“That looks like the face of a man who’s been freshly blown,” Beckett said, smacking my shoulder. “Love to see it.”
He was wearing his usual preacher getup. I wasn’t sure the locals quite knew what to do with a foul-mouthed, tattooed man of the cloth.
My parents joined us with some very sleepy babies. They kept their visit short, but Mom’s smile as she hugged Hendrix was everything. They’d been texting back and forth between concerts, and Mom thought Hen’s stage look was “cute.”
Hen had mentioned that Dad had hugged him when they met at the coffee shop. I figured that had been a one-time thing, butno. Hen dove into my Dad’s arms, and Dad didn’t hesitate to hug him back. That was gonna take me a minute to process, but as they said their farewells for the night, it occurred to me that nothing said love quite like doing the internal work to accept the most important person in my world.
“Thank you for putting the smile back on our son’s face,” Mom told Hen, cupping his cheeks. “It means the world to me.”
He ducked his chin, charming her with the humble attitude that surprised those who didn’t know him well. “He makes me just as happy, Cordelia.”
After they left, I approached the hotel manager, promising we’d keep it down to a dull roar. He simply smiled and pushed back the sleeve of his jacket to reveal a line of Hendrix’s lyrics tattooed on his forearm. “Whatever you need, we’ll take care of it, sir.”
He gave us a dedicated bartender, who got into a gin-versus-vodka debate with Joel and Ozzie that ended with most of the group getting rip-roaring drunk.
When said bartender accompanied my brother and his wife into their room at the end of the night, I decided not to ask too many questions. Instead, I pushed Hendrix into our massive suite and took him apart in every way I possibly could.
“Why did you bring so many ties with you?” Hendrix asked, pawing through my things to find the bottle of travel lube.
“Want me to show you?” I asked, grabbing one to run through my fingers.
As it happened, he did. The hotel’s four-poster bed proved quite useful in strapping my mini punk god down on his belly. Imentally added that to the list of furniture I planned on buying whenever my new home was finished.
Once I’d prepped him with my cock, I added a sleek vibrator to the mix, slowly stretching his perfect hole with the tapered tip until I was able to slip it in alongside my dick.
“Are you fucking DPing me with a vibrating dildo?” he choked out, writhing underneath me.
“Is that a complaint?” I asked, turning up the vibes.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “No. No complaining.”
That was good because the powerful toy was making my eyes roll back in my head. I fucked up against it, pressing it against his happy nerves until he shouted through his orgasm. The way he tightened around me intensified the vibes, and I bred him the way he deserved, filling him completely.
“Poor David Lee Roth,” he murmured into his pillow, his muscles slack from overuse and pleasure. “He’ll never forgive me.”
I chuckled and cleaned us up, then wrapped my arms around him as we tucked in for the night.
“I suspect he would approve.”
CHAPTER 25
hendrix
“Dude, I’m telling you, these pickles are the best,” Robbie said, grabbing a ginormous jar of sliced pickles from a tiny shop in Gruene, Texas. Gruene, pronouncedgreenlike the color, was a historic district in New Braunfels and was the spot where Sago and Robbie had put down roots. This was mostly a touristy area, but it was also known to support local artists. Moreover, between gigs, Robbie had discovered that he had a talent for roasting coffee. His little shop now sat next to the pickle lady’s shop, and I had to agree. They were the best pickles I’d ever tasted.
Sago’s talents, however, were in his ability to create relationships with local artists. That talent came in handy with our fledgling label, Pecan Street Records. This was another Syrup project, with our main office scheduled to open just off the Seguin downtown square in a few months.
In the meantime, Sago had become friends with the gal who managed Gruene Hall, a famous Texas-style dance hall right at the corner of the busiest intersection in this tiny historical district. She was a fan of our music and invited us to play.
Flanked by oak trees that were older than all of us put together, Gruene Hall was a simple venue with wood floors. Despite its humble appearance, some of the country’s most talented artists had passed through its doors. We were talking the likes of Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Garth Brooks. I’d managed to nab tickets to see Brandi Carlile play there a few years ago, and her voice nearly blew the roof off the place.
Punk wasn’t the venue’s typical genre. The manager pointed out that it was, however, the perfect place to play a fully acoustic set. We were still defining our new sound, but she’d convinced us that this was the right place to test our latest songs.
So tonight we’d show our fans what we’d been working on.
Sawyer stood in front of the stage, swaying as I sang one of the songs I’d written for him. He was beaming with pride, and tears edged the corners of his eyes. And to think I used to believe that the crazy hours, running around on stage, and the roar of the crowd were what I needed more than anything.
The crowd here was still pretty loud, which I appreciated. But what I needed most were my two bandmates who’d been with me from the beginning, the words we were writing and singing together, and the man in front of me. Those were the things that fed my soul.
