Page 19 of Ring My Bell

The guys laughed, and one of them glanced my way. “Wait… Mathis Reisner Like the guy who did that whole set at the White House Correspondents Dinner a few years ago?”

“That would be me, yes.”

“Oh my god, I loved your rendition of ‘Maple Leaf Rag!’ I swear, Scott Joplin needs a revival! Do you have, like, a website? Like, I heard you were going solo and doing an independent thing?”

I knew, knew, I was looking at him like a very surprised frog. Luckily, Iggy noticed before the guy could ask me if I needed help and elbowed me sharply. “He’s getting one set up this week, so it’s not ready to go yet—gotta love the whole indie thing, right? Plus side, no label overlord crud to deal with. Downside, you gotta contract out on your own! But we’ll be posting his next few popup performances on my site in the next couple of days! Keep your eyes peeled!” He winked at them. Looping his elbow through mine, he led us off towards the lobby of the hotel we definitely were probably getting kicked out of once they found out we weren’t Raymond Montaine’s employees.

He kept his chin up, though, and damn near sailed us to the elevators. He flashed his pop star smile at some waiting couple and gave a coy little wink to a teenager who seemed to vaguely recognize him.

“Dude,” I muttered. “What the hell is this whole washed-up pop star sob fest shit when you’ve got hangers-on out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere?”

“I am a has-been.” He stared straight ahead at our reflection in the coppery surface of the elevator doors. “I still have, like, two minutes of fame left, all based on some popular magazine covers and a one-hit wonder getting airplay right now. It’s not going to last past the end of the summer.” He flashed me a tight smile, fading as the elevator rumbled up to our floor. “It should’ve been yours. I mean, like you playing it. You singing it or—”

“I don’t sing like you do,” I said simply. “I think maybe… it could be our song?”

At that, we both froze, deer-in-the-headlights style. “I mean—”

Then Iggy was against me, arms around my neck, lips hot and firm against mine. I grabbed his waist and pulled him closer. The fast thump of his heart against my chest felt like it was my own. The tip of his tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I gasped, opening for him.

The elevator doors slid open, pinging to indicate our floor. “Shit,” I gasped, letting him go reflexively.

“Um, for the kiss or…?”

He hugged himself, small and uncertain. And we were being stared at by an older couple and their purse dog.

Smiling tightly at them, I took Iggy by the elbow. “Evening,” I muttered, and they stared after us as I marched us to our suite.

Chapter Seven

IGGY

Okay, so I kissed Mathis.

On the mouth.

With tongue.

And I was not going to giggle and gush about it like I was a teenager. Mostly because Gerald wasn’t answering the damn phone, and I wasn’t sure how much time I had before Mathis stopped being an aloof prick and came back to the room. Instead, I hurried through a shower and only performed the basics of my post-shower routine: serums, moisturizer, under-eye patches, lip scrub, lip balm, leave-in conditioning mist, body cream, pluck the stray brow hairs and that one damn black chest hair, always popping up despite the waxing and buffing. I left the rest of my supplies in my overnight bag, not wanting to be in the middle of everything when Mathis came back. I picked my favorite pajama bottoms.

Dithering over whether or not I should wear a top, I heard Mathis fiddling with the door. “Shit!” With a feat of grace that I would never be able to replicate in front of someone actually watching, I leaped from the foot of the bed to land on my side atop it, grabbed my phone, and pretended to doom-scroll once Mathis finally got the door open.

“Oh, hey,” I said, affecting boredom. “You’re back.”

He grunted. “Smells like a cotton-candy machine had a baby with a perfume factory and that baby exploded all over our hotel room.” He threw his wallet, phone, and keys onto the nightstand beside his bed. “I’m gonna shower.”

He grabbed a few things out of his duffle bag and disappeared into the bathroom.

I waited, damn near quivering, as he whistled some old tune and thunked some things around on the counter top. After about a minute or two, he turned on the shower, hissing at the cold spray. Of course he’d be one of those people who got in before the water heated up.

Impatient bastard.

Sighing, I rolled onto my back, phone abandoned by the pillow. I stared up at the popcorn ceiling.

Knowing my luck, it was probably asbestos and would sprinkle down on us all night.

Better make use of the time while I can, I decided after several tortuous minutes of listening to Mathis showering. Imagining how he’d look in a steam-filled stall, how water would chase down that gorgeous chest, droplets catching in the dusting of hair. Would he be half-hard already, if I got in there with him? Or would he be surprised, not expecting me to be so bold as to surprise him, his cock thickening when he realized why, that I wasn’t looking for my contact solution again, that…

That I was going to be laying on the bed with an embarrassing hard-on if I kept letting my mind wander, and I wasn’t okay cranking one out in a shared hotel room.

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