1 Chapter 1

1

Thanksgiving Recess

The sign outside was supposed to read Doherty Motel.

“Fuck me!”

The loose O and H placards flapping from stiff winds in a heavy California rainstorm made Stone think “derty,” which certainly fit the feeling and the mood of random sex with a stranger.

“Fuck me hard.”

“Working on it, dude.”

The man he’d brought back from the bar was no ordinary Joe, unless that was his name. Whatever it said on the guy’s drivers’ license, he was the opposite of Stone, who considered himself as beige as the cheap motel’s decor. Neither particularly tall, nor particularly short, he hoped some might call him handsome, knowing others would disagree. Some extra thickness around his middle made Stone a bit self-conscious, once half naked, and he worried the shiny skin atop his head, where mousy brown hair was thinning, showed more under fluorescent lighting.

“I want you inside me.”

Stone’s glasses were already crooked, and though the eyes behind them were green, they reminded him of Wednesday’s pea soup from the cafeteria at the school where he worked, rather than Oz’s Emerald City. All of that said, or rather thought, something about him had his amazingly hot hookup breathing hard, with an obvious impatience to feel what Stone had in his generic, ill-fitting jeans rammed hard up his ass.

“Or the other way around,” Stone suggested.

“Either way, someone’s getting fucked.”

The thought of performing dirty acts in a sleazy motel room was really turning Stone on. Away from Capman Middle/High School, where he made a living teaching art, he could be Stone Larrabee, rock hard rock star, even if he and his Twelve Drummers Drumming bandmates, out west for a concert, played only Christmas tunes.

“I’m down with that,” Stone said.

Tangled in ugly, tattered drapes that smelled like cigarette smoke, he wondered if he might enjoy being tied up. While squeaking and sliding across a spotted, full-length mirror, creating streaks and body marks all over the glass, he pictured four men in the room for real, but decided the one working him so masterfully would do. Just for a moment, Stone also imagined the two of them covered in paint from his studio at home, creating an abstract sexual mural all across his boring white bedroom walls.

Nah. Something so permanent would also have to be personal, created with someone special, Stone decided. This guy was hot, Hollywood movie star hot, Justin Hartley body double hot, but so far, that was all there was to him.

“Let’s do this.”

The slap on Stone’s ass once exposed could likely be heard by his bandmates in adjoining rooms 210 and 212 through the paper-thin walls of the not-so luxurious suite. With the stranger hovering over him, Stone objected when that bare ass nearly touched the floor in 211. “Not the rug.”

“Bed work for ya?”

“Lesser of two filthy evils?” Stone nodded. “Yeah.”

Once flat on his back, he stared up at the stranger’s nude body a second, smooth tan skin with bright pink nipples, ripples and deeply etched muscles, and a beautiful hard-on that kept tempo with both of their heartbeats as blood flow continued to make it even plumper and firmer. The stranger licked his lips. He liked what he was seeing, too, it seemed, even if Stone was a little insecure. Noticing how well manscaped the guy was, Stone wished he had taken the time to trim a little himself.

“Pound me like a drum.” The lame sexy talk was immediately regrettable, even if Stone was an actual percussionist, but the stranger smirked.

“Fuck me like a fiddle,” he said.

Stone had only heard that expression in the sense of taking advantage of someone, as in, “Play me like a fiddle.” At that moment, he was ready to be pounded, taken, fucked, and played, so he kept his mouth shut.

Each touch from the hookup’s big hands and long fingers had a purpose, some gentle, some hard, some lingering, some quick and staccato, as if part of a rock song. “How am I doing?” he asked Stone.

Stone slid up the mattress and opened his legs, kicking away the off-white bedspread that might have once passed as pure white, to make sure it wasn’t touching or covering any part of him. “Let’s work on some low notes, now.”

“Huh?”

“Work my ass!”

Stone had been in love—maybe. He’d hooked up a lot—maybe not. Upon further reflection, he doubted “a lot” could be counted on one hand plus two fingers.

Two fingers…“Oh my God!”

“You like?”

All Stone could do was moan in response. This encounter was different than any he’d ever had. Way different.

Telling a cab driver, “Just take me someplace interesting,” was something Stone did whenever landing in a new town on tour. Entering the hole-in-the-wall bar about forty minutes south of Sonoma, where the roads were hardly maintained, and the scenery looked slightly less pristine and far seedier, he found Joe Hollywood on the first stool, right at Adam’s Pub’s front door.

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