August declares, “I’m not going.”
So Jon Bon fucking Jovi turns back to me and slaps his stupid hand down on my arm. “Koko. We’re on at ten, but you should plan to stay late. Make him come, alright?”
But now, on top of all the confusion and fury, the logical part of my mind is playing over Koko. A special, small, intimate show there? Or did he never make it in this reality? Maybe hair metal didn’t happen here? What the fuck kind of shitty universe is this?
Thinking out loud, I look at Jon, but I say to August, “In my reality, he was only valid in the eighties.”
It’s indescribable how happy it makes me when this motherfucker’s eyes flare to triple their size. I hadn’t even meant to piss him off, I was just stating a fact. But he’s instantly furious at the comment, so before I know it, I’ve added, “If he was ever ‘valid’ at all.”
If looks could eviscerate, I’d be all over the wall right now. Jon Bon Jovi seethes at me, “‘It’s My Life’ came out in the year two thousand.”
His words are confounding. He can’t be older than mid-to-late twenties. Some kind of weird interdimensional glitch?
Although something isn’t quite adding up here, I’m not even going to attempt to hide this smirk. “And?”
“Ever heard of a little album calledKeep the Faith? That was nineteen ninety-two. ‘Blaze of Glory’ was nineteen ninety! What the fuck, man?”
This would have to be the funniest thing that’s happened to me in years. If August didn’t step forward just then, his hand on Jon’s stupid naked shoulder. “He doesn’t mean it like that. He’s… not from around here. He’s very culturally stunted.”
“I’m not culturally stunted!”
“Yes you are!” he snaps pointedly, as though I’m supposed to play along with that.
“No, I’m?—”
“Jon, please.” His nice hand slips into Jon’s hand, and suddenly he’s leading him towards the door. “I’ll try to come by, okay?”
“We have science to do tonight,” I call out. “Deep science. Heavy maths. All night long.”
Jon thinks I’m mad, I can tell. Little does he know, I’ll be seducing his lover with long algebra faster than he can worm his way into leather pants for his show.
Stupid tight ass in his stupid tight pants.
But even if he’s looking at me like he thinks I just crawled out of the sink, Jon says to August, “You’re doing maths with him?”
“It’s just a project,” he scrabbles out, opening the door. “For his, um, university. He’s a quantum physicist, actually.” There’s a warm hum of pride in the comment, accompanied by a fond flicker of his eyes towards me. “He wants my help.”
“Yourhelp?”
The way he says that makes the whole room go cool. It’s three heartbeats, yet it feels like years. Because that’s when I see it. August colouring, not because I’ve complimented him, but because he’s embarrassed. This fucker raising his chin, like August owes him something in exchange for giving a piece of himself to someone else, even for a few short hours.
This is the guy—this is the ex who makes him think he’s not beautiful. The ex who’s been fucking other people. The ex who doesn’t treat him like a king, like I would.
And that ex puts his hand on his cheek, and whether August wants it or not, he kisses him.
It’s excruciating.
It’s cold.
August doesn’t move at all, just stills his lips like a corpse and lets it happen. Jon finally pulls back, but his voice stays low and intimate. “I love you. You know that.”
August gives him a half nod.
Jon says, “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s neither a question nor an invitation. It’s an expectation.
He sends me a half-glare as a goodbye, then walks out the door.
