to smoke away, right?"

Doren reached for the strings and stroked them to match Cooper's last note. "You got something you're trying to smoke away?"

Cooper shrugged again. "We all got things, right?" For some reason he felt oddly scolded and the last thing he wanted was to get off in a bad way with Doren.

Doren laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Cooper watched the expression on Doren's face soften into something that seemed oddly pious, and yet startlingly hot at the same time. "You want to talk about it?"

"No."

That was an easy answer. Talking about what he did with the smoke was the last thing Cooper wanted to do. A person just doesn't talk about some things. One definitely didn't tell his new boss, a rising king in the industry that one wanted—no,
needed
—to be part of, that half the time you walked around thinking you were crazy. One sure didn't tell him that one had spent his childhood listening to voices that weren't really there. You didn't tell him that the only way to quiet the mumblings in your head was to numb them out with weed, or drown them out with music.

No, sir. You sure didn't.

He took a quick glance at Doren's face, the hum coming from Doren's lips strangely familiar. Like, something he'd heard before, but just couldn't place. Maybe something from when he was a kid? An old TV show or a chord from a song his granddaddy used to play on that crazy harpsichord?

Then, watching Doren's face, even with his eyes closed and seemingly expressionless, Cooper almost could have sworn that Doren never really needed it to be said anyway. So Cooper did what he never did; he shook the lock off the gate and inched it open. He heard Geoff mentally cursing at the last note tried, he heard Dawson thinking about a sore foot, he even heard Curtis musing about what August would feel like, how different that might be to the chicks he'd known, and Cooper shot Curtis an ugly look. The pig.

Doren snagged back Cooper's attention immediately, opening his eyes and seeming to solder their gazes together. The rest of the minds in the room quieted. All Cooper could hear was the music that Doren sang in his own. He heard Doren recite the lyrics, the rhythm of the tune, the way it would fall, and Cooper's heart jumped in his chest. It was good. It was going to be awesome!

Without missing a beat Cooper dove deeper, picked up a musing about hunger, a thought about grabbing a beer, and stumbled over the part of Doren that still lingered on the bed in the adjoining room. With a start, and an awkward laugh, Cooper almost pulled back, embarrassed.

"Wait. Don't go."

Cooper's heart started beating so hard he thought for sure he was going to have an all-out attack. He really needed to cut back on the weed. No, he really needed to smoke more. No, they needed to just start playing the music because this was stupid. People didn't hear other people's thoughts. They sure as fuck couldn't read other people's minds. That shit was just Hollywood, not real life.

"Are you sure?"

It was like Doren was talking right into Cooper's head. Christ and the Virgin Mary. He knew Doren was different. He knew it the first time they'd met—hell, the first time he'd heard Doren's vocals. Was that why he'd been hired? Had someone known? After all, he was skilled at the bass but so were thousands of other people—people who also had the benefits of good looks and brains.

"Doren?" His mind reached out timidly and their brains connected.

"It's okay, kid," Doren answered silently. "It's not a curse. It's a gift."

He watched Doren and Cooper against the other wall and it made him unreasonably furious. It looked like the two of them were nodding off together. And, God, Cooper looked like a freaking moron, staring at Doren like the man was delivering a cardinal speech or something when Doren wasn't even talking. Sharing a moment much, you freaks? Whatever. They could just go right ahead then. Just go ahead and get all personal like the rest of them were nobodies. Hell, why didn't they start holding hands and skip down petal-littered paths too.

He gritted his teeth and turned his head away before he let his brain tumble over the "fag" word that it wanted to. Because it didn't bother him, the gay stuff. Not really. That wasn't what was pissing him off and he knew it. The real reason was that it always seemed like he ended up being the odd man out. No matter where he was or what he was doing, how good he was at it or why, someone always managed to make him feel like a big, fat loser. And that made him want to beat stuff furiously.

As if on call, Geoff felt the energy flood to his knuckles and he hissed his annoyance. How was he supposed to play now? When his hands were gripped so tight the blood wouldn't flow into them right and everything from forearm down shook like he was freezing to death? He hated it when he got like that. How many times had he ended up in shit because he couldn't get control over the need to smash something with his fists?

He set down the guitar as gently as he could manage, his jaw locked, and stalked out to the patio. If he didn't hit something he was going to lose it.

