Page 6

HARRY

“I’m old enough to look after myself.”

When Dean said those words, my heart ached.

I didn’t want him to look after himself at all.

I wanted to scoop him up in my arms.

I wanted to hold him as tight as I could.

I wanted to protect him from whatever was making him feel sad or lost or lonely. I could hear it all in his voice. I could sense something hurting him deep inside and I wanted to make it all stop.

But I knew that was never going to happen.

And so, I sat there while he shifted the conversation to Madeline and they compared notes and stories about Mulligan’s Mill High. I fetched more beers and filled Madeline’s wine glass and Dean’s glass of tequila, until he said, “Actually, I think I’ll take a break from the tequila for a little while. It reminds me too much of LA.”

“What would you like instead?”

He looked up at me and brushed his fingers against the beer bottle in my hand. “I’ll drink whatever you’re having.”

My stomach knotted with both excitement and the pain of longing.

My head felt light.

My heart hammered in my chest and Madeline must have heard it because she said, “Let’s listen to some of Dean’s songs. This is a party, right?”

Dean shook his head. “Oh, Dad doesn’t own any of my music.”

But Madeline was already flicking through her own phone. “Don’t worry, I’ve already got a playlist happening. Please don’t think I’m a stalker. I’m not, honestly.”

I saw Dean move uneasily in his chair at the word “stalker.”

Nobody else noticed, then the music began on Madeline’s phone and Dean’s voice filled the room as the song “Hammer of my Heart” started playing.

Of course I knew the song.

I played it on my guitar almost every night.

But I never listened to it on the radio. I didn’t want to listen to the version everyone else knew. I preferred to keep his songs pure, simple strums on the guitar strings just like when I heard him play in his room, untainted by whatever LA had done to his music to make all his songs chart-toppers.

Madeline sang.

Dean downed the beer I gave him, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his lips wrapping themselves around the neck of the bottle, my heart screaming like one of his obsessed fans at the sucking sound when he pulled his mouth away from the beer.

God, I could have watched those lips on that bottle all night.

As the thought crossed my mind, he suddenly glanced at me, almost like he wanted me to watch.

I looked away instantly.

Before I knew it, Madeline was out of her chair and grabbing for my hand. “Dance with me, Harry.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no. I don’t dance.” I looked at Dean. “No offence. It’s a great song.”

Dean chuckled good-humoredly.

“Aw, come on,” pressed Madeline. “Everyone can dance.”

“Nah-uh. Not me. I’m like a bear… with two left feet… on ice.”

Madeline laughed as Andy stood, rising from the table, trying to clap in time with the music and doing a terrible job of both.

“I’ll dance with you, Madeline,” he said, stumbling a little, the beers already gone to his head.

Madeline caught him. “Woah, steady there, Fred Astaire.” She held him by both hands as they danced, more for the purpose of keeping him on his feet than keeping him moving in time with the music.

Madeline sang along with the words.

Andy tried but clearly didn’t know the song well at all.

I dared to glance at Dean. “Did you ever picture this as the pinnacle of your music career? Because I honestly don’t think it gets any better than this.” Thank God he laughed. He got my humor. Dean always had.

He shuffled his chair closer to mine and my heart pounded even faster. “I kinda love that Dad has no idea of the words to my songs.”

“You do? I mean, you don’t mind at all?”

He shook his head with absolute certainty. “Not one bit. God, I’d hate to have one of those obsessed parents who wants to control every little thing about my career. Look at Britney, look at Whitney, look at the whole Jackson 5. As far as I’m concerned, fame and family do not go together.” He sighed. “I’m not sure fame and anything go together.”

I shuffled my chair closer and my arm brushed against his. I didn’t mean for it to happen and I inched my body away slightly, just enough so we were no longer touching. “Are you sure you’re happy out there? Are you sure it’s what you want?”

He half-laughed, although there was no humor in his reply. “Of course I’m happy. Besides, I’ve got contracts I’m committed to. I’ve got a new album to finish. I’ve got a tour coming up, they’re talking about including Europe and Asia. Apparently, they love my songs in Japan and South Korea. They think I’ve got a whole K-Pop look happening.”

“They think you look like a breakfast cereal?”

He laughed again, genuinely amused, and all I wanted to do was kiss those lips of his. “No, K-Pop is… never mind… Clearly, I need to give you an education on modern music trends.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of it. “I’d like that.”

He seemed surprised. “You would?”

I pulled myself up. “Oh. Um. Yes? If you wanted to. Or were you just joking around?”

“No. I’m not sure. I guess not. Do you really wanna know about modern music trends? Or are you just joking around now.”

“No. Not unless you are. Are you?” The conversation was so clumsy and ridiculous that all I wanted to do was shut it down. I set my beer on the table and quickly stood. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“You can use mine if you like.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I can use the one in the house.”

