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“Van, are you listening to me?”I grumbled and glanced over at him.
He was ignoring me again. On his phone, typing away.
Story of my fucking life.
The bus was dark, save for the glow of Van’s phone. My fellow band members were asleep in their bunks at the back of the bus.
Not me. I could never get to sleep until at least two or three a.m.
That’s music life; you get used to late nights and later mornings. And tour schedules that drained your soul if you weren’t careful.
I thrived on the chaos of the road. New cities, new people. Not to mention, those people were all vying for my attention, my body, my time. It was a rush.
Or at least, it used to be.
The one person I wanted, well, he was always looking elsewhere.
Or rather, he was always focused on business. The next tour, new songs that needed recording, press junkets, photo shoots… Blah, blah, blah.
Not that those things weren’t important, but my dick should be somewhere at the top of that list, right?
Yeah, I was a needy SOB, and I made no apologies for it.
And for a long time now, there was only one dick that my dick was interested in.
Van.
Our intense chemistry was a real thing. To me, at least.
We bickered over a lot of things. And it was never just a one-off. Our arguments were well-known in the band and with our record label. I was confrontational by nature, and I just loved riling Van up.
Most of all, I wanted his attention. And for him to recognize the fire that he’d lit within me.
I didn’t know exactly when it happened or why, but over the past twelve months, Van was the only man I wanted.
I know, I know, mixing business with pleasure would be stupid.
I knew it, and Van sure as hell knew it. He probably had something in his contract to that effect—you know,thou shalt not fuck band members.
Having sex with my manager would be like handing me a match and a full gallon of gasoline. I’d enjoy the heat, but there would be hell to pay when the smoke cleared.
Still, the dick wants what the dick wants.
“Van,” I repeated again.
Finally, reluctantly, he looked up at me.
Deep-set denim blues stared back at me, and I forced myself not to react. Not to say something hot and flirty or downright filthy. It wasn’t easy.
Those were the eyes I dreamt about.
The ones I used as inspiration when I was on stage, fucking the mic.
The ones that haunted my every waking hour.
He’d come into my life, the band’s life, and I had never been the same.
He was a great manager, a good friend, and a decent guitar player in his own right. But his real talent came in the form of songwriting. He wrote under the pen name Corley Hewitt.
