Page 37 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“It’s been a long day,” he announces to the cabin as a whole, once you reach cruising altitude. “Kai and I are going to turn in. I’m going to take some melatonin, so don’t disturb, okay?”

You have a lot of questions as you follow him down the aisle into the bedroom you saw that first day when you flew to Nashville. Ster doesn’t like sharing a bed. Are you going to sleep on the floor? (You would, for him.) Are you going to get to change out of your monkey suit? Will you even be able to sleep on a plane? It’s not that long of a flight: just under six hours. Is it even worth it to sleep that little time? You’re a bit jet-lagged, and still a little bit tipsy. You woke up this morning in Miami. You spent most of the afternoon in Los Angeles, and you’ll be in New York early in the morning.

In the bedroom, the sconces on the curved walls are throwing a dim yellow glow. The carpet is soft. The bed is made up in white this time, with two fluffy blankets folded over the foot, one gray and one ivory. Against the wall, a TV plays a pastelscreensaver of waves crashing on a dusky beach, displaying the flight time. The windows are bigger in here, spacious eyes on the sooty night sky and wisps of clouds. There are two sets of clothes laid out on the bed: yours and Sterling’s.

He shuts the door to the bedroom and looks at you. The shadows are turning his blue eyes navy, dark like the sky just after sunset.

“You want the first shower? Or should I?” he asks.

“You go,” you tell him.

You don’t want to muss the sheets, so you throw yourself into the chair rolled beneath the polished wooden desk against the opposite wall. It’s on the smaller size for your frame, but you widen your knees, lean back, and let your head rest on the back, staring at the ceiling of the plane. Maybe you dozed off for a minute or ten, because you are jolted awake by Sterling’s hand on your knee.

“Your turn.”

Your brain’s a little boggy, so it takes you a moment to realize what you are looking at. Sterling’s crowded between your spread knees, wearing only a towel slung over his hips. There’s alotof skin on display. From the open bathroom door, which is just inside the bedroom, a cloud of good-smelling steam emanates, carrying Sterling like a genie on its current. His hair is tied back in a messy bun—he must not have wanted to wash it—but hiseyelashes are wet.

“Umm…” you mumble, faltering.

Sterling just laughs. Runs his hand down your long thigh.

“Feel free to use whatever products I have in there,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the bathroom. “Dry towels are on the shelf.”

He steps aside and lets you go by. You hope the poor lighting is sufficient to hide the fact that you’ve got half a chub.

The bathroom is elegant, buttiny.The fact that there’s a full shower on a private jet is impressive by itself, you guess. It can only get so big. But you feel like a bull in a china shop as you undress from your designer duds in the little bit of open space, trying to make sure that the clothes don’t touch the floor. You fold everything neatly and put them on the shelf, taking down one of the thick, plush bath towels already up there.

In the microscopic shower stall, which barely closes around your shoulders, you contemplate your decisions. The spray is nice and hot at least, even if you feel like you are in a slippery coffin. Sterling has some shampoo and body wash on a rack, along with some other fussy cleaners that you don’t bother with.

He was wearing a towel.Did that… mean something?

You aren’t sure if the sex embargo has been lifted, and you don’t know how to ask. Yeah, you jerked off together in Newport. But jerking off isn’t sex. It’ssexual, but notgoing all the way. You’ve had scalp rubs from female barbers with long nails back in Macon that felt sexual without being sexual. Massages from personal trainers on the Cyclones’ PT staff that made you feelgood-goodwithout being sexual.

(You are probably overthinking this.)

But there’s no harm in a bit of prep, so you pay special attention to washing your body in the cramped space, contorting your joints to get everything squeaky clean from the creases behind your ears to the spaces between your toes. You scrub-a-dub your dick and balls. And then, for good measure, you squirt some body wash on your hand, take a soapy finger and run it all around and just inside your asshole.Sterling is vers.You don’t know what role he would want you to play. What he might be down for. What he might enjoy. You have always been less concerned with topping or bottoming than in driving your partners’ pleasure, in giving more than you take. For Sterling, you would give and give until you had nothing left. The tiny bit of fingering is awakening sensation within you, especially after that scene in the bedroom, but you will yourself to stop. You wash yourbristle of buzzed hair quickly and exit the steamy sarcophagus.

You didn’t bring your clothes with you, so you follow Sterling’s lead and wrap a towel around your lower body. Then, with a deep breath, you pad out into the bedroom.

He’s in bed beneath the covers, his hair still tied up. He’s squinting at his phone screen. You are about to tell him to just put his g-d glasses on already when he notices you and looks up. Gives you a smile and pats the other side of the bed.

“Come in,” he says. “The water’s fine.”

You know two things at that moment: Sterling is naked beneath those sheets, and you two are probably going to have sex. The immediacy of it kind of takes your breath away. Hedging your bets, you drop your towel on the floor. Sterling doesn’t say anything, but his eyes rake your body with enough heat that it’s almost tangible. Your cock isveryinterested in what’s going on.

You sit down on the side of the bed that’s not pushed against the wall, your legs tucked beneath you. It’s a tight fit. You are kind of a California King guy, but again, there are understandable size limitations on even Sterling’s luxury jet.

He turns his phone screen toward you. You see the pictures of you two on the red carpet earlier, and cringe.

“C’mon,” you groan, but he shakes his head.

“No,” he insists. “They aren’t so bad. You came out amazing. Just look.”

Unwilling, you glance at the screen again. It’s one of the shots where he had his hand on your chest, and he’s looking up at you.Youknow that your smile is more like a pained grimace, but you have to admit that it’s otherwise a nice picture. The size difference between you two is striking, but you look… good together. More than good, actually.

“Can you send me that link?” you ask.

“Definitely,” he says. “I’m going to get Maeve to order some prints, so I can frame one and put it on my desk in Nashville.”

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