Chapter Text
Tommy Joe Ratliff looks across the bar, the dance floor. Looking for Adam. Adam, who left him with a whisky and a martini a long time ago. Like, ten minutes, even.
Tommy tries to be cool about this. He doesn’t want to want to know where Adam is every second. That shit’s so uncool. Tommy understands that his own brand of cool comes from being minimalist, being quiet, staying in one place, letting himself be followed, not doing the following. By waiting till a finger beckons before he moves forward. Not by jumping up on stage in front of thousands of people he doesn’t know with nothing but a wireless microphone for protection. He knows – knows – he doesn’t have Adam’s kind of cool. Adam has loud, sparkly, motormouth cool. Adam has stage presence, the kind you can’t look away from. Adam is a beautiful boy, tall and confident. Tommy is petite and tiny and could be beat up by a thirteen-year-old tomboy, most likely. Tommy has trouble believing that Adam ever used to be fat or emotionally retarded. Tommy knows shy in a way he’s sure Adam never has.
The irony that is practically poking him in the figurative eye is that Tommy is the straight one while Adam comes across as more masculine, more alpha, more boy-next-door. And that shit ain’t right.
But right’s got nothing to do with it. Because Tommy’s straight and Adam’s gay, end of fucking story. It’s even kind of cool that they’re breaking stereotypes here; maybe someday the world will stop salaciously gossiping about who’s queer and who’s not. Maybe someday some gay guy or gal can go on a program like American Idol and talk about their sweetheart without worrying if it will make people judge them. Tommy gets how unfair it is, that Kris Allen can talk about his wife and no one will think twice, but if Adam mentions a boyfriend then it’s no longer about his singing ability – it’s about his method of fucking. Anyway, everything on TV’s just a big propaganda campaign for heterosexuality. Tommy looks down on heterosexuals who don’t understand what it’s like to be gay, to be other, and who make no effort to understand.
Tommy’s always been attracted to the gay subculture; they provide an instant family of outcasts, brothers and sisters against the world, and that’s unbelievably cool. Their very subjugation and their fight against it are badges of honor. Tommy spent most of high school hanging out with dykes and fags. He even thought for awhile that he should be a queer because he was already a freaky weird little thing, hated sports, hated exercise, hated gym class, loved nothing but punk and metal. Even his parents didn’t appear to believe him when he told them he had asked a girl to the junior prom. He finally gave being gay a try when he was seventeen and his lezbro Jillian’s friend Skyler clearly had a crush on him. Skyler was cute and diffident and Tommy didn’t have lots of experience of the lustful kind yet, so he and Skyler made out and traded hand jobs in out-of-the-way places and were secret boyfriends for about two months.
But as Jillian said in the breakup aftermath, when it came to Tommy, the gay simply didn’t take. Tommy is straight, and years later he still feels like a shit for treating Skyler like an experiment. He didn’t mean to but he didn’t understand back then. Skyler’s a lawyer now and has a secret boyfriend that the people at his law firm don’t know about, but Tommy’s happy to know that Skyler has someone. He hears this shit through Jillian.
More irony. The closet case has someone to love, the straight guy doesn’t.
So Jillian is on the dance floor in this Valley club where no one pays attention to him or to Adam. Or maybe they’re just well-behaved enough to not show it. Maybe. Except for the twink who’s blowing Adam in the john right now.
The club is packed to the rafters with intimidatingly gorgeous people of any and all sexual persuasions. Not one of them appeals to Tommy in a sexual way. Tommy’s been getting way too intimate with his own hand since auditioning for Adam’s band. It’s been a whole fucking year. He hasn’t so much as kissed anyone but Adam for over a year, if you don’t count the fans who kiss him. Which, by the way, weird.
Tommy scratches at his wrist and downs the remaining whisky. He hiccups, then decides to finish off Adam’s martini. The music is kind of deafening, 80s new wave. Good beat but not really Tommy’s thing.
Jillian and her total butch man-date, who goes by Heath even though her birth name is Heather, saunter over to the bar, slightly sweaty from dancing.
“See? Isn’t this place cool!” Jillian hollers over the music.
Tommy gives a sideways smile and fist-bumps Jillian.
“Where’s the sex god?” Jillian hollers.
Tommy shrugs and points his chin toward the back of the bar.
“Twink?” she mouths in an exaggerated fashion.
Tommy nods, his lip slightly curled. He doesn’t like the thought of swapping second-degree spit with Valley twinks. Totally unfairly, he wants Adam’s kisses entirely to himself. Not that he’s going to share that thought with Jillian. He’s still making up to her for breaking her friend’s heart years ago.
Jillian snorts and Heath rolls her eyes. Jillian signals to the bartender. “You want more?” she asks Tommy.
Tommy nods. “Jameson is good.”
