Back Alleys And Unanswered Calls
The flight from LA to Chicago isn't too bad. There's JD on a steady flow from the flight attendant who smiles at him and tries to grope his ass when he goes to the bathroom. Steve's hyped and talking non-stop about a new arrangement for one of the songs on the new album, and Chris is still wired from the meeting with the management guy. Assurances about more radio exposure coupled with the phone call from Eric has him feeling fine for the four hours plus it took to get into O'Hare.
But four hours is still four goddamn hours, and by the time they get to the hotel, Chris is two time zones worth of fucked up. The helpful reminder that they've landed just in time to get zero sleep before the sound check and the meet-and-greet means Chris is running the set in his head, pushing Steve every time he lays his head back on the seat and asking him if they should switch one song for another. Steve patiently agrees to every request, even when Chris decides to put in "One More Shot" and take it the hell back out again three times.
Lack of sleep and too much alcohol makes Chris light on retention capabilities.
The hotel's not bad, for the three seconds he sees of it before Brendan arrives to drag him off to the Pickwick. The buzz in Chris's head doesn't get a chance to ease up, because there's Bud in the car, long necks on ice that'll get them all tossed in the tank if they get pulled over. But after two more of them are rolling around on the floor, clinking at every turn the driver makes, Chris doesn't much care. He doesn't much remember the sound check, either. Steve looks resigned, stops drinking when he sees Chris isn't about to, and changes the song list for the fourth time before he finally gets to the point where he's had enough.
"How about we leave it tonight, Chris?" he says, shoving the papers into the bottom of the guitar case and slamming it shut. "Jesus, why the hell did we even come out here tonight if all you were gonna do was stand around and get fucked up?"
Chris frowns at him and Branden sighs, trying to head off the explosion he can feel coming, knowing that someone should have cut Chris off about ten beers ago and conveniently forgetting he was the one who supplied the last six himself. He puts his hand on Chris' shoulder and smiles amiably, big shit-kicker grin that's gotten him laid even more times than his brown eyes and tight jeans have. "How about we head back to the hotel and do that party thing, huh?"
Chris looks from him to the stiff line of Steve's shoulders where he has them hunched up around his ears, takes another pull on the beer and empties it, then drops the bottle, the wet glass slipping through his fingers. "Yeah, whatever," he says roughly as Brendan leans down to pick up the chunks of glass.
Steve swears under his breath and jerks the case off the table. "I'll get a fuckin' cab," he says over his shoulder and he slams out the door, leaving Chris blinking after him and Brendan calling the driver on the cell while he looks for more pieces on the floor.
Chris manages to get a grip between the theater and the hotel, Branden reminding him that this is all going to be highly publicized, cameras everywhere, no one clearing the questions. "Don't get yourself in a hole, ok? I can't be there with you. And don't drink too much. And don't-"
"Fuck, man, I'm not five, cut me a fuckin' break." Chris runs his hand through his hair and reaches into the nets on the back of the truck's seat, pulling out a map of the city and a rolled up hat. He blinks at the hat and then unrolls it, shoving it down over his eyes as he leans back against the seat. "Just leave it, alright?" he sighs as he feels Brendan staring.
"Your funeral," Brendan says without venom, leaning back himself on the other side of the car and shaking his head as he stares out the window, refusing to look at that ridiculous hat. Refusing to get himself worked up over whatever it is that's got up Chris's ass if the boy won't talk about it. And he won't, Branden knows this. Because he's tried it about fifty times in the last few weeks and gotten himself absolutely nowhere.
Chris manages to do the usual things with the usual smile on his face. Sits and talks about golf at one table and the band at another one. Gropes Stephanie good-naturedly and tells her that her boobs are still the best around. Sits on a few laps and smiles for the pictures no matter how many times he gets blinded by the flashes that seem to never stop going off. Steve shows up somewhere along the line and pushes a beer into his hand, his version of a peace offering.
Chris looks down at it and feels a twinge of guilt. "I should have let you handle the thing at the theater," he says quietly, starting to peel the label before he even takes the first drink.
Steve nods. "Fuckin' right you should have. All you gotta do is stand up front and shake your ass. Leave the rest to me, alright?"
Chris grins. "Yeah, OK. I'll remember that."