“No, you can’t,” he told me. “Madeline’s in there.”

Only then did I realize Madeline had vanished, leaving Andy to dance all by himself, which he happily did in his own uncoordinated way.

I shrugged. “I can wait till Madeline’s done.”

“Just use mine,” he insisted. “You like using my bathroom, don’t you? I swear it’s clean.”

My voice got pitchy as I started stacking excuses on top of my nervousness. “It’s not as though I like to use your bathroom. It’s just, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Right?”

He laughed. “Then go. Now. Use my bathroom, it’s all yours.”

I wished he was all mine.

I gave in and nodded, just so I didn’t have to listen to myself ramble on like an idiot any longer. Without another word I dashed out to Dean’s bedroom studio in the backyard.

* * *

Dean’s backpack was on the floor.

His old guitar was on the bed, lying there like a lover.

I closed the door behind me. It had been a year since I’d set foot inside his creative zone, but I got the same old buzz I used to. The room had that boy smell about it, the same one that made me want to drop onto the bed and inhale his scent. I dreamed of breathing him in, of one day smelling his hair on the pillow, sniffing where his body had lain between the sheets.

I swallowed hard and my throat clacked.

I bunched up my fist, as though it helped me fight the urge to fling myself onto his bed.

I made a beeline for the bathroom and closed the door.

I lifted the toilet seat and unzipped my jeans. Now that I was there, I kinda did have to go. As I began to pee, my eyes wandered over the bathroom counter beside me. Next to the sink sat Dean’s open toiletry bag, a few things lying out on the counter: electric toothbrush standing upright on its charger, a tube of toothpaste, a bottle of men’s cologne, a bottle of—

“Lube?”

Yep. Right there on the counter was a bottle of “peach-flavored, extra silky smooth, silicone-based lube specifically enhanced for male pleasure,” according to the label.

Instantly I felt my cock stiffen.

I quickly shook myself off, zipped my jeans up, flushed the toilet, and washed my hands.

I picked up the bottle of lube. It felt half -empty. My cock strained in my jeans at the thought of Dean squeezing out a palm-load of lube and jerking himself off. It took all my strength not to unzip my jeans and do the same right then and there.

“Chill, Harry. This is not the time or place!” I told myself, before adding, “But a little whiff of that peach flavor can’t hurt.”

I popped the lid and pressed the pump-action trigger.

It seemed jammed.

I figured I needed to twist the top to unlock it.

I turned it left, then right, then pushed down hard.

A jet of lube shot out of the nozzle with so much force it missed my palms and splodged all over my T-shirt.

“Oh fuck!”

I stared down in alarm at the cum-sized spatter down the front of me.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I put down the bottle and carefully tried to wipe up the lube with both hands. Unfortunately, all I did was smear it farther up my T-shirt.

“Fuck.”

I stared from the smudge to my lube-slippery hands, the air filling with the smell of peaches.

Panic was setting in fast.

I tried to turn the tap on, but my hand slipped off the silver faucet, hitting Dean’s toothbrush which proceeded to topple off the bathroom counter—charging stand and all—and land in the open toilet with a splash.

With a buzz the toothbrush came to life like it was suddenly possessed, the swiveling bristles swirling against the side of the bowl.

Sparks hissed from the electrical socket where the charger cord stretched from the wall into the toilet.

I jumped with fright…

And horror…

And a feeling of revulsion that made my stomach turn.

“Oh no, no, no!”

Grimacing with dread, I peered down at Dean’s toothbrush buzzing away in the toilet, cleaning the sides of the bowl.

I knew I had to rescue it, I couldn’t just leave it there, but more sparks fizzed from the electrical socket and I knew I had to get the charger cord out of the wall first.

My hands were still lube-slicked.

I used my left hand to turn the other tap on.

Unfortunately, it slipped straight off the silver faucet as well, this time hitting the bottle of cologne. It fell to the floor and an explosion of fragrance—pine needles and mountain rain—wafted through the air.

“Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.”

I crouched quickly and scooped up some of the large shards of glass.

The toothbrush continued buzzing.

The socket zapped and sizzled.

I winced as I cut my hand on a piece of glass.

“Ow! Fuck!”

That’s when there came the knock on the bathroom door. “Harry? You okay in there?” It was Dean.

I gasped.

My eyes scanned the bathroom -turned -disaster -zone—taking in the lube on my shirt, the blood on my hand, the smashed cologne bottle on the floor, the fireworks coming from the socket, the buzzzzzzzzzzz of the toothbrush cleaning the toilet—and I quickly realized my chances of salvaging this wreckage were slim to none.

The next few moments would not be big on dignity.

I drew a deep breath, unlocked the door, and in no uncertain terms said, “I think I owe you a new toothbrush.”