“Huh?”
“Jameson!” he shouts. He tries to shove a twenty in her hand but she won’t take it as she turns to pay. She puts another whisky in front of him, with shots for herself and Heath.
Tommy shrugs again. He twirls back and forth on the barstool. He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie.
Jillian and Heath look at each other and then at Tommy. “We need to find someone for you!” Jillian bellows. “Heath, let’s go hunt for hot straight chicks!” she adds, scanning the club just as Tommy feels hands on his waist, lifting him from the barstool.
“Fucker,” Tommy mutters as his boots his the floor. He tries to pry the hands from his waist and when that fails tilts his head way back and sticks his tongue out at Adam, who is (just admit it) towering over him and looking unbearably smug. Fuck. Tommy would like some of the kind of stress release Adam’s been getting.
“New Order!” yells Adam. “Come on!”
Tommy doesn’t dance, not unless he has his bass strapped securely around him. And then only because he’s bopping to the beat.
“Can’t dance, you know that,” he says and even though it’s drowned out Adam seems to just know what he said and whispers in his ear, “I’ll do the dancing for you.”
Tommy squirms but Adam’s got a firm grip; bear-hugs him from behind and steers him into the midst of sweaty bouncing bodies. Adam’s hands are all over him and Tommy doesn’t lie to himself – he likes it. More and more all the time. He’s started to wonder if the problem with Skyler was not that Skyler was a boy per se but that Skyler was a twink and maybe twinks aren’t Tommy’s type in guys. In girls, Tommy’s type is petite and pale and shy and so was Skyler. Maybe Tommy’s problem is that his girl preferences do not translate to guys.
Because Adam is nothing like Skyler and nothing like the girls Tommy’s slept with. Tommy knows fucking well that he can’t crush on Adam. It helps that Adam seems easily able to separate the playfulness of flirting from the reality of lust. There’s a line that neither of them crosses. Tommy can see the line with intense clarity. It’s about a micron thick (Tommy isn’t even sure why he know what a micron is) but it’s definitely there and they both know it. It molds around their bodies as they move together and it keeps them apart. When Adam kisses him on-stage, they don’t really touch. Not in the way that matters. It might look like their tongues are tangling together but that’s just a stage trick. No secret messages pass between them. But Tommy has dark thoughts; he wants to have something of Adam that nobody else has and for awhile he thought Adam was, like, not going out with anyone, not having sex, not even snogging anyone and Tommy liked that thought a lot. The reality is that so many people throw themselves at Adam that it seems impossible Adam can resist them all. Strangely, lots of women at the concerts seem very interested in Tommy but that’s not his thing, hooking up with random women.
The line that Adam and Tommy don’t step over – it’s a good thing, Tommy reminds himself all the time. He just wasn’t expecting it to hurt so much, wanting and wanting and never getting. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he would do with Adam if he could have him. He only knows that the hormonal teenaged confusion that he thought he’d left behind is reanimating itself a whole fucking decade later and he’s way too old for that now. And if it’s an early midlife crisis, then he’s totally fucked.
Turns out it’s another good thing Adam doesn’t need any help manhandling Tommy around on a stage or on the overheated dance floor of this Valley dive club with “Blue Monday” jackhammering a beat into his skull, as strangers bounce into him and away, because Tommy’s mind is way off on tangents. Adam won’t even let him turn around; holds Tommy against him with an arm slung over his chest. The other arm is there, too, gripping his hip. Adam undulates at the waist and makes sure that Tommy’s scrawny frame moves with him.
Adam’s body is incredibly warm, even through his hoodie and Metallica tee-shirt he can feel it. Adam leans over him and rubs his cheek against Tommy’s. Tommy can’t help grinning just a little bit. Some of the other clubsters see what’s happening and smile. Tommy smiles back. He knows what they’re thinking and doesn’t care. They seem friendly, not voyeur-ish. He wonders if whoever sexed Adam up in the men’s room is around, but he can’t see any bottle-blond elvish twinkly thing glaring at him jealously, so it’s all good.
He feels Adam’s lips against the shell of his ear and represses a quiver.
“I love this song,” Adam coos right into his ear, humming to the tune.
Tommy turns his head and Adam moves so that Tommy can whisper into Adam’s ear. “You think they think we’re together?”
Adam laughs and put his lips against Tommy’s ear again and whispers back, “I should be so lucky.” Adam’s hands start wandering all over his arms, his chest, his stomach, even his thighs. “God, you’re such a babe,” Adam breathes.
