Page 8

CHAPTER 8

Geo

For a moment, I wonder if this was a bad idea.

But it’s just a phone call, right?

Plenty of people call each other, have normal conversations.

So why does this feel so.

.

.

not like that?

Maybe it has to do with the fact that the entire day at the studio, I couldn’t think straight.

Kevin had written up a list of clubs like Saint & Sinner that he felt would “help my image”, but I told him it didn’t matter.

I wasn’t going to be going out to another sex club any time soon.

Because if anything, the experience made me realize how fucking out place I am not just there, but.

.

.

What the fuck am I doing?

With this tour?

With Casualty?

With my life?

Then again, I guess every thirty-nine year old on the cusp of the big four-oh gets gifted an existential crisis, right?

Even playing my songs just doesn’t feel the same, but I hit my marks.

I always do, because at least I know if there is one thing I can do, it’s music.

I’ve always felt the most at home, the most confident on stage, with a microphone.

There’s a realness to performing for me, that doesn’t exist anywhere in my life.

No matter what costume I’m donning—Geo Graves, boy next door or Gravedigger , rockstar—when I step on the stage, when I grab that microphone I’m me.

There’s only one other place I’ve ever felt that at home, that authentic, and I know I’ll never have that again.

“You, uh, is this a bad time?” I ask, Zeb’s heavy breaths in my ear making me feel a bit flushed.

I adjust my cock, because clearly it’s got a mind of its own these days.

Maybe it’s having a pre-forty existential crisis, too.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, letting out a sigh.

The tinge of gravel in his voice has returned, and I swallow hard.

God, why am I so hot all of a sudden?

“It’s, uh... good to hear your voice,” I say, like an idiot.

I mean, it is true.

It is nice to hear him, but clearly not talking for ten years has only made me forget how to actually hold a conversation.

It’s just Zeb.

Conversation should be easy.

It was always easy before.

I can hear movement on the other end of the phone as I undress myself, crawling into bed.

I know being in bed before nine o’clock is like a kiss of death for most people, and as a rockstar, I’m supposed to be out at places like Saint & Sinner having the fucking time of my life.

But something about this—curling up my covers, listening to Zeb’s voice—this feels a thousand times better than being drunk at Saint & Sinner.

Zeb lets out another long sigh, his voice softer.

“Yeah. It’s good to hear your voice too, G.”

A smile threatens to form on my lips as I get comfortable.

“How...” He pauses, and for a moment I feel panicked.

“How did it go at the... studio today?” he asks, his tone shifting, his deep, smooth voice full of caution.

A part of me knows I should be careful, because this—calling him, pretending we’re friends again, falling back into his orbit—is too tempting.

On speaker, his voice fills the room, and it feels like he’s here.

And if I close my eyes, I can pretend he is.

So, I close my eyes, my shoulders relaxing as I lean back in bed, and I answer him.

“It sucked, actually,” I say with a sigh.

Something about that confession, as mundane and dull as it is, feels like I’ve shattered glass.

Like I’ve broken a barrier of some sort.

Zeb shifts, and I hear his deep breath again as he asks.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His words are careful, but I don’t miss the familiarity in them, either.

My mind wanders for a moment to all those days Zeb showed up for practice, clearly pissed off or bothered by something that happened at school.

My mother always said in order to get anywhere in any career, you needed to leave your shit at the door.

When I walked through the door of the studio, or the trailer, or set foot on a stage, there was no room to be distracted or bogged down by angst and drama, as she said.

But I always thought if I could have talked about what was on my mind before I assumed my role as Geo Graves, maybe it would have helped me sort my shit out better.

So, any time Zeb came rolling through those doors with tight shoulders or a glazed look in his eye, I made him tell me what was wrong so we could move past it and focus on our music together.

I wanted to give him the space he needed because he was my bandmate, but also because, well, I wanted to make him feel better, if I could.

Pissed off, angry or frustrated Zeb always made me feel the worst.

Like even though I knew it wasn’t possible, it felt like it was my fault somehow, and I wanted to make it better.

I know I shouldn’t go down the road of Hollywood gripes with the man I left for Hollywood, but something about the familiarity of his voice, mixed with that soothing, almost hypnotic deep breath.

.

.

I just can’t help myself.

“It’s just this tour, I guess. We kick off in a few weeks, and I’m just... I think I’m having a mid-life crisis or something.”

He chuckles, the sound smooth and warm.

It makes me feel a fraction better.

“You know, technically, you don’t know if you’re middle aged. Because no one knows when they’re going to die. You could die in like ten years, and middle aged at that point would have been twenty-five.”

I roll my eyes as I lay down in bed, getting comfortable on my side, propping my elbow up so I can rest my head in my palm.

