Code red, p.12
Code Red, page 12
The interviewer stared for a second but he recovered eventually and the conversation moved on. He didn’t ask Maddox anything else directly, and the other four guys carried on like nothing was out of the ordinary, answering questions and having a good time.
The interview wrapped up, and when it was over, ignoring all the interview staff, Maddox made a beeline for me and the other guys followed. They were over it and I didn’t blame them. We were mostly packed up, so in no time at all we were making our way through the museum to the exit where our vans would be waiting. “Sorry, guys,” Maddox said, talking to his bandmates. “But the ‘who hurt me’ comment was a red flag and that fucker knew it. There’s already been crazy talk and death-threats online, and that shit ain’t funny.”
Jeremy gave Maddox’s shoulder a squeeze. “We know.”
“Look on the bright side,” Wes said. “We’ve been doing this for what, six years? And in the last few years, you’ve said so much controversial shit in interviews that they stopped asking you about being gay.”
Maddox paused for a second before he laughed. “That’s really fucking true.”
“Remember when that was the question everyone asked?” Blake said. “Every damn interview.”
Luke snorted. “I really miss seeing the fear in an interviewer’s eyes as they got themselves ripped a new asshole on a live broadcast.”
Maddox’s smile faded and he let out a sigh. “Next time I decide to drop an impromptu song, someone can rip me a new asshole.”
“I would,” Jeremy said, grinning. “But you’d like it too much.”
Maddox shoved Jeremy into the wall, everyone laughed, and it was hard not to smile along with them when they joked around like that. Crude humor aside, when one of them was feeling bad, like Maddox was, they would comfort and joke until they felt better.
It was just how they were.
“Want me to ride with you again?” Jeremy asked Maddox as we were nearing the van.
“Nah, I’m good,” he replied. “I’m gonna call Ambrose so none of you guys have to sit through that. It’s the least I could do.”
“Okay. See ya at the studio.”
We climbed into the van and Maddox climbed through to the back again. I followed him, and the door slid closed behind us.
“Did you really want to speak to Ambrose?” I asked, sitting next to him.
“Hell no.” Maddox let his head fall back and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “He’s gonna kill me.”
“No he won’t,” I said. “He might want to kill you, but he won’t actually do it.”
Maddox chuckled and dropped his head to my shoulder. “Thanks.”
“I think they’ve come to expect a certain honesty from you. And part of me thinks Ambrose and Mr. Kim like it.”
“It just pisses me off that interviewers think they can say whatever the hell they want, like I’m not a person. The band persona is one thing, but we’re people too. I’m gonna call them out on that shit. Because if I don’t, who will?”
I took his hand and he sighed, rubbing the side of his face on my shoulder. “Thank you.”
“What for?” I asked.
“For just . . . being there, I guess.”
I squeezed his hand. “Anytime.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I’m tired.”
“How about you try sleeping tonight instead of singing songs to me on the internet?”
His laugh was quiet, breathy. “How about you stay in my room and I’ll sing them to you in private.”
I hummed, though it sounded more like a groan. “Sounds like things might get complicated.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
I rested my cheek on his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
The rest of the day passed in a bit of a blur. They had a session at a recording studio for an advertisement with Coca-Cola and then another interview, which was, thankfully, done back at the hotel.
Dinner was late and casual as we sat around the common room. The boys sat at the table; Amber, Ryan, and I sat at the opposite end of the room on the couches. I managed a few bites of food between fielding phone calls and emails and trying to keep an eye on the internet.
Sales were through the roof, charts were topped with no hint of slowing down, and the hype for Atrous was at an all-time high.
“Music Central’s interview just posted,” Ryan said.
Great.
And within half an hour, Maddox’s name was all over the internet, again, and his quotes, of course.
“We give enough of ourselves away without our personal lives being pulled apart for public consumption.”
“No one is entitled to make a headline out of someone else’s trauma.”
“No one’s entitled to more than we freely give.”