That shit hurts. Tommy knows Adam is just flirting in his usual Adam-ish way, teasing sweetly. He knows that Adam loves him but not like that. He is pretty sure that Adam doesn’t have a clue how Tommy feels, or he wouldn’t act like this, because Adam isn’t mean. Adam treats people well, even the one-night stands. That last is only a guess from what Tommy can tell, because no, Adam doesn’t discuss his sex life with Tommy. There are no words between them for what they do on the stage and off the stage. Adam is a motormouth but Tommy doesn’t like to talk about feelings – his or anyone else’s – so Adam respects that in him, cuts him lots of slack.
They wind up making assumptions about each other’s thoughts, that way, and they’re probably wrong, and Adam’s hand is getting way too close to Tommy’s junk so he twists in Adam’s arms and comes face to face, moves back to try to get some space even as he’s play-pouting at Adam. The joy on Adam’s face is what Tommy lives for now; he feels like a small dark star rotating shyly around a supernova, basking in the glow sometimes, but mostly being eclipsed. He hides in Adam’s penumbra and he likes it there.
But Adam’s grabbing his belt with both hands, hauling Tommy’s groin flush against his own. Still dancing, and Tommy’s hands clutch at Adam’s biceps and he leans back, trying for some personal space, as he lets Adam do the dancing, moving Tommy’s pliant body wherever he wants. Tommy has no ass at all but Adam’s hands find it anyway and squeeze. He leans over to lick Tommy’s neck and Tommy’s ticklish there sometimes and twitches. Tommy wonders briefly why that micron doesn’t stop the cooling dampness from Adam’s tongue. But nothing stops Adam. Fucking force of nature.
Tommy’s glad, as he often has a reason to be, that while he looks twelve he’s actually nearly thirty and has life experience and has passed his sexual peak and that means he is skilled at not popping boners at inappropriate times. The truth is, and it hurts Tommy even to think it, that if Adam hoisted Tommy over his shoulder and took him to the nearest flat surface, Tommy wouldn’t say no. He would take a one-night stand as fast as the sluttiest boytoy in Club Cobra if that’s the only way he could have Adam. Only his own still-viable straightness stands between dignity and desire.
The song switches to more New Wave synth-pop, another song that’s probably older than Tommy. Adam knows the song, no surprise there.
“Come on, come on,” Adam says against his ear and Tommy doesn’t know what Adam is asking of him, but the song is so peppy and upbeat. Tommy’s not especially in the mood because that fucking twink is still on his mind and pissing him off. Adam clearly is in the mood, though, gently releasing Tommy and moving his hips and arms in that sexy way he does on stage. Tommy feels kind of stupid but does his best to dance along in a slow, desultory glamgoth way. It’s not like anyone notices him when he’s with Adam, and Adam’s getting into his own little world now. It’s pretty apparent that men, women and trannies are all starting to watch Adam surreptitiously and is it hot in here or what?
Someone smacks into Tommy’s back and propels him against Adam. Adam catches him with a loud laugh. Tommy feels envious eyes boring into him from all sides and he takes the opportunity to say Let’s leave in Adam’s ear. Adam grins and shakes his head. He grabs Tommy’s face in his hands and kisses him hard on the mouth, then kisses his ear with a mumbled “Come on release me baby.” It takes Tommy way too long to realize that Adam’s quoting a line from the song. He knows it’s not really meant for him, it’s just Adam in the joy of dancing and being with people. In the mirrored wall Tommy sees a fey boy with purple hair behind them, staring at Adam. What a surprise, there’s that fucking twink. How dare he dye his hair purple, he’s not even remotely cool enough to do that. Tommy turns his face up to Adam and fuck if Adam isn’t winking at the purple wonderboy.
Well, that’s enough, Tommy’s through with this shit. He came tonight to be with his friend Jillian and her new girlfriend, and Adam asked to come and now Tommy’s got to share him with a whole crowd and he’s hardly seen Jillian at all and --
Tommy runs his hand across Adam’s chest and finds the nipple piercing through the tee shirt and tweaks it hard. Adam reacts immediately, folding in on himself like he’s been kicked in the balls. He gives Tommy a look of stunned betrayal.
“You little bitch,” Adam says, but Tommy’s already marching towards the exit. He waves at Jillian, hardly stopping. She and Heath look puzzled and Tommy feels bad about that but he can’t stay in here another second.
Jillian grabs his arm. “Look out, here comes your baby,” Jillian whispers in his ear.
“Not mine,” says Tommy, kissing Jillian’s cheek without looking at her and slipping out of her grasp.
* * *
Outside the cold air feels wonderful. Tommy’s nearly to his car when he hears Adam yelling across the parking lot, “Tommy Joe, stop!”
Fuck that. Adam can find a ride home. Adam can call a cab, or beg Jillian, or hell, there are only about a hundred guys inside the club who would willingly take Adam to the ends of the earth if he so much as simpered at them.
He thumbs the door remote and the lock snicks open and Tommy’s got a hand on the door handle when Adam catches up and Adam’s big hand covers Tommy’s so he can’t open the door, and Adam’s leaning in and pinning him to the side of the car.
