doing this.”
Fuck. The look on Brett’s face was enough to confirm that line of reasoning. Damn. This was why it was important not to get attached, not to make promises. Even if you didn’t make promises, people relied on you, and you let them down. Mikhail sighed and looked away.
“I have hurt you. It was not….” Fuck. “It was not intended.” 68
Brett wiped his cheek on his shoulder, trying to be manly and unaffected. His pointed ear came off, and he tried a sloppy laugh to prove that Mikhail was wrong, he was all fine and good.
Mikhail sighed and moved forward, pulling the ear point gently out of Brett’s hair and working the glue out of the long, coarse strands. Brett smelled like sweat and earth and a little like patchouli. These smells did not move him.
“I’ve seen you bend over behind a tent between sets, take it in the ass, and then show up at my van at the end of close,” Brett muttered, his voice muffled. His narrow, Puck-ish face was dirty with dust and makeup, and the tears he’d pretended not to shed were cutting tracks through the brown and leaving pale skin in their wake. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at that guy today.”
“He started it,” Mikhail muttered, feeling unreasonably like he might—just possibly might—owe this man a little honesty for kicking him out of bed for good.
“Yeah, Ice-Man, how’s that?” The sad thing was, the epithet wasn’t bitter. They’d been calling him Ice-Man since the incident Brett had just mentioned. It had been his first day working the circuit, and he’d been giddy and excited—and horny. It had been the beginning of his reputation of a man who would be fucked by anything with a prick and who would never look back.
“He looked at me,” Mikhail said reluctantly, hating the dichotomy,
“as if I were a god.” Silly, deluded man.
“Yeah?” Brett muttered, looking sideways at him like Mikhail would reach out a quick, hard foot and kick his orphaned puppy or something.
“What’s that like?”
“I’ll let you know when the madness of it has faded,” Mikhail said heavily. Then, feeling foolish because it seemed to mean something to him after all, he seized Brett’s hand and gave it a gallant farewell kiss on the knuckles. “We have been good friends, have we not?”
“We’ve been fuck buddies, apparently,” Brett said bitterly, but he didn’t jerk his hand away either.
“That too. Without the fucking, I would still like the buddy?” He thought about Shane, who would laugh when he said this because it was Making Promises
cleverly worded. Most people thought it was simply his accent getting in the way.
Brett sighed and pulled his hand reluctantly away. “Whatever, man.
If you still want some when you get your sanity back, you know where I’ll be.”
“A generous offer,” Mikhail said, meaning it, “but unnecessary.
Have a good night.”
He sat in silence for what must have been an hour, in the stillness of his music and the purple diamond sky. He contemplated going to bed. He contemplated jerking off. And then a part of him lost its mind. It’s the only way he could explain finding his cell phone in his hand or the way his heart beat when a man’s voice answered.
“I am being fucked silly by ten man-gods. Don’t you wish you were here?”
Shane’s low chuckle in his ear was… magic. Hot chocolate with cinnamon and whipped cream and caramel on the coldest day of the year.
“Nope. If you’re being fucked silly, I want to be the only one in the room.”
“You could have been.” His irritation flooded back, and he couldn’t help his disgusted sniff. “Stupid, foolish man.”
“Yup.”
“What are you doing?” He was honestly curious. Something about Shane’s voice suggested a darkened room.
“Watching Kung Fu Panda in the dark.”
“I love that movie!” He couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice.
Children’s movies fascinated him. He had been in dance since
Fuck. The look on Brett’s face was enough to confirm that line of reasoning. Damn. This was why it was important not to get attached, not to make promises. Even if you didn’t make promises, people relied on you, and you let them down. Mikhail sighed and looked away.
“I have hurt you. It was not….” Fuck. “It was not intended.” 68
Brett wiped his cheek on his shoulder, trying to be manly and unaffected. His pointed ear came off, and he tried a sloppy laugh to prove that Mikhail was wrong, he was all fine and good.
Mikhail sighed and moved forward, pulling the ear point gently out of Brett’s hair and working the glue out of the long, coarse strands. Brett smelled like sweat and earth and a little like patchouli. These smells did not move him.
“I’ve seen you bend over behind a tent between sets, take it in the ass, and then show up at my van at the end of close,” Brett muttered, his voice muffled. His narrow, Puck-ish face was dirty with dust and makeup, and the tears he’d pretended not to shed were cutting tracks through the brown and leaving pale skin in their wake. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at that guy today.”
“He started it,” Mikhail muttered, feeling unreasonably like he might—just possibly might—owe this man a little honesty for kicking him out of bed for good.
“Yeah, Ice-Man, how’s that?” The sad thing was, the epithet wasn’t bitter. They’d been calling him Ice-Man since the incident Brett had just mentioned. It had been his first day working the circuit, and he’d been giddy and excited—and horny. It had been the beginning of his reputation of a man who would be fucked by anything with a prick and who would never look back.
“He looked at me,” Mikhail said reluctantly, hating the dichotomy,
“as if I were a god.” Silly, deluded man.
“Yeah?” Brett muttered, looking sideways at him like Mikhail would reach out a quick, hard foot and kick his orphaned puppy or something.
“What’s that like?”
“I’ll let you know when the madness of it has faded,” Mikhail said heavily. Then, feeling foolish because it seemed to mean something to him after all, he seized Brett’s hand and gave it a gallant farewell kiss on the knuckles. “We have been good friends, have we not?”
“We’ve been fuck buddies, apparently,” Brett said bitterly, but he didn’t jerk his hand away either.
“That too. Without the fucking, I would still like the buddy?” He thought about Shane, who would laugh when he said this because it was Making Promises
cleverly worded. Most people thought it was simply his accent getting in the way.
Brett sighed and pulled his hand reluctantly away. “Whatever, man.
If you still want some when you get your sanity back, you know where I’ll be.”
“A generous offer,” Mikhail said, meaning it, “but unnecessary.
Have a good night.”
He sat in silence for what must have been an hour, in the stillness of his music and the purple diamond sky. He contemplated going to bed. He contemplated jerking off. And then a part of him lost its mind. It’s the only way he could explain finding his cell phone in his hand or the way his heart beat when a man’s voice answered.
“I am being fucked silly by ten man-gods. Don’t you wish you were here?”
Shane’s low chuckle in his ear was… magic. Hot chocolate with cinnamon and whipped cream and caramel on the coldest day of the year.
“Nope. If you’re being fucked silly, I want to be the only one in the room.”
“You could have been.” His irritation flooded back, and he couldn’t help his disgusted sniff. “Stupid, foolish man.”
“Yup.”
“What are you doing?” He was honestly curious. Something about Shane’s voice suggested a darkened room.
“Watching Kung Fu Panda in the dark.”
“I love that movie!” He couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice.
Children’s movies fascinated him. He had been in dance since
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