Chapter 1 – Caswell
House – Alanis Morissette
Ifuckedamanthat wasn’t Baylor Mann.That’s my first thought.
Before the sun is even up.
And Happy New Year to me.
As I lie in the small bedroom of my tour bus, unable to sleep, this isn’t the first time that thought has come to me. I am a rockstar, after all, or at least according toRolling Stoneand theBillboardmusic charts, I am. Although, the sexual perks of this life are something I seldom indulge.
I don’t take up half the offers thrown my way because I know the morning after will be just like this one. With that exact thought rambling around in my head as I wake up alone.
The offers I do take are a matter of physical drive, the high after a show, a willing fan who just wants the moment for what it is, and nothing more.
Over ten years have passed —actually, it’s closer to thirteen now — and Baylor Mann is still the only person that I have let inside of me, although last night that’s what I truly wanted. I need trust for that kind of intimacy, though. Not random backstage sex. Thankfully, the number of twinks willing to bottom for a Grammy-award winning recording artist are, apparently, infinite.
A little-known fact — one the gossip sites get wrong every time — is that I actually favor big men. I mean, all I am ever seen with are smaller guys, but it’s not actually my type. It’s not even close.
The real truth is I can’t be attracted to someone who is built like Baylor or looks like Baylor if they aren’tactuallyBaylor. So, twinks and meaningless sex to fill a need it is. It is easier to go against type than try to fit someone into the too big shoes he left.
The morning light is barely even gray as it filters into my bedroom on the back of this tour bus. It is my last tour for a while and I won’t miss the bus, although I still struggle with being so successful I don’t need to be on the road constantly trying to make my career happen or to stay relevant.
Since I left Bear Valley last January after an impromptu visit to see Baylor’s return to the stage at his brother Quinn’s bar, without him seeing me of course, it has been show after show to finish this tour. And now, with the last show done last night, we are finally headed back to my house in the LA hills.
For once, I am ready for this bus to start moving.
I let my thoughts go where they want. Back to Baylor, to the fact that our only connection these days is a patchwork of lyrics he has written, and I have voiced for over a decade.
I’m the “Heartbreak King,” according to GQ. That nickname got picked up fast and is now used almost as much as my name. All thoselost lovesongs, themoving onsongs, thelet me sing you a song about a love that’s gone wrongsongs, those have made me famous. I sing those types of songs abouthim, but I don’t know who Baylor writes them about. I don’t know who gets to hold Baylor’s heart long enough to hurt it. I haven’t known for over that same decade.
A fucking successful decade, though.
It is too early for this jumble in my mind, and what I need to do is jack-off and go back to sleep like a sane person. It’s four in the morning which means I only slept a handful of hours after the show last night.
I groan, shifting down the mattress to get comfortable. Before we leave today, I have one last event, and I’m going to look like a zombie. God knows what the gossip sites will write about the pictures. So far, I’ve kept the exhaustion from this tour pushed aside, but every once and a while, the paps get a picture where it shows, and the rumors start.
Ignoring that, I let my favorite scene replay in my head, pushing away the here and now in favor of then. Our last time. Baylor and I knew we were ending, but it wasn’t dramatic. Not back then.
It was New Year’s, just like tonight. I thought I was being noble. I thought I was leaving something I could pick back up again.
The memory is not my usual go-to when I’m jacking-off, necessarily, but I never think of anyone other than Baylor in these moments.
Baylor is the embodiment of tall, dark and handsome. I can remember the feel of him beside me, exactly what his weight would be like on the other side of the bed.
I wait until it’s so real I want to reach over and see if he is there.
He kisses me first, in this fantasy. I remember how he tastes, and dive hard into that memory until it manifests in my mouth. I miss kissing. It isn’t the same when it’s not him, so I gave up on it years ago. The backstage fans don’t care.
That goddamn cinnamon gum. I can feel it tingle across my tongue.
In my mind, his hand comes to my hip, his heavier weight settling against me, dipping the bed and rolling me close. Only in my fantasies does anyone ever get on top of me like that, weighing me down.
My hand dives into the thin pajama pants I’m wearing. Baylor would smile into the kiss now, his hand in my pants being a visual that always turned him on. He would look down, then his cheeks would flush at being caught watching, his eyes hooded and dark under thick lashes.
I stroke myself, only a bit of lube needed because my cock leaks at this memory. Somewhere over the years I have forgotten whether I touch myself the way I like to, or the way Baylor did to me, or maybe it’s all just the same. As my hand strokes rough and slow, my body is on high alert, recognizing the memory it has played so many times. I’ll come harder to jacking myself to the memory of Baylor than I have with any warm-bodied lover, and my own body knows that. Fucking craves it.
Baylor would surround me. His dark stubble that was almost always present, his dark hair, long enough to brush his face as he became disheveled and sweaty. He would still be kissing me, still stroking, wanting me to come in his hand with my mouth against his.