“What the fuck, Tommy?”
“Going home,” Tommy mutters, stubbornly not looking back at Adam.
“I thought we were having fun.”
You were, Tommy thinks. But he doesn’t say it. Adam’s right; he’s a little bitch.
“I’m sorry I called you that,” Adam says.
And how come Adam can read his mind? And furthermore how come Adam can’t read his mind, because if he could, he’d know and he’d stop teasing. He would turn all solicitous and apologetic and be all Tommy-I’m-sorry-I-wasn’t-misleading-you-on-purpose-I-don’t-love-you-like-that-you’re-my-friend-I-love-you-like-a-friend.
“Give me some space.”
Adam backs off fast. Tommy uses the moment to fling open the car door and slip inside, but he can’t shut the door because there is Adam again, his big body in the way, shoving the door back open and crouching down and looking at Tommy in that intense way that means he is worried.
“You’re angry with me,” says Adam.
Right now Tommy hates that reasonable tone.
Adam won’t stop. “Talk to me.”
“Can I go?”
“Please, tell me. What did I do?”
There are other people going back and forth from cars. Tommy sure as fuck can’t do this here. Not here. “Not here,” he says out loud.
Adam stands and looks around, crouches again. “I have to get my jacket, okay, wait for me, yeah?”
Tommy drums his fingers on the steering wheel and nods and stares out the windshield.
Adam stands, hesitates. “Don’t go anywhere,” he warns and then trots off to the club entrance. As soon as he’s inside the club, Tommy slams the car door shut and guns the motor. Narrowly missing a couple of drag queens, he peels out of the parking lot with no other thought than to get to his small apartment and be alone.
He’s racing down Glen Oaks when his phone beeps. He glances at Jillian’s text.
Whered u go. glambert looks mad.
Tommy pops in his Bluetooth and hits speed-dial.
“I don’t feel good,” he says.
“Hey, Thomasina Josephina, I tried to tell him that. Were you his ride?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Heath offered him a ride but I think he’s calling a car.”
“Thanks, Jilly, sorry, just.”
“I know, darling, don’t worry. Let’s do Vic’s Smokehouse on Monday, ‘kay? Take care of yourself.”
Tommy loves Jillian for knowing him so well and letting him off the hook.
* * *
Tommy also loves his new apartment. It’s all his, no more roomies, thanks entirely to being in the band. It’s in a nice place, a forties apartment building with a pretty courtyard. It’s still in the Valley but that’s okay, he likes Burbank. Now that he has a car that doesn’t break down, he can go to the ocean anytime he likes. His neighbors are a bunch of sweet, feeble, walker-using retirees so it’s dead quiet after midnight. Stray sounds of traffic a boulevard away are muted.
There’s not much furniture, just stuff he picked up at the swap meet or that came from his old apartment. Tommy has never felt he needed crap just for the sake of having it. Other than CDs and guitars and a car that doesn’t break down, he’s not interested in owning clutter.
Coffee seems necessary so he beelines for the kitchen, tossing his hoodie on the sofa and setting his cell on the pass-through. He turns on the light over the sink, just to have something on. The rest of the lights he leaves off.
His phone beeps and Tommy practically jumps a foot in the air. He approaches it slowly and picks it up as though it might bite him.
The text reads, Nearly there.
Tommy crosses to the front window and peers out, staying in the shadow of the curtains that his mother put up for him. A town car pulls over to the curb.
Tommy moves away from the window and chews on his lip. Fucking A, why can’t Adam just go back to his fancy house in the hills where Tommy picked him up earlier in the evening?
Boots thud on the steps up to his unit and stop. There’s a pounding fist. “Tommy Joe, open the door.”
Tommy shuffles slowly towards the door. It’s the gravity effect, the supernova reeling in the small dark star.
“Tommy!” Adam pounds again.
Tommy leans against the door carefully, quietly, fussing with his phone.
Adam’s voice starts again and it’s quieter now, as though Adam knows exactly where Tommy is. “Let’s not be mad, Tommy. Open up, let me in.”
Tommy waits. The bright line between them is now the width of an old wooden door in Burbank, and Tommy still feels the connection between them. Is Adam leaning on the door, too?
“I know you’re in there, your car’s parked outside.”
Tommy waits.
“Tell me what I did wrong.”
And waits.
“I sent the car service away. You want me to sleep on your doormat?”
Tommy thumbs his phone. He opens a text message to Adam’s number and types Go away.
He hears Adam’s phone chime. Crap, if Adam texts back he’ll know where Tommy is. Tommy quickly hits vibrate on his own phone.
He hears Adam sigh on the other side of the door.
His phone vibrates. You gave me a key.