“So what you’re saying is I’m already ancient. Thanks, Z.”

Zeb chuckles.

“No, I’m just saying the whole being middle-aged thing is subjective.”

“Pretty sure forty is middle-aged, Zeb, but thanks.”

His voice lifts a fraction, and I can hear the humor in it.

“You’re not forty yet, G. Still got a month.”

I blink as I let his words settle on me.

“A month until I’m the literal forty-year-old virgin,” I gripe.

“Yeah, can’t wait.”

There’s a moment of silence before his soft, smooth voice comes across the line.

“Could be worse,” he says.

I let out a sarcastic laugh.

“Oh yeah, how could it be worse?”

“Well, you could be a perverted, creepy old man with a shriveled up dick.”

“I’m definitely not a perverted, creepy old man,” I huff.

“And my dick is certainly not shriveled, thank you very much.”

Zeb laughs, and the sound is like melted better.

Deep, warm, and dare I say.

.

.

sexy?

“No, you are definitely not pervy, creepy, or old.” His voice is light, but there is an edge to it.

He coughs slightly, his voice rich with humor.

“What about you?” I ask as I settle down lower, laying my head on the pillow.

“What about me?” he asks.

“How was... your day?” I ask, getting comfortable.

I absentmindedly adjust my cock again.

I swear this thing has a mind of its own.

Now is not the time, buddy!

There’s a pause before he answers.

“It was okay, for the most part. I guess.”

“No existential crisis because your thirtieth is around the corner?”

“No,” he says softly.

“Just another day in boring old Posdosh.”

I don’t miss the sadness or the guilt in his voice.

“Besides, thirty isn’t the death of my youth or anything.”

I can’t resist the urge to tease him just a bit.

“So you’re not some middle-aged, pervy, creepy old man with a shriveled dick, either?” I snap, my lips turning up into a smile.

“Fuck, no,” he says with a resounding rebuttal.

“Thirty is the new twenty, haven’t you heard?” he taunts.

I scoff at his remark, but I can’t help smiling.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this good just talking to someone.

It’s not just someone, it’s Zeb.

“Can’t say that I have,” I say, and we both catch our breaths.

There is a pregnant pause, a tense silence.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, swallowing harshly.

Panic floods me, but I know I need to say this, because I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I don’t want to let him slip through my fingers again.

I was always raised to believe God lets things happen for a reason, and I think maybe that reason is he’s giving me a chance to make amends.

“Sure,” Zeb says, his voice a bit more relaxed.

I glance at the clock, noting it’s nearing ten thirty.

“ Pillars is scheduled to make a stop in Tucson, and I’ll have a couple days before and after the show before we have to bound off to Georgia,” I start.

Suddenly, I feel nervous he’s going to say no.

And this.

.

.

this conversation is going to end, and I don’t want it to.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

“I was thinking, maybe... and I’d totally understand if, like... you didn’t want to, but, I was hoping ?—”

His voice drops an octave, and my cock twitches.

Again.

“Hoping for what, Geo?”

I don’t realize that I’ve stopped talking altogether, because all I can focus on is the sound of his hot fudge sundae voice.

“I was hoping, uh... maybe we could... catch up? Have lunch or something?”

“You want to catch up? With me?” I don’t miss the way his voice lifts, like he’s nervous.

Though, I guess I can’t blame him.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

There is a pause, and for a moment, I think he’s hung up.

But then he speaks.

“Okay.” His voice is soft, and he sounds sleepy.

I yawn in response.

“Okay,” I murmur as I bury my face in my pillow.

“Go to sleep, Geo.” His voice is deep, smooth, suggestive, and with that added gravel of sleepiness, I can’t help but let out a contented sigh.

I’ve never felt so warm.

He said okay.

Maybe I can fix things after all.

“Okay,” I answer, but I don’t hang up.

“Okay,” he breathes.

I focus on the sound of his breath, the rhythm of it, and before I know it, I’m out like a light.

My phone screeches at the tender hour of six am, and I groan into my pillow, realizing my glasses are still on my fucking face.

I sit up, adjusting them.

Thankfully, they aren’t too bent.

I reach for the phone to shut it off, seeing a couple texts and a call from my sister.

Call me back, asshole!

Seriously, you can’t avoid me forever!

Don’t make me call Kevin!

She’s right, I can’t keep avoiding her, but I’m not ready to have the home conversation.

I haven’t been home since I left.

My leaving left a lot of people upset, including my parents.

My mom had been my manager for sixteen years, and she had no clue that I’d sent in a package to Casualty Records.

The only person that knew I was even looking at other options was Katy.