He saw the garbage bin piled high, trailing flies looping and diving above the mound of trash, and figured that would do about as fine as anything would. He walked around to the back of the metal bin, stepping over fallen bags and litter, his hands itching for the relief of expulsion, then squared up both fists and let them fly, breathing heavy as his knuckles jammed into the metal side, crunching and caving the hard surface.

The first one was always the most satisfying; the second one took off the pressure; the third hit was just for fun. Geoff stepped back, spreading his fingers wide as the energy ebbed out of them, breathing like he'd run a ten-mile race for his life.

"Well, now ..."

Geoff looked up, startled, and stared directly in Doren's amused face. "Feel better?"

Oh, and wasn't that just great. No doubt Doren thought he was a complete nut-job. He tried for casual, shrugging, "I just needed to let off some steam."

"Something piss you off?"

For a moment Geoff struggled to find the right answer. "No, yes, I don't know. I guess something must’ve. Sometimes I just need to hit shit."

"You don't know if something pissed you off?" Doren raised his eyebrow, adding quotations to his words with his fingertips. "You 'guess something might’ve'?"

Well, what the hell was he supposed to say to a question like that? That he had trust issues? That it made him jealous to see Doren talking alone with Cooper? He could just imagine what Doren would say to that. "Are you gay? Do I turn you on?" Then what? Then he'd have to punch out Doren too. And wouldn't that be a perfect way to end his career. Besides, he wasn't gay in the least. He loved girls. So what if he had attention issues? He'd like to see someone else grow up as the seventh son in a family of ten boys. Yeah, it made for a bit of a competitive spirit. It wasn't until you struck out, stirred up some shit, that people started to notice you. You could grow your hair long, flash a pretty smile, you could even play a guitar like Eddy Van Halen and still nobody really gave you any mind. But when you smash someone hard enough to knock out teeth, or punch through a school bus windshield … well, then one tended to get noticed.

Before Geoff knew what Doren was doing, Doren had reached out and grabbed his hands, turning them over and taking a hard look at them. "Your knuckles aren't even cut open."

Why, he asked himself, did he get the feeling that Doren wasn't even surprised? It usually surprised the hell out of everyone else. For that matter, it had been enough to get him off more than one set of criminal charges. After all, who could punch clear through both sides of a classroom wall without a broken knuckle or sliced hand to show for it? Without even a bruise?

"I barely touched it," Geoff snorted, pulling his hands away. For some weird reason his knuckles had started to tingle all over again. "It sounded worse than it was. You know, metal bin and all."

Doren reached for the bin, running his hands along the surface. "I don't know," he challenged. "It looks like you did a pretty good job." He looked up into the sky. "You even scared away the flies." He caught Geoff's eye with a grin. "It takes a lot to scare off a fly, you know."

Suddenly Doren grabbed for his hand again, holding the knuckles tight, rolling them together.

"Fuck!" Geoff cried, dropping to one knee. "Let go!"

Doren did as requested. "So how come that hurts yet you can practically punch a hole through this bin and you got nothing?"

Geoff spoke through clenched teeth, rubbing his knuckles. "I don't know."

Doren leaned down and caught Geoff's gaze again. He spoke so quiet, his words were almost inaudible. "I do."

When Doren reached for him again, Geoff didn't pull away. Geoff felt the tension rise in his fists as Doren rested palms over knuckles. Power raced through his arms, bubbling out of Geoff's core and centering in his fists. As though on their own, his hands tightened. And still the power grew.

He stared at Doren with an expression of both fear and awe. Doren's face, however, was a mask of repose. "Pick it up."

Geoff laughed, a high-pitched, incredulous bark. "Pick what up?"

"The bin," Doren said. "Pick it up and move it."

"Are you nuts? I can't do that!"

Doren held Geoff's hands tighter. "You can."

When Doren rose Geoff followed almost without thought. And when Doren slid his hands towards the bin, Geoff's continued as if magnetized, releasing only when they came in contact with the metal surface.

"Do it. Don't think about it; just do it."

So Geoff stopped thinking about it. He let the sensation build, he reached for the bottom lip of the bin, and with the strength of a dozen men, power ebbing and flowing through his arms and into his fists, Geoff lifted the bin. He expected to strain, and tensed every part of himself in anticipation, until the realization dawned on him that he didn't need to. Effortlessly, Geoff lifted the entire structure, tilting it, and dumping it on to its side with a horrific bang.