Shit, that was true. u have to respec t my privicy, he types.
He hears a chime and then a snort. Shoulda thought abt that before giving me key.
Tommy types, leave me alone
Adam answers, No way.
Tommy: bet u dont have key with
Adam: Tommy Joe Ratliff i am coming in NOW
Tommy: this is stupid
Adam: yah it is open the fuckin door
Tommy moves away from the door. It sounds like Adam doesn’t have the key with him, in which case he can sit in the dark and wait until Adam gets bored and calls the car service to come back and get him.
Tommy pussyfoots to the far side of the living room and perches on the arm of the old sofa. He feels trapped, and he feels ridiculous because what the fuck is he doing? This is the best job he’s ever had and this kind of behavior is going to destroy it. Then he’ll need to move again. On the other hand, he’s lived this long on instinct and principle and he can go back to a shitty apartment and three roommates. It won’t kill him. Except he really likes his new friends in the band and on the tour. And Adam. He likes Adam. It always comes back to Adam.
Just when he thinks Adam gave up, there’s another knock and Adam saying quietly, “Let me in, damn it.”
Tommy wants space, wants time. Why can’t Adam wait until morning, leave some leeway. Hell, Adam could have just taken some random guy home and had a good time. What’s he doing in Burbank at two a.m., knocking on the door of a guy who’s already made it clear he wants to be left alone tonight.
A key snicks and the door opens ominously. Tommy jerks upright and his phone clatters on the wood floor.
The door shuts – none too quietly – and there stands Adam with his back to it, staring across the dark room at Tommy.
It’s hard to tell Adam’s expression in the dim light. Adam seems to be waiting.
Tommy finds that the long hair is useful. It’s hanging in his face and he doesn’t bother to brush it away. He can see through the strands but his own expression, which probably borders on terror or at least intense embarrassment, should be hidden from Adam’s view.
“Tommy.” Adam’s voice is, like, an octave lower than normal. “You’ve never acted like that. I can’t let it go. Just talk to me. It’s me, Tommy. Me. You know it will be okay, whatever it is.”
“It’s nothing,” Tommy manages to mumble.
“Nothing?” Adam leaves the door and stalks towards Tommy. “That really hurt, you know? You never do that kind of thing, so I know it’s me, my fault, I made you angry somehow, I just don’t know how.”
He stops right in front of Tommy, not even giving the favor of leaving personal space. He puts a finger under Tommy’s chin and that’s so familiar that Tommy feels his eyes start to sting and oh no, that’s not okay. But Adam’s tilting his face up and using his other hand to draw aside the long white-blond hair, tucking it behind an ear carefully.
“Please, Tommy. Please.”
Tommy’s eyes drift closed. Is Adam going to kiss him? He feels like Adam’s going to kiss him. He wants Adam to kiss him. Sure, he was mad at Adam in the club but now that he has Adam all to himself, he starts wanting again, wanting what he can’t have and shouldn’t have. For example, a proper kiss. But Adam isn’t doing anything, just holding his chin up with one hand, stroking the back of his neck with the other. He feels the incredible warmth of Adam’s nearness.
“Tommy.”
“I, um, do you think I’m like them?” Tommy stumbles over the words, cannot open his eyes.
“Huh?”
Tommy twists his head, drops his shoulders, and worms his way out from behind Adam, crossing the room to get some distance.
“Like who, Tommy?”
The hair is still doing its job, having fallen from behind his ear. Tommy is so glad because he thinks his cheeks might be turning red and glowing in the dark.
“You said – you told that guy in England, Ross somebody, or –“
“What are you going on about?” Adam is closing the distance between them, damn it.
“Am I your type?”
Adam stops in front of him again. He puts out a hand and lifts the curtain of hair and peers into Tommy’s eyes. “Is that what this is about?”
Tommy feints again and slips away and goes over by the front door. The living room isn’t all that big.
“Stop walking away from me.” Adam is starting to sound a little pissed.
“Stop following me.” Tommy folds his arms across his scrawny chest.
“What do you mean, type?”
Tommy shrugs, looks to the side, inspects the coat rack his mom put there. Coat racks are so not rock-and-roll.
“Tommy?” Adam has that weird thing in his voice now, like Tommy’s a skittish colt he’s trying not to spook. “My type?”
“Am I a twink?” Tommy can’t believe he said that out loud. He bites his lip.
And there’s Adam all up in his situation again, reaching out and then stopping without touching. “God, no. Why would you think that?”
Tommy fidgets and shuffles his feet. “Is that why you picked me?”
“For what?”
“The band.”
“Of course not. You know you’re a great musician. You know that’s why you beat out everyone else.” Adam turns and walks away, hesitates near the kitchen pass-through.
