Running with Scissors (17 page)

But, God, it would be worth it. He wanted to see what

happened when A.J. was turned loose in bed like he was

turned loose onstage.

In the darkness, he stared up at the rack above him. A.J.’s

rack. Sleeping this close to him fucked with Jude’s brain

anyway, and tonight it was unbearable. He could hear A.J.’s

slow, steady breathing, imagined him sprawled on his side,

maybe with his face buried in the pillow and an arm tucked

beneath it. Peaceful, relaxed—a sleeping dragon Jude wanted

to wake up and rile up.

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He shivered. Then he mouthed a curse into the stillness—

another night beneath A.J., another night of wondering if it

would be worth the risk of jerking off to relieve the hard-on

swelling beneath his shorts. What no one heard wouldn’t hurt

him, right? And it was better than waking up with blue balls.

Again.

He squirmed beneath the covers, trying to think of

anything that might distract his dick long enough to go to

sleep. Not a chance. Not this time. Every night was worse

than the last—harder in every way—and tonight, he wasn’t

sleeping it off.

A.J. was right above him. A few feet away, Connor and

Richie. On the other side of a partition, Shiloh, Vanessa, and

Kristy. Privacy? Not here.

But he also wasn’t going to sleep with an erection this

hard and the object of his horniness snoring softly overhead.

To hell with it. Moving as quietly as he could, he slipped

his hand beneath his boxers, and as his fingertips brushed his

cock, he clenched his teeth to keep from gasping.

In his mind, he’d taken A.J. up on that silent offer after

the first show. The bus’s shower stall was barely big enough

for one, but had plenty of space for two bodies pressed close

enough together. He couldn’t even hold on to one thought—

making out under the water, jerking each other off, fucking

A.J. until he cried, A.J. fucking him until
he
cried—and his head spun as his cock got even harder. He barely remembered

where he was or why he had to stay quiet, and damn near let

a moan slip free.

He froze, listening, but no one else’s breathing changed.

Nobody stirred. Slowly, he started again, and this time, he

pressed his lips together and held his breath, using every last scrap of concentration he had left to focus on staying silent.

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When he absolutely needed air, he forced himself to exhale as

silently as possible, and to pull in a slow, stealthy breath.

In his mind, he wasn’t being quiet, and he sure as fuck

wasn’t holding his breath. Not while A.J. pounded him

against the shower wal , strained groans turning into curses in Jude’s ear. If A.J. fucked like he kissed, Jude wouldn’t be able to walk the next day, especially since he hadn’t been fucked in ages. Taking it as roughly as he imagined A.J. giving it would

undoubtedly hurt, and that thought made his spine tingle.

Make it hurt, A.J., just don’t stop . . .

His eyes rolled back, and his toes curled beneath the

covers. Still holding his breath, still keeping absolutely silent, he came . . . and nearly fucking passed out from the intensity

and the lack of oxygen as hot semen coated his fingers.

Everything went white for a few seconds, but somehow—

God only knew how—he didn’t make a sound.

As his orgasm tapered, he exhaled as slowly and quietly as

he could. Catching his breath was a challenge when he didn’t

dare pant, but after a few minutes, his pulse came down, his

lungs stopped screaming for oxygen, and his head stopped

spinning. He waited another minute or two and then got up

to use the communal bathroom—at least that wouldn’t raise

any suspicions, since just about everyone got up to take a piss at some point during the night.

In the bathroom, he cleaned himself off and washed his

hands. Then he went back to his rack, pulled the covers up,

and fell asleep to the sound of A.J. breathing above him.

The next morning, Jude couldn’t even look A.J. in the eye.

Or at least, he didn’t imagine he’d be able to—he got up and

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got the hell off the bus for the first of many cigarettes before A.J. had even stirred.

The nicotine didn’t help, but smoking gave him something

to do while he was alone with his thoughts. And alone was the

best place for him to be right now, since the place he wanted

to be would be disastrous to the band.

The tension was still palpable anytime he was in the room

with one of his bandmates. He was getting along with Shiloh

and Richie, but he hadn’t made any headway with Vanessa,

not to mention Connor.

Which meant he still had to tread carefully. Though he

was the one bailing them out,
he
owed
them
for the second chance. And above al , he owed it to them not to listen to

his impulsive side and sabotage the success they’d busted

their asses to achieve. No walking away when emotions ran

too hot. No getting involved with bandmates who were too

hot to ignore.

Easier said than done, of course. Everyone had called

him a musical prodigy since he was in kindergarten, but days

like this, he wished he’d been born with mediocre musical

talent and prodigy-level skill at relationships. Because

goddamn, whatever blessings he had when it came to music

had apparently been balanced out by his failures in
that

department.

He sighed and pulled out another cigarette.

The bus door opened, and Kristy stepped outside.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning,” he muttered.

She watched him smoke for a few seconds. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because I’ve seen that look before.” Kristy folded her

arms and arched an eyebrow. “You’re about twenty seconds

away from booking a ticket home, aren’t you?”

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Jude stared at his cigarette, and he was pretty sure the heat

in his cheeks was visible. Quitting hadn’t really occurred to

him, but now that she mentioned it, the idea had a certain

appeal. He wouldn’t
do
it, but . . . “Well, I doubt anyone on the bus would mind if I did.” And it sure would get him away

from that blond-haired temptation who was probably taking

a shower at this very moment, naked under the water and—

He cleared his throat and then took a deep drag.
You’re

insane. You know that, right?

“Jude. Honey.” She stepped closer. “What’s going on?

Seems like you and everyone have been getting along lately.