The interview had been edited to make the interviewer appear sympathetic, and how that was spun was anyone’s guess. It really was no wonder Maddox didn’t trust them.
Maddox’s face was plastered over every social media platform and every entertainment outlet around the freaking planet, it would seem.
“Well, on the bright side,” Amber deadpanned, “at least your herding-cats comment is long forgotten.”
I rubbed my temples. “God, wasn’t that a year ago?”
She laughed. “Feels like it.”
Maddox came over toward the door. “Roscoe, can we talk?”
“Um, sure,” I said, getting to my feet. I gave Amber and Ryan a shrug, pretending that I didn’t know what this was about. It was late and Maddox was tired. That was all I needed to know.
Maddox was waiting by the door, scrolling through his phone, and he looked up when I held the door for him. He didn’t speak while we walked down the corridor, and without explanation, he stopped at his door, and held it open for me.
His room had been cleaned, his bed made. His guitar lay on the table, his new black coat hung over the back of a chair.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.” He threw his phone on the table and stepped in real close. “I keep thinking about how you were going to kiss me properly.”
Oh god.
“Is that right?” I asked. I could barely speak.
He smiled victoriously, sultry, and his eyes shone like black fire. “Kiss me, Roscoe. No almost-kiss, no teasing. Kiss me like you fucking mean it.”
Chapter Eight
I took hold of Maddox’s face in my hands and crushed my mouth to his. He wanted a proper kiss, so I gave it to him. Open lips, tongues, tasting and teasing. I tilted his head just so and kissed him deeper, harder.
He lifted his hands as if to touch me, maybe wrap around me, but they stopped mid-air and slowly fell to his sides. He melted into me and he let me claim his mouth, giving this perfect moment to me.
Him. Maddox freaking Kershaw was in my arms, his body against me, his mouth open for me. He was so warm, he tasted so sweet, like iced tea and mint gum. He smelled of citrus and desire, and he groaned into my mouth.
His hands found purchase on my back, my shoulders, my ass.
It wasn’t enough.
So I walked him backward to the bed and he broke the kiss to smile, surprised. Heavy eyelids, plump and wet lips, messed up hair; he was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
I hitched his thigh around my hip and kneeled on the bed, laying him down. He chuckled until I pressed my weight onto his and claimed his mouth again. I swallowed down his moan and he let his legs fall open.
I could feel how hard he was. His erection pressed against mine through our jeans, and the friction drove sparks behind my eyelids. Then he gripped my hair and pulled, and I realized just how close I was to coming.
I pulled back, trying to catch my breath. Trying to find my senses.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, as breathless as me.
“Nothing, I just . . . need to slow down a bit.”
He laughed and writhed underneath me, hooking one leg around mine, pulling our hips harder together. He ran a hand over my ass, gripping me and grinding against me, and my eyes rolled back in my head. “You’re really fucking hot,” he murmured. He writhed again, rolling his hips, needing more. “And I’m really fucking turned on. It feels so good to feel something, Roscoe. I want to feel everything. I want to . . .”
Christ, he was begging, pleading. Desperate, and wanting. And so sexy.
I slipped my hand between us, under the waistband of his jeans, and palmed his cock. He was so hard and so hot in my hand, I barely got my fingers wrapped around him before he arched with his head back, flexed like a bow strung too tight, and he pulsed in my hand.
His mouth fell open in a silent scream, the veins in his neck stood out, his face flush pink as he came.
And I thought he was beautiful before.
He jerked with an aftershock and groaned out a laugh. “Holy shit,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. “That hit me from nowhere.”
“That was hot as hell,” I whispered with a kiss to his jaw.
I let go of his still-hard dick and he winced, but he had a dreamy, smiley look on his face as he unbuttoned my jeans. “Your turn.” I was going to say no, I meant to say no, but any hope of stopping him died when he gripped my shaft. “Fucking hell, Roscoe,” he murmured as he pumped me. “You feel like heaven. Look at me.”