Steve nods, takes a slow drink and then gestures with his bottle towards the set of double doors near the bar. "He's over there. Asked about you. You oughta just go get it outta the way."
Chris hates that he can't help looking right away. Managed to go all damn night without thinking about it out loud, managed to ignore his voice at the other tables, managed to pretend that he wasn't even at the fucking thing and that's all shot to hell and back when he sees the look on David's face.
"Shit," Chris whispers and he tips the beer up, not caring who gets a picture of him chugging it, not caring who gets a sound bite of him swearing. Not caring about much of anything, and knowing that there's not enough beer in Chicago to make him stop himself from going over there.
Like a string tied around my dick, he thinks as he puts the bottle down on the closest table and tries not to stumble as he walks towards David and the exit. He doesn't even have to pull and I'm already following it.
There's a blur of words between the time Chris walks over to the doors and where he finds himself right now. No idea where the hell it is, just that there's no one else here but him and David. He knows that because his jeans are around his ankles and David's mouth is around his cock.
There's a brick wall behind him. He knows that, too because when he pulls his arm up to grab that short, highlighted hair, he scrapes the fuck out of his elbow and it hurts. Leaves skin behind and almost makes him come right there, and he can feel David grinning before he sucks him down deeper, scrape of teeth over the shaft making Chris buck against his mouth. He manages to swear twice before he spills, and when he can breathe again, David's licking at his mouth.
"You drink too much, you fuckwit," David murmurs, his tongue flicking over Chris' bottom lip and then the top. "I can taste the beer everywhere." He pushes his tongue inside Chris' mouth, filling it and waiting for him to suck, grinning when he does it. "See?" he says as he draws back and watches Chris suck on his own bottom lip, tasting himself with the full concentration of the massively drunk.
"I don't taste like beer," Chris protests, voice blurry from sex and swollen lips. "You... should answer your fuckin' phone when I call you."
David nods his head, his hand reaching behind Chris' neck, pulling him away from the wall and knocking the hat off so he can tangle his fingers in too-long hair. "I should," he says agreeably, and kisses Chris again, harder this time, fucking that pretty-boy mouth with his tongue as he feels Chris' hands on his jeans, pushing them away and sliding his fingers around the hardness that's already throbbing, jerking away from the flat belly at the first touch of calloused fingertips. "I should answer my fucking phone when you call," he says again and then groans as Chris fingers close and stroke.
Another few seconds of sucking at that mouth that really shouldn't be on any man, and David lets him go, lets Chris put it to good use and he's still got his fingers wrapped in Chris' hair when he comes. Growls his name as he feels Chris keep sucking, finally tugging on his hair to make him stop. He looks up at David, blue eyes heavy lidded and that mouth of his wet and decadent, bottom lip full and almost bruised. His tongue flicks over it as David watches and he shudders a little before he makes himself let go. Pulls Chris to his feet and leans him against the wall as he pulls up his own jeans, tucks in a dick that's making movements towards getting right back into that pretty, fuck-me mouth.
"Get dressed," David tells him gently, and when Chris fumbles his jeans up, buttoning them and getting the zipper half done, he bends down to retrieve the hat. "Where the hell did you get this ass-ugly thing?" he asks, smiling as he brushes it off and hands it back to him.
"It's still better lookin' than that purple Mafia hit man suit of yours," Chris tell him as he puts the hat back on. "Don't go startin' shit about clothes. You know you don't wanna go there." He licks his lip again as David watches, and then shakes his head. "What're we doin' here?"
David grabs his shoulder and pulls him towards the steel door that's propped open with a beer bottle. The sounds of the hotel kitchen rush out at them when the door opens, along with a blast of heat that smells like every entree they served tonight mixed in with an abundance of something gone bad about a week ago. David's mouth brushes Chris' ear as they walk in, his hand squeezing the back of Chris' neck lightly in a way that makes Chris want to moan again.
"Making up," David says. "Because I'm an asshole who doesn't answer my phone."
"Too fuckin' right," Chris tells him, and gets himself another squeeze on his neck that makes his hair stand on end before David grins at him, pushes him through the doors and towards the elevator.
Chris doesn't remember much beyond the doors closing on David's grin. His elbow hurts like hell when he gets in the shower though. And when he gets downstairs afterwards, when walks into the room with Steve and Branden and the security guy trailing him, David's grin looks just the same as it did last night.