Better than I expected you to. I mean, you and Connor have

been staying out of each other’s way, the shows have been

great, and—what gives?”

“I . . . yeah, we’ve all been getting along, but . . .”
But I want
to get along even better with the drummer, and we all know

that’d be a fucking disaster
. He turned his head and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Then he faced her again. “I don’t know. I

guess I’ve just been wondering if it was a mistake to come

back.”

“A mistake?” She laughed. “Are you insane? You guys

are doing great onstage, and you’re not killing each other

backstage. It’s less of a catastrophe than I expected.”

He sucked in some more smoke, but didn’t speak.

“Look,” she said. “I know this is an adjustment for

everyone. And even when you guys aren’t fighting, I know it’s

hard being around Connor.”

“Isn’t just Connor.”

“You’ve gotten along pretty well with the band since you

came back, especially considering how and why you left.” She

added just enough emphasis to that last part to make it clear

the barb was absolutely intentional.

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He stared at the ground. “I know. And you’re right.” He

shook his head. “I’m just overthinking everything, that’s al .”

“Good. Because if you up and leave this time—”

“I won’t. I promise.”

She eyed him skeptically. “From anyone else, I’d believe

that.”He took another drag. “So I fucked up before, and now

I’m a liar?”

“No, but I know you.” Her voice was oddly gentle. “I don’t

think you’re a liar, but I think you get scared and frustrated, and when you do, you run. That has always been how you

handle things, Jude, and it’s going to keep blowing up in your

face every fucking time. I promise you that.”

He couldn’t argue. His impulse to run for the hills had

never served him well beyond the short term. Sighing, he

nodded. “I know. And you’re right. I . . . Sometimes I don’t

know what else to do.”

“The same thing the rest of us do, sweetie.” She grimaced.

“You face the music, no matter how much you don’t want to.”

Jude nodded, but didn’t speak.

“I’m going to get some coffee.” She gestured over her

shoulder toward the row of shops and restaurants at the other

end of the parking lot. “You want to come?”

He dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel.

“Sure. Why not?”

Together, they headed across the parking lot, chatting

about the previous night’s show and tomorrow night’s. All the

while, though, Jude’s mind stayed firmly in that smoky space

beside the bus where they’d had their conversation.

Kristy was right. When he was backed into a corner

or pushed to his limit, he did stupid shit without thinking

about it. Cheating on Connor. Walking away from the band.

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Quitting his job to join the tour. And hadn’t it always blown

up in his face?

Walking away wasn’t an option this time. What little

money he had was already dwindling, and there’d be no more

coming in if he dropped this gig. Right now he was being

paid like a contractor—a set amount per show, and not a

penny more. It wasn’t much, either, just what the band could

cobble together from what little they’d actually made from

their record deal. Hell, the band was actually in debt to the

record company—what band wasn’t?—so God knew where

the money was even coming from. All he knew was that it

might as well have been a per diem to keep him stocked with

food, smokes, and Band-Aids for his healing fingers.

If he walked, though, there would be nothing else. He’d

screwed himself out of finding a job in Los Angeles. Employers

weren’t exactly hurting for applicants, and answering yes to

the “have you ever left a job without giving two weeks’ notice”

question would virtually guarantee he couldn’t score so much

as an interview for anything outside of a sweat shop or one of

the more dehumanizing gigs on a shady porn set.

Jude shuddered as he followed Kristy into a coffee shop.

Okay, maybe the job market wasn’t that bad. He could

probably find some form of employment out there that didn’t

involve mopping up cum or coaxing hard-ons out of exhausted

porn stars, but he was pretty sure he’d screwed himself out of

anything as cushy as his last job. As miserable as that place had been, at least it’d had halfway decent benefits and paid above

minimum wage.

Way to burn
that
bridge, genius.

What was done was done, though, and he was out of

second chances. He had to focus on the music this time. Not

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on Connor. Not on A.J. The music, the music, and nothing

but the music.

As hard as it was, he needed to keep everyone—including

A.J.—at arm’s length.

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how after show, city after city, A.J. kept his hands to

shimself—but damn, it wasn’t easy. Jude was the closest

thing to a friend he’d made since joining the band. He wanted

to keep that going since it beat the hell out of feeling like an outsider, but getting closer to Jude didn’t bode well for staying
away
from Jude.

Not that it was easy to stay away from anyone on this

tour. They were, for all intents and purposes, half a dozen

roommates living in an overcrowded rol ing studio apartment

with a semifunctional shower and a temperamental coffeepot.

Though things had been peaceful—as peaceful as they ever

were with Connor around—everyone was wearing thin,

itching to have some space and be in a familiar town. Rumor

had it, even Schadenfreude’s members were at each other’s

throats. It was definitely time to go home.

Eventually the band made its way back to LA, and after

one hell of a final show at the Hollywood Bowl—one of the

places A.J. had dreamed of playing—the tour came to an end.

Now it was time to get to work. They had two weeks to

polish the edges off their new songs, and then start recording.

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But first, they had a much-needed week-long break.

Jude made a comment about spending time with his family

in Sherman Oaks, and the band had barely finished the

Hollywood Bowl show before he disappeared. Connor took

off to Florida to visit his parents. Shiloh vowed to spend every waking hour on a beach. Vanessa and Richie joked about

hitting up a dealer and spending the whole week stoned—A.J.

wasn’t sure if that was entirely a joke, and he couldn’t say he blamed them either way.

A.J. went back to his studio apartment in one of the

shadier areas of Culver City.

The tour had stretched his finances almost to a breaking