I didn’t realize I had my eyes shut. I met his gaze and he smirked. Maddox squeezed my cock, pumped and squeezed again, sliding and twisting his hold on me. “I want to see the look in your eyes when I make you come.”
And that was all it took.
Pleasure detonated low in my belly as I thrust into his fist. I cried out, shuddering with the power of my orgasm, rocking into his hold, and he kissed me as I came back down to earth. Maybe that was why it felt like I was floating for so long.
His sweet, smiling kisses. Sleepy, sighing kisses.
I didn’t want to come back down, ever.
“We need to shower,” he murmured. “Come on. Up we get.” He untangled us, rolled off the bed, and disappeared into the en suite.
“The room’s still spinning,” I replied.
His laughter echoed out from the bathroom before I heard the shower turn on. “Now, Mr. Hall. Your services are required.”
I snorted and dragged myself off his bed, walked into the bathroom, and stopped mid-stride.
He was shirtless, sitting on a bench seat in his huge private bathroom, unlacing his boots. He grinned at me. “What?”
“Just . . . you.” I waved my hand in his general direction. “Your bathroom’s a lot nicer than mine. You got a bench seat?” The truth was, his whole room was twice the size of mine, as was his bathroom. And the shower.
He tossed his boot and began on the next one. “You’re still very dressed.”
“And you’re wasting water.” The shower was running, the room beginning to steam.
“I like it hot.”
He pulled off his other boot, then his socks, and then he took off his jeans. Wearing nothing but a smirk, he walked into the shower. “You okay? You look a little stunned.”
Holy fuck.
Sure, I’d seen him in various states of undress over the years but never fully naked. And those tight pants he wore on stage were all kinds of good, but naked? He was . . . he was a freaking vision. He was fit from hours of dance, lean, maybe even a little too thin. His sleeve of ink ended at his shoulder. His skin was flawless. He was muscled in all the right places, his ass was firm, his half-hard dick hung heavy and uncut.
I ripped my boots off, tossed my shirt, and couldn’t get out of my jeans quick enough. I followed him into the shower, and with my hands on his hips, I kissed his shoulder, the nape of his neck.
Water ran off his body, hot and steaming. His hair was flattened. He put his head back, leaning against my collarbone, and he hummed.
“All those magazines and news polls that named you sexiest man,” I murmured in his ear, “have no fucking idea how sexy you really are.” I ran my hands down his arms, and holding his wrists, I put his hands on the wall in front of us, pressing myself against his back, his ass. “I want to do so many things to you.”
He barked out a laugh and turned, leaning his back against the tiles, his smile flirty and fun. “Never figured you for a dirty talker, Roscoe,” he said, pulling me close. We were both semi-hard again, our cocks pressing against each other. Desire and testosterone swirled with the steam and made me dizzy. “I like it.”
“I can tell how much you like it,” I said, kissing him again.
It was a filthy wet kiss that had little to do with water running over us, and he broke away to smile. “I take back what I said earlier. About being kissed properly before. I thought I had. But you . . .”
“Told you it was because you hadn’t been kissed by me.”
“Now I have. And I do concur. You have quite the talented mouth. And hands.” He looked down between us and went to palm my dick. “And—”
I gripped his wrist. “And we should get out of the shower. Someone’s gonna come looking for one of us soon.”
He tried to hitch his leg around my hip and I took a step back, shut the water off, and grabbed a towel. I threw it to him, then grabbed one for me. He grumbled as he dried off and tied the towel around his waist. He disappeared into his room and it occurred to me that my clothes were a mess.
Bloody hell.
After checking, my jeans were okay, but my shirt was not wearable. The jizz splatter was pretty obviously jizz. I pulled on my jeans, at least, and when I walked out to Maddox’s room, he took one look at me holding my shirt in my hand and he laughed.
He was wearing his favorite sweats and a T-shirt, looking all kinds of relaxed and comfortable. And hot as hell. His hair was finger-combed back off his face, and he looked sleepy and happy.
