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I was the only one in the band who knew about his secret side gig. But I never said anything to Van, though. I pretended not to know. Some people preferred to work in the background, not on center stage, and I could respect that.
Van understood the music business, including temperamental musicians like me and our insane life. He was the kind of guy who took charge of a chaotic situation and turned it into a beautiful symphony.
I’d had a hard-on for him for what felt like forever, and things were only getting worse.
This past year, he’d taken to ignoring me more and more. Barely looked at me when he had to. And always with that professional distance in place.
It made my temper run as hot as my desire.
And can you blame me? Van was not only smart and talented but gorgeous, with a sleek undercut, a sexy dimple in his left cheek, and a chiseled jawline covered in the perfect amount of dark scruff.
I loved a natural man.
Too many times, I imagined how his beard would feel against my thighs, my taint, my hole.
Fuck, that line of thinking was getting me hard again.
He was always the man in charge, and I wanted him to fucking own me.
Van was taller than my five eleven and bigger, broader. I liked that a whole lot too. I had many fantasies about him manhandling me, ordering me around in that gravelly voice of his.
Fuck, I wanted to submit to him, and I didn’t submit to anyone.
And Christ, now my dick was painfully hard. But then my brain remembered the problem.
Our work relationship was the first roadblock. I didn’t see a way around that one.
I’m pretty sure our age gap—fifteen years—was the next one.
I didn’t give a crap about him being older. So I was twenty-nine and he was forty-four. Who the fuck gave a shit? What drew me to someone was their energy, their aura, and his was hot as fuck, forty-four or not.
The third one, the one I didn’t like to consider, was that I wasn’t sure if he was into men.
Okay, maybe that was the first roadblock—a permanent one.
Or maybe he wasn’t out? I didn’t know. His personal life was the one topic he never discussed.
At one point, he had a girlfriend. I think. Or was it a boyfriend? Shit, I don’t remember. All I knew was it ticked me off that someone was taking his time away from me.
Surprise, I’m an attention whore and a possessive motherfucker.
Could it be that Van wasn’t gay, and all the heated looks that passed between us were all in my imagination?
Never, in the four years I’d known him, had he talked about anyone special in his life. And I never witnessed him hooking up on the road either.
Maybe he was he was bi? Pan? Demi?
I hope to fuck this wasn’t all me. Falling for a straight guy was goddamn torture. Or so I’ve heard.
My one-time hookups with strangers were now a thing of the past. And with good reason. Most guys wanted to get fucked by “Brodie James” the musician, not Brodie, me, the person. And I got tired of pumping and dumping. Finding a quick fuck to take the edge off but always leaving dissatisfied.
No tangible connection.
With men I didn’t know, I topped. No deviation.
But with Van? Mmm. I wanted to offer up my ass and let him rail me until we were too fucked out to move.
Between my sexual frustration and his ignoring me, I was ready to throw a massive temper tantrum. I had the urge to tell our driver, Sam, to stop the fucking bus right now so me and Van could have it out.