Tommy takes the opportunity to scoot over by the sofa and the front window again. He peeks through his hair. The kitchen light illuminates half of Adam’s face. It’s unfair that Adam can look so beautiful. Tommy can count his own ribs with his fingers, he’s that skinny. He realizes he’s not very twink-y because he likes horror movies and is horrible at flirting. He would look awful in glitter shorts and fishnet tanktops. Not that he has anything against twinks. Except the ones that Adam takes to bed.
“It’s just –“ Tommy tosses his hair out of his eyes. Adam is watching him. “You were with me tonight.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. Um.”
“Is it too much? I’m taking advantage?”
“What, no.” Tommy shakes his head.
“On stage,” says Adam. “You want me to stop? Are you afraid that people think we’re together?”
Oh, if only, Tommy thinks bitterly. He starts picking at his nail polish. “Not that.”
“Tommy, I don’t want to make you unhappy. You believe me, right? Because if you didn’t believe me, I’m going to feel horrible.”
“Don’t care what people think,” Tommy mumbles.
“Louder, glitterbaby, can’t hear you.”
Tommy smiles ruefully. “Just, you came with me and to meet Jillian and all.”
“She’s great. Heath’s great. I love them.”
“And then you were, like, um, left me alone to go have a fuck.”
“Excuuuuuuse me?” Adam puts his hands on his hips and glares, and Tommy has to admit even beautiful Adam has some ridiculous looks and this is one of them.
“In the bathroom.”
“What bathroom?”
“At the club.”
“What about the bathroom at the club?”
Tommy was close to chewing his lip bloody. “I saw that dude following you.”
“WHAT? I was autographing paper towels in the bathroom for hours. I wasn’t having sex.”
Tommy looks down and back up.
Adam blows out a breath that almost stirs his bangs in spite of all the product holding his hair in place. “You thought I was screwing in the john? Tommy, I had to go into a stall just to piss so they wouldn’t take pictures.”
Oh. Hmmmm. Tommy isn’t good at thinking. “Then why did you flirt with that twink on the dance floor?”
“Did I?” Adam looks really mad now. “Excuse me for having fun while I’m dancing. As I recall I was dancing with you. It was cool up until you about twisted my nipple off.”
Tommy’s not proud of that moment. He jams his hands in his jeans pockets and pretends to find the tips of his sneakers to be fascinating. He can feel Adam’s gaze on him. “Sorry,” Tommy says softly.
“You should be, it’s still throbbing. Jesus.” Adam rubs abstractedly at his shirt. “I can’t believe you thought,” Adam says, mostly to himself, and then his hand stops its motion and he stares. “That’s hilarious,” he says. “You thought I was getting some and really I was just signing autographs.” He laughs.
“It’s not funny,” says Tommy, a little bit belligerently.
“It’s kind of funny,” says Adam. “Wait, are you jealous?”
“Um,” says Tommy, “no?”
“You’re straight.”
Tommy shrugs.
“You’re not?”
Tommy shrugs again. “Mostly straight.”
“Are you,” Adam says more carefully, “telling me that you’re jealous of guys I sleep with?”
Well, there it goes, the secret’s out. Tommy is almost relieved, to the point his leg muscles threaten to give up and drop him on the floor right where he stands.
“Tommy Joe Ratliff, what are you telling me?”
“Okay, I said I’m sorry, I was stupid, can you just leave now?” Tommy tosses his hair again and looks pointedly at the apartment’s front door. When he looks back, Adam is nearly chest-to-chest with him, looming.
“Are you jealous?” asks Adam softly.
“No, I just feel stupid!” Tommy says sharply, stepping back and nearly falling onto the sofa.
Adam cocks his head.
“I’m your type, right?” Tommy says, still bristling.
“Me and my big mouth, I should never have told anyone.”
“I’m like a, what, tiny and precious and shit,” Tommy says. “You know how hard it is being a dude who’s short and skinny? Know what’s it like – what it’s like that you think I’m one of those guys you.…” Running out of steam, he looks down at his feet again. It was hard getting those words out. He’s ashamed of himself, along with being turned on by Adam’s presence. Like he always is these days. He could kick his own ass, if he had one to kick.
“Oh, not that, no. You’re nothing like other boys. They may look like you but,” and here Adam runs a finger along Tommy’s cheek, “they’re not you. You, you’re incredible.”
Tommy feels overwhelmed. He doesn’t understand what Adam is saying. He shoves Adam’s hand aside and turns his head to look out the window. He can’t look at those sweet blue eyes. Even in the dim light, Adam’s eyes kill him.
“You never said anything. I honestly took you at your word and thought you were straight. How the fuck was I supposed to know you were available?”
Tommy lifts his shoulders and drops them.
“Wait. Are you saying that you are available?”
Tommy scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor.
Adam says wonderingly, “Are you saying I can have you?”
