Page 11 of A Handsome Devil

“Yeah, but . . . yeah . . . but . . . “

“Truman!”

It was the raggedy roar of the parolee, yelling from my bed.

I shot into action. On my way upstairs, taking them two at a time, I realized my swift response made me look like an asshat. Gunning and Erin knew me well. They’d be looking sideways at each other right now, grinning, withholding guffaws.

Oh, who gives a shit!

Alessio lay on his back on my mattress, clutching his concave stomach. One knee up, the sheet draped it like a statue they didn’t want you to see. I flew to the bed, practically bowling him over when I landed, palms on his arm.

“Alessio! What’s wrong?” What a dumb question.

He ground the words out between his clenched teeth. “I have . . . to get through this.”

“You do!”

“Only one more night! Right?”

Well, it depended on how long he’d been using—this time. Every day, a month at the halfway house? “Yes, just tonight. Then you’re in the clear.”

Flinging his free arm above his head, he faced me. Suddenly his eyes seemed clear, devoid of clouds, oily globes deep and infinite. He spoke crystalline, like he was onstage. “I believe you.”

I smiled. Squeezed his bicep. “You’ll make it, Alessio. Then you can get back to your music.”

A renewed spasm clenched his stomach as he shut his eyes. I strode to the bathroom to whip open a med cabinet. Removing some OTC sleep aid, I shook three into my palm and marched back to the bedroom—my bedroom.

“Here.” I managed to get Alessio to sit up long enough to gulp the pills with the glass of water from the nightstand. I made him sit up a bit longer to ensure the pills made it into his empty stomach. Threading my fingers through his damp hair, I combed it, massaging his skull. I dared to place my other palm on his chest, by his clavicle. The heat his body generated was astounding. “You’ll do fine, buddy. Once you’re over this, you can start composing again, get back to the studio, make albums.”

He exhaled sharply, as though he’d been holding his breath, collapsing back onto the puffy bolster of pillows. He grasped my wrist and muttered, “Come. Come with me.”

Not sure what he meant, I raised my legs onto the bed and lay down on one arm next to him. He slithered an arm under my neck, cradling me closer until my lips touched his hot neck. His breathing was rapid, heart strong and vigorous, maybe a hundred and ten beats per minute.

He seemed to be fading into the desired oblivion. I dared to move my palm down to his silken chest, thumbing a spray of the slick obsidian hair.

I felt like a black hole, absorbing his light and crushing it. Alessio was far superior to me. I’d never deserve him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Alessio

Truman and I spooned and hugged all night long.

He must’ve changed into some flannel pants at some point, because his warm knees fit perfectly in the backs of mine. He had such a reassuring, down-to-earth vibe, he helped ground me in a comforting, restorative aura, almost as though his energy buzzed with such abundance he transfused it into mine.

Sure, I had some mini-seizures, my abs clenching up, dry heaving. Sometimes Truman would squeeze me tighter almost in a trance—I’m sure he wasn’t really awake. When I lay flat on my front, he sort of angled his torso over my bare back, his breath hot against my neck. Despite my nausea and pain, my cock stiffened against the mattress, my balls laden with seed. I hadn’t come or even engaged with anyone since sticking a shiv in that guard. This was the first time it had even occurred to me.

Truman was my patron, my benefactor—I shouldn’t get hard for him. Besides, he was straight, buttoned-down. He’d toss me out onto my ass if he saw my erection.

Eventually I must’ve fallen asleep. I remember nothing for several hours thanks to the sleeping pills he’d given me. When I woke with the innate feeling that a lot of time had passed, I automatically squirmed around to see where I’d been injured, where someone had hurt me while I slept.

Hm. Nothing. Did I grin a little? I needed a shave.

In the bathroom, I finger-combed my clean hair, rolled it back into a bun, and used Truman’s toothbrush and razor. I wondered how I’d get my pack from his Club. My phone, clothes of course, books that’d gotten me through rough times, and my notebooks were all in there. For now, I just stepped into some pants Truman must’ve taken out of his drawer yesterday, folded on the vanity.

The pants were a little like waiting for a flood, but they were all like that on me. The shirt was just an army green crew neck, and as I yanked it on, I heard clinking from downstairs. Like someone putting silverware in the dishwasher. Was Truman still there? I paused briefly to admire my bulging biceps in the tight shirt. All public figures were aware of things like that.

But I didn’t plan to be a public figure in the near future. Not even a fucked-up mug shot.