Zeb knew I wanted to be famous—mainstream famous—but we didn’t really talk about my dreams of Hollywood, because he didn’t seem to really favor the idea of “selling out”.

But I don’t think anyone was more shocked about my departure than my mom.

I love my parents, I really do, but I needed to leave the nest in more ways than one, and if I told them I wanted to leave , they would have just found a way to stop it from happening.

So, I didn’t tell them I was leaving until I was on my way to the airport.

I have worked pretty hard to avoid going back to Arizona until now, but Casualty chose the cities for this tour, not me.

My gaze catches the call below my missed call from my sister.

Three little letters call out to me, and I bite my lip as I debate whether or not to avoid my sister altogether and call him instead.

Then I notice the call log time.

Twelve thirty.

I blink, knowing I was definitely asleep before eleven.

I know I didn’t hang up, but.

.

.

why didn’t he?

Maybe he fell asleep and hung up after he woke up.

Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened.

My memory slides back to our conversation last night.

His smooth, warm voice, his rhythmic, deep breaths.

I sigh, feeling the weight of my cock in my briefs as it twitches, needing attention.

Is this the beginning of my creepy, perverted old man era?

Do you just turn forty and your dick and your brain become separate entities?

Or is this because my dick is having an existential crisis of his own?

I slide my briefs down, knowing it’s probably just better to take care of things now, otherwise I’ll just be thinking about it for the rest of day, worried I’ll pop a fucking boner at the wrong time in the wrong place.

I settle into my sheets, getting comfortable.

One of the perks of being alone is that at least I can be comfortable here, because it’s my home.

It took me awhile to get comfortable with masturbating in general, because I was led to believe self-pleasure was, well, wrong.

Once my mom caught me when I was fourteen, and she freaked the fuck out.

After, my dad sat me down for a “talk”, and I learned pretty quickly that what felt natural to me, wasn’t something I was supposed to enjoy.

Sex was for marriage and procreating, end of story.

It wasn’t until I moved to LA and moved in with Mateo, that I realized how fucked up it was that my parents had effectively fucked up my adolescence by shaming me instead of educating me, all because they wanted me to uphold their noble Christian values at home and in front of the public.

Ever since then, I’ve made it a point to do it when I feel like I need to, and I try not to feel guilty about it, which is why I usually try to not think about anything.

But lately, I can’t seem to clear my mind the way I used to.

Instead, I find my mind wandering to thoughts of deep, steady breaths that make my cock throb.

I don’t want to think about him, not like this.

It feels wrong, but.

.

.

It also feels really fucking good.

I lean my head back against my headboard, pumping my cock as my wetness spreads.

It’s just fantasy, it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s completely normal to think sexy thoughts when you touch yourself, Geo.

One hundred percent, completely normal.

Except, usually when thoughts make their way into my confused brain, I don’t think about my ex-best friend in any capacity.

But it’s like ever since the other night, since I heard his voice for the first time in ten years, it’s poisoned me.

I try to shift my thoughts to something else.

Ex-girlfriends, swimsuit models, even pretty angel boys.

It doesn’t help, not really.

I want to come so bad, but it’s difficult.

Every time I get close, I can’t.

I whine in defeat as I give up the fight, my gaze falling on my open en-suite bathroom door.

I can see the mirror from here, and I bite my lip, knowing I shouldn’t think about him like this.

But the last time I did, I came easily, and it felt really good.

So I close my eyes and I let the fantasy fill me again.

I miss you.

That smooth, decadent voice echoes in my brain, his deep, sexy breathing accenting the memory of watching myself fuck my own hand.

My entire body locks up and the moan that escapes me is deep.

I come hard and fast, and it feels…

So.

Fucking.

Good.

But the euphoria dies, giving way to guilt and shame once more as I watch my cock pulse, as ropes of warm, wet cum splatter across the black ink decorating my abdomen, stark in contrast.

That’s twice now.

Twice that the thought of a man has made me come easier than the thought of anything or anyone else.

But not just any man.

Zeb.

Before I can even process this startling and terrifying information, my phone rings, the unmistakable ringtone making me snap my attention back to the here and now.

I quickly use my sheet to wipe myself clean before I grab the phone and punch the green button.

“Yes, Katy?” I bite, feeling a bit on edge.

“I was getting ready to call for a wellness check,” she gripes.

I purse my lips, curling my knees to my chest as I drop my forehead against them.

I don’t want to do this, not now.

But the alternative is not looking any better, so I figure dealing with Katy and my fucking family is probably a hundred times better than dealing with the fact that I can’t stop jacking off and fantasizing about a man I haven’t seen in ten years.

Yeah, I’ll take my family for five hundred, Alex.