“Need a shirt?” he asked. He pulled out one of his bigger, oversized shirts and threw it at me. “Try that.”
It was long sleeve and black, of course, and it fit okay, if a bit tight around the arms. “Thanks.”
“Throw your shirt with my dirty laundry in the bathroom,” he said. “I’ll put a laundry call in.”
“I can take care of that for you,” I said instinctively. It was my job, after all.
He lay on the bed and smiled at me. “You’re not on the clock right now, are you?”
“Well, no. Not the last hour. But it’s really no problem.”
He rolled his eyes and patted the bed beside him. “Leave the shirt and come here.”
“Hmm,” I said, making a face. “How many shirts do you have that would fit me. If we make a mess of this one . . .”
He laughed. “I like the way you think, Roscoe. But I’m tired. Can you stay for a bit?”
I threw my dirty shirt toward the bathroom and climbed onto the bed. I lay down beside him, and he immediately snuggled into my side, his head on my chest.
It was so easy to put my arm around him, to hold him close. It was so easy to listen to him breathe, to sigh, to fall asleep.
It was all just so fucking easy.
It would have been easy to sleep beside him, to stay all night and wake up next to him in the morning. But that wasn’t our reality.
I waited until he was in a deep sleep before I peeled myself away from him. I folded the cover over him because he said he liked lots of blankets. I put my socks and boots back on, and I bagged up his laundry. I put the call in, waited for the staff to come get it, and leaving Maddox well and truly asleep, I slipped out of his room.
It was late, and I didn’t expect to see anyone. And if they saw me walking in the corridor, it didn’t mean anything. I could have been at the gym or double-checking the common room was locked or getting some ice . . .
No one would know I’d been in Maddox’s room. No one would know what we’d just done.
And I was almost back to my room. I had my key out and was just about to tap it to the door when Jeremy came around the corner with a packet of M&Ms in his hand. “Oh, hey. Needed something sweet,” he said by way of explanation.
“Sounds good,” I replied, trying to act cool. “Just heading to bed. Need anything before I turn in?”
“Nah.” He smiled kind of awkwardly and looked down at my shirt.
No, not mine. He looked at Maddox’s shirt. It was very obviously Maddox’s shirt. He wore it all the time . . .
Shit.
Jeremy’s eyes met mine, and without saying a word, he told me he knew.
Shit.
I opened my door, trying not to panic. “Okay then. If you’re all good, I’ll see you at breakfast,” I said, disappearing into my room and closing the door behind me.
My heart was hammering, my mind was racing. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.
Chapter Nine
I hit the hotel gym at 5:30 am. I hadn’t slept well. My mind was filled with the look of recognition in Jeremy’s eyes, wondering what was going to come of that. Though mostly my head was filled with Maddox. His body, his smile, his taste, his scent. The way he moved underneath me, the way he felt. How he leaned into me, how he responded to my touch, to my kiss. The look of desire in his eyes, the wanting, the need. His face when he came.
Yeah, my head was mostly filled with that.
So I did some weights, and when that didn’t clear my head, I hit the treadmill.
Steve and some of his guys came in around six thirty, and that was my cue to leave. I was drenched in sweat by then anyway, though my head still wasn’t right. A shower didn’t fix me either. I considered jerking off, but that only brought visions of Maddox back when it was those mental images I was trying to get rid of.
I got dressed for the day, in jeans and one of my own shirts, and figured some iced coffees were in order. There was a Starbucks a few doors down. I’d been there before without incident, though this time photographers were snapping pics of me. More than usual. Typically, one or two were nothing new, but this was more than typical. This early in the morning? Christ.
And when I waited in Starbucks for my order—eight iced coffees took a few minutes—I noticed more papzz out the front of the store. And there were enough of them for it to be an issue. Fucking hell. With a long-suffering sigh, I shot a quick text to Steve, asking him to come get me. He and Robbie walked through the doors not more than sixty seconds later.