There’s a tense, drawn-out moment. Tommy’s heart seems stuck somewhere in his throat. Or maybe that’s acid reflux. The thing is, things are moving way too fast. His brain is kind of on spin cycle and it won’t stop. Only a couple of hours ago Tommy was commiserating with himself and some pricey whisky in a Burbank club, freaked out about being attracted to Adam, jealous of boys no prettier than Tommy Joe, thank you, getting to have sex with Adam. And then he was being spooned by Adam on the dance floor and Adam was flirting outrageously with him and Adam pashed him right on the mouth in front of a club full of people, which, yeah, it had been way too long since the last time the band played a gig and Tommy had gotten so used to those kisses, addicted, even. Just thinking back to it, his lips are tingling.
And now Adam’s sucking up all the oxygen in his tiny apartment with his height and his broad shoulders and his big personality. And asking him, for fuck’s sake, if he is fucking available? What does that even mean? Does it mean Adam wants it to be that way? Or is Adam going to get mad at him for crossing the line? Tommy can’t even process what is being said to him. He’s starting to shake so he wraps his arms around himself.
Not surprisingly, Adam hasn’t even noticed that Tommy isn’t answering, because Adam talks enough for any five other people. So he’s still blithering on about something. “Or do you mean you’re available to any guy?” Adam asks, staring at Tommy as though Tommy is a stupendously foolish person.
Tommy, horribly offended, shakes his head.
Tommy could be imagining things but Adam seems to relax at that. “Just me?” Adam asks softly.
Tommy peers out through his bangs.
“Oh my god,” says Adam. “All this time. Oh my god. Give me your keys.”
“Uh, what?”
“I have to go home right now.”
This is a turn of events that Tommy could never have anticipated. He’s embarrassed, ashamed, turned on, confused, guilty… and Adam’s wants to go home?
“Why?” he asks, hurt.
“I can’t stay here! You’ve, like, just smacked me over the head with the Eiffel Tower, I need to go home and indulge in a panic attack and eat ice cream.” Adam does sound like he’s maybe starting to hyperventilate. “Give me your car keys.”
“What if I need to go somewhere?”
“Oh no, sweetheart, you’re not getting another chance to run before I pick you up in the morning.” Adam looks really tense, like he’s trying to not show he’s nervous.
“For what?” Tommy asks, knowing he’ll hate the answer.
“Brunch, House of Pies.”
Tommy looks horrified.
“No?” asks Adam. “Why not?”
“Do you mean a, um, a date?” Tommy manages to stutter out.
“Fuck yes,” says Adam fervently.
Tommy stumbles back and his knees hit the sofa. He lets himself fall, bouncing a little when he hits the cushion.
“Say yes,” says Adam.
“I’m not worth dinner and a movie?” Tommy blames this awful line on his growing nervousness.
Adam snorts. “Dinnertime? I can’t wait that long to see you again.”
Tommy inspects the coat rack again. “You don’t have to bribe me. There’s a bedroom in here somewhere.”
“Fuck, Tommy, you’re worth more than that.” Adam goes to his knees in front of Tommy. He reaches out and turns Tommy’s head back towards him. “I have to leave now.”
“Don’t want you to,” Tommy says stubbornly.
“You fickle little thing. If I stay,” Adam says ominously, “eventually I’m going to get my hands on that perky little ass. So give me your keys. Now.”
“This is so fucked up,” says Tommy, and then Adam’s all over him, taking everything, hands grabbing and stroking and pushing and pulling and hauling him forward until he is smushed against Adam’s chest, his legs on either side of Adam’s thighs. Adam’s tongue is in his mouth. Adam’s familiar and comforting smell surrounds him. It’s overpowering, scary and so fucking hot.
“Fucking octopus,” Tommy mumbles. His hands are usually occupied with his bass guitar during Adam’s kisses, so they flounder a bit until they settle on Adam’s waist under his leather jacket.
Adam shifts and fastens his mouth to Tommy’s neck and sucks like a vampire.
Able to breathe again, Tommy complains, “You have a big tongue.”
Adam pulls back and looks at Tommy, really looks. “I have a big dick, too,” he says with a crooked grin. “I’m a toppy bastard, so you have to stop me.”
Tommy shakes his head no.
“I refuse to hook up with you, Tommy. I’m not out to get laid once. I’m going to court you and win you over and wine and dine you and all that shit.” He nuzzles Tommy’s cheek and whispers in his ear, “But I’m going to fuck you right through the floor in five minutes if you don’t stop me. Please stop me, I can’t do it myself.”
