Page 49 of Dedicated
We stared each other down, and eventually I shook my head petulantly.
“I know whereof I speak,” Dan said, fixing me with a sage expression as I rolled my eyes.
“Fine, oh wise one.”
Danand I went to cool off at a bar, and even though I didn’t necessarily want to, I forced myself to stop after one beer because if Evan was at the cabin when I got back, being hammered definitely wouldn’t help. It was strange as hell to not only be the sober one, but the level-headed one. I didn’t think I cared for it one bit.
The SUV was in the driveway when I returned, and I lingered outside for a minute after Dan dropped me off, just looking at the front door. I kept having this one thought that made my stomach flutter; I’d gotten so used to being shuttled around on a tour bus, or in a town car, whatever, that seeing the SUV in front of the cabin struck me as so perfectly domestic it would almost be funny if the current situation didn’t suck so much. Because I wouldn’t mind having something simple like this with Evan, wouldn’t mind getting off tour and getting in a car together and then walking into the same house with him. In fact, I’d— I stopped the thought before it could begin to sprout and take root. It was never gonna happen. Tonight was another reminder of that.
In the kitchen, I stopped and guzzled some juice from the fridge, spying a tiny orange glow out on the deck as I drank.
Evan had kicked cigarettes soon after we’d started writing together, but when I got outside, there he was smoking, a small mound of butts in the ashtray as evidence he’d been there for a while.
“Trying to make up for lost carcinogens?” I asked, then snatched the cigarette from between his fingers.
“Funny coming from you.” His gaze remained fixed on the horizon.
“Yeah, well, do as I say and not as I do. Or something.” I took a long drag off the cigarette, then pinched out the butt and pitched it into the ashtray. Evan watched without comment. “Let me ask you something.”
He groaned. “If it’s about whether I’m a pitcher or a catcher, I’m fucking leaving.”
I blew out a little chuff of air that wasn’t quite a snort, wasn’t quite a laugh, then twisted to face him, leaning back against the rail of the deck. “What do you want?”
Evan lit another cigarette and, after a moment, came to stand at the rail next to me. I turned and rested my arms against it, and we both gazed out into the darkness of the forest beyond. The cherry of his cigarette flared when he inhaled, shadows painting themselves into the hollows of his cheeks. I stole the cigarette again, took another drag, and scraped a shingle of ash onto the railing before handing it back.
“Like on a grand-scale level or right this very second?” he finally replied, glancing over at me.
“Whichever?” Whichever got him talking, whichever got that dark expression off his face.
He exhaled in a noisy rush of air. “Sometimes I want to throttle you.”
“I’d let you.” I kept the tease playful, encouraged by the sight of his expression downgrading from glower to frown.
He switched the cigarette to his other hand, freeing the one next to me, then reached up and closed his fingers around the side of my neck, his thumb pressing gently into my windpipe. “Unsurprising. You like all kinds of kinky shit.” He angled toward me, his hand shifting and tightening. A tingle rose through my jaw and spread over my cheeks before he released the tension of his grasp slightly.
“How do you know?” Another squeeze, this time brief, and when he traced his thumb down my Adam’s apple to the hollow of my throat, I shivered in hopeful anticipation. “Just a heads-up that you’re making me hard, so congrats on being right. Apparently I’m into being mildly throttled.”
Evan barked out a rough laugh, letting his cigarette fall to the deck and crushing it underfoot before sliding his hand down my shoulder, as if he intended to let it drop back to his side before a last minute change in course brought it back to my neck, where he tightened his grip again.
“What are you doing?” I didn’t move, didn’t want to, but I was curious.
“I don’t know.” He gave a brief shake of his head. “I don’t even make sense to myself anymore. I was so pissed at you for springing that song mid-show, but you were right. It was good. It got me out of my head, and once I got over panicking about it, it was exhilarating in that free-fall,oh-shit-my-stomach’s-floatingkind of way. Like when we first started working on songs together. And then that asshat made that dumb comment, and even if I was still aggravated at you, I hated how what he said implied you were less than me.” He tilted his head to the side to look at me, and the vehemence in the blue eyes that had provoked our greatest hit crashed over me with such force I almost stumbled backward. “Because you’re not. Les, you’re so fucking not. It’s bad enough if you think that about yourself, but if someone else ever even remotely suggests it, it makes me want to hurt them.”
I couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe, and not just because his hands were moving over my skin, alternately applying pressure and then releasing and tracing gently, like they were directly connected to his emotions. I swallowed hard. Fuck, I was not going to tear up in front of him. I refused.
He blinked up at me and huffed out this self-aware laugh as he glanced at the one hand he still had around my throat. “I still want to choke you, too, I guess.”
“You’re being pretty diplomatic about it, though.” I brushed aside the threat of tears and gave him a small smile. “It’s kinda like an indecisive mix of murder attempt and massage.”
“A relaxing murder.”
“Name of our next album.”
We both laughed. It was weird and a little awkward just standing there with Evan gripping my throat, but somehow erotic, too. Awkward eroticism. Was that a thing? My dick said it was. I sensed we were hanging on the cliff’s edge of something, but Evan wasn’t sure how to tip us over, and after our last hookup, I sure as shit wasn’t going there.
“I should stop fucking with you,” Evan said. Softly, like he was telling himself, and yet he didn’t move away. His thumb turned little circles in the hollow of my throat, his fingers tightening again, this time to knead the back of my neck.
“I’m not sure I want you to,” I whispered.