Page 17 of Once Upon A Christmas Song

“No,” he choked out. “No. Don’t let go.”

I held on.

“And you can’t go when I close my eyes later. You have to be here when I open them.”

“I promise,” I said, nuzzling my face into his wet hair, kissing his nape.

More shivering before he turned his head. “I love you so much. I have from the start.”

The start…

He’d been there a week, and I kept dropping things, and walking into tables and chairs and the bar. People were snapping at me, tired of being bumped into because I was watching the guy onstage. His smiles, his glittering blue eyes, the way he touched his hat when he saw me, and most of all, how hot his stare was, had me utterly flustered.

I had been behind the bar that night, filling beer glasses, water, and soft drinks, and a guy was there, leaning, talking to me. I thought nothing of it, and then the music stopped.

“Hey, you, guy in the green shirt and the khaki shorts at the bar.”

It took a second because there had been loud, pounding, deep-in-your-chest music one second and utter silence the next.

“Hello. Up here.”

Both of us, me and the guy, turned to Dawson, who was holding his guitar, scowling. Everyone else was staring at us, all the people there on that Friday night in my packed club.

“That’s my guy right there you’re chattin’ up,” Dawson told the crowd and me and the guy standing there looking horrified. “So if you want any more music, you need to step away from him, because I can’t concentrate when you’re hittin’ on what’s mine.”

I glared. The guy moved away from the bar. Dawson grinned, his eyes like jewels under the lights.

“Thank you kindly,” he drawled, and then the music was back in a wall of sound that made the patrons scream in appreciation.

Later, between sets, I was stacking boxes in the storeroom when Dawson rushed in, slammed the door behind him, and was on me, driving me back into the wall, hands on my hips, lifting for a kiss.

“I should beat you,” I warned him as he pressed up against me.

“Yeah, good, fine, after,” he husked as I took his face gently in my hands. “Kiss me now, Chris. Kiss me and fuck me and have me and keep me, all right? And c’mon, I couldn’t have that guy sniffing around you when clearly, you wanna belong to me.”

“Is that right?” I asked, and kissed each of his eyes that had fluttered shut.

“Yes,” he whispered, his breath ragged. “I’m sure. You want me.”

And I did. No question.

“Chris?”

“I’ve loved you from the start too,” I confessed as I held the only man I would ever love. I couldn’t help it. There was no changing it. I’d given him my heart that night in the storeroom, the first time I took him home. There was no going back after that. He was the one.

I stripped down and got under the water with him, kissed him and washed him, and when he was thick again in my hand, I went to my knees as I was originally going to, and he came again, this time in my mouth as I swallowed around him.

After rinsing him, I shut off the water and wrapped him in towels, one for his hair, another for his body, and carried him out. Drying him off, I then found a soft, fluffy robe, wrapped him in it, and put him in bed. He was asleep in seconds.

I made sure the doors to the backyard were locked, closed the blinds, and turned off the lights, shutting him in.

When his bandmates came by later that day—Ben, Carlos, Enoch, and Luther—I sat them all down in the kitchen and cooked. They ate and drank a ton of water, I had them drink some Gatorade I found in the refrigerator, and Luther gave me for safekeeping the Molly and cocaine he’d scored earlier. I flushed both, fed them more carbs, until yawning became curling up on the sectional in the living room. Four grown men passed out cold just like Dawson.

People came by, wanting to talk to Lex Luthor, or Benny, or Knock-Knock, Los, and especially Daw. The nicknames were terrible, and I told the first wave of folks that I had no idea who those people were. Later, there were more inquiries at the door, lots of gorgeous men and stunning women, all wanting to know where the superstar was. I squinted, said no one was there but me, and perhaps they had the wrong house. When a woman tried to push by me, I simply stood there and waited.

“Wow, you’re kind of big, aren’t you?” she said, her hand flat on my chest, and then suddenly smiled. “Do you wanna play?”

“I’m very flattered, but no,” I said kindly. “You should perhaps go home and drink some water. You look a bit flushed and dehydrated.”