And whoa, Tommy’s ass is suddenly worried because there’s never been a dick in it before and it’s really unsure if that’s what it wants. Kissing is one thing, hand jobs aren’t bad, and Tommy can imagine how it would be if Adam would suck him off – the thought itself is almost enough to make him come without being touched. He can even handle the idea of a dick in his own mouth, so long as it’s Adam’s. But a dick in the ass? That’s another level of scary. Is it a requirement for gay life partners? Would Adam be content with blow jobs and heavy petting? Or would he insist on consummating their union with blissful intercourse involving a big dick in his ass? His ass is saying no thanks.
“Adam,” Tommy says softly, and Hurricane Adam immediately subsides, breathing heavily. Waiting. “Please leave.”
Adam’s arms slide away and he rises to his feet gracefully. In one hand he dangles Tommy’s keys. The bastard managed to sneak them out of Tommy’s jeans pocket. “Ten a.m. Try to look inconspicuous.”
Tommy rolls his eyes upwards to indicate his asymmetrical hair, half-shaved scalp and two-toned dye job.
Adam laughs, a bright, sweet sound, and then he’s out the door and thudding down the steps.
Tommy sits in the dark. He hears a car door open and close, an engine start up and fade away into the night. He’s too tired, emotionally and physically, to move. It’s easier to sit and stare at the wall, to close his eyes and try to remember how the kiss felt.
The line is still there, though, the one that keeps them apart. It felt like a real touch, where Adam touched him. It felt like trust. Tommy trusts that Adam means well, but Tommy’s not sure which way is up anymore, and if it weren’t way past midnight he’d call his mom or Jillian or Monte or someone. It’s too late, though, so he sits and considers jerking off or taking a shower or shuffling off to bed.
Tommy Joe Ratliff defies any human man, not excepting Morrissey, Derek Jeter, or the Pope, to resist the charm offensive of Adam Mitchel Lambert. Feeling he’s in lousy company, he sighs and digs deeper into the sofa.
* * *
When he wakes the sun is warming the floorboards, he’s fallen sideways on the sofa with one arm beneath him, and his phone chirps somewhere nearby. He fumbles for it, nearly falling off the sofa, and reads the text.
Morning sunshine!
“Blrghgh,” Tommy grumbles. According to the phone, it’s way after nine a.m. already. There’s no time to panic or think. He levers himself upright and heads for the shower, shedding clothes on the way. Half an hour later he’s squeaky clean, blowing his hair dry. Forget the makeup. He puts on fresh jeans and a Cure tee and sneakers and his everyday jacket and then tucks his hair under a Dodgers baseball cap. He considers his badly chipped nail polish. Now that’s rock and roll.
He shoves his phone and wallet in his pockets, feeling naked without the keys. Of course he can’t lock the apartment door because that key was on the same keyring. Not that there’s much to steal except a few really expensive guitars, so. Not good. Then he remembers the baggie of spares that his mom had made for him, finds it and grabs a key. On the landing, as he’s locking the door, Mrs. Porter is there, watering her potted geraniums. Her cat, Walter, curls around Tommy’s ankles. He leans down to pet Walter.
“Hi, Mrs. Porter,” he says. He loves these old people. He’s kind of glad they’re all going deaf because that means maybe Adam didn’t wake them up last night.
“Good morning, Tommy,” she says. “Are you going somewhere?”
He clears his throat. “Breakfast. Lunch. Not sure.”
“You’re always going somewhere, aren’t you, young man?”
“I might stop by the store on the way back, you need anything?”
She hesitates a moment too long to think because, whoa, there’s the sound of Adam’s Mustang and he doesn’t want Adam coming upstairs to get him. “Gotta go,” he says, “if you think of something ring my cell.”
Mrs. Porter and Walter both give him a confused look. On an impulse Tommy does something he never does – busses her cheek, grins, and then turns and runs down the stairs.
Having to move fast is a good, good thing, because it prevents him from thinking too much. Takes his mind off the spin cycle. He feels more like himself this morning, especially now that he’s washed off the half-drunk desperation from last night.
Sure enough, Adam’s out of his car but Tommy aims for the passenger door, not breaking stride, pointing at the car. “I’m here, get back in,” he says to forestall getting hugged on the sidewalk outside his apartment building, or worse yet – depending on whether or not Adam’s developed any restraint since last night – kissed. His tone is so bossy that Adam, wide-eyed, complies without a word. Inside the car he pretends to fuss with his seat belt so Adam won’t get any ideas about a welcome kiss in the car since he didn’t get one outside the car. Tommy’s not exactly sure where their friendship or whatever stands this morning but he’s feeling feisty.
“I’m eating an actual pie for breakfast if I feel like it, and I don’t want to get any shit about it,” he announces, unable to keep a small smirk off his face.
Adam stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Then he laughs, and Tommy will never not love that sound. “You’re the boss,” Adam concedes as he revs the engine and pulls away from the curb.
Tommy slouches and avoids Adam’s hot gaze. The boss? As if.