I get too caught up in kissing him and mapping his ass with my hands to really answer, but there is a cough at the door.
Cas spares a grin over his shoulder at Caleb before he slides to the couch, throwing me a pillow to cover the tent in my pants. I snort. Cas has a possessive streak, something I had forgotten. Apparently it extends to his straight bodyguard. Straight, in-love, and married, bodyguard.
“What’s up?” Cas drawls it out lazily, but Caleb’s face is tight.
“Situation we should discuss. Want to take it upstairs? You need to eat, anyway.”
Cas pulls me up beside him and we head upstairs, hands laced together.
Lunch becomes more situation room than relaxed meal as Caleb describes new online threats. He flips through some well-drawn cartoon-like pictures featuring Cas, and talking about him breaking hearts like the songs he sings. The last one is disturbing and lights everything prior to it with a macabre glow.
A heart, realistically drawn, is torn into by knives. Each of the knives is made up of swirls and swirls of words for the blade and handle. I know those words. They are songs I wrote.
“Life imitates art” is the chilling title given to the work.
I flick my eyes up to Caleb. “This seems. . .extreme.” I don’t like seeing my words used that way.
“It was delivered to Cas’s house in a box of blood. Pig’s blood, but still.”
“Fuck.” Cas breathes, sitting back and dropping his fork. At least Caleb waited with that bit of news until the end of the meal.
“So, the chances of this being the same guy who broke into the house?” I ask and Caleb grimaces.
“Graham, he owns the security firm I used to work for, he’s looking into this back in Cali. No conclusions just yet. There are some similarities, though.”
Cas stares out the window for a long while and then runs his hands through his hair, his shoulder dropping to mine and I wrap an arm around him.
“Put whatever resources you need on this but I’m fine right now,” Cas says.
“And this?” Caleb gestures between us. “Is this something that’s going public?”
My heart sort of lurches, my head reeling to take in all that happened last night and this morning. To be honest, I wasn’t looking too far ahead. I was just drowning in the moment. Is there going to be an us after this album?
“This is both brand new and a long time coming,” Cas says, leaning hard into my side. “The public can give me a minute.”
Chapter 17 – Caswell
Can I Be Him – James Arthur
ThereisnowayI’m putting Baylor in any danger.
Some fucker has a problem with me, I will deal with it. I know tons of people who have. Stalker or crazy obsessed fans are practically a rite of passage in my business. The opening band for my last tour had an issue similar to this, too.
That’s the shit I’m worrying about as we make our way to the slopes to go ski. This is different than last time. The weather, for one, is more like spring. The front side of the mountain is covered with people. Luckily, we are heading to the backside and the harder runs.
I keep my beanie down and my goggles on, and no one gives me even a second glance. Still, I shuffle next to Baylor, Quinn, Jack and Perrin. None of those guys are hiding their faces or their bodies for that matter. It’s a day for skiing in fewer layers.
To my advantage. No one is looking at me, not just because my face is covered. I’m a footnote in this group, and I’m perfectly fine with that.
My smile rises.
Around the Mann family, my fame is nothing. In a strange way, it even fits.
With my family, I never fit into their communal lifestyle. I wanted to be a rockstar. I wanted to stand out as that one in a million. And that sort of selfish wish for fame was diametrically opposed to their values. Now, I’m supposed to be some sort of spokesman for their causes, but I want to be picky about where I put my political capital. My parents’ views and mine will never align.
I feel my body relax, and my gaze sweeps over Baylor. He’s wearing some kind of nylon pants that hug his thick thighs much more than traditional ski pants would. Fucking gorgeous thighs. And his biceps bulge nicely against the sleeves of his shirt. . .ugh. Jesus. Usually this kind of lust only hits me after a show, never fueled by a person, but here we are in broad daylight and it’s hard to drag my mind away from our make-out session.
I lean into Baylor’s side and sneak an arm around him, his eyes flick to my face, checking in to make sure I know what I’m about, but he doesn’t do anything other than lean into the touch. Leaning up, I kiss him. Just boyfriends on the slopes. Or, whatever we are.
