Page 9 of Rock Bottom

I lifted my key fob and hit a button, listening to the glorious sound of my Tahoe chirp as the doors locked. “Let me know when you’re ready and if you ask nicely, I’ll unlock the doors for you.” See, Dante? I’m not the pushover you think I am.

He glared at me, fists clenched, as I came up the stairs and opened the front door to stroll inside.

It took him an hour to break. He spent it loudly rearranging all the furniture in the loft before coming down to yank open the fully stocked refrigerator and complain that there was nothing to eat. I told him I’d be making dinner in an hour, but he didn’t respond and stomped off only to come back two minutes later.

He huffed loudly until I looked up from the paperback mystery I was enjoying. “Yes?”

“I want my guitar.”

“And?”

“Unlock the SUV so I can get my shit,” he demanded.

I lifted the book again. “No.”

“Why not?” He threw his arms wide in an animated gesture. “You can’t keep me from my stuff! That’s theft!”

I marked my place in the book and closed it, setting it neatly on the table before folding my hands in my lap. “I am a lot of things, Mr. Deluca, but a thief isn’t one of them. I don’t appreciate you calling my integrity into question so casually. As for your belongings, I’d be happy to unlock the car so you can retrieve them if you’d show some manners. Starting with a please.”

I watched as Dante went through the five stages of grief in rapid succession, his expression morphing from denial to anger and finally acceptance. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m not an asshole. I just want my stuff.”

“And?” I prompted.

His entire body heaved with a sigh, like what he was about to say was the most difficult phrase he’d ever uttered. “Would you please unlock the doors so I can get my things?”

“I’d be delighted,” I said, standing. I went to the window and hit the button. The SUV chirped twice.

“Thank you,” Dante muttered.

And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. We were making such progress already.

I was starting to believe all those muscles were for show. Church didn’t lift a finger to help me as I carried all my heavy luggage inside and up the stairs to the loft room he’d assigned me. He just sat on the porch with his cookies and tea, looking all smug.

It made me want to teach him a lesson, preferably naked. If he wasn’t going to look sexy carrying my shit, the least he could do was look sexy bent over for me. And damn if I didn’t think he would.

I doubted he’d let me, though, even if I somehow magically convinced him to sleep with me. Guys like Church tended to have a touch of toxic masculinity going on and acted like bottoming for another guy was a crime. Or at least, an insult whenever I’d suggested it. My tastes in men had always veered more toward muscle bears than himbos, but I had to settle for what I could get. Quietly.

Thanks to my agent and my contract, I was still solidly in the closet until recently. They felt that if I came out as bisexual, people would start to see After Atom as a queer band. They worried it’d hurt sales and suggested strongly that I be seen with women, but keep my hookups with men on the down low.

I didn’t think it would be a big deal when I brought it up in that interview with In Character, but they went full ham with it, photoshopping me in front of the bi flag for the cover. Even the pull quotes were about me being bisexual and not about my music, or who I was. They reduced me to nothing but my sexuality, and I was pissed about it.

Sam had been on damage control ever since the news hit about a week ago. I didn’t want to deal with it, so I did what I always did when shit hit the fan. I called every escort service in the area and threw a party where I got drunk enough I didn’t care what people thought of me.

Now that I was sober, I thought about it a lot, and I hated it. Maybe the corporate overlords were right and I should’ve stayed in the closet. Life was easier there.

Whatever. I had bigger problems to worry about than embracing my queer identity or not.

Like the big British bear making dinner for me in the kitchen.

After getting all sweaty bringing in my stuff, I took a shower. Despite pulling out all the stops in rapid detox, I was still feeling awful. Everything hurt, and carrying all that heavy shit didn’t help. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling either. It felt like my skeleton was vibrating every time I had to sit still. The urge to move around was driving me up the wall. How was I supposed to function like that?

There was only one bathroom, and it was painfully small. I tried to imagine Church’s giant body crammed into that tiny bathtub and for some reason, it was hot as sin. I was starting to wonder if I had some kind of size kink, except it wasn’t at all related to the size of his cock.

Although, come to think of it, if that thing were proportional, it had to be massive.

Nice, I thought, but not my primary interest in men. I was unabashedly an ass guy, and Church had one very nice, round ass that I’d love to bury my face in.

It was the personality that was the problem. The guy had a serious stick up his ass, one I was contemplating how to dislodge.

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