Page 43 of Missing Chord
“You can admire the same cheekbones inDead Manand it has a score by Neil Young,” Griffin told me. “I have a bunch of streaming services at my place. We could try to find it.”
“Instead of going out?” I had to admit, sitting in a dark theater next to Griffin without being able to really touch him had been steadily losing its appeal.
“I promised you a date.”
“Netflix and chill is a date. It’s a classic.”
“Hmm.” He nodded. “I am old enough to appreciate the classics.”
“Quit that. You’re the guy who got home past midnight last night after playing a rock concert. You’re not fucking old.”
Griffin lowered his voice. “Not too old to fuck, anyhow.”
“Couch and movie first,” I told him, totally lying through my teeth because that low tone did naughty things to my dick. “Then we’ll see.”
I let him pay for the meal because he stealthed the check while I went to the john. Anyhow, I was paying for gas. I drove in silence on the way back to his place, but the air between us crackled with electricity. Griffin shifted in his seat, and the rustleof his motions felt loud in that confined space. When we arrived, he directed me around to visitor parking and we got out.
Griffin led the way toward the lobby, keying us inside. I was a bit surprised by how utilitarian the building was— not low rent, but no doorman, just one camera up over the inner door. With the media coverage he’d dealt with, I’d expected Griffin to live somewhere fancier, or at least better protected.
We passed out of the lobby and twenty feet down the hall to the elevator. As we waited side by side, the heat of Griffin’s body warmed the inch of gap between us. A little shift of my weight and my arm would’ve brushed his. I didn’t move and nor did he.
In the elevator, he pushed the button for the fourth floor. The doors closed. The mirrored surfaces showed repeating views of us, my bulk bigger than Griffin’s now, though he was only a couple of inches shorter and his shoulders and arms almost matched mine. His silver hair beneath the signature beret caught the light of the overheads, but his eyes were shadowed. Didn’t matter. I knew their exact shade of blue.
Griffin took a short breath and I echoed it. Heat in my groin turned my favorite jeans tight. I shifted my hand just far enough to bump the back of his, and he gave a soft sound, then looked up. “Cameras.”
“Ah. Pity.” I bumped his hand again and he chuckled under his breath.
After a lot of forever, the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. Griffin headed off down the carpeted hallway at a brisk clip, and I was right on his heels. At the second apartment, he fumbled with his key, then swung the door open. We tumbled through, laughing, and Griffin slammed the door with a hipbump. A quick flip of the deadbolt and he reached for me, then pulled back. “Sorry. Netflix.”
“Fuck that.” I framed his face, his stubble rough under my palms. His mustache prickled my lips as I moved in but his mouth was eager and hot when he opened for my kiss. He groaned deep in his throat and grabbed me tight. I muscled him backward into the door. A hollow thump echoed as his shoulders hit the wood under my weight.
So long. So damned long.Kissing Griffin didn’t feel the same as it had— we’d both changed— but there was a rightness to having his mouth under mine and his leg caught between my thighs, his body pinned by mine. He clamped his hands on my ass and hauled me closer. One moan, one thrust of his groin against my trapped cock, and I was ready to blow in my underwear.
I leaned back, panting. “I don’t want to wear sticky briefs home.”
“I can loan you some.” But he let go of me.
I took a small, necessary step and tugged at my shirt that had ridden up to my chest. “I guess we still go together well.”
“Like peanut butter and chocolate.”
“Who’s the nut?”
Griffin laughed and bent to pick up the hat my eager hands had dislodged, setting it on a side table. His hair was still thick, silver on the sides but salt and pepper on the top. He ran a hand to smooth it and kicked off his shoes. “Couch? Bed?”
My aching dick voted for bed, but I’d sworn to myself I’d go slow. “Couch?” I set my shoes next to his.
“Okay. This way.” He led me past the kitchen into a small living room with little more than a TV on the wall and a deep plushy couch. No rugs, no pictures. I spotted a pair of stacked milk-crates at one end of the couch.
“Going for American minimalism?” I realized I didn’t know Griffin’s tastes. Back when we were together, he’d been dead broke, saving every penny for his music, and his apartment vibe had been fell-off-the-Goodwill-truck. I’d expected more now.
“I didn’t plan to stay.” He dropped onto the couch and patted the seat beside him. “I was supposed to be in town for three weeks, tops. Clear out Mom’s storage locker, figure out what to do with her ashes, and head back to LA. Then shit happened. I’d sub-let this place for a month, and once I was staying, I was lucky enough to extend it to a year.”
That was a good reminder. He hadn’t planned to stay. And while his plans had clearly changed, I shouldn’t get too complacent. I sat, leaving a foot between us. “Do you have a house in LA?”
“Just a rental. My friends out there put my stuff into storage for me.”
“That was nice of them.” I wasn’t sure how we’d gone from wanting to rip each other’s clothes off to “nice.”
